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I stared at the message.
Use the rear entrance. No registration.
Ferretti knew which records would need to be avoided and which accounts could be used to conceal payment.
“How many times does his name appear?” I asked.
Artemus ran the search. A number appeared beside Ferretti’s name.
“Seventy-three direct references,” he explained. “There may be more under codes I have yet to identify.”
Adriana moved closer to me. She didn't touch me, but her presence kept the room from disappearing entirely.
“Over what period?” Atlas asked.
“Five years.”
Five years of messages, payments and authorized transfers. Five years in which Ferretti had stood at altars, raised his hands in blessing and spoken about mercy while frightened women were moved through church properties under his authority.
I looked at Artemus. “Were any sent through my parish?”
His expression changed. That was answer enough.
“Open them.”
“Demitri,” Atlas warned.
“Open. Them.”
Artemus returned to the search field and entered the name of my church.
Four records appeared.
The first was dated eight months after I arrived.
The second came the following year, and then another two years later.
The final record had been created six months before Adriana entered my church. My parish address appeared beside each entry. I gripped the edge of the desk.
“I never approved these.”
“No,” Artemus agreed. “Your name is not attached to the authorizations.”
“Whose was it?”
He opened the first file.
The request had been submitted and approved remotely. The arrivals had been scheduled for nights when parish staff records showed I was absent.
One during a retreat in Assisi.
Another while I was conducting a funeral in a neighbouring town.
The others during overnight visits to the convent.
They had used my church because I was trusted.
They had used my absence because they knew I would have asked questions.
