Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  A hulking black man in a paint-spattered sweatshirt came in, paid for his fill-up, and bought a pack of cigarettes, all the time muttering incomprehensibly under his breath. Leahy gave him his change with a smile and said "Have a good night" as the man departed, ignoring him.

  Aren't you even afraid? his wife demanded. Couldn't you get a job someplace safer? No, he wasn't afraid. He had lain down before angry policemen in front of abortion clinics, been in jail with addicts, thieves, and child-molesters. With God by your side, how can you know fear? His boss, a short, perpetually angry Syrian named Muhammad, trusted no one and found Leahy incomprehensible, but seemed to sense this inner serenity and respected it, refraining from any kind of criticism and letting him work whenever he liked. The arrangement suited them both fine.

  Of course, his serenity had been sorely tested by the police's interrogation the other night. He had continued to brood about it in the days since, but had been unable to figure out what was going on. He had gone looking for Coulter, but of course Coulter was nowhere to be found. He had gotten a message to Glanville, but Glanville's response had been unhelpful: Do nothing. Say nothing. I will take care of it. But what was there to take care of? Was the Holy Father in danger? Was Coulter? Was Leahy himself headed back to jail? It was all perplexing and unsettling.

  Leahy decided to fill up the cigarette racks. He liked to keep the store neat and the shelves well-stocked—another trait that the suspicious Muhammad approved of. It was distasteful to sell people a product that was so bad for them, but he decided it was morally acceptable since, unlike abortion, it harmed only themselves. And he found it somehow soothing to see the crisp rows of packages available for sale. If you're going to do a job, do it right.

  As he rummaged behind the counter for a carton of Marlboros he heard the door open. It was predictable, of course, that a customer would arrive just as you started a chore. But it didn't bother him. He stood up, and found himself staring into the eyes of Robert Coulter.

  "Hi, Dave," Coulter murmured.

  Leahy's heart started racing. "Robert," he said. "Good. I've been trying to get a hold of you. The police were at my house the other day. They're looking for you. Ed McAllister's murder—"

  "I know," Coulter interrupted. "I saw them there. And I know that you betrayed me."

  "What? That's not true. I didn't tell the police—"

  "You talked to Glanville about me, and Glanville threw me out of the Protectors, took away my chance for immortality. Then you talked to the police, and now they think I murdered my hero. I would never murder Ed McAllister."

  "Robert, obviously there's a big misunderstanding. But we shouldn't be talking here. If you could wait till I'm off work—"

  Coulter drew a gun out of his jacket pocket. "There's nothing to talk about, Dave. I need to kill you before you betray me again."

  Leahy stared at the gun in astonishment. There were so many things going on that he didn't understand. What was Coulter talking about—what chance for immortality? How had Coulter seen the police at his house? Leahy needed to calm him down. "Please, Robert, hear me out. The police talked to me, I don't deny it, but I didn't tell them anything about you. Why would I do that? And I admit I talked to Glanville about you and McAllister, but I was concerned. McAllister called me, and you seemed to have annoyed him, so I figured I needed some guidance. Too much is at stake to—"

  Coulter shook his head. "I don't have time for this. Do you want to say an Act of Contrition? I owe you that, for what you've done for the cause."

  "Please, you've got to listen," Leahy said, getting desperate. "We've been through too much for you to do this."

  "We've been through nothing," Coulter responded emphatically. "I'm the one who's risked his life. I'm the one who tracked the murderers down and pulled the trigger, while everyone else did nothing but talk. I am the Avenging Angel." His gaze was cold, and Leahy knew what it felt like to be an abortionist, staring into those implacable eyes and realizing that your life was about to end.

  There was nowhere to hide, no way to escape the gaze or the gun. The under-the-counter alarm was too far away, and what good would it do if he could reach it? He would be dead by the time the police arrived. A customer could come into the store—should he pray for that? Or for his immortal soul?

  "Robert, please, you can't believe I'd—"

  "'Oh my God I am heartily sorry... '" Coulter began. The gun did not waver.

