Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God (16 page)

“We still want to see Alison,” said Robert.

“She doesn’t want to see anyone, and that’s final.” Robert opened his mouth to speak, but the door to the den opened.

Alison, sullen, eyes red, walked inside, two agents behind her, tissue in her hand. Robert jumped to his feet and quickly moved to her side, and put an arm around her shoulder.

“Alison, I’m so sorry. I really am.”

Alison’s eyes welled up and she bit her bottom lip. “Thank you, Robert,” she finally eked out. “I know how close you two were.” Robert led Alison to the chair he’d been sitting in and knelt by her side. “Is there anything I can do? Anything? Just name it.” Alison forced a smile, and looked up at Agent Baxter. “Can you give us a few minutes? I’d like to talk to Robert and Thorne alone.” Agent Baxter, obviously not pleased, signaled for his men to leave.

“Not a problem,” he told Alison, through a forced smile. “We’ll be outside if you need us.”

Robert moved to the chair across from Alison. Thorne sat next to her on the arm of the chair.

“You holding up okay, honey?” asked Thorne, rubbing Alison’s shoulder, stroking her hair.

“Barely,” Alison whispered. “I can’t believe I’ve lost both of them.” She covered her face with both hands and cried.

Robert’s eyes watered, his breath shortened, and his fists clenched tight. He looked up at his partner, who showed no emotion, only concern.

“We’re here for you,” said Thorne. “And we’re doing everything we can to find Samuel.”

Alison blew her nose. “What am I going to do? Without Donovan, I’m lost.” She broke back down and cried again. “First my baby, now my husband. Lord, please help me.”

Throne knelt down and hugged Alison. Robert wanted to kill somebody for all the pain and loss, and knew before it was all over, he would.

It took awhile for Alison to calm down. Robert paced the room while Thorne consoled her. When it seemed she’d gathered herself, Robert sat back down. “Alison, is there anything you can tell us that will help us find Samuel? Anything you’ve heard from the FBI, something Donovan may have shared?”

Alison stared out the window. “We received a note saying we’d never see Samuel again,” she said, choking, coughing.

Thorne went to get her a glass of water from a pitcher on the table.

“Agent Baxter told us,” said Robert, walking over to comfort her.

“Did he tell you the paper the note was written on came from Italy?” Robert hesitated. “No, he didn’t mention that.” Alison glanced back at the den door, as though making sure no one was listening. “They said the paper blend was consistent with a type manufactured overseas, specifically in several factories outside Rome, but that doesn’t mean Samuel’s there. They said it could mean whoever took him somehow got paper made there.” She lowered her head and rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know what it means.” Robert looked over at Thorne.
It means a trip to Rome
. “Don’t worry,” he told her, “we’re in this with you. We’ll find Samuel. I promise.”

Alison smiled. “I trust you, Robert. I know you will. So did Donovan, but for some reason he didn’t want you involved.” Robert considered telling her that Samuel was cloned, but thought better of it. “That’s all in the past now. Let’s move on from here.” Thorne returned with the glass of water. “We’ve got company,” she said, looking back toward the door. Cardinal Polletto and Father Ortega walked inside.

“Alison, my child,” gushed the cardinal, “I rushed over as soon as I heard.” He hurried over to Alison and gave her an extended hug.

Alison broke down again, this time harder, asking why she’d been hit with so heavy a burden, over and over again.

The cardinal stroked her hair. “There, there, my child, don’t worry, God is with us. He’ll sustain you.”

Robert seethed. He saw Thorne clench her fists. Father Ortega watched them closely. Robert thought he detected a faint smile on the thick-necked priest’s lips, which raised his temperature further.

Cardinal Polletto walked over and put a hand on Robert’s shoulder.

“I know Donovan was a very close friend of yours, Mr. Veil, and I understand the tragic loss of such friendship. Please accept my heartfelt condolences, and please know the Church is here for you.” With every inch in him, Robert suppressed his need to snap the cardinal’s neck. “Thank you, Your Eminence. Your concern is appreciated.”

Cardinal Polletto looked over at Thorne, opened his mouth, but thought better of it, obviously reading the warning in her eyes.

Alison stood. “Thank you all so much. This has been more than I can bear. It’s good to have friends who…” Her eyes rolled upward.

