Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

“What she doesn’t tell you about is the thousands of people who’ve come here over the years and not been cured,” Marko said.

He stepped forward to one of the holes in the shrine’s foundation. Spring water streamed out. He rinsed his hands, cupped them together, and drank.

Nadia gave him an incredulous look. “Look at the non-believer.”

“It’s the smart move,” he said. “I mean, what if I’m wrong and I’m missing out on a real magic potion of some kind?”

She shook her head. “Magic potion. Nice.”

“You’re next,” Marko said. “Come on. This is the Uke version of Our Lady of Lourdes. It’s a once in a lifetime chance. Hell, you must drink the water.”

A tourist glared at Marko. You never knew who spoke English, she thought.

“Language,” Nadia said, in a scolding tone. “Let’s go. Forget the water. Let’s check the other churches.”

“ ‘Forget the water,’ she says. Nice. This from the former altar girl.”

Church had been a sanctuary growing up. She’d been a believer. She’d loved kneeling in the pews. Prayer dissolved her angst. But through the years she’d lost her faith. It would have been a lie to say she didn’t believe in God at all. No. She assigned a probability curve to it, like any good mathematician. As she matured, she subconsciously decided the odds God existed were low. Still, standing here in this holy place, she couldn’t help but feel a stirring. She wasn’t sure if it had something to do with faith itself, or the emotional sanctuary it had provided her in her youth.

When Marko gave up and started past her, Nadia stepped toward the spring. She let the water wash her fingers. Made sure Marko wasn’t looking so he didn’t get any satisfaction. Scooped some up to her lips.

The monk in the black robe came into her peripheral vision as soon as she went for the water. She wouldn’t have thought twice about him except he darted out of sight. As though he regretted revealing himself.

Nadia caught up to Marko.

“We’ve got company,” she said. “Shaved head. Blue eyes. Big guy. He’s wearing a brown robe with a white braided belt. Can’t possibly be a real monk.”

“You sure?”

“What, that he’s not really a monk?”

“No, that he’s tailing us.”

“Let’s find out.”

They checked the other two churches. Nadia didn’t see Karel in any of them. When they got to the last church, the smallest of the three, six tourists were studying the spare interior.

“Your turn to go out the back,” she said to Marko.

Marko glanced toward the altar and the entrance to the sacristy, the room where priests kept vestments and vessels. Marched right down the center aisle, crossed himself three times Ukrainian Catholic style, and disappeared inside it. As though he were a priest going to get dressed. He moved with such confidence anyone who was watching would assume he belonged. Nadia kneeled in a pew and repeated three Our Fathers and Hail Mary’s in Ukrainian to herself. It was her old ritual. The words rolled off her tongue effortlessly. Words she could never forget. Then she left the church.

She didn’t see the monk outside. Nadia walked back toward the pilgrimage center. She passed a group of thirty tourists snapping pictures of the main church. One of the tourists held a camera at the ready. It boasted a massive telephoto lens.

Nadia stopped and burst into a smile. “Hi,” she said.

The man with the camera turned. Nadia stared into the lens. It provided a wide angle reflection. Nadia spied the monk thirty paces behind her.

“Oh, excuse me,” Nadia said. “You look like someone I know.”

She ambled toward the Pilgrimage Center. Climbed some steps, made her way around a balcony that faced the Strypa River.

Trees hugged the creek. Clusters of people admired the view. The sound of rushing water drowned out their voices. Nadia moved to the far end of the balcony. She stood, took a look at her watch, and waited.

The monk wandered in seventeen minutes later, hands folded over his chest as though he was reflecting. Nadia looked away. She could still see his eyes in her peripheral vision. He scanned the balcony, found her, and focused on the river. He didn’t seem surprised when a monsignor in a black cassock with red trim walked up and put his arm around him. Once he saw it was Marko, however, his expression morphed into one of shock and fear.

By the time Nadia walked over, they’d already exchanged quiet words.

“He says he really is a monk,” Marko said. “And if you listen to him, I think you’ll agree.”

“I’m with the Basilian Fathers in Krekhiv,” the monk said. “I’m a friend of Karel’s. I heard you ask for him in the Pilgrimage Center.”

His effeminate delivery stunned Nadia. It was a complete contrast to his rugged appearance. Up close, Nadia realized he wasn’t rugged. His build was deceptive. He was tall and wide but his face was soft.

“Where is Karel?” Nadia said.

“Gone. On another pilgrimage. He left yesterday afternoon.”

Marko, arm still around the monk’s shoulder. “Where to?”

“The Priest’s Grotto.”

“The Priest’s Grotto?” Nadia said. “Where’s that?”

“It’s near the village of Strilkivtsi. About a hundred kilometers south of here.”

“What’s so special about it?” Marko said.

“It’s one of the longest gypsum caves in the world. It’s a special place with a special history. He wanted to experience it. The fear. The suffering. The courage.”

“How long is he going to stay in these caves?”

“Three days.”

“How can someone find him if he’s needed?”

“There are several main rooms in the caves. Any experienced guide will know them. He’s staying there.”

Marko and Nadia exchanged a knowing glance. She nodded. He patted the monk’s shoulder and removed his arm.

“Who are you?” the monk said.

Nadia introduced Marko and herself.

The monk’s eyes shone with recognition. “I know all about you.”

“You do?” Nadia said.

“Yes. You’re a journalist. You met him in Chornobyl village when you were doing research for an American newspaper.”

“That’s right,” she said. That was the cover she’d used. Either Karel didn’t tell him the truth or the monk didn’t want to admit he knew who she was. “And what’s your name?”

“My name is Yuri Salak.”

Marko and Nadia asked him more about the Priest’s Grotto. Nadia got the phone number for the Basilican Monastery in Krekhiv in case she needed to speak with him again. Afterward, Nadia and Marko started back toward the rental car where the driver was waiting.

“We have to get back to the hotel and find a guide,” she said.

“Hey,” Marko said.

Nadia turned. Marko hadn’t moved.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He pinched the cassock.

“Oh. Right.” She’d forgotten he was wearing it. The disguise gave him anonymity, credibility and access, especially in a religious country such as Ukraine.

“I can tell what you’re thinking,” he said. “Tempting, isn’t it?”

“What’s that?”

“Monsignor Tesla. No one messes with a priest.”

Nadia cringed. “Have some respect for a holy site, would you? Let’s put that back where you found it.”

“You sure?”

Nadia headed back toward the church. “Yes, Monsignor. We have sinned enough already.”

THE TWINS INSISTED on renting a fancy car to seduce the witness to the murder. Something called a Porsche Panamera. At first Victor refused. They owned a Lincoln Town Car. The ultimate American limousine. They didn’t need some German monstrosity, he told them. But the boys insisted. The Town Car was too old. It looked used. And it wasn’t edgy enough. Edgy? Victor said. Edgy? He dreamed of introducing their necks to the knife-edge of his hand. The rental cost $799 for one day, plus tax. Almost $900. When Victor arrived at Ellis Island, he didn’t have nine cents in his pocket. The world had gone mad.