Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  The dictator finally focused his attention back on Gurdani. "They're idiots," he said. "They know nothing. They tell me to rest. I haven't the strength to do anything but rest. Do you see? I'm dying, and they shrug their shoulders and tell me there's nothing they can do. I'll let them know how it feels to die!"

  Gurdani continued to wait. He had nothing to say to this man.

  "So I want you to cure me," Tokomi said finally.

  Gurdani was too taken aback to understand at first. "Me?"

  Tokomi managed a grin. "You, Joseph. You who are so close to God. You've cured others—I know the stories, I know everything about you. So cure me." Tokomi reached out a hand toward him, and Gurdani involuntarily shrank back.

  "Don't be afraid, Joseph," Tokomi said. "God will protect you. He's protected you very well so far, or you would have been dead years ago. You should thank me for that, as well as God. I didn't want to risk killing such a favorite of His, for fear of His wrath. Now you must return the favor. Lay your hands on me, and bring me back from the dead."

  Gurdani stared down at him. He couldn't imagine it—couldn't imagine trying to save this monster's life. How desperate must Tokomi have been to ask such a favor of his archenemy! Desperate, but still he obviously enjoyed the position he had put Gurdani in. "Do you play God, your Eminence?" he demanded. "Do you decide who is worthy of saving and who isn't? What if you cure me and I repent my sins—wouldn't that make it worth doing? Wouldn't God want you to cure me, rather than let me die and go straight to hell?"

  "I cure no one," Gurdani pointed out. "Only God can do such a thing."

  Tokomi waved away the distinction. "He cures through you," he said. "You are His favorite, and you know it."

  "Will you repent if you are cured?" Gurdani asked.

  "But that makes it too easy, doesn't it?" Tokomi pointed out. "I would say anything to be cured, but how can you be sure I'm not lying, or won't change my mind? No, you should cure me because you're a Christian and I am in need."

  "I must also think of the innocent victims of your cruelty—past and to come," Gurdani responded. "They are in need, too."

  "Is your morality a matter of statistics, then? Do you need to count up the numbers of people helped and hurt before deciding right from wrong? Your God disappoints me, Joseph. I didn't know He was nothing more than an accountant."

  Tokomi closed his eyes, worn out once again. Gurdani gazed at him. He could almost see the skull beneath the taut skin. His breathing was shallow, irregular. Gurdani could imagine taking a pillow and smothering him right now; it wouldn't take much to kill him. Were the guards waiting for him to make that very move so they could shoot him?

  His back was starting to hurt from standing for so long—Tokomi's doing, of course. A minor beating long ago: one tiny sin among so many. It was strange that tonight he had at last come to understand why nothing worse had happened to him: Tokomi was afraid of him, afraid of the power God had given him. He was as superstitious as most of his subjects, and probably thought of Gurdani as some sort of witch doctor, capable of brewing up spells for evil as well as for good. But Tokomi wasn't so afraid that he wouldn't drag his enemy to his deathbed, in desperate hopes of a miracle he of all men least deserved. Did he think he could chop logic to convince Gurdani to do it? Or was he counting on fear, his oldest ally, which worked on many but had never worked on his greatest enemy?

  Gurdani had no interest in what Tokomi had to say. Instead he looked into his own heart and tried to understand what Jesus wanted him to do.

  The answer was clear. Jesus had not scrupled to cure sinners, and neither would he, who cured only through Jesus' power. Jesus had never had to deal with someone like Tokomi, but was it possible to imagine him refusing to help? Gurdani couldn't. He wouldn't think about the consequences of success—he couldn't bear to. And what of the consequences of failure? No worse, he supposed, than those of refusing to try. He could only do what was right, and hope for the best.

  He leaned over Tokomi and placed a hand on his clammy forehead. Perhaps the guards would misinterpret the action and kill him now. Perhaps he should hope for it to happen before he had a chance to do what he was about to do. But the room remained quiet, except for Tokomi's ragged breathing. He opened his eyes finally, and they showed surprise and, yes, fear. "Save me," the fiend whispered, and his bony hand gripped Gurdani's arm.

