"Then we just need to kill more doctors," Coulter said, his voice rising. Too loud, he realized. He tried to whisper. "We've gotta make it so that nobody in his right mind will dare do an abortion, because they know we'll get them."
"You're only one man, Bandini," Glanville replied. "If we had a hundred of you, perhaps you'd be right. But you have killed only three, and each one has been harder than the one before. They take more precautions, and you have lost your anonymity. Some others may be frightened away by the risk, but not nearly enough. Not nearly enough. Bandini, you are too important to waste on this. You have proved your courage and resourcefulness time and again. Now we need you for something far bigger."
Coulter felt as if he had lost his way. Not kill more abortionists? Something bigger? What could be more important than that? This was his life. "I don't—I—"
"Yes, it isn't easy to grasp. And what I'm about to say will be even harder. Trust me, Bandini. You must trust me.
"I want to talk about Pope John the Twenty-Fourth."
Glanville's voice had become even softer. Coulter felt himself starting to sweat. The confessional suddenly seemed too small, too dark, like a tomb for the living. "The pope?" he managed to say, hoping he had misheard.
"Yes, Bandini. The pope. You've heard that he is coming to America?"
"Well, the rumor—"
"The rumor is true. Do you know why he is coming to America?"
Coulter shook his head. "No," he said in a small voice. "The scandals—?"
"He is coming here to surrender to the forces of secularism and materialism. He is coming here to sacrifice the Church's moral authority on the altar of collegiality and compromise. He is coming here to open the floodgates of promiscuity. He is coming here to say that none of what true Catholics care about matters—divorce, priestly celibacy, contraception...."
"And—and abortion?"
"Yes, Bandini. Even abortion. It's the woman's body, after all? Why should the Church care what goes on inside it?"
"No," Coulter said in disbelief, recalling his conversation with Leahy. "He can't. How can he?"
"Who can say, Bandini? Maybe he is the Antichrist. Or perhaps he is just an evil man who has found himself in a position where he can do monstrous things."
"But he stood up to that African dictator. Didn't he spend years in prison?"
"Yes, but who knows what those years did to him?" Glanville said. "I'm not denying that he has courage. He has to be brave to do what he is planning to do, to risk the reaction he is going to provoke. But one can be both brave and evil."
"How can you be sure about this?" Coulter demanded. "Maybe your information is wrong. Maybe people are exaggerating."
He could hear Glanville shift in his chair on the other side of the screen. "What did I say about trust, Bandini?" His voice was almost sorrowful, as if Coulter had let him down. "It is easy to believe what we want to believe. But I know. The pope has talked about this to only a small number of cardinals in the Vatican. They are, of course, horrified, but there is nothing they can do; they are pledged to obedience. They have argued with him, pleaded with him, to no avail. I have friends among these cardinals, and they have told me the situation. They can't do anything about it. But I can."
Coulter could feel Glanville's eyes upon him through the screen.
"And you can, too, Bandini."
There was silence in the confessional.
Coulter's mind had been aswirl before, but now... The Church was the bedrock of his life. Rosary beads, ashes, holy water, the stiff feel of the host on your tongue. The pope's picture on the wall of the tiny apartment where he had grown up. What was the word? Infallibility. "What is it that you think I can do?" Coulter whispered.
"Use your intelligence and cunning to help the world far more than you could possibly help it in any other way. Do what only you can do. If this pope is eliminated, the cardinals will make sure that they do not repeat their mistake. But the pope must not be allowed to start his evil plan. It would throw the Church into an uproar. It would allow the Devil to work his will on the world. We have no time to waste."
Eliminate? The Devil? Oh God, the Devil was everywhere. "Kill him," Coulter said. "You want me to kill the pope." Even pronouncing the words seemed sinful.
"If you love God, if you love your faith, you must do it," Glanville replied. "I will help, of course. I can provide funds and protection. My sources will provide information. But we still need the one person who can actually do the deed—who can take on himself the burden of saving the Church."