Robert ran over in time to catch her limp body, carried her over to the couch, and gently laid her down. Frantic, the cardinal rushed over to help. Father Ortega stayed in place, observing.

“I’ll get a cold towel,” said Thorne. When she opened the door, Agent Baxter and two agents rushed inside.

“Is she okay?” asked Agent Baxter, genuinely concerned.

“It’s the stress,” answered Robert. “She fainted, and I think she’s dehydrated.”

Thorne returned quickly with a fresh pitcher of water and a wet towel. Robert gently placed the folded towel on her forehead, and after a few minutes, Alison regained consciousness.

“What happened?”

“You passed out, my child,” said Cardinal Polletto. “But everything’s going to be okay. Father Ortega, call Doctor Bennings and tell him to come over. Make sure he knows it’s for me.” Father Ortega immediately pulled out a cell phone and dialed.

“That’s not necessary,” said Alison. “I’m okay.”

“Better safe than regretful,” said the cardinal.

“I just need to get to my own bed,” said Alison, her voice cracking.

“Dr. Bennings is on her way,” said Father Ortega.

Cardinal Polletto smiled. “Good, then let’s get Lady Napier to her room, where she can rest.”

Robert helped Alison to her feet. Father Ortega lent a shoulder.

Agent Baxter moved Robert away and took her other arm. Alison began to cry again.

“I think she needs her rest,” said Cardinal Polletto, watching Alison disappear out the door. “We’ll keep you informed, and let you know if there are any changes or developments.”

Robert walked over to the cardinal, stopping closer than what would be considered respectful. “We stopped by your house after the accident.”

“Yes, I know,” answered Cardinal Polletto. “I was in prayer, moved to pray actually. Who knew a friend was near death as I talked with God.

It’s always a mystery how He works.”

Robert took a step closer and peered into the cardinal’s eyes. “Thank you for everything you’ve done here, Cardinal. It won’t be forgotten.” Robert marched out of the room and stormed outside. Thorne slammed the door behind them. They jumped in the car and sped away, Thorne behind the wheel.

“We’re being followed,” said Thorne, turning at the first corner she came to, gunning the engine.

Robert pulled his gun. “Let them catch up,” he said. “Slow down enough for me to hop out.”

Thorne took the next left, increased her speed, then abruptly slowed down. The car behind them jammed on the brakes. Robert rolled out low to the ground and came up pointing his gun at the driver’s head.
Father
Kong.

Robert holstered his weapon. The priest jumped out and ran over.

Thorne got out and joined them.

“Sorry I startled you,” said Father Kong. “Cardinal Maximilian wants you to come to the airport immediately. You leave for Rome, tonight.”

F
ather Tolbert rolled a standard gray, two-tier cart, down a long, cold hallway in the Vatican Library, under the effervescent glow of ultra-soft fluorescent lights. The cart didn’t carry nineteen-inch televisions, DVD players, videotape players or overhead projectors that the children pushed at several middle schools he headed in Boston and Cleveland.

The cart he pushed contained soft brushes, opaline powder for cleaning delicate paintings, a low suction water vacuum for drawing mold out of the air, and a broad array of additional tools of the trade for cleaning precious Vatican treasures, including cotton gloves, acid-free, lignin-free folders and tissue, buffered boxes and folders that contained alkaline reserves for storage of severely degraded manuscripts and Mylar envelopes.

His assignment, one he found especially gratifying, was to help prepare rare manuscripts, Vatican heirlooms, artifacts, and selected frescoes and artwork from the Renaissance, for a Library of Congress exhibit in Washington D.C. He’d been charged with cleaning picture frames, vacuum containers, and packing crates which would house delicate antique pieces worth hundreds of millions of dollars, including an exquisite print of Michelangelo’s
Last Judgment
, Henry VIII’s love letters to Anne Boleyn, Latin and Greek copies of Homer’s Iliad, the first Latin translation of the complete corpus of treatise ascribed to Hippocrates, and so many more he could barely contain himself.

Father Tolbert opened the door to a living room sized, dust-free storage closet, and parked the cart in a reserved space near the back wall.

He’d been working since five a.m., and eagerly completed his six hour stint. Monsignor Roberto Baggio, overseeing the exhibit, didn’t allow shifts of more than six hours, with ten minute breaks per hour, to ensure that mistakes were kept to a minimum.