  ... for having offended Thee, Leahy's brain continued automatically. This couldn't be happening. Had Coulter gone mad? Perhaps he had always been mad, and Leahy had just never bothered to notice.

  Was this martyrdom? he wondered. This day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.

  He shut his eyes.

  ... Who art all good and deserving of all my love...

  "I beg you, for God's sake—"

  But then the pain came, and darkness, and all that was left for Leahy was his Savior, and the hope of heaven.

  * * *

  Coulter quickly put on a latex glove, reached around the counter, and opened the cash register. He grabbed the few bills inside—he desperately needed money—and strode out of the store. His car was waiting outside with the engine still running. He glanced around quickly, then got in and drove away.

  He took a deep breath as the mini-mart disappeared behind him. He didn't feel the same elation that he felt when he executed an abortionist, but there was satisfaction nevertheless. He had avenged the betrayal. And now he was totally on his own, which was the way God wanted it, he realized.

  The whole world was looking for him, but they would not find him. He thought of the beautiful policewoman who had talked to Leahy. Kathleen Morelli; he had returned to her house and read the name on her mailbox. Kathleen Morelli would try and fail like all the rest.

  And he would be ready when the moment arrived, and it was the pope's turn to face his wrath.

  * * *

  "Any update on the McKee situation, Joe?" Monsignor Doyle asked.

  They were at Doyle's morning staff meeting. Half a dozen pairs of eyes turned to Hurley, who groped for a response. "I visited the family," he said. "They seem like good, sincere people. I'm not sure what to say about the cures they claim the little girl is responsible for. I'm not competent to judge them, certainly, although the parents have the medical testimony all prepared, and it looks persuasive. Maybe we need to appoint a commission to review everything."

  "Can we put them off till after the pope's visit?"

  "Well, not easily. The mother is very determined." Hurley took a breath and decided to forge ahead. "You know, I don't think it would be such a bad idea if we did arrange some kind of brief meeting with the pope. The little girl is quite appealing. It would make for a great human interest story and put the Church in a good light."

  The eyes in the room turned back to Doyle. "But that's not where we want the focus, Joe," the monsignor replied, looking a little annoyed. "The focus of the visit needs to be on the archdiocese—on the cardinal, to be blunt, not on some retarded girl who cures people's acne. His Eminence really wants this thing off the table. Can't you make it go away?"

  Hurley shrugged, disappointed but not surprised. "Try my best," he muttered.

  "Please do."

  He returned to his office after the meeting and stared out the window for a long time, trying to pray.

  "Can I come in?"

  Hurley swiveled around and saw Monsignor Doyle, his big frame almost filling the doorway. Hurley gestured for him to enter, and Doyle took a seat. "Joe, I get the sense that you haven't been quite yourself lately," Doyle said. "Anything the matter?"

  Hurley shrugged, not ready to unburden himself. "The little girl did make an impression on me," he said. "I'd like to help, if I could figure out a way. The family's been through a lot."

  Doyle dismissed the family with a wave. "It's not just that," he noted. "I'm wondering if you're still obsessing about your theory. You know, that there's going to be an assassination atte
mpt on the pope."

  "No, not really," Hurley replied truthfully. He hadn't actually given the pope a whole lot of thought since—well, since he had touched Kathleen.

  "Is it the job, Joe? Look, I'm here to help. I want you to be happy and fulfilled and productive. If you're not, I've failed."

  Hurley looked at Doyle sitting opposite him, large, bald, and rather sexless. He remembered Doyle's laughing insight about his being heterosexual, back at Saint Jerome's rectory. Had Doyle had any crises over his own celibacy? Any dark nights of the soul as he struggled with his vows? Any obsessive yearnings for altar boys? He tried to recall Doyle from the days when he'd first met him at North American College. He had never struck Hurley as particularly holy: intelligent, highly ambitious, white-hot in the certainty of his beliefs, but not someone who wanted to pray the rosary all day. What did the priesthood mean to him? Hurley realized he didn't know Doyle well at all. How well did he know any priest? Maybe even Cardinal Monroe went to bed every night hoping he could make it till morning without sinning.

  "Joe? You still here?"