Coulter felt himself near tears. His mind—the Devil—"I don't know," he said. "The risk—"
"Think of the risks you've already taken, Bandini. Just walking down the street is dangerous for you now. If you don't want risk, I could get you out of America tomorrow. Settle you in a foreign country with money and another new identity. You'd be safe. And you'd be useless to the cause. Is that really what you want?"
"No, it's just that—" Coulter squirmed in the confessional. Killing the abortion doctors had been easy, in a way. God had spoken to him, and he had obeyed. But what was God saying now? How could he tell, with his mind so confused? "I think I need to give this a little time," he said lamely. "I'm just not ready to—"
"You believe what I'm telling you," Glanville stated. "I know it's difficult, but you believe me."
"Yes." Coulter felt as if he were being punched.
"You understand its importance."
"Yes, but—"
"You understand that you are the only one who can do what needs to be done."
"Yes, I understand it all," Coulter said, desperate to put a stop to Glanville's relentless assertions. "But I can't just—I need time to think."
"Bandini, I expect greatness of you," Glanville replied. "And this is your chance at greatness. This is your chance to become a legend—to be revered by generations to come. If you need to reflect on it, I can give you a week, no more. Meet me here at the same time next Thursday. Meanwhile, you must say nothing to the other Protectors, or to anyone. Do you understand?"
"Yes. Yes, of course."
The slider abruptly covered the screen. Coulter heard the confessional door open and close, then the sound of retreating footsteps. He leaned forward until his forehead touched the cool dark mesh of the screen. He wanted to say more to Glanville, to hear more, to be made to understand. I can't be expected to—
But Coulter was all alone.
Finally he got to his feet, pushed the red curtain aside, and left the confessional. The church looked empty; Glanville had disappeared. He would have to decide by himself. He had a week. There was no time to lose.
Coulter decided that he needed a sign from God.
* * *
He had been a long-haul trucker when God had spoken to him before. Driving through the dark, high beams piercing the emptiness ahead, saying the rosary over and over to stay awake and give worship. His mind was quiet back then until one night he picked up a hitchhiker somewhere south of L.A., a long-haired guy named Pete wearing a camouflage jacket. And it was clear pretty soon that Pete was crazy or drugged out of his head, because he started spewing nonsense about nameless enemies for a hundred miles or so, until they saw a sign for one of those Spanish missions that was open to tourists. "My exit," Pete said. "My exit. Anywhere's fine. I can make it from here."
So Coulter pulled over to the breakdown lane and stopped just past the exit. And as Pete was about to get out of the cab he looked at Coulter and said, in as sane a voice as Coulter could imagine, "Do the Lord's work. The babies are dying. Make it stop. For God's sake, make it stop."
And then he disappeared into the night.
* * *
"Hi, Ed. First-time caller from Southie. Ed, I hear it's official about the pope coming to Boston. So what do you think?"
"What do you think I think, Southie? I think it's great. It's just great that some guy from Africa who lives in Italy and has never even heard of Boston before is going to come
here and tell us everything we're doing wrong. But you know what, Southie? It won't make a damn bit of difference. Because we're smarter than that. We don't need someone else to solve our problems."
"But I mean, don't you think—the pope—"
"Listen. The only reason people pay attention to the pope is because they're sheep. They're looking for someone to do their thinking for them. The only reason we should pay attention to him is if he makes sense. And frankly, this guy doesn't make a lot of sense. I really don't care if a bunch of old priests in Rome voted for him to be their leader. I sure didn't vote for him. And I certainly didn't ask him to come to my city."
* * *
Lying awake in the night, Coulter had a sudden image of the pope in the crosshairs of a rifle sight—waving to a crowd while the last seconds of his life ticked away. Press the trigger and his white cassock explodes in red. He totters backward. His waving hand pauses. Is he trying to point—or is he offering a final blessing?
