St. Paul, Thursday Evening

It was a raw, gusty November night the last time Jeffrey Chapel walked up the broad sweep of steps to the St. Paul Cathedral. Entering through the side door, he passed into the vestibule. The two appointments that awaited him in Minneapolis weighed heavily on his mind. To stay focused, to bolster his flagging courage, he needed a few minutes of quiet reflection, and that's why he'd come. The cathedral had become a refuge of late, a place of retreat when he needed time alone.

Jeffrey had never been much of a churchgoer. Before his mother died, she'd written to him, calling him a "lukewarm Catholic' '&emdash;a mighty condemnation coming from her pious lips. During his many years in the military, he'd never attended church regularly. He hadn't been to confession in years. And yet, with all the chaos surrounding him now, he'd found a kind of peace within the walls of this magnificent baroque edifice. Catholic theology meant nothing to him&emdash;less than nothing. It was the atmosphere inside the sanctuary that affected him so deeply.

Perhaps, he reasoned, it was a holdover from his childhood, a time when the Catholic God he'd been taught about was safely on his throne and his own life made sense. Black-and-white creeds were made for children. The curse of adult life was to see those clear-cut blacks and whites dissolve into millions of shades of gray. Jeffrey realized that most of the people in this building believed passionately in their image of God, and though he found their certainty bewildering, the feel of the place still appealed to him, especially since his own life had suffered terribly from a lack of personal conviction.

None of this would have been enough to placate his mother, of course, but in a strange way, Jeffrey needed to be here. He needed the tiny, flickering candles, the hushed voices echoing through the cavernous interior, the scent of polished wood, and the perfume of incense. But most importantly, he needed that reverent, meditative calm, the kind of quiet that got inside his soul and stayed there. He hoped to find strength here tonight, because for what he had to do, he'd need every ounce of strength he could muster.

Entering the nave through one of the rear doors, he saw that a few parishioners were still sitting in the pews, perhaps leftovers from the early evening mass. Directly to his left was an alcove that held Mary's shrine. Breathing in the serene atmosphere, he walked up to the votive candles and lit one, saying a silent prayer. Then, kneeling before the statue, he gazed up into Mary's youthful face. True to form, the artist had created a child, not a woman&emdash;a sweet girl who could accept simple answers without question. Jeffrey would have felt more secure confiding in a face that looked as if it had lived a little, one where innocence had been worn away by the hard realities of life. And yet, he'd come here tonight for help; he might as well ask for it.

Bowing his head, he folded his hands and pressed them to his forehead. He quickly became so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't hear the footsteps behind him until a soft voice called, "Colonel Chapel?"

Jeffrey turned to find a short, portly man with a neatly clipped gray beard leaning over him. It was Father Latimer, one of the priests.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you," said the priest apologetically, "but I haven't seen you here in weeks. I've been.. . concerned. I'm leaving in a few minutes, and I was hoping we might talk."

Jeffrey didn't feel like having a conversation just then, but since he owed this particular priest a great deal, he got up and followed him to one of the back pews. He'd been planning to call Father Latimer to thank him for the information he'd passed along almost two months ago, but with everything in his life caving in around him, he'd put it off.

After they'd settled themselves, the priest asked, "Did you see her? Was she able to help?"

Jeffrey looked down at the wedding band on his left hand. Father Latimer had officiated at his marriage five years ago. "Yes," he said, pressing his lips together and looking up at the altar. "I saw her."

"And?"

"It's not good news."

The priest gave a deep sigh, sitting back in the pew. "I was afraid of that."

"Listen, Father, I've done a lot of thinking in the past month. I'm going to ask my wife for a divorce tonight. She deserves much better than me.

The priest looked shocked. "Shouldn't she be the judge of that?"

"No. And I want to take it a step further. Once the divorce is final, I want the church to grant us an annulment. Brenna must be able to marry again." As much as he needed to protect his wife from what was bound to happen, he knew he couldn't. The

best he could do was cut her loose&emdash;give her a second chance&emdash; and hope like hell that one day she could forgive him.

"But the sacrament was celebrated. You took vows. It's not as simple as you might think, Colonel."

"Please, I'm retired from the military. You promised to call me Jeffrey."

"Yes, right.., but.., you.., you consummated the marriage, yes? You've slept together?"

"Of course. That's not an issue."

"But it is. I mean&emdash;" Latimer paused, then looked off into space.

Jeffrey felt a moment of intense guilt for the pathetic lies he'd told the man during their last meeting. At the time, he had seen no other way.

Returning his attention to Jeffrey, the priest seemed very sad. "God loves you, my son. If you want to talk further&emdash;"

"Thanks&emdash;but no thanks."

"You say you're going to speak with Brenna tonight?"

Jeffrey nodded.

"She doesn't know?"

"She knows something's been wrong for a long time; she just doesn't know what."

"And your father-in-law?"

"He's part of the problem."

"I see." He scratched his beard, looking confused. "Well, actually, I don't see. But.., have you informed him of your plans?"

Sure, thought Jeffrey. The priest had to be concerned about how one of the parish's most influential members would take the news. "Andrew and I haven't . . . Well, let's just say, we need to sit down and talk. Work some things out."

"You make it sound serious."

"It is."

"But the two of you were always so close&emdash;such good friends. I know for a fact that Andrew loves you like his own son.

Jeffrey wasn't sure how to respond.

"If I can be of any help&emdash;"

"Nobody can help."

"I think you're wrong there."

But Jeffrey knew he wasn't. He also wasn't interested in debating the subject. "You've been very kind to me. 1 don't know what I would have done if you hadn't put me onto Julia Martinsen. I've made a mess of everything, Father, and now I have to live with the consequences. I'm not particularly optimistic, but I'll let you know what happens&emdash;that is, if you don't read it in the papers first."

The priest grimaced, but offered nothing more.

With one last glance over his shoulder at the statue of Mary, Jeffrey eased out of the pew, nodded good-bye, and then headed for the rear door. It was getting late. A glut of rush-hour traffic would undoubtedly slow him down, and the parking near the hotel would be the usual nightmare. He didn't have a minute to spare.

Trotting down the steps to his car, Jeffrey was struck by the fact that crossing the river tonight meant far more than just driving from St. Paul to Minneapolis. In a way, it was a metaphor. Once he made it to the other side, there'd be no turning back. All bridges would be burned. That's how he'd set it up. And come hell or high water, that's just how he intended to play it.