Father Tolbert changed clothes in a basement locker room, dropped off his overalls and smock for laundering, spent thirty minutes in prayer in a small chamber for that purpose, and headed outside to take in the splendor and opulence of Vatican City, and look for a place to take his life.

Working in the Vatican Library, a dream Father Tolbert never thought he’d realize, even with a Master’s Degree in Library Science from Northwestern University, gave him a temporary sense of ease and comfort that dissipated the moment he left the building. He counted it as a small victory to be so close to the historic remnants of the Renaissance, and the voluminous records of church progression and history. His past applications for a menial clerk position hadn’t amounted to so much as an honorable mention to the highbrow intellectuals who seemed to cherish the priceless treasures of the Vatican Archives more than the saints. For five years, steadfast and determined, he had applied for a foot in the door, and each time the rejection slips arrived in record time, as if they knew his application were coming and their response, sealed and stamped, had only needed to be dropped in the mail.

Standing outside the library, Father Tolbert closed his eyes and momentarily soaked up the warmth of the noonday sun. The controlled environment inside the library, with its low humidity and dim lighting, was like working in a tomb, and the first moments outside a rebirth.

He mounted the bicycle loaned to him by Father Marcus Johns, now away on an extended assignment in Kenya, and headed toward his first and favorite stop,
Giardina del Vaticano,
The Vatican Gardens.

Father Tolbert absorbed the power and majesty that penetrated everything in Vatican City, from the architecture to the art, an intriguing mix of modern and Renaissance flavors that toyed with his senses, catapulting his to a bygone era, but constantly reminding him of the present, and more importantly, his task at hand, death.

He guided his bike down Via Centrale del Bosco to the Vatican Radio Administration building, parked his bike and walked across the street to the Old Gardens. Nestled behind the spectacular landmark dome of
San Pietro in Montorio
, St. Peter’s Basilica, the garden grounds were once the location of Nero’s circus, where early Christians were martyred and St. Peter was crucified, upside down.

Of all the gardens, which covered forty acres, including a formal Italian garden, a French garden filled with the most stunning flowers in the world, and a romantic replica of English landscape, Father Tolbert’s favorite was Campo Santo Teutonico, a walled enclosure just south of St.

Peter’s Basilica. The garden, enclosed by a two-story, cantaloupe colored stucco wall, boasted a phenomenal horticultural delight of Canary Island palms, cedar of Lebanon, blooming oleander, and bay laurel.

Throngs of tourists poured into the Vatican each year to take in the Holy See’s majesty, including the Vatican Gardens, but only dignitaries and VIPs were allowed into Campo Santo Teutonico. Father Tolbert knelt down under a sign that read, Teutons in pace,
Germans in peace
, and said a brief prayer. Inside, he found a spot on the ground and sat where earth, believed to be brought from Golgotha by St. Helena, was spread to unite the blood of Jesus with that which was shed by thousands of proto-martyrs, the first to die during the persecutions of Nero.

Sitting there, on holy ground, Father Tolbert fought the contradicting forces that tortured in his soul. Being in the holy city energized his spirit, but the yearning of his flesh suppressed his attempts to rebound from the carnal degradation that enticed him to desire young boys.

Alone in the garden, Father Tolbert begged God for relief. Instead, his mind wandered as it often did, to thoughts of Samuel. He remembered how comforting it felt to love the boy. How he connected with his own lost childhood by blending himself with a child. Decadent nourishment he craved and needed to stay alive. Something the world would never accept.

Father Tolbert collapsed face first in the dirt, clawing the earth.

“Lord, please, forgive me! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He cried and begged like an injured child for almost thirty minutes.

“Father, are you okay?” asked Geert Bauer, a small framed German gardener, one of thirty who tended to the gardens. He hurried over and helped the priest to his feet.

Father Tolbert leaned on the gardener for balance, head and heart pounding hard. “I’m fine, Heir Bauer. Just a little overwhelmed in prayer.”

Geert led Father Tolbert to a beige stone bench, eased him down and gazed upon the priest with compassionate eyes. “That must be some burden, Father. If you need an extra set of knees to help shoulder the burden, I’m here for you.”

Father Tolbert took a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his face, eyes puffy, nose running. “I’ll be fine. I just need a minute to gather myself.”