Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God (4 page)

“How are you holding up?” asked Robert, standing to give his friend a hug.

“As best I can,” said Donavon. “I’ll feel better when we hear something.”

“What do the suits think?”

“That it’s just money, which means we should get a note or a call soon.”

Robert was aware that most kidnapping requests for money came within twenty-four hours. Every hour after that was not a good sign.

“Donovan, Thorne and I want to join the search. See what we can work up,” said Robert.

Alison stirred and sat up. The compress fell in her lap, eyes swollen, red, and pouring water. “Haven’t you done enough?” she snorted.

“Enough? What do you mean?” asked Robert, taken aback.

“What have you brought to our house?” she continued, through the tears.

Stunned, Robert considered for the first time the possibility someone in
his
past or present was responsible for taking Samuel. He and Thorne had put away some pretty despicable characters over the years, inside the CIA and on their own, some international terrorist and kidnappers, others, serial killers and crime lords.

“You’re just upset,” said Thorne, moving closer to Alison. “We’d never do anything to…”

“How do you know?” Alison bellowed. “How do you know this isn’t because of you and Robert?”

Robert fidgeted.
Fact is, we don’t know.
He cleared his throat. “We can’t be one hundred percent, but I doubt this has anything to do with any of our cases.”

Everyone in the room soaked in uncomfortable silence. Only Alison’s snorting and crying were audible. Robert took her by both arms and stared into her eyes. “Thorne and I intend to do whatever we can to get Samuel back safely. You have my promise.”

“I don’t want your fucking promise,” Alison snapped, snatching out of his grasp. “I want you out of here now!” Robert opened his mouth to speak. “Robert, if you care about Samuel you’ll leave us alone!” Alison screamed, collapsing on the couch in a frantic heap.

Donavon, in tears, sat down next to his wife and stroked her hair.

Robert searched for the words, but none came.

“Just go,” said Donavon, never looking Robert’s way. “I’ll call you later.

Robert’s eyes filled with tears, his heart with anger, not at Alison, she was doing what any distraught mother would do. He boiled over at the men who’d put them in such a horrible situation. A hand on his shoulder gave him a start, and Thorne pulled him from the room.

Outside, Robert wiped the moisture from his eyes and pounded his fist on the hood of Thorne’s rental, a black Monte Carlo, and kicked a deep dent in the front bumper.

“Get in the car and let’s get out of here,” Thorne ordered, ignoring the damage. Robert leaned back against the hood, grinding his teeth, arms folded tight across his chest. “Okay, you let me know when you’re ready,” she said. She slid in on the passenger side and dialed her cell phone.

Robert fumed at the thought of not joining the search for Samuel, a boy he loved as his own. He considered Alison’s tirade, searching his memory for a name or face, any case that could’ve spilled over and resulted in an attack on an innocent ten year old boy, but nothing came to mind. The Monte Carlo’s horn intruded his thoughts. Thorne motioned, l
et’s go!

“So, where shall we start?” she asked, as he slid inside.

“Start?” he asked.

“Yes,” she continued. “You don’t really believe I think we’re going to leave, do you? Alison’s just upset. So am I, but I’m a hunter, she’s not.

And fuck the FBI.”

Robert eyed his partner and friend since the age of thirteen, and took a deep cleansing breath. “The church, they had to start trailing us from the church. So let’s start at the Assumption of Our Lady.”

M
onday morning, Chicago traffic nauseated its drivers like most in the fraternity of nationwide commuters, but Thorne managed the labyrinth, exercising more patience than usual. No cursing, middle fingers, or threats. Robert appreciated the ninety minutes of silence, and rested back against the seat, eyes closed.

Thorne parked a block away from the church, which was in full swing as Monday morning mass let out, and nuns and parishioners went on their way. Robert and Thorne approached two of the nuns, asked for directions to Father Tolbert, and were guided to a small office building at the far end of a large courtyard, in the center of the church grounds.

Inside the building, up two flights, they searched the sparsely lit corridor for office 2B, and found Father Charles Tolbert’s name stenciled on the opaque glass panel of the office door. A droopy, round-faced woman, wearing a faded blue dress, greeted them. Her thick, black-rimmed glasses made her looked more owl than human.