With a start Coulter realized that the image was not utterly repellent to him. The pope was not God, was not the Church; he was a man like anyone else, capable of mistakes and even evil. If Glanville's information was correct—and it was always correct—then the pope needed to be stopped.
And Bandini was the man to stop him.
But still...
* * *
And one night in his dream the Devil had a face black as the night that surrounded him. You. You come here. Taunting him, daring him.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
But what was his sin? What did he ever do that was so wrong? No one could ever explain, ever even bothered trying to explain.
And when he wept in the night, he was all alone, and there was never anyone to comfort him.
* * *
In Boston, Coulter drove aimlessly through the night to keep from sleeping, when suddenly he saw the billboard again, the same stern face staring down at him.
McALLISTER
TALK RADIO 580
HE'S GOT THE ANSWERS
He pulled over into the breakdown lane and looked up at the face, a hundred times larger than life.
God? God?
He mouthed a silent prayer and returned home.
* * *
McAllister wasn't listed in the phonebook, so Coulter looked up the address of his radio station; it was located in the Prudential Building, a skyscraper in Boston's Back Bay. He arrived there as McAllister's show ended. He decided it was too risky to go into the station, so he sat on a bench in the shopping area that surrounded the building and watched the revolving doors.
His attention must have wandered after a while, because someone else noticed McAllister first. "Oh, Mr. McAllister!" a woman called out. "I'm such a fan—you can't believe how excited I am to see you."
McAllister was about twenty feet away, standing next to a well-dressed woman in her early forties carrying a couple of shopping bags. He was younger-looking than Coulter had imagined from the billboard, with longish black hair and an expression that was more impatient than stern. He wore an expensive leather jacket with the collar turned up.
"Thanks a lot," he said, and even at a distance Coulter recognized his powerful baritone voice, with a trace of a Boston accent.
The woman had more to say, but it was clear that McAllister wasn't interested. He backed away and she followed, trying to make some complicated point about prayer in schools. Finally he said, "Lady, I have to listen to this drivel three hours a day on the air. I'm not on the air now, and I'd rather poke a sharp stick in my eye than try to understand what you're talking about. Now please die and leave me in peace."
He turned and strode away, while the woman stood there looking as if she were about to burst into tears. Coulter didn't have time to be astonished. He stood up and followed McAllister.
McAllister took the escalator down from the shopping plaza and started walking along Boylston Street. Coulter trailed twenty yards behind. What should he do? He was frightened now. He hadn't expected such... anger.
McAllister slowed down, then entered a fancy-looking bar and restaurant, all polished brass and mirrors and dark wood paneling. Coulter stood outside, uncertain. Finally he walked inside.
The place was crowded, with attractive young couples standing in the entranceway waiting for a table. Coulter went past them and into the bar. More couples, handsome young men talking and laughing with sleek, short-skirted women. In the corner, a tuxedoed pianist played a love song.
McAllister was sitting at a corner of the bar, an empty glass in front of him, a filled one in his hand. His eyes moved sullenly from side to side, taking in the scene.
He's lonely too, Coulter realized. He needs a friend. We both need a friend. We can both get angry, but that doesn't make us evil. And he made up his mind.
He walked over to the bar and slid onto an unoccupied stool next to McAllister. The bartender came over, and he ordered a Sam Adams. He took a sip of the beer when it came, trying to figure out how to proceed. Finally he glanced casually at McAllister. "Hey, you're Ed McAllister, aren't you?" he said. Nothing special. Just happened to recognize the famous man.
McAllister glared at him.
"Sorry if I'm intruding," Coulter pressed on. "I respect your privacy. I think we have a friend in common, though—Dave Leahy? Dave and I have both been pretty active in the pro-life movement."
"You're one of those nuts, too, huh?" McAllister said. "Save the fetuses, so they can grow up into drug addicts and welfare moms who produce yet more fetuses. What a great concept."
Coulter could feel himself reddening. But he wouldn't let himself get upset. It was just McAllister's style, he decided. "Well," he said, "you don't know which unborn baby is going to be a drug addict and which is going to be president of the United States. And they all deserve a chance at life."
