Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  But it had felt sexual. It had felt... intimate. Was it all in her head? Had she wanted the touch to be intimate? He was a good-looking guy, but he was a priest, for Chrissake. And a jock, it turned out. She hated jocks almost as much as she hated priests.

  She turned on the radio and cranked up the volume until her ears hurt.

  It figured. She had gotten involved with more than her share of bad choices over the years, to the point where she was scared to death of her instincts when it came to men. They were either control freaks like her father, or the exact opposite—layabouts who couldn't make up their minds what they wanted for breakfast. Why had she gone out with Robbie Ferrell in college, and spent six months listening to him brag about his audio components? You love your woofers more than you love me. And what about that sicko assistant DA, whose idea of a good time was to recount the details of every rape case he had ever prosecuted? And of course in the Department the only guys who ever seemed to interest her were the married ones, lots of whom unfortunately were more than happy to return her interest. Where were the nice single lawyers who just wanted to marry a pretty Italian girl and settle down? That's what her mother wanted to know. Morelli wondered that herself. And she wondered if this was one more way in which her father had screwed her up—everyone thought of him as a good family man, and of course he was. He wouldn't have cheated on his wife any more than he would have taken a bribe, or murdered the pope. But he was the last kind of person she would want to get hooked up with.

  So could she really be interested in Father Joe Hurley, with his goofy smile and his inane religion-is-football analogy? Celibacy was just another annoying Catholic rule, but it was his rule. Did he disagree with it? Well, what did it matter if he did?

  The thing she couldn't get out of her mind was how much he suddenly seemed to dominate the space in the car, just sucking the air out of it with his presence. Usually she reacted badly to men who made her feel like that—the macho guys who thought they could overpower you, mentally if not physically. But this time it had been different.

  This time it had left her aching with loneliness.

  If nothing else, she wanted to talk to Joe Hurley some more.

  Not good. She pulled into the driveway of her two-family house in Roslindale, turned the radio off, and sat in her car. Jesus, she thought, noticing her gym shorts—had he been sitting the whole trip with them next to his feet? Why was she such a slob? She grabbed a bunch of stuff off the floor and got out. The rain had stopped, but the ancient hardtop was filled with puddles that she had to negotiate to get to the back door.

  Empty, she thought as she struggled to put the key in the lock while holding on to her trash. Nice apartment, big-screen TV, expensive living room set. Single woman with a great job and all the freedom in the world.

  It was empty in there.

  * * *

  Robert Coulter pulled up across the street and watched the woman get out of her car. He hadn't been sure about the man, but she was definitely wearing a police uniform. And, he thought, she was good-looking, from what he could see of her in the dark. He watched her go inside and the lights come on on the second floor. He waited to find out if he could see a silhouette of her undressing, but curtains blocked his view.

  He was so lonely. He imagined her in her bedroom, putting on her pajamas, getting under the covers with a magazine. Safe, warm, happy.

  That didn't matter, he told himself. The policewoman didn't matter, although he had compulsively followed her from Dave Leahy's house, longing to see more than just the glimpse of her walking to and from his house.

  What mattered was Leahy.

  It had taken Coulter a while to understand, and even longer to believe. How had Glanville found out about his meeting with McAllister? That was the question that had obsessed him, in the days after Glanville had upbraided him in the confessional. The answer, finally, was obvious. Coulter had mentioned to McAllister that Dave Leahy was a mutual friend. McAllister probably called up Leahy afterward, and Leahy had contacted Glanville. Dave Leahy, his friend —his only friend—had betrayed him.

  And now he was talking to the police.

  Coulter had moved out of the apartment Leahy had gotten him, knowing he could be in danger after his second meeting with Glanville. With little else to do, he had been stalking Leahy, trying to understand what had happened, and what to do about it. Now that the policewoman had shown up at Leahy's house, the answer had become obvious.

  Before Coulter killed the pope, he would have to kill Dave Leahy.

