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  “No, you had plans. I just went along. But I’m finished with that now.”

  “You think Glory would want this? You think she’d want you to go and get yourself killed fighting a bunch of towel-heads?”

  “I think she’d be proud of me for defending our country.”

  “Goddamn it, Bill, do you have any idea how much I spent to get you that seat?”

  “I know money means a lot to you, Jim. It meant a lot to me too. But not anymore.”

  “Good,” said Papa Jim, “because by the time I’m through with you, you won’t have a pot to piss in.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. The president thinks it’s a good idea.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “The governor gets to name my replacement, so the seat will stay Republican. And my example will make the Democrats look bad. The media will eat it up. It’s smart politics.”

  Papa Jim frowned. Much as he hated to admit it, what Bill was saying made sense. He wondered who he’d talked to at the White House. It sounded like Rove might have had a hand in this somewhere. He was the only political operative that Papa Jim felt any kind of respect for. “Hmm . . . I suppose you could always run for the Senate when you get back . . .”

  “My political career is over, Jim.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Papa Jim.

  “I’m announcing my resignation this afternoon,” Bill went on. “I’ve scheduled a press conference for one o’clock. But I wanted to give you a courtesy call first. Give you a heads-up.”

  Papa Jim sighed. There was no use fighting the inevitable. “Hell of a time to grow a spine, son,” he growled.

  “No hard feelings?” his son-in-law asked.

  “Does anybody else know about this yet?” he asked in turn.

  “Just the White House. I was about to call the governor.”

  “Give me ten minutes,” said Papa Jim. In politics, ten minutes was an eternity. A few quick phone calls, to the White House and the state house in Columbia, and the situation might still be salvaged. There were plenty of ambitious young men who would be willing to accept Papa Jim’s guidance in exchange for a seat in the Congress.

  It was time to start calling in old favors.

  CHAPTER 9

  2005

  Sister Elena knelt upon the soft dirt of the convent garden, diligently plucking the thin green shoots of weeds that had sprouted seemingly overnight amid the orderly rows of peas. It was still morning, an hour past Terce judging by the position of the sun, but it was already oppressively hot, especially beneath her thick woolen habit. But she embraced the discomfort, offering it up to God as a penitence, one of many that, she knew, would never be enough to atone for her sins. Father Rinaldi claimed that God had forgiven her, but Sister Elena knew better.

  Anyway, she had yet to forgive herself.

  Reaching the end of one row, she paused to wipe the sweat from beneath her wimple, wondering at the persistence of life, even at its most unwanted. Despite her efforts, and the efforts of the other nuns at the Convent of Santa Marta, the weeds were an enemy that could not be vanquished. The war against them was a continuous one, not unlike the war of good against evil that had taken such tangible form in the world beyond the convent walls since 9/11. First in Afghanistan. Now in Iraq. But the parallels were not exact. She knew, for instance, that the weeds were not evil. They were merely . . . inconvenient.

  As an unborn child could be inconvenient.

  Was it sinful then to pluck them from the ground? Didn’t weeds have the same right to life as peas?

  Didn’t Afghanis and Iraqis have the same right to life as allied troops?

  Even bin Laden’s life must be precious in the eyes of God.

  Yes, according to the Bible, God’s forgiveness could extend even to a monster like bin Laden, the man who had murdered so many, including her own mother, dead these last three years.

  She’d been here, in the garden, when Father Rinaldi had come to fetch her. She’d seen him coming, making his careful way across the grounds, his frail form in its flapping black surplice reminding her of a crow, and she’d known right away, before she’d heard a word, before she’d even seen his face clearly, that death had touched her again, that God was not finished punishing her for what she’d done.

  “Come with me, Sister Elena,” he’d said when he reached her.

