Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God (3 page)

“I’m afraid I have some disturbing news,” said the cardinal, taking a long sip of wine.

Father Tolbert’s hands quivered, spilling wine on his pants and the Persian carpet, a gift from the Prime Minister of Egypt. “News?” he asked.

“Yes,” Cardinal Polletto continued. “The boy you
love
so much has been taken into custody by my people. As I explained to you a few months ago, he’s important to our cause.”

“Taken in? You mean kidnapped?”

“Let’s say, forcefully recruited,” said Cardinal Polletto, pouring himself another glass. “It’s the best thing for The Order, and for you.” Father Tolbert stood. “You didn’t say anything about a kidnapping,” he fired, his fear morphing into anger.

“I didn’t have to say anything about it,” snapped the cardinal. “Just be glad we haven’t snatched
you
up. Now sit.” Slowly, Father Tolbert lowered himself to his seat. “What are you going to do with him?”

The cardinal took a deep breath. “Don’t worry yourself about it,” he said. “The boy’s safe, and he’ll stay that way. Let’s focus our attention on you.”

“I don’t want to talk about me. Whatever I’ve done, whatever you think of me, please don’t punish the boy for it.”
You imbecile, do you really believe this is all about you?
“Now, Father Tolbert, you know you’re our first and most important concern.

We take care of our own. Relax and leave it to my people. You’re in good hands.”

Father Tolbert’s face turned purple-red, his eyes bulged, and veins crisscrossed his forehead. “No!” he shouted, flinging his glass against the wall.

The door to the den flung open, and Father Ortega Alamino, the pit bull chauffeur, rushed inside. Cardinal Polletto motioned that everything was okay, and Father Ortega hesitantly closed the door behind him.

Father Tolbert collapsed in his chair, head in hands, and burst into tears.

Cardinal Polletto finished his wine, and carefully placed the empty glass on the table. He watched with contempt, as Father Tolbert fell just short of a full breakdown, revolted by the blubbering priest’s weakness.

The cardinal walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“There, there,” he said, insincere and condescending, “I promise you things will come together for the good, and they will.” Father Tolbert looked up, his eyes wet, red, and puffy, and his nose running. Saliva dripped off his chin. “I’ve got to atone for the things I’ve done. I’ve got to make it right,” he sniveled.

Cardinal Polletto snatched Father Tolbert to his feet. “Get a hold of yourself,” he growled through gritted teeth, shaking the priest with the force of a much younger man.

Father Tolbert snatched loose. “No,” he growled, stepping back.

“I’m the monster, not Samuel. Why are you hurting the boy? I’m the one who should die.”

“Nobody’s going to die,” said the cardinal, with all the comfort of a grandfather. “I have plans for you that you know nothing about, very important plans, plans that involve Samuel. Now, let’s sit and talk.”

“I’m going to the police,” shot Father Tolbert. “I’m going to turn myself in. I can’t live like this anymore.” Cardinal Polletto sprang forward and slapped the priest to the floor.

The cardinal leered down with rage and fire in his eyes. He hoped that he could calm Father Tolbert down, and was sorry he allowed the situation to spiral so far out of his grasp. He needed Samuel, and the kidnapping would put enough pressure on his plans without Father Tolbert doing something rash. The feeble cleric would be done away with in time, but for now, he needed him alive.

“Get to your feet,” he ordered. Father Tolbert, dazed, pulled himself up on the side of the cardinal’s dark mahogany desk. The high-priest tossed him a handkerchief. “You’re not going to say a thing. Go home and pack only what you need for the next few weeks. I’ll make sure you get the rest later.”

Father Tolbert’s eyes, confused and inquisitive, asked where he was going.

Cardinal Polletto flashed a dangerous smile. “I’m sending you to Rome.”

J
ust after midnight, under a moonless sky filled with black ominous clouds, Father Ortega pulled up to Assumption Church, but didn’t bother to open Father Tolbert’s door. Nor did he offer his farewells. Dejected and sullen, the priest stepped out into the night chill, barely noticing the light mist that showed up as soon as his feet touched the pavement, and lurched towards his residence in back of the church.

