"She looks as if she is waiting for her lover."
Liling turned, amazed to see Valentin Jaus standing just behind her. "Mr. Jaus. What are you doing here?"
"I am stalking you."
Her chin dropped. "Pardon me?"
"I make a poor joke. Luisa told me that you often come to the pier at night," he said. "I have never visited it, and I had some spare time tonight, so thought I might do the same. When I arrived. I saw you walking ahead of me and followed you here."
No wonder she'd felt that odd sensation of someone watching her. She'd never have guessed in a million years that it would have been Luisa's wealthy friend, however.
"It's so strange to see you outside the hospital." She couldn't believe she'd blurted that out. "Not that there is anything strange about your coming here. You can go anywhere, of course. It's just, uh, very unexpected."
"I was equally disconcerted to see you," he admitted. "I did not wish to appear untoward by approaching you, but I felt curious about this museum, and it seemed the polite thing to do." He watched her face carefully. "Perhaps I was wrong."
"Oh, no. I'm glad you came here. This is a beautiful museum. I come to see the windows here at least once a week." Which officially made her the dullest person in Chicago. "I hope you enjoy the displays, Mr. Jaus."
"As you are far more knowledgeable about this place, would you tell me which gallery houses the Tiffany collection?" he asked. "I find his work especially riveting."
"It's right through here." Liling led him to the gallery, where the displays had been placed strategically in deep wells of shadows and startling theatrical pools of light.
The Tiffany windows were magnificent examples of stained-glass art in its most evolved form. Liling told Jaus about the different types of glass the artist had used to create his windows, and the often daring techniques he had developed to bring a sense of movement and life to each piece.
"How do you know so much about this man?" Jaus asked.
"I bought a book about Tiffany at the gift shop," she said, glad for a reason to think about something other than his shoulders, and how his suit fit them. "It has all the facts about the windows, and some pretty interesting trivia about the artist, too. For example, Tiffany specialized in designing religious and memorial windows, but he preferred depicting flowers and landscapes rather than people and icons. He felt nature was much more divine than man. He also used the symbolism of flowers in much of his work. The poppies and passionflowers in this piece represent the Resurrection and the Crucifixion of Christ."
"Whatever his intentions, he created glorious art." The artificial light shining through the window cast Jaus's face in red and gold. "Although I would guess that you prefer the window of the woman in the garden."
"There is something about her that is so mysterious," she admitted. "As if the artist knew that she had a secret. Sometimes I think that if I keep looking at the window, I'll discover what it is."
He didn't smile, but he seemed amused. "You must tell me if you do."
He never asked; he commanded. Liling thought. Like a general… Oh, she was not thinking about that while he stood right next to her. "This next window is very pretty, too."
As they walked slowly through the thirteen displays, Jaus mentioned the particular reverence Chicagoans had for stained glass.
"I imagine it all began shortly after the Great Fire, while the city was rebuilding," he told Liling. "Immigrants drawn here by industry and the opportunity for work began decorating their churches, business, schools, and homes with the stained glass they once had known in Europe. Many of our old buildings have been carefully preserved, which is why Chicago itself is like one enormous glasswork museum."
"I can believe it," she told him. "In my book, it says they even put stained-glass windows in some of the old railroad cars." She gave him a curious look. "You seem to know a lot about the history of the city. Have you studied it?"
He nodded. "I know it as well as if I had lived through it."
A security guard stepped into the gallery. "Folks, the museum is closing now."
Liling felt startled. Had she actually been talking to the poor man for an hour? He must be bored out of his mind. "Well, it was very nice running into you. Mr. Jaus."
He followed her out of the museum, but as she turned to go he caught her arm. "It is late. Permit me to escort you home, Miss Harper."
Not a question, but another command.
"There's no need," she said, feeling embarrassed again at the thrill she felt in response. "I live only a couple of blocks away."
A large family leaving the pier passed by, obliging her to move closer to Jaus to make room for them. The scent of camellias came over her, making her feel warm and a little sleepy.
She didn't want to go home anymore. "Do you have to go now?"
"I can spend more time with you," he said, "if that is what you wish."
Her head bobbed up and down as she caught the edge of his lapel between her thumb and forefinger and leaned in to breathe his scent. "You always smell like your flowers. Why is that?"
