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Authors: Michael D. Beil
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easy.”
Margaret immediately reaches into her bag.
“You have a copy of the Bible
with
you?” Raf shakes his head. “What are they doing to you at that school?”
“I have religion homework, you dope. Are you telling me you've never had one in your backpack? Wait—don't answer that. I don't even want to know how much homework you're
not
getting compared to us.” She hands him a well-worn paperback.
“L is for Luke. L2324 is Luke 23:24,” he says, flipping through the pages. “And before we go any further, the only reason I even thought of this is that we were just studying Luke the other day in class. Okay, herewe go. Luke, chapter twenty-three, verse twenty-four:
And Pilate gave sentence that it should be as they required
.”
“Pontius Pilate sentencing Christ. The Crucifixion. Interesting.” Margaret is deep in thought.
“That's
the answer?” I ask.
“No, no, no—remember the letter. The clues lead us to places in the church. This is just telling us where to look!” Margaret checks her watch. “C'mon, get your stuff together; we're going over there right now, and we've got to move fast, because there's a Mass in about twenty minutes.”
We scramble off to the imposing entrance to St. Veronica's Church. The slate-gray, late-afternoon sky is doing little to illuminate the church interior, and Father Danahey, the pastor, is apparently trying to save money on electricity, as the only lights on are those behind the altar. The rest of the church is eerily dark and nearly empty. A few people kneel in the pews, but no one even turns to look at us as we walk up the aisle on the right, pausing to show Raf the door with the stained glass chalice—the portal to the world of Ms. Harriman's past.
“What are we looking for this time?” I ask.
“Well, we know it's something to do with that verse about Pilate, something about the Crucifixion.”
Raf takes a good look around. “There's like a thousand crucifixes in here.”
“Shhh. Let me think.” Margaret puts her hands over her ears to block out distractions and squints at the stone walls to our left and right. “The verse is very specific. If it were the verse where Jesus
dies
on the cross,
then
we would be looking for a crucifix. But our verse is about the
sentencing
. That's a totally different story. We're looking for Pontius Pilate.”
“The paintings,” I say, not altogether realizing that I have just hit the proverbial nail on the head. “Those ‘station’ things. Oh my God, I can't believe I know this. Remember, the other day when we were pretending to look at the one by the door, and, oh, what is that guy's name? The deacon. Mr., uh, Winter-butt-something.”
“Winterbottom.”
“That's it! Remember how he came by and talked to us about it? Well, remember the name of the artist—what he showed us on the back of the painting? It was
Harriman
, I'm sure of it. Mr. Winterbottom said that the painter's granddaughter lived next door, which must mean that Everett Harriman—the guy who wrote the note—was his son. C'mon, follow me. I'll show you.”
I grab Raf by the arm and pull him, with Margaret following, to the first station and point at the brass plaque attached to the bottom of the frame. “Look at the title. I noticed it the other day while you were playing around with the lock.”
Margaret bends over and in the dim light reads,
“Jesus Is Condemned to Death
. Sophie, you're a genius!”
I feel so incredibly proud, even if I'm still not sure what exactly I have done.
“Let's look at the back of the painting, or maybe the wall behind it.” Margaret checks to see if the coast is clear. She runs her fingers around the edge of the gaudy gold frame and then lifts one edge of the painting away from the wall and peers at the back side of the frame and canvas.
“It's too dark. You wouldn't happen to have a flashlight on you, would you?”
Raf reaches into his pocket. “How about a lighter?”
“That'll work,” said
Margaret immediately reaches into her bag.
“You have a copy of the Bible
with
you?” Raf shakes his head. “What are they doing to you at that school?”
“I have religion homework, you dope. Are you telling me you've never had one in your backpack? Wait—don't answer that. I don't even want to know how much homework you're
not
getting compared to us.” She hands him a well-worn paperback.
“L is for Luke. L2324 is Luke 23:24,” he says, flipping through the pages. “And before we go any further, the only reason I even thought of this is that we were just studying Luke the other day in class. Okay, herewe go. Luke, chapter twenty-three, verse twenty-four:
And Pilate gave sentence that it should be as they required
.”
“Pontius Pilate sentencing Christ. The Crucifixion. Interesting.” Margaret is deep in thought.
“That's
the answer?” I ask.
“No, no, no—remember the letter. The clues lead us to places in the church. This is just telling us where to look!” Margaret checks her watch. “C'mon, get your stuff together; we're going over there right now, and we've got to move fast, because there's a Mass in about twenty minutes.”
We scramble off to the imposing entrance to St. Veronica's Church. The slate-gray, late-afternoon sky is doing little to illuminate the church interior, and Father Danahey, the pastor, is apparently trying to save money on electricity, as the only lights on are those behind the altar. The rest of the church is eerily dark and nearly empty. A few people kneel in the pews, but no one even turns to look at us as we walk up the aisle on the right, pausing to show Raf the door with the stained glass chalice—the portal to the world of Ms. Harriman's past.
“What are we looking for this time?” I ask.
“Well, we know it's something to do with that verse about Pilate, something about the Crucifixion.”
Raf takes a good look around. “There's like a thousand crucifixes in here.”
“Shhh. Let me think.” Margaret puts her hands over her ears to block out distractions and squints at the stone walls to our left and right. “The verse is very specific. If it were the verse where Jesus
dies
on the cross,
then
we would be looking for a crucifix. But our verse is about the
sentencing
. That's a totally different story. We're looking for Pontius Pilate.”
“The paintings,” I say, not altogether realizing that I have just hit the proverbial nail on the head. “Those ‘station’ things. Oh my God, I can't believe I know this. Remember, the other day when we were pretending to look at the one by the door, and, oh, what is that guy's name? The deacon. Mr., uh, Winter-butt-something.”
“Winterbottom.”
“That's it! Remember how he came by and talked to us about it? Well, remember the name of the artist—what he showed us on the back of the painting? It was
Harriman
, I'm sure of it. Mr. Winterbottom said that the painter's granddaughter lived next door, which must mean that Everett Harriman—the guy who wrote the note—was his son. C'mon, follow me. I'll show you.”
I grab Raf by the arm and pull him, with Margaret following, to the first station and point at the brass plaque attached to the bottom of the frame. “Look at the title. I noticed it the other day while you were playing around with the lock.”
Margaret bends over and in the dim light reads,
“Jesus Is Condemned to Death
. Sophie, you're a genius!”
I feel so incredibly proud, even if I'm still not sure what exactly I have done.
“Let's look at the back of the painting, or maybe the wall behind it.” Margaret checks to see if the coast is clear. She runs her fingers around the edge of the gaudy gold frame and then lifts one edge of the painting away from the wall and peers at the back side of the frame and canvas.
“It's too dark. You wouldn't happen to have a flashlight on you, would you?”
Raf reaches into his pocket. “How about a lighter?”
“That'll work,” said
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