Chapter 44

December Twenty-fourth 6:00 p.m. EST December Twenty-fifth Midnight local time

Mary Ellen Jones was almost vibrating with excitement as she steered her Hoveround wheelchair to her assigned place within St. Peter's Basilica in preparation for midnight mass. If she lost a hundred pounds or two, she would probably have been able to walk under her own power, but she did so love her sweet tea and deep fried chicken.

When God had called her husband Jacob home last year, she had known immediately what she had to do with the insurance money. The week long trip to Rome, culminating in tonight's event, had drained every last penny of it, but it had been worth it. Besides, she couldn't take it with her, and she would be damned if her ingrate son was going to see even a single red cent of inheritance after he had gone and run off with some no-good-hussy from Mississippi.

During her time in Rome and the Holy See, she had sighed and gasped with awe as she stared up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, trembled with reverence as she crossed St. Peter's Square, squealed with delight when she peeked through the keyhole of the Priory of the Knights of Malta, and nearly fainted in ecstacy as she touched the toe of the statue of St. Peter. She had also toured the rest of Rome, but she didn't understand what the fuss was over all of those crumbling old buildings. If they had any sense, they would tear them down and put up a bright, clean Wal Mart.

A sudden hush fell over the large crowd, and, over the heads of those in front of her, she could see the Pope's white mitre bobbing as he made his way to the High Altar. It suddenly occurred to her that she might even receive communion from the Holy Father himself! The other women in her church group back in Slapout, Alabama were going to be so jealous.

She frowned slightly as she noticed that the Pope was making unseemly haste. It just didn't seem right for the Holy Father to walk at anything other than a slow, dignified pace. Her frown deepened as a worried murmur rose from the front of the crowd. When the Holy Father ascended the dias, she saw what had everyone upset: the struggling Pope was being held between two members of the Swiss Guard, fully dressed in their flamboyant uniforms. Her cry of confusion and outrage blended into that of the rest of the congregation.

The guards suddenly released him, and he spun around to face the crowd, his face twisted with fury. It wasn't the Holy Father at all, Mary Ellen thought to herself, but someone at least forty years younger. Then again, he did have that same large birthmark on the side of his face that the Pope did. She wondered what was going on. The new Pope had promised to bring all sorts of changes to the church, but turning midnight mass into some kind of a floor show was going too far.