Robert Masello - The Medusa Amulet

“This certainly hasn’t helped,” he said, “but we do have her stabilized again. She’s conscious, and she doesn’t appear to have suffered a concussion. But we’ll keep her in the ICU overnight, just for observation.”

“And then?” Gary asked.

“Then,” he said, with a slightly more hopeful expression, “I’d like to enter her on a new experimental regimen. We’ve just gotten the go-ahead on it, and I think Sarah might be a very good candidate. The clinical trials in Maryland were impressive.”

For a minute or two, he explained how the therapy might work, and what its side effects might be, then concluded by saying, “But as it is experimental, there may be some trouble getting it by your insurance company.”

Gary didn’t hesitate. “I’ll handle it.”

“And I can help,” David blurted out, thinking of the business card in his wallet.

“That’s fine,” Dr. Ross said with a nod. “And I’ll do what I can from my end. But I just wanted to warn you.” And then he left them there, to continue his rounds.

“Why don’t we adjourn to the cafeteria?” David said. “I could use a cup of coffee.”

Lost in thought, they sat staring into their respective cups. A crooked Christmas tree, decorated with ornaments made by the pediatric patients, stood forlornly beneath the ticking wall clock.

David didn’t have to guess what was going through Gary’s mind. Apart from the life-and-death question that was forever hanging in the air, there were the money worries. Whether the insurance plan picked up most of this experimental protocol or not, Gary was looking at financial disaster. His business, David knew, had been way down-Sarah had once confessed that he was thinking of quitting and trying something else entirely-and there was no way he could cover any further demands without, at the very least, selling his own house.

But what couldn’t a million dollars do?

David would have to go to Florence. And he’d have to go now, while Sarah had been granted this temporary reprieve. There was always a chance that the new protocol would work… and there was always a chance that it wouldn’t. If he was ever going to take this chance, now was the time.

“You know that promotion I mentioned that I might be getting?” he ventured, and Gary nodded, without lifting his eyes.

“Well, to nail it down, I might have to go to Italy.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

Now Gary raised his weary eyes. “For how long?”

“It’s hard to say,” David replied, “though I could come back, on a moment’s notice, anytime I had to.”

He could see Gary processing the information, just another complication in his already tumultuous life. “I just hate leaving you in the lurch like this, but-”

“Go,” Gary said kindly, “go. There’s no reason all of us have to live in this damn hospital. And if Sarah were sitting here, she’d be saying the same thing. You know that.”

There, David knew, he was right. It only made sense for him to leave immediately especially as he had begun to entertain-against his own better judgment-the nagging, and utterly irrational, notion that Mrs. Van Owen’s claims weren’t as impossible as they seemed. For one thing, he was beginning to believe that someone else took them seriously. Why else had he nearly been run down in the street? He glanced down at his knuckles, scraped raw from plunging into the snow and ice. Determined as Mrs. Van Owen was, was there some rival out there, equally determined to thwart her?

And for another-and this was the part that troubled him even more deeply-right after she had driven away from the Newberry, he had returned to the book silo and, slumping in his seat, turned the next leaf of The Key to Life Eternal. A sketch, one that he had barely paid attention to on his first reading, jumped out at him like an acrobat.

It was clearly an early rendering of the figure of Athena, destined for one of the panels making up the base of the great statue of Perseus. And the likeness to Kathryn Van Owen was startling-the imperious gaze, the haughty posture, the rich mane of dark hair. The words, Quo Vincas / Clypeum Do Tibi / Casta Sosor, were faintly legible below it; “I, thy chaste sister, give thee the shield with which thou wilt conquer.” Athena was the goddess who had provided the advice, and shield, that allowed the hero Perseus to slay the Medusa. And though David recognized that the woman who had just left the library could not possibly have been the artist’s model-that this had to be a mere coincidence, maybe even a trick of his own imagining-there was another part of him that said, Believe it. Because at this point, a belief in miracles, in the long-lost secret of immortality, might be his sister’s best-and only-hope. How could he dismiss it?

Father DiGennaro yawned widely and checked his watch again. It was almost midnight, and after that he could lock the massive bronze doors of the Holy Name Cathedral-seat of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago-and go to bed. The younger priests would still be celebrating Christmas Eve, with spiked eggnog and pizzas, but all Father DiGennaro wanted was a shot of Maalox and a good night’s sleep. At seventy-three, he’d ushered in more than enough holidays.

And the one piece of pizza he’d had was already giving him heartburn.

The archbishop liked to keep the cathedral open late on Christmas Eve, as it was a time when some parishioners came in to quietly reaffirm their faith. And perhaps a dozen or so people had already done that. But Father DiGennaro was alone now, and the interior of the vast Gothic church echoed with his footsteps as he made the rounds. Built in 1874 to replace the previous cathedral, destroyed in the Chicago fire of 1871, Holy Name was large enough to seat two thousand worshippers at one time, and it was richly decorated with red Rocco Alicante marble and a massive granite altarpiece, weighing six tons. The wall sconces and votive candles lent a warm glow to the lower regions of the interior, but the ceiling, 150 feet high, was barely visible. Some work was being done up there, and plywood sheets and tarps were stretched across a portion of the apse. But the red hats of the previous Chicago cardinals-Meyer, Bernardin, Mundelein, Cody, and Stritch-were still hanging, as tradition dictated, until they were reduced to dust… a reminder to all that earthly glory is passing.

Father DiGennaro burped, holding his closed hand to his lips, and shuffled slowly toward the double doors, decorated, like the rest of the church, with motifs meant to suggest the biblical “Tree of Life.” He was fishing in his trouser pocket for the key ring, when he saw, to his surprise-and if the truth be told, to his chagrin-the doors opening, and a slender woman, in a veiled hat and long fur coat, entering the glass-enclosed vestibule.

Oh, Lord, he thought, please let her just light a candle and be gone. The corns on his feet were killing him, too.

But once inside, she stood, as if a stranger, looking all around and hesitant to enter any farther. He had the sense that she was coming to some decision, which did not bode well for him. People in the throes of a spiritual crisis seldom found quick release or comfort.

Approaching her slowly enough not to startle her, he said, “Merry Christmas… and welcome to Holy Name.”

As he emerged from the shadows of the nave, she took off her gloves, crossed herself, and with a sudden determination, said, “I’m sorry to trouble you at this hour, but I wish to make my confession. Can you do that for me?”

This was going to be worse than he thought. “I was just about to lock up,” he replied, slowly, hoping she would take the hint and come back the next day, but she didn’t move from the spot. He quickly sensed something else about this woman, too-that she was used to getting what she wanted, when she wanted it.