Leahy handed him a card with an address on it. "Be there tomorrow at ten and they'll get you started. We'll also find an apartment for you here."
"You think I should stay in Boston?"
"Yes." Leahy paused. "There's something else," he said. "Glanville wants to meet you."
"Glanville? Here? In person?" If the Protectors were shadowy figures in the pro-life movement, Glanville was a shadow of a shadow: their leader, source of their funding, but never seen, never more than a muffled voice on the phone, a message slipped under their door in the dead of night.
Leahy handed Coulter a sealed envelope with his name on it. Coulter tore it open. Inside was a single typed sheet of paper:
BLESSED SACRAMENT CHURCH
SECOND CONFESSIONAL ON THE LEFT
THURS 4:00
GLANVILLE
Coulter shivered with anticipation. It was about time for Glanville to meet him. The rest of the Protectors he had met talked a lot, but few—including Leahy—managed to accomplish anything. They made threats, they set an occasional fire at a clinic, but nothing like what Coulter had done. The bullet in the face. Death for the Devil. Of course Glanville would want to thank him.
He put the sheet of paper down. "Okay," he said.
Leahy didn't press him for details. "Well," he said, "if there's anything else you need..."
"Can we go for a walk?" Coulter asked. "And just talk. I haven't talked to anyone in a long time."
"Of course," Leahy agreed.
Coulter put on his jacket and cap and they left the motel room. They were in Quincy, a working-class city just south of Boston, and they walked in the darkness past strip malls and bars and fast-food restaurants. Coulter had never been a sociable man, but his life now was almost totally devoid of human contact: just him and God. Everyone he met might be the person who would recognize him from a wanted poster or a newspaper photo, might be the one to call the FBI and end his freedom and, probably, his life. It felt good to be with someone he could trust.
"You know Ed McAllister, don't you?" he asked Leahy, recalling a previous conversation.
Leahy nodded. "He appeared at some pro-life fundraisers for me, back in the days when I bothered with fundraisers. He's solid on abortion, but he certainly doesn't like the Church."
"Could you introduce me to him?"
This seemed to unsettle Leahy. "You mean, who you really are? I don't think that's a good idea, do you?"
"He wouldn't turn me in. He's on our side. I've heard him on the radio."
Leahy shook his head. "You'd be risking too much. You're too valuable to the cause to take those kinds of chances. What would Glanville say?"
"I don't know. Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters. Without Glanville..."
Leahy didn't have to finish. Without Glanville and his money, they were nothing.
Coulter didn't think Leahy was right about McAllister, but he let it drop. That was the problem with all the pro-life people, even his fellow Protectors. Unwilling to take risks. As much as Coulter wanted to talk, he found that he had little to say to Leahy, or anyone. The conversation drifted along until Leahy mentioned the new pope's visit.
"They say Cardinal Monroe's trying hard to get him to come to Boston," Leahy said. "To talk about the sex scandals, I suppose. Also, we've been having racial problems here, and he thinks the pope may be able to help. I don't see how, really."
Coulter wasn't interested in race. There was only one thing that mattered. "Has the pope said anything about abortion?"
Leahy shook his head. "Not that I've heard. Some people are worried that he's more liberal than we're used to, but he couldn't change the Church's position on abortion."
Coulter considered. Leahy was right, of course. Abortion is murder, and murder is a mortal sin. It was that simple. Nothing was going to change. The new pope slipped out of Coulter's mind.
They had a cup of coffee at a fast-food restaurant and then walked back to the motel. Leahy left him at the door of his room, and Coulter was alone once again.
This was the worst part of the day. He didn't want to sleep, and as he grew tired, his urges grew stronger. He tried to pray, but always the impure thoughts intruded. Sometimes he gave in, ordered a movie in his motel room, and let the thoughts run wild; tonight God gave him the strength to resist. He was grateful for that, but in the end, movie or not, he had to go to bed, and face his dreams.
