A whole gaggle of them flocking together, wimples bright in the sunshine, some smiling, some crying, some doing both at the same time. They’re on the opposite side of the obelisk, and when I listen carefully, I hear American accents.
Finch has seen them too, judging by the way he repeatedly nudges me in the side. I grab his elbow to stop him.
“Stay here,” I order him, squeezing his elbow to make sure he knows I’m serious. He gives a frantic nod of the head, the flag and hood slipping off his baseball cap. But his hair is still dark under the cap, a few curls peeking out at the back, giving him a modicum of disguise. I leave the umbrella with him and move away.
I step through the crowd slowly, making for the left of the obelisk, aiming to come up behind the group of nuns. There must be at least twenty, all of them completely focused on the window of the Apostolic Palace, only breaking their gaze now and then to glance at the big-screen TV echo of His Holiness.
I catch the occasional murmur from them, and they are definitely American. But none of them are recognizable from the quarter-view I have of their faces, and I can’t see red hair revealed at the front of any wimple. I sidle around a little further, and then look back to Finch to make sure he’s still safe. He’s staring intently at me and gives me a little nod when I catch his eye.
Reassured, and deciding that haste is more important than stealth as long as I’m away from Finch, I pick up the pace, and push my way further towards the front, trying to find a place where I can get a better look at their faces. But just as I push through into a small opening, the pictures on the televisions around the square change, the cameras sweeping over the crowd again, and I spot myself instantly.
I turn back abruptly, surprising the tourist behind me, and raise my phone as though to take a photo of the crowd. I aim for the nuns and use the zoom function to scan through the line of them. They have a little banner, held by two of them,God Bless America—and under that, the insignia of the Poor Clares.
It’s definitely Róisín’s order, but I still don’t see her.
I take a few pictures—Finch will recognize his sister more easily than I will—and then crane my head to make sure he’s okay, but from this angle the obelisk is between us. Cursing under my breath, and after apologizing to the elderly Italian widow who overhears me, I begin to push my way back through the faithful. The Pope has begun the Angelus now, the Latin prayer, and the people are surging forward almost unconsciously, as though they can better hear or see the closer they get.
I don’t want to call attention to myself, so I try to move to the side instead, get to the outskirts. That’s easier, but once I’m there I have to stand on my toes to see where I left Finch. He’s so damnsmall…
I can’t see him.
I shove past someone rudely, muttering aScusiover my shoulder, trying to get a better vantage point.
“Good afternoon, and enjoy your lunch,” the Pope ends jovially, and there’s a great roar from the people, arms going up to wave, to pray, to give thanks, and I can’t see a goddamn thing.
The Pope retreats; the crowd settles; people begin to disperse. I move as fast as I can towards the obelisk, my heart beating so hard I feel like I’m sprinting instead of making slow headway. I jump up at one point, trying to see, hoping I just haven’t caught sight of him, and I’m told off in several different languages as I jostle people and land on toes. I ignore them all and jump again, a few times.
He’s not there. He’s not fucking there.
I give up all pretense of politeness and start bodily thrusting people out of the way, fighting against the tide until I get to the obelisk. I jog up the little steps of the pedestal and scan the crowd, throwing aside all my concerns about being noticed or recognized.
I still can’t see him.
Fuck it.
“Finch!” I shout. “Finch!”
But the bells of the Basilica are ringing with a joy that seems to mock me, and I can barely even hear my own voice over them. The rising sense of panic is all too familiar. I shouldneverhave let him talk me into this…
I catch a glimpse of a French flag, fluttering in the breeze, and my heart stops. I run towards it, faster this time as I’m not moving against the crowd so much, but when I arrive, there’s only the flag.
The flag. No Finch.
“Mother Mary,helpme,” I choke out, twisting this way and that, trying to find any familiar faces, listening for his voice. I shout his name again, startling a young couple next to me who have stopped to take a joint selfie, and then beyond them, across the piazza, I see a navy baseball cap and dark curls at the nape of a neck I’d know anywhere.
It’s Finch. He’s making for the colonnade, towards one of the exits, the one closest to our hotel. I’m almost sick with relief. He must have lost sight of me, too, in the exodus of the crowd, or maybe he got a tingle of unease. Perhaps he simply felt unsafe without me there, and decided to make for the shadows.
Whatever the answer, I have strayed from my duty.
I lose him again behind a large and loud tourist group, just for a second, and as my eyes stray over heads trying to find him again, my attention is caught by someone not dressed for the unseasonably warm day. A hunch-shouldered, rotund figure dressed in a dark hoodie and a backpack, making their way determinedly through the crowd in the wake of my husband.
Trackinghim.
Finch reaches the marble columns, but his stalker is not far behind him.
I break into a run, charging through the dispersing crowd, and I reach the hooded figure just as it reaches out to grab Finch.
Chapter Forty-Eight