Robert asked to speak with Father Tolbert, and after a five second phone call, the owl asked if he and Thorne would have a seat. An hour and five apologies later, Thorne looked close to cursing, and Robert wasn’t far behind. When the owl, Miss Culbreath, told them that someone would be with them
in just a few minutes
, Robert looked to see if Thorne was reaching for her gun. A door in back of the office opened.

“Mr. Veil, Miss Thorne. I’m Father Pearson. Please follow me.” They followed the six foot priest through the door and down a hall more brightly lit than the rest of the building. Both sides of the walls were adorned with what looked like every Pope since the beginning of the church, culminating with an impressive oil painting of the apostle Peter. Father Pearson opened the door to a very large, but modestly appointed office, where the distinguished looking cleric, Cardinal Polletto, whom Robert had met the day before, rose, and extended his hand.

“It’s nice meeting you again, Mr. Veil, and a pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss Thorne. I’m Cardinal Giafranco Polletto,” he continued, waving Father Pearson out of the room. He offered them seats and sat down behind the desk.

“We want to speak with Father Tolbert,” said Robert, more abruptly than he intended. “Will he be joining us?”

“My apologies, but Father Tolbert is indisposed at the moment. Is there something I can help you with?”

Robert bit his tongue. They’d waited over an hour. “I’m sure the Church is aware of what happened to Samuel Napier yesterday after service.”

“Yes, the kidnapping, a tragedy. We’re on round the clock prayer,” said the cardinal, his face etched with concern. “Is there anything else we can do to help?”

“That’s why we waited for over an hour,” said Thorne. “Since Samuel was an altar boy here, we figured whoever snatched him knew it, and were waiting after church. Maybe somebody here saw or heard something?”

The cardinal stroked his chin. “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard anything.

But I’ll make further inquiries, and let the authorities know if we come up with anything useful. We’ve already questioned our people once.”

“We’d appreciate it if you gave us a call if you find anything,” said Robert, scribbling down his cell phone number, handing it to Cardinal Polletto.

The cardinal leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk.

“Forgive me, but what authority do you have? That is, other than
concern
for the boy.”

“Samuel’s my godson, and…”

“That hardly qualifies you as law enforcement.”

“We’re more than qualified,” shot Thorne, her eyes burning red. “In fact, we’ve successfully tracked down several kidnapped victims, and more than our share of kidnappers. We used to work for the government, and we’ve been successful on our own for quite some time.”

“Excellent,” said the cardinal. “Then I’m sure you’re working with the FBI, and have the Napier’s blessing.”

“We have a long standing relationship with the FBI, and I’ve known Donavon Napier for over two decades,” shot Robert.

Cardinal Polletto’s eyes shifted from Robert to Thorne, and back.

“You’ll forgive my trepidation. The Church has strict rules when it comes to these matters. I hope you understand.”
This is bullshit,
thought Robert.
That’s what I understand.
“Thank you, Cardinal. We understand just fine.” Robert forced a smile, his best facade. “Is there a time available for us to come back and interview Father Tolbert? He worked directly with Samuel most of the time, so if anybody has seen anything, it would be him.”

“I agree,” said Cardinal Polletto. “He was the first person I spoke to about it.”

“Is there a chance
we
can talk to him? We don’t doubt you, Cardinal, we just want to be thorough.”

“I’d love nothing short of that, but you see it’s impossible at this time.”

“Impossible?” asked Robert.

“Yes. Father Tolbert was reassigned yesterday, and has left Chicago on special assignment.”

Robert exploded out of his chair. Thorne grabbed his arm. “You could’ve told us that at the beginning,” he growled.

Cardinal Polletto looked taken aback. “I’m sorry, but the affairs of the Church are not always public business. I didn’t think it necessary until now.”

Robert, his chest heaving, gathered himself as best he could. “Fine, we understand, but it’s important that we talk to him anyway. Just tell us where he is, and we’ll go to him.”

“Rome.”

“Excuse me?” said Thorne.