  The last light went off in the policewoman's apartment. He imagined her clutching her pillow, sighing with contentment as she drifted off to sleep. Such a happy life.

  He started his car and slowly drove away. Kill Dave Leahy. The decision soothed him as he headed home in the darkness.

  Chapter 18

  Why?

  Hurley had touched her, and he didn't know why. A friendly pat, he tried to tell himself. You've had a hard time of it, Kathleen. I sympathize with you. But wasn't there more? She looked as though she thought there had been more. Did he touch her because he wanted to feel the soft flesh beneath her uniform? Whatever his initial reason, he had to admit that he enjoyed feeling that flesh, enjoyed the memory of it now.

  And what about her confusion and quick blush afterward? Evidence that she had enjoyed the moment, too. And didn't he find that gratifying as well?

  And what if she turned him in, complain to his boss? But he knew that wouldn't happen. Women like Maria Gutierrez back at Saint Jerome's—you'd have to worry about them. Not Lieutenant Morelli.

  Perhaps he should call her up and apologize. Would she laugh at him? What if she had forgotten about it? Would talking to her about it exaggerate its importance, imply something he didn't want to imply?

  Hurley found the situation unexpected and more than a little frightening. Most of the time, with someone like Maria, it was all very predictable and often oddly humorous. Of course there were always going to be temptations; hell, the underwear ads in the newspaper could be a temptation. There was nothing special about these women, beyond the fact that they were women.

  But Lieutenant Morelli was different. He recalled the tears swimming in her green eyes as she thought about Leahy and her father. The determined way she did everything, from gripping the steering wheel to arguing with him about religion. The full body hidden in the severe uniform. Her delighted grin when he finally got her to smile. Even her messiness was oddly appealing. Her life seemed to be a little out of control, and he could sense that he would enjoy watching her trying to cope with it.

  Why hadn't he noticed before? Had he been too focused on her antagonism? Maybe he'd been a little frightened of her at first.

  Whatever, he thought. Now it was time to calm down and get back to basics. His vocation was more important than a temporary infatuation. There was a problem here, and it was easy enough to solve, after a fashion. Just don't see her again. That's the sort of thing he told people in confession. Avoid the occasion of sin. He could imagine her laughing scornfully at the advice, but in such matters the Church had developed a certain amount of wisdom over the centuries. People are weak, so you have to help them cope with their weakness.

  He was weak. He needed to channel this energy into other things. Exercise longer, work harder. Stop staring into the darkness and obsessing about green eyes and soft flesh; that was how you got yourself into trouble. So the next morning he added a mile to his run, and later he was grateful when Monsignor Doyle dropped a new assignment on his desk.

  "Bleeding statues in Waltham," Doyle said, pushing the folder toward Hurley and sitting down opposite him. "Have you been following the saga in the papers?"

  Hurley shook his head. He opened the folder and glanced through a photocopied article from the Globe.

  "Read the letter," Doyle instructed when he'd finished. Hurley found the letter to Doyle and read it. "O'Malley from Sacred Heart vouches for the family," Doyle went on. "Says they're not ve
ry religious, which I suppose is a good sign. But lots of people in his parish—and elsewhere—are convinced the little girl is for real."

  "And now the mother wants her to meet the pope," Hurley said.

  "We're getting a ton of requests for audiences with His Holiness. I don't know what people can be thinking—hey, so long as the guy's in town, maybe I'd like to drop in and see him? It doesn't help that Pope John has this reputation as a healer. You know, while he's here, could he cure my sick grandmother, too? This—what's her name, McGee? McKee? This McKee woman has been pretty smart about it. She seems to be running a full-fledged PR campaign on behalf of her daughter. Press interviews, a letter-writing campaign. I don't think we can just send her a form letter and forget about it."

  "You want me to handle it?"

  Doyle nodded. "Go out there and see what's going on. Even without the pope angle, we'd have to get involved. We're getting media queries. So far the communications office has been giving them our party line on supposed miracles, but they're looking for a little more guidance."