McAllister rolled his eyes. He motioned to the bartender to bring him another drink. "You know the problem with you anti-abortion nuts?" he said. "You're all full of pious crap like that. But you don't do anything about it. Leahy used to at least go to those protests at clinics. Now he just talks. And talks and talks."
Coulter took a deep breath. "Robert Coulter does more than talk," he pointed out.
McAllister stared at him, and for a moment Coulter thought he was looking past the mustache and the different haircut and had recognized him from the grainy photographs that had been published in the newspapers. He was no longer quite so sure that would be okay.
"Dave Leahy's just a nut," McAllister said. "But Robert Coulter is a psychopath. Does he think he's accomplishing anything by shooting some poor doctor in East Bumfuck? He's nothing more than a serial killer with moral pretensions. All he's managed to do is turn people against his cause and put pro-lifers on the defensive. If the pro-lifers had any brains, they'd shoot him before he does any more damage."
Still Coulter managed to keep his calm. He had heard and read worse things about himself. It was hard hearing them from McAllister, of course. But Coulter had a different reason for talking to him. "I don't disagree with anything you've said," he replied. "But I'm thinking the pro-life movement has a bigger enemy to deal with. Have you heard some of the things the new pope is going to propose when he comes to America?"
Interest flickered in McAllister's eyes. "There are always rumors," he said.
"A complete change in the Church's views on sexuality and reproduction," Coulter said. "Including abortion."
"You are a nut," McAllister responded, shaking his head.
"It sounds crazy, I know. But we have our sources—people in high places who feel as strongly about these things as we do."
"Well, what if it is true? What are you going to do about it? Wave a sign at the popemobile as it goes by?"
Coulter leaned closer. "You think the movement is all talk and no action. Would you still say that if the pope was—was taken care of like one of those doctors?"
"Oh, really. And who's going to 'take care of' him?"
"I don'
t know." And then: "Do you think someone should?"
McAllister stared at him for a moment, then downed his drink in a quick gulp. "Fuck me," he said to himself. "Lunatics everywhere. What's your name?"
Coulter hesitated. "Bandini," he said finally. "Albert Bandini."
"And do you think someone should kill the pope, Albert Bandini?"
McAllister said this in a voice loud enough to make heads turn. Coulter cringed, but pressed ahead, asking a question in return. "Do you think that's a bad idea, if we're right about what he's going to do? I've heard you on the radio talking about him. You don't have any respect for him either. Or are you all talk and no action, too?"
McAllister laughed bitterly. "The difference is," he said, "I get paid very well for my talk. I don't get paid to sit in bars and spout utter bullshit."
Coulter felt the conversation slipping away from him. He had been looking for a sign; God was going to send him a sign through McAllister. But instead he was getting only abuse. "Look," he said. "This isn't bullshit. There are people with information, and—and resources, and they are very unhappy—"
"I'll tell you why it's bullshit," McAllister said, waving a finger at him. "It's bullshit because you're sitting here blathering about it with a fucking talk show host. I mean, how idiotic can you be?"
Was this abuse the sign, perhaps? He shouldn't have come to the bar. He should have found a way to ask when McAllister wasn't drinking. He fumbled in his pocket and got out a holy card and a pencil. On the card he scrawled his name and phone number. "This probably isn't the best time to be talking to you about this," he said. "Maybe you'll have a chance to think about it and give me a call."
McAllister stared at the card. "Two more reasons why it's bullshit," he said softly. "You're stupid enough to think you can trust me. And you're stupid enough to think I care." He turned away and signaled to the bartender.
Coulter sat there for another moment, then got up and left the crowded bar.
* * *
Ed McAllister stuffed the holy card into his pocket and staggered home, walking along the streets of the Back Bay. Fucking lunatic. The world was full of them. Tell them what they want to hear, and they think you're their best friend. Tell them what they don't want to hear—Jesus, watch out!
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