Keeping Faith Read online

  "Your Excellency."

  "Please." Andrews gestures, and Rampini edges into a smaller chair and fixes his eyes on the swaying chain of the pectoral cross tucked into the bishop's pocket.

  Rampini has examined alleged visions before to make sure there was nothing in them contrary to faith. In every case to date, even the promising ones, he's recommended a wait-and-see policy. He has been careful not to make a hasty judgment, lest he come off looking foolish.

  And that, in a nutshell, is why his hands keep shaking. He's going out on a limb here. Because he really believes that Faith White may just be envisioning God.

  Bishop Andrews takes off his glasses and polishes them before slipping them back on. "According to the rector at St. John's, you're the most esteemed theologian in the Northeast."

  "If you say so, Your Excellency."

  "On behalf of the diocese, I'd like to thank you for coming."

  "Perfectly all right," Rampini says.

  The bishop nods graciously. "I only have a couple of questions, Father."

  "With all due respect, Your Excellency, I've already submitted my report."

  "Yes, in fact...two of them. The original recommendation and--what did you call it?--ah, the revised update. You know, I can't quite figure out why a theologian--the most esteemed theologian in the Northeast, that is--would file two completely contradictory reports within a few hours' time, regarding the substantive miracles of Faith White." At Rampini's affronted silence, Andrews gets impatient. He reaches into his pocket and fingers his rosary--it makes a handy set of worry beads. "I'm certain a man of your credentials has been called in for consultation on a wide number of religious sightings."

  "Often."

  "Yet you've never before given your personal endorsement."

  Father Rampini tightens his mouth. "That's true. And yes, the revised report indicates that this time I am."

  The bishop decides to play dumb. He scratches his head. "I'm a little confused, Father. Now, I don't presume to be half the theologian you are, naturally, but it seems to me that a Jewish child seeing a female God goes against traditional Catholic dogma."

  Father Rampini crosses his arms. "Are you asking me to justify my findings?"

  "No, no. But for my own...edification...I'd love to know your thought process."

  Rampini clears his throat. "There are a variety of supporting criteria. The fact that Faith White isn't Catholic is unorthodox, Your Excellency, but not inauthentic. One would be more leery of the elderly ladies who pray for sixteen hours a day and then confess Jesus appeared to them at the kitchen table. Faith wasn't asking for this vision, but it came. She's also very closemouthed about her conversations with God, and she tries to hide episodes of stigmata."

  "Stigmata," the bishop says. "Did you see them?"

  "I did. I'm not personally familiar with Holy Marks, of course, but the general consensus of the medical community is that they aren't self-inflicted."

  "She could be a hysteric."

  "Entirely possible," Rampini agrees. "Except that in addition to the wounds, there's proof apart from the person of the seer. In this case, healing."

  "You're the expert, of course, but I have to admit--it would bother me a bit to know she's running around saying God's a woman."

  "Actually, she's not. The MotherGod Society is spreading the propaganda. Faith isn't saying much of anything at all. In addition to the fact that--as I said in my second report--she isn't seeing God as a woman. She's seeing Our Lord Jesus Christ, in His traditional form and clothing, yet interpreting Him as a female figure."

  Bishop Andrews raises a brow. "That's a stretch, son."

  "Surely you're not telling me, Your Excellency, how to do my job." Father Rampini speaks softly. "You meet her. And then come talk to me."

  They stare at each other silently. "You feel this strongly," the bishop finally says.

  "I do."

  "You think I should take this to the U.S. Bishops' Conference."

  "I wouldn't presume to tell you what to do."

  Bishop Andrews taps his forefingers together. "You know, this isn't The X-Files, Father. No matter what the public wants, some fantastic display isn't the way to get the flock back to the Church. Even if I were to go along with your recommendation, I'd be wary of the haste with which you made it. The last thing I want is to be exposed as some loony on a supernatural scavenger hunt--can you imagine what that would do to the diocese? To Catholicism in general? There's a reason these evaluations take years, Father. It's so that in the event Faith White is a charlatan, you and I will be dead and buried and blissfully unaware of the backlash." Bishop Andrews tilts his head. "Has this child ever even been in a Catholic church?"

  "Not that I know of, Excellency."

  "Has she been raised according to the Jewish faith?"

  "No. Since her mother isn't a practicing Jew, she felt taking the child to temple would be hypocritical. I confirmed with a rabbi, however, that if the mother is Jewish, so is the child. Regardless."

  "And that," the bishop says, "is the stumbling block. We have no jurisdiction over a child who isn't Catholic."

  A muscle tics in Rampini's jaw. "Then why did you ask me to come?"

  He watches the bishop walk to his desk, and suddenly realizes that Andrews is going to hedge his bets. He won't use Rampini's endorsement of Faith White--unless the tide turns and he needs it. He'll keep both contradictory reports, so that he's ready for either contingency; and Father Rampini won't be able to say a thing about it without making himself look indecisive. Heat floods the priest's face, moving up from his white collar. "You will disregard the first report," Rampini orders. "I'm officially submitting the second one, and only the second one, for your consideration."

  Without taking his eyes off the younger man's face, Bishop Andrews slides the paper he's holding into a desk drawer. "Which one was that?" he says.

  November 10, 1999

  When Ian enters Malcolm Metz's office, the attorney doesn't get up from his seat. "Well," he says instead, leaning back in his chair. "This certainly is a pleasure. I'm a big fan."

  Ian stares at him squarely. "My fee's ninety thousand. It's what advertisers pay for a commercial during my shows. I'm envisioning your trial in much the same way--an interruption bracketing the things I'm planning to say anyway."

  To his credit, Metz doesn't even blink. "I don't foresee that being a problem," he says. In truth, he has no idea whether or not his client can come up with the money, but he's not about to squash negotiations before they even really begin. "As long as you remember that this isn't a television show. A little girl's life is as stake."

  "Save your bullshit for the court," Ian says. "I know what you want."

  "Which is?"

  "Proof that Faith White is a charlatan. And hints that her mother is the puppeteer."

  Metz smiles. "And you, of course, have all this information."

  "Would you have asked for me if I didn't?"

  Metz considers this for a moment. "I don't know. Just on your Q-rating alone, you could probably convince a judge that the sun isn't going to rise tomorrow."

  At that, Ian laughs. "Maybe you are a fan after all."

  "Why don't you tell me what you've got?"

  "Some decent hidden-camera footage of Mariah White coaching the kid before she bows and scrapes for the crowd. A testimonial from a woman who went on national TV saying that her baby had been cured of AIDS by Faith, admitting that Mariah White paid her three thousand dollars to make up the story. Couple of experts who've signed off on a written scientific explanation for Millie Epstein's corpse coming back to life--has to do with electrical currents and bodily tissue, or some such like that."

  "What about the hands?"

  "The alleged stigmata? It's an optical illusion."

  "An optical illusion?"

  "Come on now, certainly you've seen fire-eaters at the circus, or magicians passing objects through their fists."

  "How could they fool a bunch of doctor