“Good evening and goodnight,” he said to Sister Isabella Cacciavillian, a Spanish nun there on temporary assignment. She was a self-proclaimed night owl who almost never seemed to sleep. He considered turning back to apologize for his rudeness, but didn’t have the energy. Each step a burden, he dragged his feet along the marble corridor as though ten pounds of cement filled his black sole shoes.

Father Tolbert opened the door to his small apartment-like living quarters and felt his way through a tiny, sparsely decorated living room, to the bedroom in the back, like a blind man in familiar surroundings, not wanting to illuminate his despair. He plopped down on the full size bed, which was more a crime scene than a place of rest, and wallowed in the blackness of his soul. Ten minutes later, two soft-white bulbs on each side of the headboard bathed the room in foggy light, casting murky shadows that loitered around the room like vagabonds up to no good.

Two large, worn suitcases took Father Tolbert’s place on the bed.

Sniffling and wiping his nose, he tossed the items he deemed necessary for two weeks survival into each case. His thoughts turned to Samuel, and his fear for the boy gave way to lust and longing. He closed his eyes tight to fight off images of the boy in his embrace
. Hopeless.
He resumed packing, hands quivering so violently he could barely fold his clothes and place them in the suitcase.
No, fight back! Fight dammit!
His hands relaxed, but just as suddenly, the shaking returned. He fell to his knees and clasped his hands together, searching for the strength to ask God for forgiveness, but unable to find the words.
Call the police. Turn yourself
in. Atone.

Father Tolbert picked up the phone and hit “9”. Cardinal Polletto’s voice pierced through his mind.
Put that fucking phone down!
Father Tolbert hit the number “1” knowing he wouldn’t go through with it, and dropped the phone on the floor. He scrambled to his feet, slipped on a pair jeans and a sweatshirt, snatched an overcoat from the rack next to the door, a brown London Fog, a gift from a wealthy patron looking for special prayer, and hit the streets for a walk. Self-prescribed therapy that often helped quell the pain.

The blanket of mist that greeted him earlier was now a light drizzle.

Collar up, he took his regular route, head down, the rain blending with his tears, his groans lost in the nearly barren, moonless night.
I can
control this. I can stop. I have to fight it. I have to fight.

A mile and a half from the church he turned right on Columbus Drive then left on Grand.
Cardinal Polletto is right. He’s always right.

Rome is the perfect place right now. I’ve never even seen the Vatican.

There I’ll be able to draw strength.
Father Tolbert, hands in his pockets, mixed in with the night shift crowd of drug dealers and buyers, the homeless, the lost, and those who simply wanted to remain anonymous.

A sharp spark hit the sky, and nature’s faucet turned to full.

Father Tolbert crossed Grand in a light trot and stopped in front of a dilapidated brick apartment building, eyes focused on a third floor window, one of the few not shattered. His chest heaved in and out. He hustled inside, nearly tripping over an old woman wrapped in all she owned, the streetlight glimmering off the blade gripped tight in her fist.

He excused himself and bounded up three flights of stairs, hopping over bodies, some sleep, some high, along the way, stopping in front of a beaten wooden door with 316 painted neatly on front.
I can stop. I can
stop.

The door opened before he could knock.

“I saw you from the window,” said a soft voice from inside. “Come in.”

Father Tolbert hesitated and took a step back. A soft, smooth hand pulled him inside the damp, murky, barely lit room. A lone mattress, surrounded by crates and boxes, posed as a furniture ensemble.

“Over here by the light,” the voice continued, the hand gripping his tighter. “It’ll be fifty dollars, same as usual.” Father Tolbert lumbered along in a stupor, fighting the urge to stay.

Then Alex, a twelve-year-old runaway, fell to his knees and took the priest inside his mouth, and Father Tolbert surrendered.

Yes, Rome, that’s where I’ll do it. I’ll atone for my sins and end this
nightmare. Hell is waiting for me anyway. I’ll end my life at the Vatican.

T
hrobbing and tender, the knot on the back of Robert’s head pulsated in concert with his heartbeat, but he barely noticed.

Thorne pressed a fresh ice pack to the contusion. “I leave your ass for a couple of hours and look what happens.” Thorne, tall, lean, with milk chocolate skin and piercing brown eyes, shook her head in disgust.