* * *
When Robert Coulter slept, he dreamed of the Devil. It was impossible to see his face; he was always just out of reach and out of sight, in smoke and fog and darkness. Coulter could hear him, though—hear his shambling walk, his evil cackle amid the screams of the defenseless unborn babies, whom he tortured before killing, then flinging them aside like garbage; and he could smell the unbearable stench of the dead bodies mixed with the acrid odor of the burned flesh of those lucky enough to be consumed by fire before rotting in this chaotic Hell.
Coulter was terrified as he wandered through the darkness—terrified that he would fail to stop the Devil before he killed one baby in particular—which one it was Coulter never knew, but he knew that if the Devil reached that baby and smashed its life out, all would be lost. But he was terrified even more that the Devil's ugly, evil face would suddenly loom before him out of the darkness, because he knew he could not survive the Devil's eyes staring into his own.
But in the end, always unexpectedly, they always did.
And always there came the heartstopping moment, just before the nightmare ended, when he understood. The Devil's eyes—burning like the center of the sun. The Devil's voice—thick and sneering. "You," it rasped. "You come here." And the hand reached out toward him...
* * *
George Prouse presented his passport to the immigration guard at Logan Airport. The guard looked at him, and then looked at the passport. "Your occupation, sir?" the guard asked.
"Journalist," he responded.
"What are you going to be writing about, sir?"
Smalltalk while the guard checked him out on the computer. "Part of my job will be to figure out what to write, actually," Prouse said with a smile. "America has never left me short of topics before."
The guard smiled in return and handed him back his passport. "Hope we don't let you down," he said.
Prouse smiled back at him. "I'm sure you won't." He took the passport and headed for the baggage claim area.
Once he had his two small bags, he strolled out to the taxi line. The Boston weather was cold and breezy.
"Where to?" the burly cabby asked as he put Prouse's bags into the trunk.
Prouse considered. What was the harm? "Fenway Park, I think," he responded.
"No kiddin'?" the cabby said. "Nothing happening there. Season doesn't start till April."
"No kidding," Prouse said. He got in the back seat, and the cabby headed out of the airport.
"You, what, English?" the cabby asked.
"That's correct."
"How come you're interested in Fenway?"
"Fenway Park is well-known even in England," Prouse said. "I'm eager to see the 'Green Monster.'"
The cabby laughed and shook his head. "This is great. Guy gets off a plane from overseas and first thing he wants to do is take a look at the Green Monster."
The taxi worked its way through Boston traffic. The cabby started talking about the Red Sox's chances this season, which in his opinion were not good. Prouse responded when required but paid little attention. He waited for the ballpark to appear.
It took almost forty-five minutes to travel the few miles from the airport to the park. The taxi stopped on Yawkey Way, and Prouse got out. "Wait, please," he instructed the cabby. "I won't be long."
He started walking along the sidewalk outside the park, staring at its old brick exterior, the rolled-down green gates that led inside, the red-and-white signs identifying the various sections. When he reached the Green Monster, he stopped. He studied the light stanchions, the advertising signs
, the parked cars on the street. Out in left field, he murmured to himself, as if the phrase had finally acquired significance and meaning. He imagined a sea of excited people streaming into the park under a hot summer sun—the food and souvenir vendors, the scalpers selling their extra tickets, the policemen directing stalled traffic.
After a while he started walking again. He walked all the way around the park, finally returning to where the taxi waited, its meter still running.
"Worth the trip?" the cabby asked as Prouse got back in.
"Indeed," Prouse responded. "I can't wait for the season to start."
"The place'll be jumping come summer," the cabby said. "Where to now?"
"The Four Seasons," Prouse murmured. But again his attention was elsewhere. He kept his eyes on the ballpark until the light stanchions were no longer visible in the distance. Jumping come summer, he thought, and then he closed his eyes until the taxi reached the hotel.
* * *
Lieutenant Kathleen Morelli knocked tentatively on the open door. "You wanted to see me, Captain?"
