Strangers

immeasurably powerful machine. But it seemed as if the sound came from all sides, as if the machinery was hidden within the walls of the house itself, laboring at some mysterious and unknowable task.
        As the breviary finally slid off the dresser and the coins began to spill to the floor, Father Gerrano backed to the doorway and stood there wide-eyed, as if he might flee.
        But Stefan went to the bed, bent over the dozing priest, and shouted his name. When that had no effect, he grabbed Brendan by the shoulders and shook him.
        The auburn-haired curate blinked and opened his eyes.
        The hammering stopped abruptly.
        The sudden cessation of thunderous noise jolted Father Wycazik as badly as the first boom that had shattered his sleep. He let go of Brendan and looked around the room, disbelieving.
        "I was so close," Brendan said dreamily. "I wish you hadn't wakened me. I was so close."
        Stefan pulled aside the covers, took hold of the curate's hands, and turned them palms-up. There was an angry red ring in each palm. Stefan stared at them in fascination, for this was the first time that he had seen the stigmata.
        What in God's name is this all about? he wondered.
        Breathing hard, Father Gerrano approached the bed. Staring at the rings, he said, "What're those from?"
        Ignoring the question, Father Wycazik spoke to Brendan: "What was that sound? Where did it come from?"
        "Calling," Brendan said in a voice still thick with sleepand with a soft, excited pleasure. "Calling me back."
        "What was calling you?" Stefan demanded.
        Brendan blinked, sat up, and leaned against the headboard. His eyes had been out of focus. Now his gaze cleared, and he really looked at Father Wycazik for the first time. "What happened? You heard it, too?"
        "Somehow, yes," Stefan said. "It shook the whole house.
        Amazing. What was it, Brendan?"
        "A call. It was calling me, and I was following the call."
        "But what was calling you?"
        "I. I don't know. Something. Calling me back "Back where?"
        Brendan frowned. "Back into the light. The golden light of the dream I told you about."
        "What's this all about?" Father Gerrano persisted. His voice was shaky, for he was not as accustomed to the miraculous as were his rector and his fellow curate. "Will somebody clue me in?"
        The other priests continued to ignore him.
        To Brendan, Stefan said, "This golden light… what is it? Could it have been God calling you back to His fold?"
        "No," Brendan said. "Just… something. Calling me back. Next time, maybe I'll get a better look at it."
        Father Wycazik sat on the edge of the bed. "You think this will happen again? You think it'll keep calling to you?"
        "Yes," Brendan said. "Oh, yes."
        It was Thursday, January 9.
        

    7.
        

    Las Vegas, Nevada
        
        Friday afternoon, Jorja Monatella was at the casino, working, when she learned that her ex-husband, Alan Rykoff, had killed himself.
        The news came by way of an emergency telephone call from Pepper Carrafield, the hooker with whom Alan had been living. Jorja took the call on one of the phones in the blackjack pit, cupping a hand over one ear to block out the roar of voices, the click and snap of cards being dealt and shuffled, the ringing of slot machines. When she heard that Alan was dead, she was shocked and sickened, but she felt no grief. By his own selfish and cruel behavior, Alan had ensured she would have no reason to grieve for him. Pity was the only emotion she could summon.
        "He shot himself this morning, two hours ago," Pepper elaborated. "The police are here now. You've got to come."
        "The police want to see me?" Jorja said. "But why?"
        "No, no. The police don't want to see you. You got to come and clean his stuff out. I want his stuff out of here as soon as possible."
        "But I don't want his things," Jorja said.
        "It's still your job, whether you want them or not."
        "Miss Carrafield, it was a bitter divorce. I neither want nor-',
        "He had a will drawn up last week. He named you executor, so you got to come. I want his stuff out of here now. It's your job."
        

    ***
        
        Alan had lived with Pepper Carrafield in a high-rise condominium, a ritzy place called The Pinnacle, on Flamingo Road, where the