Hurley stared at the screen. More than once he had helped Doyle solve little problems with his PC. For someone who was so brilliant in other areas, Doyle was helpless when it came to computers.
So then... He probably had no clue how email worked. He would delete his emails, but Hurley doubted that he'd realize he then had to purge them to get them totally out of the system. He would send emails, but not realize his mailer was saving copies in another folder. Hurley checked and quickly found that he was correct. Doyle appeared to have kept copies of every message he'd sent and received since coming to Boston.
Hurley started scrolling back through them, searching for something to or from Prouse. Nothing. Something about the Vatican Bank, or maybe Paolo Fieri. Again, nothing. But as he scrolled, he caught sight of a word that chilled him.
Protectors.
He looked at the brief message, sent to Doyle several months ago.
Requested funds for Protectors forthcoming via IOR.
—dd
Who was "dd"? Hurley didn't recognize the email address, except that it originated in Italy. Who or what was "IOR"? Did "Protectors" refer to the Protectors of the Unborn? If so, why in the world was Doyle involved with them?
Hurley stared at the message, almost afraid to look for more like it. If Doyle was involved with the Protectors...
It isn't impossible, Hurley thought, horrified that he could even entertain the idea. And then something else clicked, back from his days in Rome. IOR. Wasn't that the Italian acronym for the Vatican Bank? Institute for something-or-other. Of course it was.
So, was Doyle funding the Protectors of the Unborn out of the Vatican Bank?
He went back to the file cabinet. There was a folder he'd noticed...
Yes. IOR. Hurley hadn't even glanced at the thing when he first went through the files. He took the folder out now, sat on the floor, and started studying it.
Most of it was junk. Audited financial results. Ancient expense reports. Notes of staff meetings. But then, buried deep in the pile of papers, was a handwritten note in Italian. Hurley couldn't translate much of the note, but after some effort he made out the signature.
Dominic DiStefano.
He stared at the signature. dd.
Hurley knew the name. Even Americans who hadn't spent time in Italy knew the name. Dominic DiStefano, the reputed head of a criminal empire that spanned the world. DiStefano, the one-man Mafia. Why was he writing notes and emails to Larry Doyle? Why was he apparently funding the Protectors of the Unborn through Doyle and the Vatican Bank?
What else were he and Doyle up to?
Ideas buzzed around Hurley's head, but he couldn't make sense of them. Doyle was obviously a militant pro-lifer; he was a man of forceful opinions, and fiercely dogmatic on some issues. But a criminal? An associate of Dominic DiStefano? That seemed impossible, almost ludicrous.
But what did Hurley know? What had he really known about Ed McAllister, someone who'd been his friend since—
He heard voices in the hallway outside. Oh, Christ. He froze. The voices got louder. Cleaning people? No, he recognized Doyle's booming laugh. Dammit. There was probably some late meeting at the Cardinal's residence. Could Doyle see the light under the door? Hurley reached over, turned the light off, and waited in the darkness, his heart pounding.
No voices now, only a single set of footsteps, stopping outside the door. Go away! Hurley tried to think of an excuse for being here, but that was absurd. He was trapped. It was hopeless.
The knob turned; the door opened. Doyle switched on the overhead light. He blinked at Hurley in puzzlement that immediately turned to rage. "Joe? What the devil are you doing in my office?"
And Hurley abruptly felt calm, in control. He didn't need an excuse; he needed answers. He stood up and held out the note to Doyle. "Dominic DiStefano," he said. "That's why I'm here. What's going on, Larry?"
Doyle grabbed the piece of paper, glanced at it, then crumbled it up and threw it on the floor. "I don't need to answer to you about anything," he said. "I'm going to call Security and get you thrown out of here."
But Hurley could see the fear in his eyes, could hear the bluster in his voice. If he'd had any doubts, they were gone now. "Dominic DiStefano," he repeated. "Why are you dealing with a criminal like DiStefano?"
