Pontiff
A Thriller
by
Richard Bowker
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-305-2
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2012, 2013 by Richard Bowker. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Thank You
For Mark Edward Bowker
Chapter 1
Robert Coulter sat in the cold and the dark, waiting for the Devil to appear. Wet snow streaked the outside of the windshield; his breathing clouded the inside. His back ached; his fingers were numb. He knew he could turn on the engine and get some heat. But the heat would make him sleepy, and he couldn't afford to lose his concentration for even an instant. The Devil would not appear for long, and he had to be ready.
A car approached, and he slid down in his seat. The car slowed, then stopped, and he tensed. The driver's door opened partway, and then a hand appeared and flung a newspaper onto a snow-covered lawn. The car sped up, and he watched it turn the corner and slow again as another newspaper landed on another lawn.
The Devil read the paper.
Coulter waited. He was so used to waiting by now—in dark hallways and freezing alleyways, hunched over and peering out windows or pacing anonymously along crowded city streets. He had gotten quite good at waiting. It was a kind of sacrifice, after all; you offered the boredom and discomfort up to God, and God sent you the grace and strength to endure even more.
Today was not so bad, because he knew that today it was going to happen. There was excitement and anticipation instead of boredom. He had done his job, and now he was ready for the payoff.
A light went on in the Devil's house—just around the corner and across the street. He leaned forward, his heart pounding. Now? No, too soon. Around the corner was probably okay; across the street was too obvious. The Devil was crafty. If he spotted the car, he would know.
Another light came on, this one downstairs. And then the front door opened, and the Devil appeared. It was impossible to see him clearly through the snow, but it was him all right, tall and thin and radiating evil like a foul smell. Wearing a shirt and tie, no coat. He hurried down the front steps and along the gravel walk, picked up the newspaper, and retreated inside the house.
The Devil's name was Arnold Beekman. Doctor Arnold Beekman.
Soon now. Soon. Can't get over-anxious, though. Coulter breathed deeply and visualized again how it would happen. It was Thursday. The plan would work because it was Thursday. He just needed to be patient.
He stared at the house, waiting. It was an oversized white Colonial with black shutters; a two-car garage was attached to it by a short breezeway. Ornamental bushes were tastefully arranged on the lawn. The house was far grander than any place Coulter had ever lived. The Devil was well rewarded for his evil.
He shivered, thinking of his mother wearily crushing cockroaches in their tiny kitchen, the sound of mice scurrying inside their bedroom walls, the battered furniture from Goodwill, the Christmas toys scrounged from a local charity. He thought of his father's bellowing rage at the unfairness of his life. Why me, why me?
Coulter shook his head and said a quick prayer. This wasn't about envy. The Devil was the Devil, whether he lived in a mansion or a slum, just as babies were babies, whether they were inside or outside their mother's womb.
Coulter imagined Doctor Beekman sitting in his warm kitchen, sipping gourmet coffee and reading the newspaper. Enjoying the quiet, away from the screaming protesters. Thinking about the day to come, perhaps. The money he would make. The babies he would kill.
But there would be the edge of fear, always the edge of fear, even in the quiet of his home. Because the Devil would know better than anyone that God's will could not be mocked forever.
Robert Coulter was the instrument of God's will. Abortionists across America trembled when they heard his name. He was their scourge, their private nightmare. They could no longer sleep soundly in their mansions, knowing that he was out there somewhere, waiting.
It was Thursday. Beekman would remember at last that it was Thursday. He puts down the paper, finishes his coffee, rinses the cup and leaves it in the sink. Looks around at his beautiful possessions. Admires his life. Enjoys the silence for one last moment. Perhaps he goes upstairs to kiss his sleeping children. Even the Devil has affection for his spawn.
Coulter looked down at the dregs of his own coffee, bought hours ago at a Dunkin' Donuts. He saw yesterday's newspaper, spread out over the passenger-side seat. He thought of his own life with something approaching wonder. He had nothing, but he had far more than the Devil who was about to emerge. Because God was with him, God had blessed him in countless ways.
He said an Our Father and Hail Mary, and as he finished a light went on in the garage.
He quickly turned the key in the ignition. The starter whirred futilely, and he had an instant of panic. It had to start now! God couldn't let him down!
At last the engine came to life.
The garage door slowly rolled up. Inside, he could see the exhaust coming out of the Mercedes's tailpipe, Beekman's shape behind the wheel. Another instant of panic: He couldn't be leaving! Today was Thursday!
Then he saw Beekman get out of the car. Of course. He was merely warming it up for the trip into the city. No sense driving in a cold car. A moment later Coulter saw what he had been waiting for: the abortionist rolling a trash barrel down his long driveway to the curb.
Thursday. Trash pickup day.
