The Original Sinner: The Saint Part 5

The Ma.s.s ended. All were exhorted to go forth in peace. But Eleanor felt no peace and she would feel no peace until she'd spoken to him.

Him? Him who? When she reached the lobby of the church, Elle realized she had no idea what the new priest's name was. She had to know. Now.

She saw her mother whispering to a group of older women by the annex door. Probably talking about how the new priest was too young, too inexperienced, too handsome. As if there could be such a thing.

"It's a nice day. I'm walking home," she said to her mother and beat a hasty retreat before her mother could even say a word in argument.

The entire congregation surrounded their new priest. And yet she could still see him. He towered over most of them. He had to be six feet tall or more. Over the top of the crowd he met her eyes as if he'd been searching for her in the crowd. She mouthed, "I'll wait for you."

She slipped out the side door and watched the cars filing out. Soon nothing remained in the parking lot but a gleaming black motorcycle. Even on the opposite side of the parking lot she could make out the lines of it, the chrome detailing s.h.i.+ning in the March sunlight. She'd never seen anything more beautiful in her life except for the man crossing the pavement toward it. Careful to make as little sound as possible, she stepped from the shadows and followed him to his motorcycle.

He'd abandoned the vestments for black clerics. Father Greg had always worn a plain black s.h.i.+rt and black jacket over it, usually without the white collar in place. But this priest had on a more formal looking and heavier black clerical s.h.i.+rt. It looked European to her. She'd never seen a priest who looked so ... She couldn't find the right word. Elegant, maybe?

As he reached his motorcycle, he paused but didn't turn around.

"I was wondering where you went," he said, taking his helmet off the handlebars. He turned around and faced her. "You said you'd wait for me."

"You're kind of an idiot. You know that, right?" she asked.

He raised his eyebrow at her. Elle dug her hands in her pocket and stared at him.

"Am I?"

He sat astride his motorcycle, and she stepped in front of it.

"Do you have any idea what it is you have between your legs?" she demanded.

"I'm well aware of what is between my legs." He said the words without even breaking a smile. She narrowed her eyes at him and stepped closer, straddling the front wheel with her knees.

"Then you know that this is a Ducati. A 907 I.E.," she said.

"Is it?"

"It's in black. Never seen one in black before." She walked a circuit around the bike. "Do you have any idea how much this Duck is worth?"

"A small fortune, I'd imagine." He put the helmet back on the handlebars.

"Yeah. A small one. So where's your lock?"

"Pardon?"

"Your disc lock. You can't leave a Ducati sitting in a parking lot without a lock on it unless you're criminal stupid or you want it to get stolen. Which one is it?"

"Criminally stupid."

"So you admit it?"

"No, I'm correcting your grammar. And I didn't realize suburban Connecticut was such a high-crime district. Should I be afraid?" He asked the question in a tone that implied he knew what fear was, but only in theory, not practice.

"If I had something that valuable, I'd lock it up."

He smiled at her.

"I plan to."

"That's good. Okay, then." She stood there not knowing what else to say. The few things that leaped to mind were a little too forward. Like "I love you" and "will you marry me?"

"Tell me your name."

"Elle."

"Is that short for ...?"

"Eleanor. Eleanor Louise Schreiber, at your service." She grasped the ends of her skirt and gave him her most sarcastic curtsy. "Now who the h.e.l.l are you?"

"Try that again. More politely please."

She tapped the toe of her boot on the ground.

"Well?"

"Fine. What is your name, Father?"

He studied her face for a moment and didn't answer.

"Don't you know your own name?"

"I'm deciding how to answer the question. In the meantime, allow me to say this. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Eleanor."

He reached out his left hand for her to shake. She had no choice but to give him her own left hand. As soon as her hand was in his, he gripped her fingers and pulled her toward him. He pushed at her sleeve and examined the two burns on her wrist.

"Hey, what the h.e.l.l are you doing?" she demanded, trying to pull her arm back. He didn't give an inch, merely held her in place with his impossible strength.

"You have two second-degree burns on your arm and large sc.r.a.pes on your knees. Care to tell me how those came about?"

"It's none of your business."

The priest studied her through narrowed steel-colored eyes. He didn't seem the least offended by her language.