  The look of compassion in his rheumy blue eyes confirmed her fears. She hurriedly averted her gaze, not wanting to see anything more, and rose obediently, mutely, to her feet, for the vow of silence she’d taken was not so easily set aside as this. She could speak when it came time for prayer, or when given dispensation to do so by Father Rinaldi or the abbess, but Sister Elena had long since reached the point where it was speech rather than silence that seemed unnatural.

  He’d led her inside, to the reception area where visitors to the convent were greeted, tourists curious about what the life of a nun was like in the Middle Ages: Santa Marta was a living museum, the Colonial Williamsburg of nunneries, as Sister Elena referred to it in her letters home. She and the other nuns dressed as the nuns in medieval times would have dressed. They ate the same foods, slept on straw pallets, organized their days around the Book of Hours and its placid cycle of prayers and devotions. Of course, there was a modern infirmary and modern guest quarters, telephones, central heating and air-conditioning, even Internet connections. But these amenities were not available to the nuns except in special circumstances.

  Father Rinaldi brought her to the booth that held the convent’s public phone. “A call,” he said. “For you.” And then, when she did not move to enter the booth (she was afraid to do so, already playing out in her mind the words she had yet to hear): “Go on, Sister. Answer the phone.”

  So she’d entered the booth, leaving the door open behind her, because she didn’t want Father Rinaldi to think that she had secrets from him, things to hide, though of course she did. She wiped her damp palms on the front of her habit and picked up the phone. “Hello?” Her voice cracked, only partly from disuse.

  “Is that you, Kate? It’s Daddy.” If he hadn’t said so, she wouldn’t have known. That’s how ravaged his voice was.

  Normally she corrected him when he called her Kate. She was Sister Elena now. Kate no longer existed. But this time it didn’t even occur to her. “What is it, Dad? What’s happened?”

  “I wanted to tell you right away, but Papa Jim . . . well, your grandpa wanted to wait until we knew for sure.”

  “Oh sweet Jesus,” she said, and crossed herself with her free hand. There was a narrow bench in the booth, and she sank onto it without conscious thought; her legs weren’t holding her up anymore.

  “It’s Glory, honey. She’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “She was there. In the North Tower. When it fell.” Deep breaths separated each statement, as though he were trying to swallow the words but couldn’t keep them down.

  “Oh God.”

  Her father suddenly burst into sobs. Great, wracking sobs that seemed, for all their size, more suited to a child than an adult. “She’s gone!” he wailed. “Gone!”

  And now she was crying too, crying like a little girl who had lost everything, crying like she hadn’t cried since she’d learned of Ethan’s death. The phone had fallen from her hand and was dangling from its chord, swinging back and forth, and from it she could still hear the tinny squawking of her father’s grief.

  Later, he’d begged her to come home for the funeral, but she’d told him no. It wasn’t that her vows prevented it; Father Rinaldi and the abbess had both tried to convince her to go. But she hadn’t been able to do it. Hadn’t been able to face her father and Papa Jim.

  Not because they blamed her for Glory’s death. Why would they?

  But she knew the truth.

  She was to blame.

  It was her fault that Glory had died. God had struck her down because of her role in the abortion. Okay, so it had been Glory
’s idea in the first place . . . but she couldn’t blame her mother for that. Her mother hadn’t known whose child she was carrying. But she had known. Gabriel had told her. But she hadn’t listened. She’d gone through with it anyway. The truth was, in the end, it had been her own lack of faith, of courage, that had caused Ethan’s death . . . and now Glory’s.

  For a while, crazed with grief and guilt, she was convinced that she bore responsibility for all the deaths that had occurred on that tragic day. But as time passed, some degree of perspective returned, and she realized that the universe didn’t revolve around her . . . even if, for a brief period, it had. No, God had not taken more than three thousand people to punish her.

  He had only needed to take one.

  But it was so unfair!

  Why didn’t you take me instead? she demanded of God, alone in her cell at night, kneeling bare-kneed upon the stone floor. Why did she have to die?

  She railed at Him, cursed Him.