Captain Eddie Ryan, short, bald, and severe-looking, gestured for her to enter and have a seat. Then he silently appraised her while Morelli grew increasingly uncomfortable. "Seems the pope is coming to Boston," he said finally. "Did you hear about that?"
"Saw something in the paper."
"His first trip after becoming pope, and this is his first stop."
"When is he coming?"
"Late summer, so we have some time. They're still working out the exact dates and itinerary. But this is a big deal. Secret Service, Vatican Security—everyone's going to be involved, including us. And it's not just a motorcade and a speech. There'll be all kinds of events—certainly an open-air Mass of some kind. And there's plenty of reason to be worried about problems, what with the racial tensions and all. Apparently that's one of the reasons why he wanted to come to Boston."
"Yes, sir. And you're in charge of—"
"I'm in charge of the Boston Police Department's contribution to Pope John's protection," Ryan replied. He started staring at her again. "I need an assistant," he said at last.
There was something in his tone that made Morelli uncomfortable. She didn't know Ryan well. Did he know her? "Were you thinking of me, Captain?" she asked.
Ryan gazed at her. "Let me be honest with you, Lieutenant. I didn't want you for this position. I don't know that you have the qualifications I'm looking for. But the Commissioner asked me to consider you. He thought it might be a good fit on account of—on account of your father."
Oh Lord, she thought. "Did you know my father, Captain?"
"Slightly." That tone again. She knew what it meant. I hated your father, and I want no part of you.
"If you'd prefer not to have me on your staff, Captain, I certainly don't want—"
Ryan raised a hand to silence her. "No, if the Commissioner says you can do the job, that's fine with me. Are you interested?"
He's trying to be fair, she thought. You're probably not as bad as your father. How many times was she going to have to prove herself? But there were worse people in the department than Ryan—including her current boss—and worse assignments than protecting the pope. "Sure," she said. "I'm grateful for the opportunity."
Ryan nodded. "All right," he said. He passed a folder across the desk to her. "Here's some homework for you. I'll work on the transfer. You'll start officially on Monday, I suppose."
Morelli took the folder. "I'm not like my father, you know," she said. "And I'm a good cop."
Captain Ryan shrugged. "If you have friends in high places, Lieutenant, it just doesn't matter."
Morelli went back to her cubicle, clutching the folder and feeling depressed and uneasy. She had been hoping for a new assignment, but damn it, she was tired of favors, tired of suspicion, tired of coping with the fallout from things that had happened before she had even dreamed of becoming a police officer.
So why was she still here? Why not quit battling history and go someplace else? Sometimes she thought it was just damn Irish—or Italian—stubbornness. I'll show them. She had that feeling now, staring at the folder. Ryan didn't think she could do the job? Of course she could. She'd be the best assistant he ever had. The pope didn't have a thing to worry about.
But beyond the stubbornness the unease remained. What if I'm wrong? she wondered. What if she screwed this up? It wasn't as if she hadn't screwed things up before.
Morelli opened the folder. She could only do her best, and that's what she resolved to do.
* * *
Coulter received his new identity. He became Albert Bandini, with a driver's license to prove it and a passport on the way. He also had a new apartment in a Boston neighborhood called Jamaica Plain, a different car, and spending money. He had been remade.
Coulter liked the new identity, liked being Bandini, the enigmatic Italian. He liked the way the new mustache he had been growing made him look older, more sinister. He stared at himself in the mirror and he didn't recognize the skinny high school kid sitting alone on the bus or in the cafeteria, ignored except when he was laughed at for carrying rosary beads or having a smudge of ashes on his forehead on Ash Wednesday.
He was God's Avenging Angel.
God does not choose the handsome or the popular to be the instruments of His will, Coulter believed. Or, perhaps He does, and they choose to ignore Him. The lonely, the sensitive, the oppressed are more open to His message, see more deeply into the nature of things.