  "Okay. Obviously I'm not an expert on—"

  "I don't need an expert, Joe. I just need someone with a dose of common sense. I should note that His Eminence saw the article in the Globe. It's the kind of thing that gives him major heartburn."

  "We certainly don't want the cardinal's tummy upset," Hurley remarked.

  "That's the last thing we want, Joe. When the cardinal's tummy is upset, we all get ulcers."

  * * *

  Hurley called the McKee residence and spoke to the girl's mother, who said she'd be delighted to see him anytime he wanted. This was the call she'd been waiting for, apparently—someone from headquarters was finally paying attention. He drove to Waltham that afternoon, wondering what was in store for him. He was not optimistic.

  He knew why this sort of thing would give Cardinal Monroe heartburn. Church authorities were put in a no-win situation when they had to deal with people who claimed they'd had visions of the Virgin or Jesus or whoever, or were supposed to have carried out miraculous cures. Come out in favor of them, and the Church risked looking like it was stuck back in the Dark Ages, superstitious and anti-scientific. Come out opposed, and it risked alienating the faithful who inevitably flocked to these folks. Usually the Church tried to stay neutral, reserving judgment, waiting for objective proof that was usually hard to come by, and of course that approach satisfied no one.

  Hurley found himself thinking about how Morelli would react to the case. Not hard to guess. And for once he didn't disagree too strongly with her—or with Cardinal Monroe. He wasn't comfortable with this religious underworld of bleeding statues and Marian messages and miraculous cancer remissions. He couldn't say that such things were impossible—anyone who believed in the Resurrection could hardly dismiss such lesser phenomena—but they didn't form the basis for his faith, and they seemed to him to provide a very flimsy basis for anyone's faith. It was too easy to disprove the vast majority of such events. Or, if you couldn't disprove them, you could at least come up with a simpler explanation for them than divine intervention. Extraordinary claims demand extraordinary proof.

  So he knew he wasn't going to come back with a positive report on what was happening in Waltham. The only issue was whether he should be negative or neutral. Doyle and Monroe would be delighted if he could tell them that these people were obvious charlatans, or hopelessly simple-minded. Less satisfying, but more likely, given the reports he had seen, would be the typical "unproven, needs more study" assessment. Call in the experts; set up a commission.

  In no case, it was clear, did they want this little girl to get her audience with the pope. The headline for the papal visit was not going to be "Pope Meets Miracle Child", with all the focus on her and none on the good work taking place in the Boston archdiocese.

  They were expecting him to make sure that such a headline did not appear.

  The McKees' house, like the Leahys', was a small ranch, but in much better repair, with a neat front lawn and window boxes filled with impatiens. Hurley parked behind a Dodge Caravan and walked up to the front door. The mother, Sandra McKee, was waiting for him there. She was a petite blonde, very pretty, wearing khakis and a blue turtleneck. She had on lipstick and eye makeup, and Hurley had an image of her obsessing about what to wear, how to present herself to the priest from archdiocesan headquarters. Well, she looked like a pleasant young middle-class soccer mom. A very nervous soccer mom.

  He introduced himself, and she led him inside, where he met her husband. Mike McKee was a burly man wearing pressed jeans and a plaid short-sleeve shirt; he seemed to have packed on all the weight that his wife was lacking. His handshake was bonecrushing. He, too, seemed pleasant, but somewhat uninvolved. It was clear that it was his wife whom Hurley needed to be talking to.

  They led him into a family room, evidently an addition to the house, where a little girl was watching TV. "And this is Erin," Mrs. McKee said softly, turning off the TV.

  Hurley knelt down in front of her. Erin was sitting in a comfortable wing chair; her wheelchair waited next to it. She was about seven, with blonde hair that she had gotten from her mother. Her head lolled to one side, and her eyes stared at him without recognition or interest. She clutched a teddy bear. She was simultaneously cute and heartbreaking.