  Gurdani closed his own eyes. This wasn't a monster but a human being, he told himself. A child of God. Did anyone besides God love him? Could anyone possibly love him?

  And suddenly Gurdani felt himself flooded with love, not just for this man but for all of humanity. So much pain, caused and suffered. So much striving, so much loss. What had all Tokomi's striving achieved for him but a lonely deathbed, an ending filled with terror and (one could only hope) regret? You can only love, or die.

  And then he felt the familiar wind of grace pass through him, and into Tokomi. And for a moment he thought he felt all the weight of Tokomi's sickness and sinfulness bearing down in turn on him, and he staggered backwards, then crumpled to the floor.

  When he looked up Tokomi was staring at him from the bed. The feverish glitter had disappeared from his eyes, replaced by dullness and confusion. Something had happened, but he didn't know—or was not yet willing to admit—what it was. "Is the feel of my skin so unpleasant it makes you fall to the ground?" he asked, but it was clear his heart wasn't in the sarcasm.

  Gurdani got to his feet. "God has touched you," he said. "You might consider your good fortune. I would say that you may be the luckiest man alive."

  A sneer appeared on Tokomi's face, then faded into confusion. "Nice to see you, Joseph," he replied. "Thank you for your assistance. Let's be sure to meet again."

  Gurdani gazed at him, then left the room, saying nothing more.

  He never did meet Tokomi again. He returned to the prison, where conditions improved markedly for him, presumably on Tokomi's orders. A couple of weeks later, though, word swept through the cells: It had finally happened; Tokomi had died.

  Shot to death by his closest aides, it was said. It was only later that Gurdani pieced together the story. They had gotten used to the idea of their leader dying and begun readying themselves for the new era. When his condition inexplicably improved, they became impatient and took matters into their own hands, murdering him while he slept. Gurdani's miracle had miraculously accomplished nothing. Except, perhaps, inside Tokomi's heart. Gurdani would never know what changes God had wrought there.

  He was let out of prison soon thereafter, to general rejoicing, and went on to help with the multitude of new challenges facing his homeland, including the disease that had baffled Tokomi's doctors. But he could no more forget that meeting with Tokomi than he could deny his Savior.

  Power brings choices, as Tokomi understood, and even the easy choices can cause disquiet and regret if, unlike Tokomi, you have any sort of moral compass. The pope had saved the life of the most evil man he had ever met. He had never told anyone—who would believe it? He had never questioned his decision, but his nightmares affirmed that a part of him had still not come to terms with what he had done.

  Erin McKee, he thought, did not have this problem. If her story were true, and he felt in his bones that it was, then she was a pure, unthinking conduit for God's grace. The love without the disquiet, the miracles without the nightmares. It was probably a sin, but Pope John thought that he envied her. And that, beyond everything else, was why he wanted to meet her in Boston.

  He got back into bed finally and sank into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 31

  Morelli arrived home tired and frustrated, as usual. They had her shuffling papers at headquarters nowadays, evidently still trying to decide whether to fire her or give her a medal. The coffee she had drunk on the way home left a bitter taste in her mouth. She should give it up. She should lose ten pounds. She should change her name; she hated being called "Kathleen." She should go to Disneyworld with her sister's family and tr
y to have some fun.

  For now, she decided to change her clothes, drive to the gym, and exercise the bad feelings away. She went into the kitchen, got a water bottle out of the refrigerator, then headed into her bedroom.

  "Take your gun out and put it on the floor."

  She gasped at the sound of the voice and whirled to face its source. On the other side of her bed stood Robert Coulter; he had his own gun aimed at her.

  "Do what I tell you, Kathleen," he said, "and everything will be all right."

  He was gaunt and unshaven. His eyes were red-rimmed and fierce-looking. His voice shook when he spoke. She carefully took her gun out of its holster and set it down. "What do you want?" she asked. "How did you get in here?"

  "You're in my dreams," he said. "I need to get you out of my dreams."