Beekman stopped at the curb. Coulter could see him better now. He was hatless and wore a gray overcoat with a scarf tucked into the collar. His features were sharp; his hair was thin, with long strands combed over a bald spot. Did he notice the car idling around the corner? He was always suspicious, always on edge. The name Robert Coulter would flit through his thoughts, and he would feel a momentary rush of terror. But he couldn't see everything. He would be lulled by the familiar ritual. Trash day. Bring the barrels to the curb while the car warms up. Surely there was nothing to fear while doing this? The fear was at the clinic, with the waving signs and the security guards and the death threats.
He trudged back to the garage. If he returned, then he hadn't noticed the car.
Coulter put his foot on the brake and slid the car into drive. He slowly lowered the window, felt the cold breeze, the snowflakes hitting his cheek. Without taking his eyes off the garage he reached out and groped beneath the newspaper on the passenger-side seat. His hand closed on the nine-millimeter automatic. He plac
ed it on his lap.
Beekman reappeared with another barrel.
Coulter knew he should wait until Beekman's back was turned, until he was walking once more up the driveway, oblivious to the sentence about to be carried out upon him. But he couldn't. He needed to see. He needed to know that the abortionist knew.
When Beekman was halfway down the driveway, Coulter depressed the accelerator and turned the corner. Beekman hesitated, noticing the car, then continued toward the curb.
Aim high, Coulter reminded himself. Beekman wasn't so stupid that he would forget to wear his Kevlar vest. Coulter slowed down, then stopped.
Beekman saw the open window, and his eyes widened with understanding and fear, but it was too late. Coulter picked up the gun with his right hand, leaned out the window, and fired. Once, twice, three times.
The second one hit, the abortionist's face exploded and his body crumpled, and Coulter could almost feel the searing wind as his soul plunged down to hell.
No time to savor the triumph of God's justice, however. Human justice had its own rules, despicable though they were. Coulter put the gun back under the newspaper and sped away in the cold, snowy dawn, his spirit aflame but still unsatisfied.
For there were many Devils, and his work had just begun.
Chapter 2
Eligo in summum pontificem...
Cardinal Antonio Riccielli stared at the Latin phrase printed at the top of the small rectangular card. I choose for Supreme Pontiff...
He took his pen and scrawled a name on the bottom of the card. He was supposed to disguise his handwriting to preserve the secrecy of the ballot, but that hardly seemed worth the effort. Everyone knew whom he supported, whom he would support to the bitter end.
Marcello Valli.
He looked at the name, and then at the man, seated across from him in the Sistine Chapel. The hawk nose, the high forehead, the piercing eyes that betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. Another ballot, another chance. But the chance was slipping away—had already slipped away, many of his original supporters thought, and there seemed to be nothing they could do about it.
One maneuver was left, perhaps. If no one got a two-thirds majority in the next day, the rules of the conclave allowed the cardinals to vote that election was to be by simple majority, thereby totally changing the dynamics of the conclave. Would it help Valli? It couldn't hurt. Valli clearly wasn't going to get the Third-World bloc, but if they could keep the Curial cardinals in line, plus the Europeans and most of the North Americans...
He could perhaps put together a majority. But that required them to make it through the next few ballots, with the cardinals weary and eager for a resolution. The conclave had lasted far too long already. They were tired of each other's company day and night, while the world waited. And meanwhile Valli's vote count had steadily slipped, as the cardinals cast about for other candidates who might attract sufficiently widespread support to claim the throne of Saint Peter. One after another, candidates had surfaced, only to fade without reaching the two-thirds majority, none able to receive enough support from the various blocs fighting for the soul of the Church.
On this ballot Riccielli was worried about Carpentier, the genial Canadian. The man was a moron, but he was hard to dislike, and Riccielli knew what others might be thinking: wouldn't it be good to have someone as pope who was less, well, high-powered than they were used to? Someone who could stay away from controversy and simply make Catholics feel good about their religion again. If we can't get our man, maybe this guy would do. And he's old enough that we won't have to put up with him for long. Carpentier had received an astounding twenty votes on the ballot before lunch. Was there a movement afoot? Would people suddenly decide that he was the solution to their problem?
If there was a movement, Riccielli hadn't been asked to be a part of it. So he could only guess, and fret.
The voting was beginning. Riccielli folded his ballot and awaited his turn to approach the altar. The ceremony and rituals attached to every aspect of the conclave had inspired awe in him at first, but at this point he found them merely irritating. Couldn't they just vote and get on with it? Nothing to be done, though. The Church lived by its rules.
He watched Carpentier walk past on his way to the altar, plump and red-faced. What was he thinking? Was his mind frothing with excitement about what might happen to him in a few minutes? Or was he utterly terrified at the prospect confronting him? Impossible to tell from the appropriately solemn look on his face. One learns that look, of course. You can be thinking about yesterday's football match or the bottle of expensive wine chilling for tonight's dinner, and still appear as if you are meditating about Christ's Passion. They had all been priests far too long not to have mastered that skill.
