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would turn against you. So would the listeners. I’d make sure. Why? Because deep down, I am a vindictive man. A nasty affliction, but there it is.”
    The singer stared hatred at him, said nothing.
    â€œWhat’s it gonna be?” he said. “Fame or finished?”
    Knox’s jaw trembled before she said, “Okay, he said he stole something from you and Louisa shot him and he needed help.”
    â€œAnd you gave it to him?”
    Knox looked at him, said, “He held a gun on me, said he’d kill me.”
    â€œReally?” Arsenault asked. “What kind of gun.”
    â€œA pistol, I don’t know.”
    The mogul stared down at her. He’d never seen a gun, nor had Saunders or Louisa. Didn’t mean the burglar had been unarmed, he supposed.
    â€œHe say anything to you?”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œWhy he was stealing from me?”
    She looked puzzled, but then nodded. “I’m paraphrasing, but he said you were an asshole and deserved it.”
    Arsenault swallowed at the anger rising in him. “That what made you want to help him?”
    â€œHe had a gun.”
    â€œThat all?”
    The singer glanced at his right hand, open again, stretched wide. “Okay, he said something about he robbed people like you to give money to orphans in South America.”
    The mogul squinted, said, “Like what, Robin Hood?”
    Knox nodded. “Something like that.”
    That made Arsenault even angrier. He got ripped off so some son of a bitch could give money to poor kids? That was even worse.
    I’m going to crucify this guy, the mogul thought, make him hang on the cross longer than Jesus did dying for my sins.
    â€œThat’s it, Beau?” the singer said. “Can I go now?”
    â€œYou never called to tell me,” the mogul said. “You helped a wounded thief escape my house and you never called.”
    â€œHe had a gun. He said he’d find me if I talked.”
    He slapped her a third time, said, “I’d have protected you.”
    Knox rolled over and buried her face in the comforter of the king-size bed, sobbing and moaning, “What do you want from me?”
    Arsenault enjoyed his moment of dominance before unbuckling his belt and letting his pants fall, saying softly, lovingly, “What great men have wanted from Thomas Jefferson on down, Cassie, gourmet chocolate to make the stress melt away.”

 
    10
    BUENOS AIRES
    DECEMBER 23
    SISTER RACHEL QUIETLY SHUT the door to the girl’s dormitory at ten that night, knowing full well that the moment she shut the door at the bottom of the stairs, they would break curfew and start talking excitedly again among themselves. The same thing was going on in the boy’s dormitory on the other side of the lawn.
    It was as it should be, she thought. Children, especially orphans, love the Christmas season. The anticipation. The excitement it presents. The candy and food. The story of a child who grows up to change the world.
    Sister Rachel went first to the chapel where other members of her order were decorating for a Christmas celebration. Seeing that they had things well under control, she moved on toward the clinic.
    It was a warm, humid evening, and in the distance she could hear music playing and people laughing and singing. And that was as it should be, too. Was there a greater reason for celebration? Not in her world. The birth of Christ and the story of his life were real and tangible, a guide and a powerful motivation for her life’s work.
    Blessed be the poor, she thought as she reached the clinic. For they shall inherit the Earth.
    Inside, the missionary doctor greeted the night nurse, who told her Robin Monarch was fast asleep, and his vitals were growing stronger.
    â€œGo home, Luis,” Sister Rachel said. “I’ll stay with him.”
    â€œAre you sure, Sister?” Luisa asked, brightening.
    â€œCompletely,” she said.
    â€œ Felice