  Oh sweet Jesus, she thought. He's insane. How did he know her name? And why the hell was she in his dreams? "I don't understand," she said. "Can we talk about this?"

  "There's nothing to talk about anymore. The Devil is everywhere. He must be stopped."

  "I'm not the Devil," she whispered. Was there any way to escape? Could she make it out of the room before he shot her?

  "No, you're not," he agreed, "but I can't stop him while you're here. I need to think. I can't think. I only think about you."

  She moved a step toward the door. The gun followed her. Why was he thinking about her? He had seen her that one instant, in the street outside his apartment. Right? "I really think you should talk to me," she said. "Talking usually helps."

  "I haven't talked to anyone in a long time," he replied, and he sounded aggrieved, as if this were somehow her fault.

  Her heart was pounding. She couldn't screw this up. She thought about how badly she had screwed up outside his apartment. If she did that again, she'd be dead. She needed to calm him down. She needed to get him to lower that gun. "You've been alone," she murmured. "On the run. You've had no one to turn to."

  "It's all been up to me," he said. "No one else does anything. Just me, fighting the Devil with no help."

  She took a step toward him. The bed was between them. The gun trembled in his hand, and she stopped. "What is it that you want me to do, Robert?" she asked. "How do you want me to help you?"

  "Bandini," he said. "My name is..." His voice trailed off.

  "Bandini," she repeated. "I don't know what you want from me, Bandini. You have to tell me."

  "You're very beautiful," he whispered.

  Her heart sank. Was that it? He was horny. A maladjusted Catholic geek who could only talk to a girl if he had a gun trained on her. But, she realized, this gave her a certain amount of power. She didn't have a gun, but he desired her. He wanted to impress her; he might even want to make her happy. "Thank you," she said. "It's hard to believe I'm standing here talking to you. People have been looking for you for a long time."

  He smirked. "They'll never catch me. And pretty soon I'm going to kill the biggest Devil of them all."

  "The Pope?"

  He nodded ever so slightly, still smirking. "No one can do it except me. They may not think so, but it's true."

  "I know it's true, Bandini. You've proved it time and again." Morelli breathed deeply and decided to take a risk. "But I'm afraid you're never going to be able to kill the pope."

  "That's what you think," he said, his color rising. "When he comes here—"

  "But he's not coming, Bandini," she lied.

  "What?"

  "They've heard you're after him. They don't want to take any chances. So he's staying in the Vatican, where he'll be safe. You'll never get to him there, Bandini."

  "No one's said anything about canceling the visit," Coulter protested, as if this were an outrageous offense against basic fairness.

  "Not yet. They just made the decision and haven't publicized it. But you know, in a way you've won already, Bandini—they're terrified of you, so they're going to keep the pope away from you."

  "They can't do that!" he said. His tone was one of disbelief, not anger.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered. She took another step towards him. "This can't be easy for you."

  "The Devil," he said. "You try and try, but he always wins in the end. And then he laughs at you. The babies are still dying, and..."

  He lowered the gun and wiped his eyes.

  "I'm not laughing at you, Bandini," Morelli assured him. "Can I sit down?"

  He didn't respond. She perched on the side of the bed and looked at him. "You've done so much," she said. "Do you think it's possible that this is a sign from God? Maybe He's telling you that you've done enough. It's time to stop running."

  He shook his head. "I don't know. If the Pope doesn't come here... I've left the Protectors. And now there's no one. Just me." His face screwed up with the effort of preventing himself from crying.

  "Why don't you sit next to me?" she asked.

  He didn't seem to hear her. What was she supposed to do now? She'd taken training on this once, but she couldn't remember a thing she'd learned, and so she was left with common sense. Keep him talking. Stay sympathetic. Don't let him think you're manipulating him.

  "Bandini," she said, "why don't we go outside and get some air? You've got to decide what to do."

  He nodded this time. "Yeah," he agreed. He looked at her. "I can't stop thinking about you," he said again, and he sounded desperate, as if he'd caught a fatal disease.

  She stood up and held out her hand. "Come on," she said. "We'll think together."

