Not wanting to leave it to Monique to enter the bid—Ethan wasn’t about to trust something that would change his career to a glorified receptionist—he entered it himself. He saw right away that he hadn’t met the reserve.
He still hadn’t made contact with the seller, some guy named Jared Stone up in Portland. Monique had tracked down his home number and address but had been unable to reach him. Ethan, who was working long past dark and was alone in the office, decided to try for himself.
Answering machine.
He put the phone down and considered his options. As he did, a new idea started to take root.
***
Sister Benedict had never met a Cardinal before, which was funny, as she had already met two Popes. Of course, those “meetings” were actually mass rallies where she was lucky enough to have been granted a spot on the rope line so that she might have a chance to kiss the Pontiff’s ring. At the time, she thought of it as the Rope-a-Pope Line, and then immediately crossed herself for blaspheming. Today’s meeting with Cardinal Trippe was a face-to-face, sit-down affair, which, of course, began with the Sister on her knees.
It hadn’t been easy for the Sister to gain an audience with the Cardinal. The officious priest who served as a buffer between Cardinal Trippe and the world was more than a little skeptical when the Sister first called to request the Church save Jared Stone’s life. The priest had dismissed her with grace and not a little condescension, the way a parent dismisses a child angling to stay up past his bedtime. The priest denied her request. But Sister Benedict would not be deterred.
She and the Sisters of the Perpetual Adoration spent most weekends in service to the community. On one such weekend, they had painted the interior of the rectory of a nearby parish. The presiding bishop was so appreciative that he kept repeating, “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, Sister, just ask.”
She called in the favor, and the audience with Cardinal Trippe was granted.
Sister Benedict Joan’s mind was racing as she kissed the Cardinal’s ring. She’d spent hours finding out everything she could about the man and was going over her mental notes, steeling herself to the mission at hand.
Cardinal Matthew John Trippe, whose name was pronounced “Trippy,” was the archbishop of the metropolitan province of Portland, which included dioceses in four northwestern states, and he was everything Sister Benedict was not. He was young and charismatic, and, far worse, he eschewed tradition, believing the Church should start down a path of change. He embraced Portland’s LGBT community, welcoming them to the flock; he wanted to see women take more leadership roles during mass; he believed in climate change and the need for conservation; and while Sister Benedict knew the Church had a true and deep-seated responsibility to care for those in need—as she herself had often done—this man actually seemed to believe that wealthy people should be compelled to share their hard-earned gains with the indigent. To the Sister, this was anathema to the entire idea of charity; it was socialism.
As she knelt before the Cardinal and thought about these things, Sister Benedict almost shivered with disgust. Cardinal Trippe was like one of those awful Protestant priests who play guitar from the altar and sing “Kumbaya.” She secretly thought of him as Cardinal Hippie.
From her research, she could see only two things she and the Cardinal had in common: their innate sense of piety and a shared belief in the sanctity of life. At least Trippe, liberal fool that he seemed to be, still opposed abortion. It was this last fact on which the Sister was counting.
Sister Benedict stayed on one knee until the Cardinal bade her “get up, Sister, get up. Have a seat.”
They were meeting in the office of the Portland diocese, where the Cardinal performed mass each Sunday when he wasn’t traveling. It was a modest, plainly decorated space. The only sign of opulence was a solid gold crucifix on the wall behind the Cardinal’s desk.
“Tell me, Sister, what urgent matter brings you to this good office today?” Sister Benedict had to admit that the man did exude a kind of charm. His teeth were unnaturally bright, making her wonder if he’d had them whitened. The sin of vanity, she thought to herself. The truth was that the Cardinal came from a long line of people with very strong tooth enamel and he had been a near fanatic about oral hygiene from the earliest age.
“Life itself, Father,” she answered. Trippe cocked an eyebrow and waited for her to continue. “The man on the news, the one with the brain tumor. The one who has put his life up for sale on the Internet. He’s here, in Portland! And unlike that unpleasant incident with that Schiavo woman in Florida, where the family intervened, it appears that the only issue here is money.”
“And tell me, Sister,” the Cardinal asked, “how do you propose we intervene?”
“Simple, Your Grace. We buy him.”
“Come again?”