Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [48]
He kept walking, and when he got tired of walking he began running and when he got tired of running he just ran faster. People gave him a wide berth on the sidewalk, as if he were crazy, and maybe they were right about that. New Yorkers knew crazy.
He slid on his headphones and listened to Corinne Bailey Rae. That helped some. Corinne was a calming influence. Not heading anywhere in particular, he ran up Riverside Drive, and at 110th Street the soaring spires of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine began to fill the sky.
Actually, this street was known as the Cathedral Parkway, and St. John the Divine was the largest cathedral in the world. That was because St. Peter’s in Rome wasn’t classified as a cathedral. Michael knew about such things. He had always read a lot, considered himself a student.
He pulled open one of the smaller doors that was cut into the huge ones. Then he walked in, knelt, and blessed himself.
The church was enormous, at least a couple hundred yards in length, and suddenly he felt small. He remembered hearing or reading somewhere that the Statue of Liberty would fit comfortably under the central dome. That looked about right.
Michael felt so . . . human, kneeling here in the cathedral. And he wasn’t sure if he liked it. But he also wasn’t sure that he didn’t.
Fifty-six
MICHAEL TURNED OFF the music in his headphones and began to pray. He wanted answers, needed answers, but none seemed to be coming his way. Finally, he raised his head and looked around the magnificent church. He’d always liked everything about the cathedral: the blend of French Gothic and Romanesque styles; the chapels radiating from the ambulatory; the Byzantine columns and arches; voices echoing, an organist practicing somewhere. God lives here! He must, Michael thought.
A calm came over him as his eye fell on the magnificent Rose Window situated over the altar. His heart quieted some.
Then, to his utter amazement, a tear formed in his eye. It welled up, blurred his vision, and rolled down his cheek.
“What is happening to me?” he whispered. He’d cut himself shaving, knocked down two guys in the same day (though both had deserved it), and now he was crying. In fact, an overwhelming sadness was overtaking him. So this is what sorrow feels like. This is the ache in the heart, the catch in the throat, that he had heard and read so much about.
He’d never felt it before, though, and it was so painful and unpleasant that he wanted it to stop. He snapped his fingers, but nothing happened. He really wasn’t in control here, was he? He was lost, floundering, confused. The intense pumping in his heart had been replaced by a small, stabbing hurt, and with the hurt came clarity, a sense of knowledge. A horrible sense of knowledge.
And maybe . . . a message. Was that what was happening?
Michael thought that he had an answer to his prayers, but he didn’t want this to be it. He thought he knew why he was back in New York, and why he’d met up again with Jane Margaux. These feelings, kind of like premonitions, had always preceded his new assignments, and he was having one now. The message was very clear, and he couldn’t remember any of the feelings ever being so anguished before. Not once, not ever, as far back as he could remember.
“Oh no,” he whispered out loud. “That can’t be it.”
But it was, wasn’t it? It made sense of everything that had happened up to now. This was the missing piece to the puzzle that he had been trying to solve. It explained why he had found Jane. Of course it did. It was the perfect answer.
He looked up at the glorious Rose Window again. Then at the altar. This couldn’t be happening. But clearly it was.
Many years ago Michael had helped guide Jane into this life. He had eased her way, been her imaginary friend until he’d had to leave her when she’d turned nine.
And now he was the one who’d been chosen to bring Jane out of life. He understood this now. He got it. This was about human mortality,