Or perhaps it was only him: Robert Coulter, Albert Bandini. The name didn't matter. Chosen out of all humanity for this special role. Risking martyrdom every day, giving up any hope of a normal life to do what needs to be done, what no one else has the courage or the cunning to do.
Chosen because he would never let God down.
He smiled into the mirror. "Bandini," he whispered. "Their lives are in your hands. Destroy them if you want. It is all up to you."
Coulter couldn't wait for Thursday, and his meeting with Glanville.
But in the meantime, he was alone. Leahy stayed away, having done his duty. Coulter went outside to shop and go to Mass, but he didn't talk to anyone if he could help it. His only companion was Ed McAllister on the radio. Leahy was right, McAllister did occasionally say some nasty things about the Church, and he was certainly not impressed with the new pope, but so much of what he said struck home—about the degradation and sinfulness of modern America, the need for meaning and morality. The need to value life more than personal convenience. And once someone tried to get him to condemn the violence carried out by pro-life supporters, but he wouldn't be trapped. "Let's see, how many unborn babies have been murdered? Millions, right? And how many abortionists? Half a dozen, maybe? It's the same argument dictators always try to use against America. We do something wrong, and that somehow excuses or justifies crimes they commit that are incomparably more horrendous. Sorry, it doesn't work."
No, it didn't.
And then it was Thursday, and time to meet Glanville.
Chapter 7
Robert Coulter entered the silent church. It was strange nowadays for a church to be unlocked in the middle of a weekday afternoon; perhaps it had been opened just for this meeting. He felt a thrill of anticipation. Glanville pulled strings. Glanville had power. Glanville wanted to meet him. Not for the first time, he wondered who Glanville was. Other Protectors had their theories; Coulter thought of him as some kind of retired financier, living in seclusion, atoning for past sins by spending his money on this worthy cause. But really, he could have been anyone, anyone in the world.
Blessed Sacrament was an old Romanesque brick building, with a high ceiling and a towering crucifix behind the altar. It smelled of furniture polish and candles. Coulter walked past the racks of pamphlets at the back of the church toward the confessionals, carved wooden structures along the side walls. Second on the left. He wondered how often they were used; few people went to confession anymore, though the Church kept insisti
ng they should.
The only sound was his footsteps on the marble floor. Coulter glanced at the bas-relief Stations of the Cross as he passed them. The crowning with thorns, the first fall...
He reached the confessional, pulled back the red curtain, and knelt down in the darkness of the small booth. He shuddered. The darkness reminded him... But no. He had been becoming confused lately, his mind aswirl with strange thoughts and images. The Devil was not here. He was safe.
He waited in the darkness.
Eventually he heard footsteps outside, the door to the priest's part of the confessional opening, then a rustling on the other side of the thin wall. A moment later, the screen slid open. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, Coulter thought. Not this time.
"Bandini," the voice on the other side of the screen whispered. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you," Coulter replied. No one else had actually called him "Bandini" yet. He couldn't make out any of Glanville's features through the screen that separated penitent and priest. Even his voice seemed harsh and distorted. He had found a way to meet and still maintain his anonymity. He was a clever man.
"Bandini, do you trust me?" Glanville asked, his tone urgent.
"Sure. Of course," Coulter responded, a little flustered.
"You must trust me, because this conversation is important. It is the most important conversation of both our lives. It can be as important as anything that will happen in this century. But if you don't trust me, it will mean nothing."
Coulter could feel his heart pounding. What was Glanville talking about? "I do trust you," he said. "But I don't understand."
"Bandini, you have killed three abortionists. You risked your life to destroy them. Your name strikes terror into the hearts of the forces of evil. You will be a hunted man forever. And I'm afraid it is all utterly pointless."
What? Coulter struggled to form a response. "How—how can you say that?" he demanded.
"Because others will take the place of those doctors. The women who want to abort their babies will still find someone to help them. The killing will not stop."
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