Robert jerked the ice pack out of her hand and stomped over to the bedroom window of the Napier’s guesthouse. The night rain left a cloudless morning blue sky, and the estate grounds buzzed with activity, as FBI agents and Chicago detectives filed in and out of the large Tudor mansion five hundred feet away. Robert replayed the details of the kidnapping over in his head just as he explained to the authorities.

It was a well-planned ambush to the letter. The assailants waited for the perfect spot, just before they reached the restaurant parking lot. Two SUV’s, toting machine gun wielding assholes, surrounded them within seconds, and dragged Samuel from the car. Then, an oddity occurred, another SUV showed up, apparently coming to their aid.

Robert shut his eyes tight and struggled to conjure up more details, but only saw masked faces, although the distinct voice of a tall statuesque man who’d come to help, rang clearly in his ears. The voice, a thick baritone, distinct and commanding, was one he’d never forget, but he chose to leave the detail out of his recounting to the agents and detectives who questioned him. In his three year experience as a bounty hunter, he knew you always held something back from the police until you knew exactly who was on the team, and who on the team was a fuck up.

“What do you think they’ll ask for?” interrupted Thorne, easing up behind him.

Truth was Robert didn’t have the slightest idea. Donovan had been out of commission at the CIA for over ten years, and even if he hadn’t, it was highly unusual for someone to target a child as retaliation. If they wanted to hurt Donovan, they could’ve killed him right there.

“Hopefully, it’s just money,” said Robert. “I’m sure they know about Alison’s wealth. Maybe it’s just a shakedown.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Thorne, heading for the bathroom. “That’ll mean we can get this over quickly. Give’em the money and catch their sorry asses later.”

Thorne shut the bathroom door hard behind her. Robert plopped down on the white Indian embroidered couch, hoping the entire episode was just about money. It would end quickly, and they would help the FBI track down those behind it. If they found them before the authorities did, they’d dish out a little justice of their own before turning the kidnappers over to them.

Robert recalled the first time he laid eyes on his godson. Donovan and Alison had brought Samuel home from the adoption agency wrapped in a navy blue and gold blanket from Donovan and Robert’s alma mater, the University of Michigan. Robert fell in love with the child in an instant, and with no children of his own, considered the boy as
his
too.

Thorne marched out of the bathroom as the phone rang. Robert answered. It was FBI agent-in-charge, Ken Baxter. He asked Robert to come back to the main house for a few more questions.

Inside, the main house was crowded, but not noisy. Agents and detectives searched the house for clues, while others simply stood guard.

Robert and Thorne were directed to the family room, where they saw Donovan on one side, with four agents huddled around him asking questions. Alison sat to the left side, sprawled out on a thick black leather couch, a compress on her forehead, tears streaming down her face.

“Over here, Mr. Veil,” Agent Baxter called to their right.

Agent Baxter, a portly handsome man, in a dark blue suit and red paisley bow tie, waved them over to the bar where he sat sipping what looked like club soda with a twist of lime. He thanked Robert for coming over so quickly and greeted Thorne, who gave him a nod. She went over to Alison, sat down, and stroked the distraught mother’s hand.

“We’ve cleared you and your partner, Mr. Veil,” said Agent Baxter.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” the agent continued. “You’re not a suspect. You’re free to go.”

Robert sat down on the stool next to the agent. “Thank you for clearing us, but we’re not going anywhere. We want to help.” Agent Baxter took a long sip of his drink, sat the glass down then stood. “I understand how close you are to the boy, but you’ll only get in the way.”

“You’re right. He’s like a son to me, and I’m not exactly new at this.

We have resources that might help,” said Robert.

“I know who you and your partner are. I know your reputation, but please go back to Washington D.C., and if our seventy-five years of FBI experience fail, we’ll give you a holler.” Agent Baxter walked away before Robert could respond.

Thorne stepped up beside him. “What gives?”

“We’re cleared as suspects, but the FBI wants us out of town,” said Robert.

“And?”

“Call Evelyn back at the office, and tell her to put a hold on all of our cases until further notice. We’re not going any fucking where.” Thorne smiled. “Damn right.” She pulled out her cell phone and stepped outside.

Robert sat down next to Alison, who seemed to be resting more comfortably. Donovan, finished with the platoon of agents around him, limped over.