"You understand nothing, Joe," Doyle said, shaking his head. "You just see good guys and bad guys and think you understand the world. That's why you've wrecked your career in the Church before it even got started. DiStefano's a bad guy, but he's also helped the Church in too many ways to count. You were so worried about Robert Coulter killing the pope—well, who do you think took care of Coulter? None of us is sinless, least of all you, Joe."
Hurley stared into Doyle's eyes, and couldn't believe he hadn't seen the truth about him before, hadn't seen the moral deadness lurking there. Doyle didn't want him to judge, but Hurley wasn't going to obey him, ever again. "Are you plotting to kill the pope, Larry?" he demanded.
"You're insane," Doyle responded. "I'm calling Security."
"Don't bother," Hurley said, and he strode past Doyle and out of the office.
"Wait a minute, Joe!" Doyle called after him, but Hurley ran down the hall and out into night, jumped into his car, and drove away.
* * *
Hurley parked by the reservoir in Chestnut Hill and sat staring out at the water, trying to catch his breath, trying to understand.
Larry Doyle. What was going on with Larry Doyle?
And what was going to happen now that Doyle knew that Hurley knew his secrets? Hurley looked in his rearview mirror, suddenly more than a little nervous.
He needed to do something, but he couldn't figure out what.
Larry Doyle. His friend, his mentor.
The Church is human and has human flaws; you don't become a priest without knowing that intimately. The human failings of the Church are real, but as a priest you had to remember that they don't overshadow the divinity that is its essence.
But this was hard. When you wear the Roman collar you are making a public statement about yourself, your beliefs, your allegiance. You can't be embarrassed by it. You can't feel ashamed of what it represents.
Larry Doyle. Why? What was he up to?
He decided he needed help. He took out his phone and called Kathleen. No answer, and then he realized she was probably still at her mother's, so he called her cell phone number instead. She answered groggily; she had been asleep. "Jesus, Joe, what's going on?" she asked.
He summarized the evening's developments, which quickly woke her up.
"I never liked Doyle," she muttered when he was done.
"You've only known him since he became unlikeable," Hurley replied. "I liked him a lot, once upon a time. Shows you what kind of judge of character I am."
"Well, whatever. Looks like we're back into it, Joe. When Prouse killed Coulter, that seemed to take care of things. Now, who knows?"
"Doyle implied that DiStefano was responsible for Coulter's death," Hurley pointed out. "That was probably a slip, trying to get me to think good thoughts about DiStefano. Do you think it means Prouse is working for DiStefano?"
"It could. And if DiStefano is involved in this business at the Vatican Bank, maybe he's got some motive there for killing the pope."
"But what about Doyle? I just don't get it. If he's involved with the Protectors—"
"I don't think Doyle is the one we have to worry about at this point, Joe," Kathleen said. "Prouse is."
Hurley recalled the intense dislike he'd felt for Prouse when they'd met at Fenway Park. Maybe he wasn't such a bad judge of character after all. "Do we have to keep on working this on our own, Kathleen?" he asked. "Is there any way we can convince the police, the security people—anyone—that this is for real?"
She was silent. "I don't see it, Joe," she replied finally. "Right now Doyle is probably busy combing through his files to get rid of any mention of DiStefano. And even if he isn't, who's going to believe us? You barely b
elieve yourself. They won't even question Doyle. They'll assume we're nuts."
"You're a cop. You could arrest him."
"It doesn't quite work like that, Joe. Especially not when you're on administrative leave."
Hurley grimaced. "I didn't think so."
"Joe, you're probably in danger now. If Doyle is in league with DiStefano, there's no telling what they're capable of. Look what they did to that monsignor at the Vatican."
"I know, but what can I do?" Hurley responded. "I'll just have to take my chances."
"You could stay with me," Kathleen pointed out.
"No, I don't think—"
"For Chrissake, Joe, I'm not going to rape you. It's my mother's house. It's like a church. Come on over here and let's figure out what to do next."
"Well, okay."