  "Oh. Sorry. Listen, Larry, I know I've sort of been in a funk lately. I'll try to snap out of it. Really I will."

  "I'd appreciate it," Doyle said, rising from the chair. "And if there's anything I can do to help, let me know. Things are only going to get more hectic around here, and I'm counting on you."

  "I won't let you down. I promise."

  Doyle left, and Hurley returned immediately to his funk. After a while he checked his email, and read a chatty message from Rick Kelliher, his friend from the seminary who was now working at the Vatican. Rick loved to gossip, and his emails were always entertaining, but Hurley couldn't get interested in this one. He thought about confiding in him, but Rick wasn't likely to be much help. He thought that celibacy was basically nonsense, although he didn't seem bothered by it himself. He'd tell Hurley to go ahead and do what felt right, and God would understand.

  Which, unfortunately, was exactly the advice Hurley wanted to hear. Finally he sent Rick a brief reply.

  Hey Rick,

  While you're in Rome, go talk to the pope for me. Ask him

  what his plans are for celibacy. And ask him how he feels

  about miracles.

  —Joe

  Then he tried to get on with his job—until Janet Leahy showed up in his office to tell him that her husband had been murdered.

  Hurley felt as if he'd been slugged. "Oh my God," he whispered. "What happened?"

  She was wearing jeans and a shapeless sweater. Her hair was unwashed. She looked bone-weary as she slumped into a chair. "He was shot during a robbery at the gas station where he worked," she said. "About two this morning."

  "Have they caught the killer?"

  She shook her head. "Still looking."

  Her gazed slid past him and focused somewhere out the window of his office. What was she thinking about? This numbness was one face of grief, he knew. Why was she here, instead of with her family? Was she looking to him for comfort? "How are you doing, Mrs. Leahy?" he asked. "This must be horrible for you."

  "Oh, you know," she said listlessly. "I'll survive." Her gaze met his. "Just don't start talking to me about God's will and all that stuff, Father. I'm really not in the mood."

  Her sudden sharpness took him aback. But it wasn't really unexpected. God probably had a lot to answer for, in her view. "Okay," he said mildly. "Of course. But if there's anything I can do..."

  "There is," she said. "And that's why I'm here." She took a deep breath. "I know I told you about Bandini and I said some things, made some assumptions—but look. If you think Dave's murder had something to do with abortion or Bandini or Ed McAllister or anything at all, really, I don't want to know about it. And I especially don't want the State Police to know about it."

  This was unexpected. "But don't you want to find out—"

  Janet Leahy shook her head emphatically. "I don't care who murdered Dave; I really don't," she said. "He's dead, and nothing's going to change that. What I care about is the money I'm going to get because of his death. I just talked to the owner of the gas station, and he has an insurance policy that covers his employees if they're hurt or killed during a robbery.

  "Dave did nothing to provide for his family, Father. He just didn't bother; other things were more important. Well, now he's managed to do something for us—except if the police get the big idea that it wasn't a robbery, and the insurance company decides not to pay up. You can't do that to me. Whatever it is you and the police are investigating, you've got to leave Dave's murder out of it."

  Hurley closed his eyes. "All right, Mrs. Leahy. I understand. Please accept my deepest sympathies. Life has been treating you pretty cruelly, it seems."

  A couple of tears leaked out of her eyes. "You want to know the truth, Father?" she said. "I'm relieved—relieved that he didn't die in some way that would embarrass me and the kids, shot by the police or something. Relieved that he didn't end up in prison again, and we'd have to scrape by while he sat in his cell and wallowed in his self-righteousness. I loved him, but he didn't make our life together easy."

  "I'll pray for you—and for the repose of Dave's soul. Don't worry about the investigation. And if there's anything else I can do..."

  "Thank you, Father," Mrs. Leahy replied. "I guess I could use some prayers."

  Hurley walked her out to her car, then returned to his office, shaken and distressed. He knew he should be thinking about what Leahy's murder might mean, but instead he found himself pondering marriage. Was it any less difficult than celibacy? Probably not, at least not if you took it seriously, the way his parents did, the way Janet Leahy did. So was it any less rewarding, any less honorable in the eyes of God? Of course not, although the Church managed to find a way to make celibacy first among equals. Taken seriously, marriage was another calling, like the priesthood.