  She wept and begged forgiveness.

  But no matter what she did, what she said, there was never a reply. Not a word, not a sign. If God had listened to her once, apparently He listened no longer.

  No . . . He was still listening. She knew that.

  He had just stopped answering.

  But that’s not true either, she told herself. He’s still answering.

  What else was Glory’s death but God’s answer to the question she never stopped asking: Am I forgiven yet?

  The answer, it seemed, was no.

  Since that time, whenever Sister Elena received a phone call, or a visitor, she would experience a moment of stark dread, expecting the news that God had struck again, taken the life of another person dear to her. And even though nothing of the kind had happened, she felt the same icy chill grip her heart now, when she glanced up from her weeding and saw Father Rinaldi, more decrepit than ever, making his way toward her with the assistance of a cane. He had suffered a mild stroke two years ago that had partially paralyzed his right side, but he refused to curtail his duties or movements about the convent as a result.

  This time, she didn’t wait for him to arrive. She stood and went to meet him.

  He stopped and waited for her, mopping with a white handkerchief at the sweat that shone on his face and bald head. “It’s your father,” he said as she drew near, then added quickly, seeing the stricken expression on her face, “No, no, he’s fine. He’s here to see you.”

  Relief flooded her, and she offered up a silent prayer of thanks even as she gave Father Rinaldi her arm to lean on as they slowly made their way inside to the reception area. All the while, Sister Elena was wondering what had brought her father here. It would be the first time she had seen him since before Glory’s death. Since then, they had spoken by telephone and exchanged letters, but she had not left the convent, and he had not traveled to Italy to see her, even though her grandfather had made the journey three times. But she knew that Bill had taken Glory’s death very hard. Like her, though with far less reason, he had blamed himself. And he had become obsessed with thoughts of revenge. Soon after 9/11, he had resigned from Congress and joined the Army Rangers. The administration had eagerly embraced the PR bonanza of a gung-ho, Republican ex-con-gressman fighting al-Qaeda up close and personal. There had been some red tape to cut through, given his age, but Bill’s natural athleticism and grim determination had carried him through the arduous Ranger training program while men ten and fifteen years younger were washing out. He’d distinguished himself in two tours of duty in Afghanistan, receiving a Purple Heart and a Silver Star. But not once in all that time had he come to see her.

  Until now.

  Why?

  Her heart was fluttering wildly as Father Rinaldi brought her to one of the rooms set aside for family visits.

  “Your father is inside,” he told her. “Consider yourself released from your vows for the duration of his visit.”

  “Thank you, Father.” She turned to the door, opened it, and stepped inside. The room, though small and austerely furnished, was comfortable and modern, with a gorgeous view over the Tuscan hills. But the only view Sister Elena had eyes for was the sight of her father in his dress uniform rising awkwardly from the chair in which he’d been waiting for her to arrive.

  He looked so old!

  Of course, seven years had gone by since she’d entered the convent. She was twenty-four now, and he was forty-two, but that amount of time couldn’t account for the difference between the man facing her and the man she remembered. This man looked like he was well into his fifties, if not older still. Lines had etched themselves deeply into his face, and his black hair had turned silver. He was whip thin and hard muscled, but her impression was one of gauntness rather than fitness, as if his body had been whittled down by years of grief and deprivation until there was nothing superfluous left, nothing that was unessential to him.

  She wondered what he saw when he looked at her.

  He reached her in two long strides and took her into his arms, hugging her so tightly that she winced. “God, Kate, it’s good to see you!”

  “You know it’s Sister Elena now,” she corrected gently, and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re crushing me, Dad.”

  When he pulled away, he was grinning lopsidedly, but his eyes glimmered with moisture. “Just look at you,” he said. “You’ve grown into such a lovely young woman. Glory would be so proud.”