"Eleanor," he said. "Tell me who hurt you. And tell me right now."

She felt the force of his will like a wall pressing against her.

"No. You won't even tell me your name."

"If I tell you my name, will you tell me about the burns?"

He let her hand go and she pulled her arm back and held it to her stomach. Her entire body fluttered from the touch of his hand on her hand, and the unrepentant way he studied her.

She stood still and silent while he stared at her face until she reluctantly met his eyes.

"Will you tell anybody what I tell you?" She wasn't wild about telling anyone something so private about herself, but for some reason, a reason she couldn't name, she trusted this man, this priest.

"Not a soul."

"Okay. Fine. Name?"

He reached into the black leather saddlebag on his motorcycle and pulled out what appeared to be a Bible in some foreign language. He flipped opened the well-worn cover to a page where he'd written his name in thick black ink with strong legible handwriting.

S0ren Magnussen.

She reached out and with the tip of her finger traced the letters in the name.

"S0ren ... Did I say that right?"

"You say it like an American."

"How am I supposed to say it?"

"I like the way you say it. You should know, that's not the name anyone here will ever call me. That's what my mother named me. Unfortunately I'm forced to go by what my father named me-Marcus Stearns."

"So no one here knows your real name?" That he wrote S0ren Magnussen in his Bible seemed to hint that he considered S0ren his real name, not Marcus.

"Only you. And now that you know it, I believe you owe me an answer to my question."

"It's not a big deal."

"Eleanor-"

"I go by Elle, not Eleanor."

"Eleanor is the name of queens. Elle is merely a French p.r.o.noun that means she or her. I will call you Eleanor. And now, Eleanor, tell me how you arrived at the burns on your wrist. Then we'll discuss the knees."

"Curling iron."

"Self-inflicted or is someone in your home hurting you?"

"Self-inflicted."

"Why did you do it?"

"For fun."

"You enjoy hurting yourself?" He asked the question without shock or disgust. She heard nothing in his voice but curiosity.

She nodded.

"You think I'm crazy?"

"You seem quite sane to me. Apart from your clothes."

"What? Not down with grunge?"

"Your hair is also a cause for concern."

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"It's gone green."

"It's not moldy," she said, laughing at the playful look of disapproval on his face. "That's hair gel. I put green streaks in it."

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen. But I'll be sixteen in two weeks." She felt the need to add that part at the end. "My mom says you're too young to be a priest."

"I'm twenty-nine. But I'll try to age very quickly for her. I'm certain pastoring at a church you attend will age me considerably."

"I'll do my best." She grinned broadly at him as she toyed with the cuffs of her jacket. Once more she fell into an awkward silence. He didn't seem awkward at all. He seemed to be having the time of his life watching her be weird in front of him.

"Now for the knees. Those are impressive-looking wounds."

"I fell," she said. "s.h.i.+t happens."

"You don't seem the clumsy sort. Perhaps I was mistaken."

She pursed her lips. Her? Clumsy?

"I'm not clumsy. Ever. My gym teacher said I move like a trained dancer."

"So then where did the injuries to your knees come from?"

"I got in a fight at school."

"I hope she looks worse than you do."

"He," she said with pride. "He looks fine. But he's still walking funny."

S0ren's eyes widened slightly.

"You fought with a boy at your school?" He sounded mildly horrified.

"It's not my fault. There's this girl at school-Pepper Riley. And if her name wasn't bad enough, she has huge b.o.o.bs. She's scared of her own shadow and won't fight back. So this guy, Trey, he was being a p.r.i.c.k to her on the bus saying all kinds of gross s.h.i.+t about her body. So I told him to shut up. And then he starts saying gross s.h.i.+t to me. He was all, 'I want your body, Elle.' So I said he could have my body. Then I gave him my foot. Right in the nuts. It was kind of amazing. When we got off the bus he pushed me so hard I landed on my knees and ripped them open. Whatever. Typical Wednesday at your local Catholic high school. Your tax dollars not at work."

He continued to stare at her. His eyes had widened even farther.

"Father Stearns? S0ren? Whoever you are?" She waved her hand.

"Forgive me. I was utterly riveted by your story. I might have entered a fugue state."