Bones of Angels Read Free Page B

Charles was fast asleep in the large four-poster bed in his room.
     

Chapter 5
     
    8:31 P.M., September 11
    Archbishop Connolly’s Residence
     
    Manhattan, New York
     
    Father Connolly had almost dozed off from the effects of a long day and the comforting, therapeutic Macallan scotch when he heard yet another noise. It sounded like a faint footfall. He wasn’t sure whether it had come from the hallway or the staircase. Had his housekeeper returned to check up on him?  The kindly old woman did so frequently ever since he’d begun chemo.
    “Mrs. Mancuso?” he called out in his thin voice. “Is that you, Mrs. Mancuso?”
    There was no reply.
    He decided to tidy up his study and go to bed early.
    He sat at his desk and attempted to shuffle papers into some kind of semblance of order. He then picked up his glass to finish off the scotch.
    “Good evening, Eminence,” said a harsh voice from the shadows of the study.
    The glass slipped from Connolly's trembling fingers. For a moment it was suspended in mid-air, a spray of amber liquid spinning away from the tumbling crystal.
    And then it fell, shattering with a crash against the floor.   
    Connolly’s hands trembled as a man dressed in black stepped forward. The white collar of a priest adorned his neck. The stranger had been handsome once, but no more. The right side of the priest’s face was pitted and scarred, the horrific remains of a terrible burn. One side of his lip curled upward in a perpetual sneer. The puckered skin around his mouth was drawn tightly against his jaw.
    “Do I know you?” asked Connolly.
    “Have you ever seen an angel, Archbishop Connolly?” the priest asked. His manner of speech was abrupt and halting. His sentences wore straightjackets.
    “What are you doing in my private residence?” asked the Archbishop.
    The strange priest continued, ignoring the question. “I’ve seen an angel,” he said. “When I was just a boy. We lived in Genoa then. I was about nine when it happened. My sister, Francesca, was perhaps seven.”
    “Please leave,” said Connolly. “I’m old and sick, and — ”
    “We went for a stroll one Sunday evening,” the intruder continued. “Francesca and I rode our bicycles on the path beside the river while our parents walked. The embankment was quite steep, and the current in the river was very strong. Mother warned us to stay away from the edge.”
    Connolly shook his head. “Father, I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but . . . ”
    “Francesca looked back over her shoulder to wave at Mother and Father,” said the priest. “She ran over a tree root and lost control of her bicycle.”
    The priest advanced towards Connolly. His features were even more bizarre in the dim light from the library lamp on Connolly’s desk, as if the stranger were wearing a mask.
    “Francesca fell from her bicycle and rolled down the embankment toward the river. I was certain she would fall into the water, and the current would sweep her away. But just as Francesca reached the edge, she suddenly stopped rolling. My parents were quite shaken and ran to her side.”
    The priest paused. Archbishop Connolly shrank into his chair as if to get as far away from the looming figure as possible.
    “Francesca looked up from where she lay on the ground and said in a voice filled with wonder:  ‘Did you see that beautiful angel standing at the edge of the river, holding up his hands to keep me from falling in?’”
    Connolly’s mouth was dry. His Adam’s-apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. “And you . . . saw this angel?” he asked.
    “Yes, I did. You have seen an angel, too, in a manner of speaking. I want you to tell me about this angel. Now.”
    The disfigured priest smiled, but there was no kindness in the gesture. He walked behind the desk, seizing the trembling body of Connolly and pulling it into a standing position. His arms possessed incredible strength. Roughly, he dragged Connolly into the hall.
    “Where are you