  "Erin was hit by a car when she was three," Mrs. McKee explained in a soft monotone. "She got loose from me and ran out into traffic; the driver had no chance to stop. Afterward, the doctors didn't think she was going to make it. She pulled through, but she lost the use of her legs and has massive cognitive deficits. She shows occasional flashes of understanding, but mainly she's like this. And she's not expected to improve. Ever. The brain damage is irreversible."

  Hurley reached out and took her hand in his. Her arm hung limply from her shoulder. Her lips twitched in what could have been a smile. "Hi, Erin," he said. "Can you understand me?"

  Yes, he was pretty sure she was smiling at him. And there was something more—a warmth in her hand? Something about her smile? Something that made him want to hug her and protect her from the awful world that had done this to her.

  No, that wasn't quite it. He sensed a peacefulness inside her, as if she had come to terms with what had happened, harboring no anger or despair. And he wanted to hug her because she had found that tranquility, and maybe through her touch she could share some of it with him.

  Huh? Where had those thoughts come from? He looked down at her small hand. Someone had cut her fingernails recently. She was just a kid. A helpless kid.

  He looked up at her face. Her mother's blonde hair and blue eyes. Her father's thin nose.

  There was something...

  "You sense it," Mrs. McKee said. "Lots of people do. Not everyone. Not me, really. I'm the one who has to dress her and brush her teeth and comb her hair. Most of the time I'm too stressed out to even see her as a human being, I'm afraid. But it's real. Enough people tell me it is that I believe them."

  Hurley let go of Erin's hand and stood up. "I wonder what 'it' is," he murmured.

  "I can tell you what a lot of people think," Mrs. McKee replied. "Let's talk in the dining room, shall we?"

  Hurley followed her out of the family room. Mike McKee stayed behind with Erin. The "dining room" was just an area next to the kitchen with a large cherry table and a hutch containing the family china. A vase filled with daisies sat on the sideboard. Large windows looked out into the backyard, where a swing set stood unused. On the table was a neat stack of papers, notebooks, and folders.

  Hurley declined the offer of coffee, and they sat down at the table. "Do you mind if I smoke, Father?" Mrs. McKee asked. "I don't usually, in the house, but frankly I'm feeling kind of nervous."

  "Please, go right ahead."

  She lit up, and Hurley began to feel guilty. She was desperate to please him, to convince him, yet he knew there was nothing he could do to help her. When she spoke again, it sounded as if she were delivering a well-rehearsed presentati
on.

  "I know that any reasonable person would start out being skeptical about Erin and her story," she began. "I was skeptical myself. And, believe me, I know that the Church has every reason to be cautious and thorough in investigating this sort of thing. So I've put together some information that I thought would be helpful in understanding what's been going on."

  She started pushing folders and documents towards him. "Here are statements from several people who have been cured by Erin. I've attached medical records to a few of them and letters from their, you know, health-care providers. Here are statements from a couple of priests who've been involved. These are our own financial records, in case you want to make sure we're not trying to enrich ourselves out of all this. Frankly, our finances are a mess, as my husband will be happy to explain to you in endless detail. Having a child like Erin—well, there are lots of expenses."

  Hurley smiled and took the offered accounts of the cures. He glanced through them, but his mind was on Sandra McKee. She had a hint of Dave Leahy's fanaticism in her eyes, but she was not at all like Leahy. Leahy had the certainty that comes from the knowledge that you possess the truth; Sandra McKee had the certainty that comes from despair. She had nowhere else to turn, so this was the course she had settled on, and there was no turning back. He couldn't imagine what she had gone through with that beautiful child. What would he have said to her if he had been the priest who had to comfort her after the accident? She was not the kind to comfort easily, he decided. Like Kathleen Morelli, she would ask the hard questions about God and evil, and easy answers would not satisfy her.

  He finished reading the statements, feeling her eyes on him every moment. She finished her cigarette and immediately lit another one. "These are remarkable stories," he commented.

  "The people are willing to testify in person, of course," she said, "if you feel that's necessary."