  Sister Elena was feeling a little teary eyed herself. Her mother’s absence was so strong that it was itself a kind of presence in the room, as though her ghost were hovering nearby, watching and listening to all that transpired. “Can I get you something to drink, Dad?”

  “I’m fine, honey.”

  They studied each other in a silence that tautened as it stretched.

  “I don’t know if I can get used to seeing you in a uniform,” she said at last, attempting to lighten the mood. “I feel like I should salute or something.”

  “If you think that’s tough, try looking at your only daughter in a nun’s habit.”

  Sister Elena flushed. “Dad . . .”

  “How long is this going to last, Kate? Why—”

  “Dad,” she broke in forcefully, “it’s Sister Elena now. I’ve told you a hundred times. And it’s going to last for the rest of my life. It’s a marriage, Dad. A marriage to Christ. Can’t you respect that?”

  At first she thought he was going to continue his attack, but then she saw a look of resignation and sadness come into his eyes. His shoulders sagged. “Of course, honey. I’m sorry.” He shook his head ruefully. “The first time we see each other in years, and I launch right back into the same old crap.”

  “It’s okay,” she told him, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. He had never understood her decision to remain at the convent and take holy vows. He’d thought at first that it was just a phase, a symptom of her grief after Ethan’s death, and that she’d grow tired of the hard life she’d chosen soon enough and come back to South Carolina, ready to pick up her old life right where she’d left off. When that hadn’t happened, he’d become more forceful in his criticism, even accusing her of having been brainwashed and threatening to send deprogrammers to kidnap her and bring her back home. There’d been a lot of shouting and tears on both sides then, but luckily Glory and Papa Jim had been on her side, and in the end her father had grudgingly acquiesced to what he couldn’t change. Sister Elena hoped that he wasn’t going to dredge up all that old unpleasantness again.

  He patted her hand and grinned lopsidedly. “Don’t worry, Sister. I’ll be good. Scout’s honor.”

  She laughed, relieved. “Thanks, Captain.”

  His grin widened. “Actually, it’s Colonel now. I’ve been promoted.”

  “Dad, that’s great!” She clapped her hands together. “I’m so proud of you!”

  Something flashed in his eyes then, and the grin was gone. “Don’t be. I’m sure as hell not.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He si
ghed. “This isn’t going like I planned. Can we sit down?”

  “Of course.” There was a sofa situated to take advantage of the mountain view. They both sat, but instead of gazing out the window, they had eyes only for each other. “What’s this all about, Dad? Why have you come to see me? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  The lopsided grin was back. “I’m fine, honey. Fine.”

  “Bullshit,” she said.

  His eyebrows shot up at that, and she had to repress a laugh.

  “The convent has a school,” she explained. “I teach the local kids how to speak English. It’s given me a good nose for BS. And I’m smelling it now.”

  “Damn,” he said. “Guess I’m busted.”

  “Damn right. So, are you in trouble?”

  He stood abruptly, walked to the window, and looked out, his back to her. “When I quit Congress and joined the Rangers, I wanted one thing: revenge. I wanted to kill the bastards who killed your mother and all those other people. But you know what? The longer I’ve been in Afghanistan, the harder it is to decide who deserves to die and who doesn’t.”

  “That’s up to God, not men.”

  “Not in the Army it’s not,” he said. “You know about Abu Ghraib?”

  “Of course. That was terrible.”

  “There’s worse. Lots worse.”

  “You’ve seen this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you reported it?”

  “Honey, it’s not that simple.”

  “Why?”

  He turned to face her, standing ramrod straight, as if at attention. “Never mind. That’s not what I came here to talk about.”

  “What then?”

  “They’re sending me to Iraq.”

  Sister Elena’s heart thudded in her chest. “When?”

  “Next week.”

  “Is . . . is it bad there, Dad? As bad as they say? And please don’t try to BS me.”

  He opened his mouth, shut it, then said simply, “It’s bad.”

  “Worse than Afghanistan?”

  “Ask me again the next time I see you.”