the Third Secret

FORTY-EIGHT

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

9:00 A.M.

Katerina was beginning to worry. An hour had passed since she’d woken to find Michener gone. The storm had passed, but the morning loomed warm and cloudy. She’d first thought he walked downstairs for coffee, but he was not in the dining room when she checked a few minutes ago. She asked the desk clerk, but the woman knew nothing. Thinking he might have wandered to St. James Church, she walked over. But he was nowhere to be found. It was unlike Colin to leave and not say where he was going, and his travel bag, wallet, and passport were still in the room.

She now stood in the busy square outside the church and debated whether to approach one of the soldiers and enlist their assistance. Buses were already arriving, depositing a new batch of pilgrims. The streets were beginning to clog with traffic as shopkeepers prepared storefronts.

Their evening had been delightful, the talk in the restaurant stimulating, what came afterward even more so. She’d already decided to tell Alberto Valendrea nothing. She’d come to Bosnia to be with Michener, not to act as spy. Let Ambrosi and Valendrea think what they might of her. She was simply glad to be here. She didn’t really care about a journalism career any longer. She’d go to Romania and work with the children. Make her parents proud. Make herself proud. For once, do some good.

She’d resented Michener for all those years, but she’d come to realize that fault lay with her, too. Only her shortcomings were worse. Michener loved his God and his Church. She loved only herself. But that was going to change. She’d see to it. During dinner Michener had complained about never once having saved a soul. Maybe he was wrong. Perhaps she was his first.

She crossed the street and checked inside the information office. No one there had seen anyone matching Michener’s description. She wandered down the sidewalk, spying into shops on the off chance he was doing a little investigating, trying to learn where the other seers lived. On impulse, she headed in the direction they’d taken yesterday, past the same parade of white-stuccoed dwellings with red-tiled roofs, back toward Jasna’s residence.

She found the house and knocked on the door.

No one answered.

She retreated to the street. The shutters were drawn. She waited a few moments for any sign from within, but there was nothing. She noticed that Jasna’s car was no longer parked to the side.

She started back toward the hotel.

A woman rushed from the house across the street shouting in Croatian, “It’s so awful. So awful. Jesus help us.”

Her anguish was alarming.

“What’s wrong?” she called out in the best Croatian she could muster.

The older woman stopped. Panic filled her eyes. “It’s Jasna. They found her on the mountain, the cross and her hurt by lightning.”

“Is she all right?”

“I don’t know. They’re going after her now.”

The woman was distraught to the point of hysteria. Tears flowed from her eyes. She kept crossing herself and clutched a rosary, mumbling a Hail Mary between sobs. “Mother of Jesus, save her. Do not let her die. She is blessed.”

“Is it that bad?”

“She was barely breathing when they found her.”

A thought occurred to her. “Was she alone?”

The woman seemed not to hear her question and kept muttering prayers, pleading with God to save Jasna.

“Was she alone?” she asked again.

The woman caught herself and seemed to register the question. “No. There was a man there. Bad off. Like her.”