The cardinal leaned back in his chair. “Father Tolbert is on special assignment at the Vatican. An assignment that will keep him occupied for at least the next two to three months. The nature of which will render him unavailable to you or anyone else I’m afraid.” Robert couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and apparently from the scowl on her face, neither could Thorne. The cardinal stared at them for a moment, then stood. The office door opened, and a stout, muscular priest walked inside.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anymore time today,” added Cardinal Polletto, blunt and firm, making his way to the door. “But like I promised, if anything comes up, you’ll be the first I call.” He stopped at the door and turned to them. “I’m sorry about young Samuel’s misfortune. We’ll help in any way we can. Feel free to call again if you need anything. Father Ortega, please show them the way out.” The bulky priest, Father Ortega, looked more wrestler-like, than cleric. Robert guessed his arms must have been at least eighteen inches.

He escorted them to the street, and without so much as a nod, walked back inside the church, slamming the door behind him. They headed for Thorne’s car.

“What the hell is going on?” asked Robert. “They act like they’re the ones who took Samuel.”

“No shit,” said Thorne. “But you know how the Catholic Church operates. They don’t get involved unless it’s one of their own, and getting information out of them is like squeezing blood from a penny.”

“It’s a child for Christ’s sake!” Robert bellowed, stopping next to the Monte Carlo. “You’d think they’d do everything they could.” He leaned on the car and tried to gather his thoughts.

“What about Father Tolbert?” asked Thorne. “He’s still numero uno on the list that we should talk to.”

“Yeah, but unless we’re going to Italy, we’d better think up something else. We’ll leave Father Tolbert to the FBI for now. Let them hassle with the Vatican.”

Robert looked at his watch, his heart hanging in his chest like a paperweight. Time ticked away for Samuel, so they couldn’t worry about the cardinal, Father Tolbert, or the Vatican. They needed a solid lead.

“Let’s split up,” said Robert. “I’ll rent a car, go to Samuel’s school, and talk to his teachers, maybe a few of his classmates. You contact your boyfriend.” Thorne’s face twisted. “I’m sorry, your
friend
, Detective Reynolds. Find out if the police or FBI has anything we can use. Let’s talk around noon, and take it from there.”

“Got it,” said Thorne.

Robert and Thorne sped away. Father Ortega, who’d been watching them the whole time, observed silently from the bushes a half a block behind them as they got in the car and drove away.

C
old and scared, Samuel sat, knees to chest, rocking back and forth in a musty wooden crate. Despite the darkness, he pressed his eyes shut tight, and struggled to conjure up the faces of his parents and godfather.

But as quickly as they came, the mental photographs in his head dissipated like a rising vapor.

A sudden series of bumps jarred Samuel from his daydream nightmare. He was sure the wooden box that housed him was on an airplane in the sky. He had felt the takeoff and heard the engines roar. He guessed they’d been in the air for almost an hour, maybe longer.

More turbulence, and this time Samuel pitched forward against the crate, head first, bumping his chin. He heard chatter in the cabin, and counted four voices, three males, one female. None of them spoke English, and he couldn’t place the language. It sounded French, but he wasn’t sure. Time edged along, as did the mental torture. Samuel whimpered, then cried. The chatter outside turned to whispers.

Moments later, the crate cracked open and light stampeded inside, needling his eyes, leaving him momentarily blind. The cold nudge of what he knew to be a gun under his chin, and the firm bark of a language foreign, entreated him to stifle his breakdown and choke back his sniffles.

Samuel’s vision cleared, but his eyes ached. He crawled out of the crate and looked around. He was definitely inside an airplane, but not like the planes he and his parents flew in while on vacation. This plane looked more like one of the cool private jets he’d watched on MTV

Cribs
, and could’ve belonged to P-Diddy or Jay-Z.

“Over here,” called a soft, female voice. Samuel, awestruck by his surroundings, focused on the four individuals in the cabin for the first time, and was stunned. “You’ll be more comfortable on the couch,” the woman told him. “And there are a few rules you need to obey.” Samuel, trying to make sense of the scene before him, was unable to move. “Its okay, Samuel,” the woman continued, “please have a seat.” Samuel, his feet feeling about twenty pounds each, lumbered over and practically fell down in the deep, cushioned tan-green leather chair.

“Here, drink this.” The woman handed him a mug with a mountain of whipped cream on top. “This will warm you up, and make you feel more comfortable. I have to attend to a matter in the forward cabin.