Page 45 of No Stone Unturned

The man switched to English. “You may not enter the church with the backpack or luggage.”

Terrorism. Duh.

“Oh, I get it. Okay.” Unfortunately, now I had to figure out what to do with my stuff or I’d never get into the church.

I headed back down the stairs toward a priest who stood on the steps talking to someone. I waited until they finished and then I approached the priest.

“Excuse me. Do you speak English?”

“Yes,” the priest replied with a smile. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Archbishop Emilio Armando. Do you know where I can find him?”

“I’m sorry. You must make an appointment to see the archbishop. He is a very busy man.”

“I’m sure he is, but could you let him know that Lexi Carmichael is here, on the steps of the church, all the way from America? If you could mention I’m a friend of a person named Slash. He’s a family friend of the archbishop.” I sincerely hoped Slash had mentioned my name at least once when he talked to Father Armando or things were going to get tough really fast.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the priest said.

“Please, I know this is an unusual request. You don’t have a clue who I am. But could you ask him this once, please? If he says no, I’ll leave right away. I promise you, it’s very important. I think he’ll see me.”

I’m not sure if my disheveled appearance, the note of desperation in my voice or whether divine intervention stepped in, but the priest told me to wait and disappeared into the church. I waited on the steps, trying to stay in the cool shadows as much as possible. I was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but I was sweating like crazy from the sun and humidity. The security guy kept an eagle eye on me, too, which made me uncomfortable, but at least he didn’t take me down. I guess as long as I didn’t try to approach the door again with my backpack, we were cool.

While waiting, I took the time to study the church. I wondered what the banners stretched across the front of the church said. There were photos of a good-looking man and woman on the banners, complete with crosses and text. Religious figures of some kind, I presumed. There were lots of tourists taking photos of them, and I heard a few of them speaking English, so I asked a guy with a big camera around his neck what the deal was with the banners.

“The pope will be reviewing the sainthood of the two individuals this weekend,” he said, snapping a couple more photos of the façade. “People are showing their support for the candidates. There’s a big parade here in town tonight, and parades all week long throughout Italy.”

“Really? You mean people can support candidates for sainthood? Like voting?”

The guy laughed, clearly thinking I was an idiot. Maybe I was. My knowledge of sainthood procedures was exactly zero.

“No, not voting,” he said. “The Vatican is not a democracy. The pope has the final say on who is and isn’t a saint. But the people can show their support and admiration for those under consideration, to help the pope decide.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s fascinating.” I guess I’d have to read up on the sainthood thing.

The guy moved on and still I waited. After what seemed like forever, but was probably only thirty minutes or so, the priest returned. “Please, Ms. Carmichael, can you come with me?”

I breathed a sigh of relief as the priest said something to the security guy. After a cursory glance in my backpack and laptop case, he let me pass. I took off my sunglasses as soon as we entered the dimly lit church. Thankfully, the air was significantly cooler inside.

“Wow, it’s beautiful,” I said in a hushed voice, stopping for a minute to admire the dark wooden pews and gorgeous stained-glass windows.

“The side altars, nave, dome and apse were built in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries,” the priest explained. “The cathedral itself was finished in the seventeenth century.”

“It’s stunning.” I tried to take in everything at once. “The ceiling fresco is exquisite.”

The priest smiled. “Did you know San Lorenzo also preserves the ashes of St. John the Baptist, which arrived here at the end of the First Crusade? He is the patron saint of our city.”

“I didn’t know that. So much fascinating history here.”

“I hope you will enjoy your stay.”

He led me down the left side of the church. He unlocked a door and ushered me into an annex. We walked farther down a corridor lined with more breathtaking paintings before stopping in front of a door. After a knock, I heard a voice from inside say something in Italian. The priest opened the door and ushered me in.

A tall man rose from behind an ornate desk. He was dressed in a black cassock with a cross around his neck and had thick, dark hair. Suddenly I realized I had no idea of the protocol for greeting an archbishop, not to mention a cardinal. I probably should have changed clothes or something, but that hadn’t occurred to me until this exact moment. Panicked, I curtseyed—probably the most awkward curtsey in the universe—then bowed, and finally knelt in the middle of the room, still wearing my backpack and laptop bag. Hopefully, I’d covered all the bases.

“Archbishop, esteemed Father, thank you for seeing me.” I stayed on my knees.

He strode toward me, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Apparently the kneeling had been a step too far. “Please, call me Emilio. So, you are Lexi.” He took my hand in his and lifted me to my feet. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”

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