  Amazingly, he obeyed, coming around the bed and grasping her hand. Had he ever held a woman's hand before? She picked up the bottle of water and offered him some. He drank from it gratefully.

  She wasn't sure what she'd do with him outside, but she figured it would be harder for him to kill her in public, and easier for her to find a way to get him into custody. She led him downstairs and out onto the front steps, where they sat side by side in the cool twilight. "This is very nice," he said, and she could see that he was forcing back his tears once again.

  "Bandini," she said gently, "they're going to catch you. Sooner or later, they're going to catch you."

  He nodded.

  "It's not going to be easy for you. You know that. But I can help—a little."

  "I need you, Kathleen," he said. It didn't sound sexual. It sounded desperate. He squeezed her hand.

  "Would you like me to help? We can get in my car and be there in a little while. No fuss. No violence. No TV cameras."

  "All right," he said, like a little kid agreeing that it really was his bedtime. "Just give me another minute. It's so peaceful here."

  "Sure."

  It was then that she noticed something out of place in the peaceful neighborhood. But when she realized what was about to happen, it was already too late.

  * * *

  Coulter saw the man in the car, and he understood. He had been stalked, as he himself had stalked others. And this man, finally, truly, was the Devil of his dreams, come to claim him for his own.

  * * *

  Prouse took him out with one shot from across the street. He quickly got out of the car and crossed to where Coulter lay sprawled on the steps. Morelli was scrambling for Coulter's gun, but he deftly kicked it away from her, then shot Coulter one more time at close range to be sure. Finally he turned to her. "I'm sorry, Kathleen, really I am," he said. "But if anyone deserved this, he did. I know I'm leaving you with a mess, but I shall have to go away now. I hope you can understand." Then he raced back to his car and drove off while the first sirens wailed in the distance.

  * * *

  Cardinal Monroe slammed down the receiver and summoned Monsignor Doyle to his office. While waiting for Doyle he studied the fax from the Vatican one more time. It was outrageous! He shoved the paper at Doyle as soon as he entered the room. "Do you know anything about this?" he demanded.

  Doyle looked at it. "They want Erin McKee to receive communion from the pope?" he said. "How do they know about her?"

  "T
hat's precisely what I've been trying to find out. But you know how they are at the Vatican—no one will tell you anything. They say, 'It is His Holiness's wish,' as if that explained everything. I don't want her at this Mass. Don't we know that she's a fraud or something? I thought you said we investigated her."

  "Not thoroughly. It was Father Hurley, actually, and he—" Doyle paused. "I should talk to Hurley about this," he said finally.

  "He told the Vatican about her?"

  "I think it's possible."

  "Why would he do that?" Monroe demanded.

  "Because he was impressed by her. He told me so. He wanted exactly this sort of outcome."

  "But that's stupid. The parents are in it for the money or the publicity—that's all it ever is with this sort of thing. Either that, or they're crazy—fanatics. If Hurley had anything to do with this, fire him. We can't have priests like him doing whatever they feel like—seeing women in public and—and making their own policy. It's totally unacceptable!"

  "I agree. I'm sorry if he's the cause of this. It isn't what I expected of him."

  "And another thing," Monroe went on. "Get the truth out about this family. Maybe enough negative publicity will force the Vatican to change its mind."

  Doyle nodded. "I'll work on it, your Eminence."

  Cardinal Monroe felt a little better after Doyle had left. A little crippled girl who was supposed to perform miracles! He had enough on his mind without having to deal with that nonsense.

  * * *

  "Did you do it, Joe? Did you?"

  The words came at Hurley even before he entered Doyle's office. "Do what?" he said, stopping inside the door.

  "You know what: The McKee girl—did you tell the Vatican about her?"

  He had never seen Larry Doyle this mad. You'd think he was accusing Hurley of child abuse. But Hurley had given up trying to understand priorities around here. It occurred to him that he could lie, but he squashed the temptation. He had pretty well known it would come to this, and now it was time to take the consequences. "I told a friend in the Vatican about her," he said, "and suggested that the pope might be interested. I really don't think it's that big a deal, Larry."