  Lord, he thought suddenly, I really am going off the deep end. Why am I thinking about marriage?

  He had to decide if he should call Kathleen. Janet Leahy wanted him to stay away from her husband's murder, and he had to respect her request—it was bad enough he had brought the police to question Leahy against her wishes. But Kathleen would find out about Leahy, whether he told her or not. They needed to talk—didn't they?

  Hurley dialed her work number before he had a chance to reconsider. She answered, and the conversation was refreshingly business-like. The focus was entirely on the case, and that helped him breathe more easily. "This can't be a coincidence," she said after he told her what happened. "Somebody found out we went to see Leahy. And they killed him before he could tell us what he knew. It was almost too easy for them, if you think about it, with him working the graveyard shift at a gas station."

  "Coincidences do happen," he pointed out.

  "Maybe. But if we want to protect the pope, we shouldn't rely on coincidences for our explanations."

  "Isn't there some way we can make progress without meddling in Leahy's murder investigation?" he asked.

  There was a pause as she considered "All right," she said finally. "Let me think about it. You know, the State Police aren't stupid. It won't take them long to learn about Leahy's background, whether his wife wants them to or not. And then they'll try to find out if there's a connection."

  "I don't mind that," Hurley replied. "I just don't want to break my word to his wife."

  "Okay, I understand," she said. "I'll be in touch, Joe."

  There, he thought when he had hung up. That hadn't been so bad. He was a grownup; he was strong. With God's help, he could make this work.

  Still, he didn't look forward to the lonely night ahead of him, sitting in his apartment and thinking about his life. Well, he would just stay here and work, he decided, and convince Larry Doyle he hadn't made a mistake in hiring him.

  Twenty minutes later, though, Hurley realized that he was staring out the window once again. Not good, he thought, as he watched darkness fall, and the long night begin.
<
br />   * * *

  George Prouse read the news in the morning paper. He pondered its significance as he made coffee. It certainly required further investigation—and possibly a more active response.

  He did not believe it was a coincidence.

  Prouse poured two cups of coffee, placed them on a tray, and brought them into the bedroom. He set the tray down on the dresser and watched the woman still sleeping in his bed. Lisa. Her face looked a little older in the morning light, but he admired her bare shoulders, the curve of her hips under the sheets. The Red Sox had won last night in extra innings, and he and Lisa had celebrated afterward in a nearby tavern. She was a lot of fun, and she had been generous and eager in bed when they finally returned to his apartment.

  Alas, now the new day had dawned, and it was time for life to begin again.

  Prouse put a hand on her hip. Lisa stirred and reached out for him. He smiled down at her, but his thoughts were filled with Dave Leahy.

  Chapter 20

  Monsignor Fieri was angry and impatient with her, and Miranda Cromwell didn't know what to do, except to pray even harder for guidance and inspiration. It seemed so hopeless, but how could it really be hopeless if Jesus was there to help you?

  The monsignor wanted her to talk to her friends. Or, if she didn't have any friends, to make some. But the girls she worked with only wanted to talk about their boyfriends or their clothes or their diets, or to gossip about rock stars. When she joined them for lunch, she could only sit at the table in silence and hope she wouldn't be asked for an opinion—which she rarely was. They thought she was strange, cold... British. What was she doing here? They were used to religious people, of course, but not a religious person who sat in the next cubicle, one who hadn't taken any vows. And in any event, she felt that she had no guile; she couldn't pretend or cajole. She wanted simply to do her job and worship God. She didn't believe she was capable of anything more.

  But even so, she thought: perhaps there is a reason I am here, in a foreign land so far from home and family. Perhaps this is the reason. She could hear her father scoffing at the idea: Your head is full of nonsense, girl. You need to get yourself straightened out. But it wasn't nonsense. We were all part of God's plan. Even little Miranda Cromwell, with all her self doubts, had her part to play. She yearned to make Fieri proud of her.