"I spend a great deal of time in my gardens." His voice had changed, some of his words slurring, and his crystal eyes shifted down to look at her throat.
"Then why are you so unhappy?" she heard herself ask.
He drew back. "I don't know what you mean."
"You can't be unhappy in a garden." Her head began to clear, and she pulled her hand back, appalled at the way she had touched him and spoken to him. "I shouldn't have said that. It's none of my business."
"Perhaps that is the secret of the woman in the window," he said, putting more space between them. "I will not detain you any longer. Miss Harper. Until we meet again."
"Good-bye. Mr. Jaus." She turned and hurried away.
Chicago City News photographer Boyce Kinney picked up his latest batch of proofs from production on his way to the morning editorial meeting. He'd tried to get a shot of Daniel Lindquist in his room at the Lighthouse, but security had grabbed him before he could set foot on the ward.
His editor was philosophical about the missed opportunity. "No one is running anything about Lindquist or his sister trying to kill him; it's dead in the water. Yesterday it seems our fine, upstanding state senator Ryan Litton was arrested downtown for soliciting an underage prostitute."
"Oh, yeah?" Kinney perked up. "How old was she?"
"He's fifteen," the editor said, grinning. "I want you down at the courthouse; Litton will be arraigned at noon. They've shut out the media from the courtroom, so get me all the close-ups you can outside. Anything showing him in cuffs or being handled by the cops."
"Hang on." Serena, the Lifestyles editor, plucked one of Kinney's photos off the table. "Who's this?"
Kinney glanced at the photo he had taken of the Asian girl in the gardens outside the Lighthouse. He'd snapped it only to check his lens adjustment. "Nobody."
"What's this mark on the back of her shoulder?" Serena used a magnifier to inspect the spot, and then answered herself. "Looks like a tattoo of a bird of some kind."
"Everybody's got a tattoo these days." Kinney stretched and yawned. "Who cares?"
"I'm running a front-page piece on the next generation of nursing homes." Serena told him. "These are great colors, and the gardens are amazing. I could mention Lindquist, since he's a patient there, maybe work in a paragraph or two about the sister."
The senior editor shook his head. "The powers that be aren't interested in raking Lindquist over the coals. They were very specific."
"Old golfing buddies never die." Kinney made a jerking motion with his closed fist. "They just keep their circle of friends happy."
"So I don't utter a peep about Lindquist; got it." Serena studied the image again. "I still need a color shot for this piece. Her back is to the camera, so we don't need a sign-off. Mind if I use it. Boyce?"
Lifestyles ran only feel-good stories that rarely did anything but take up space, so there was nothing in it for Kinney. "It's okay with me."
A day later his editor clapped him on the shoulder. "You're not going to believe this. AP picked up that garden shot of yours. We've had reprint requests from a dozen agencies overseas, too."
His first big break, Kinney thought, and it had to be a throwaway shot he'd taken only to check his camera settings. "Too bad I didn't get the girl's face. She'd be famous."
Chapter 3
The twenty-first century had not been kind to the Catholic Church. Numbers were down and scandals were up; a worldwide shortage of ordained priests had grown from severe to desperate. Atheists and prochoice groups hounded the Church, pouncing on any opportunity to smear its good name.
Even in countries where Catholicism had controlled the population more stringently than the petty dictatorships that rose and fell from power with monotonous regularity, the newer generations had lost touch with the faith. Young Catholics went through the motions only on holy days, primarily to please cantankerous, elderly relatives.
No one feared the wrath of God anymore. Allah and the crazed jihads formed in his name had become the big bogeymen of this century.
In Chicago, cost-cutting measures taken by the archdiocese had required nearly half of the city's churches to curtail their expenses. Some were even shut down, their parishioners sent to attend Mass elsewhere. The archbishop of Chicago had suffered the indignity of being packed up and transferred to St. Luke's, one of the humblest parishes in the city.
It was a punishment handed down from Rome, from a cardinal who had as little to do with the Catholic Church as August Hightower did.
"I found the paper. Your Grace," Mrs. Clare Murphy said as she brought in his afternoon tea tray, the latest edition of the Chicago City News tucked under her plump arm. "Why that Shaughnessy boy has to throw it in the hedges every morning, I'll never know." She set down the tray and removed the newspaper from the plastic bag. "Looks as if that Senator Litton's got hisself all over the front page again."