Finally Riccielli's turn arrived. He walked slowly down the long aisle, between the ranks of red-robed cardinals arrayed along the walls of the chapel. He undoubtedly looked every bit as solemn and prayerful as Carpentier. At the altar he knelt and held up his ballot. "I call as my witness Christ the Lord who will be my judge," he intoned, "that my vote is given to the one who before God I think should be elected." Then he stood and went up to the large chalice on the altar. He put the ballot on the paten that covered the top of the chalice, then picked up the paten and slid the ballot into the chalice, where it nestled in among the others. There, it was done, yet again. He returned to his seat, and the next cardinal went up to repeat the ritual.
Nothing to do but wait now. The infirmarii returned with the votes of the cardinals too ill to attend the session. As the last cardinals went up to the altar, Riccielli could hear the rustling in the ancient chapel, could feel the anticipation growing. Would this be the ballot when the election ended, when the new era began? Or would the black smoke rise from the chimney once more, forcing them to keep trying?
The rituals after the balloting were especially excruciating. The cardinals chosen by lot this afternoon to be the scrutineers now had to do their duty. The first scrutineer picked up the chalice and shook it to mix up the ballots. Then he brought the chalice to the table in front of the altar, where he took out the ballots and counted them to make sure that the number matched the number of elector cardinals in the conclave. When Carpentier had been scrutineer the previous morning he had miscounted, causing considerable consternation until his fellow scrutineers straightened things out. The pope should at least be able to count, Riccielli thought blackly.
After counting the ballots the three scrutineers sat at the table and began the job of tallying the votes. The first scrutineer unfolded a ballot, wrote down the name printed on it, then passed it to the second scrutineer, who did likewise. Then the third scrutineer read the name out loud. Fortunately the third scrutineer this afternoon was Cardinal Heffernan, who had given more than his share of hellraising sermons and had a loud, clear voice. "Cardinal Valli," he announced.
Riccielli started counting mentally. It was not considered proper to keep score on paper.
"Cardinal Carpentier.
"Cardinal Gurdani.
"Cardinal Valli.
"Cardinal Gurdani.
"Cardinal Carpentier.
"Cardinal Lopez.
"Cardinal Gurdani..."
It was only after fifteen or twenty votes had been announced that Riccielli realized he hadn't been counting Gurdani's votes, yet the African seemed to be attracting a lot of support. Riccielli looked down to where he was sitting, on Riccielli's side of the aisle. Couldn't tell much from his distant profile, but then, one never could tell much about Gurdani. He could scarcely remember hearing the man speak. More of a cipher than Carpentier.
"Cardinal Gurdani.
"Cardinal Carpentier.
"Cardinal Gurdani..."
But surely Gurdani couldn't be elected, Riccielli thought nervously. Everyone said so. Few connections within the Curia. His country was too small; he'd been named a cardinal only to protect him from that insane dictator who'd thrown him into prison. And he was unacceptable to
the Americans—too critical of the country and its policies in Africa. There weren't enough American cardinals to block him, obviously, but no one could ignore the power of the American Church.
Besides, Riccielli had heard his Italian was terrible. Maybe you could elect a non-Italian to be Bishop of Rome, but how could you elect someone who couldn't even speak the language?
"Cardinal Valli.
"Cardinal Gurdani.
"Cardinal Gurdani..."
After he called out each name, Heffernan took the ballot and pierced it with a threaded needle through the word Eligo. The stack of ballots on the thread was growing, as was the rustling and murmuring among the cardinals. Riccielli glanced over at Valli, still sitting motionless and, apparently, emotionless, his eyes on the scrutineers. Then he looked at Carpentier. Was his red face a little paler than it had been? Did he sense that his moment had slipped away? Had his short-lived movement been overtaken by yet another?
"Cardinal Gurdani.
"Cardinal Gurdani.
"Cardinal Lopez.
"Cardinal Gurdani..."
Carpentier would have been all right, Riccielli realized. He would have had his photo taken with nuns and told jokes at papal audiences and said comforting things after natural disasters. He would have been called the people's pope, or some such nonsense. He would have waffled enough on the controversial issues to give some comfort to the liberals, without having the nerve to do anything that would annoy the conservatives. And he would have left all of them alone to do their business. Perhaps they should have all backed Carpentier from the beginning. In retrospect Valli was too holy, too intellectual, too distant. Certainly too identified with the Curia. He scared people. He never had a chance.
And what of Gurdani? An unknown, and therefore by definition frightening. The black pope. They used to apply that phrase to the head of the Society of Jesus; perhaps they'd have to come up with a new, less confusing sobriquet for the Jesuit. Gurdani had an inspiring story, what with standing up to the dictator and saving people from the famine and all. And there were those rumors about his healing powers... Choosing him would make people feel good about themselves and their religion. Look how universal the Church is, how modern, how enlightened! But the pope had to be more than a symbol. He had to rule, he had to lead, he had to make hard decisions.
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