"There's a good boy." She gave him directions and hung up. Hurley sat in his car for a few moments, gazing at the reservoir sparkling serenely in the moonlight. He'd gone drinking here more than once in his undergraduate days, filled with high spirits and recklessness. Oh, the innocence of youth. Finally he returned to his apartment, quickly packed an overnight bag, and headed for Kathleen's mother's house.
* * *
Doyle sat in his office, shaking with fear. He had been frightened for a long time, but he had learned to live with it. Now the fear was descending into panic, and his usual composure was disintegrating. He picked up the folder from the floor, then went over and stared at the email message on the computer screen. How could he have been so stupid to leave this stuff around for Hurley to find?
Too late to worry about that. He had to figure out what to do. Doyle looked up a number he was never supposed to call. He took a deep breath and dialed it. The phone was answered with a string of Italian curses.
"It's Doyle," he said. "Sorry to wake you up, but I've got a problem."
"It better be a big one," DiStefano replied.
"It is," Doyle said. And he explained what had happened.
DiStefano was silent when he had finished. "This is very bad," he muttered finally. "The priest you mentioned—can he be taken care of?"
What did he mean by that? Bribed? Murdered? It didn't matter, Doyle supposed. "No. I wouldn't be surprised if he's already talking to the police. They may not choose to believe him at this point. But later, if anything happens to the pope..." He let the remainder of the thought drift away. The consequences were too obvious.
"Understood," DiStefano said. There was a long pause. "All right," he said finally. "We will have to end it."
Doyle closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer of thanksgiving. "I believe that's our only choice," he replied. "What do you want me to do?"
"Do what you should have done in the first place," DiStefano replied. "Find and destroy everything that links us. It may be too late, but still it must be taken care of."
"Of course, of course. The instant we hang up. I'm very sorry. I—"
"There were mistakes," DiStefano said. "We move on. Now I'm going back to sleep."
"All right, then. Good night."
Doyle hung up. He realized that he was soaked with sweat. Thank God, he thought. DiStefano, as always, had been direct and decisive. There were still huge problems, of course, but he would think about them later. Right now he would follow orders.
He set to work searching his files and destroying any remaining documents that could possibly connect him to DiStefano or the Protectors.
And as he did so, his mind wandered through the memories and the justifications and the rationalizations. It had all made sense. It had all been worthwhile. Hadn't it?
He was only trying to do good, after all, only trying to make a difference. Surely that was obvious? He wasn't Mother Teresa, he wasn't the Little Flower, he was a man of intelligence and action and resourcefulness, a man who could deal with real people in the real world. So he used the talents God had given him to carry out God's will. Was that so wrong?
The others at the Bank—Monroe and Riccielli and Donato—had complained about DiStefano. Can't we find some other way to get the money? Does it have to be this man? Well, where were their ideas? How did they propose to do what the Holy Father asked? Monroe had elevated hand-wringing to a high art. We couldn't possibly deal with a criminal. Well, why not? The Church could make use of evil to create a greater good—what could be clearer than that? If they broke some laws, well, the Church answered to a higher law. DiStefano had his own game to play, but he had never deceived them, never cheated them, never gone back on the promises he had made.
And weren't they delighted when the money started arriving, and the old pope told them how satisfied he was with their performance, what the funds they provided allowed him to accomplish? Didn't Monroe get the red hat he had lusted after for so long?
All right, Doyle had gotten something out of it, too. There was the recognition he had deserved for so long, and the promise of a diocese of his own before long, once Monroe was established in Boston.
And there was the Protectors.
His own private army in the war against abortion. Again, was that wrong? He would dare anyone to argue the morality of it with him. If ever there was a just war, this was it. He couldn't fight the war the way it needed to be fought as Monsignor Doyle—but as the mysterious, charismatic Glanville, with the resources to provide financial backing to the best, most militant people in the movement...
Doyle put his old IOR file through the shredder. Stupid mistakes. In hindsight it had all been a mistake, he supposed. What had the Protectors ever accomplished? He had come to believe what he had whispered so urgently to Coulter in the confessional: a few random murders couldn't end it, no matter how well-deserved the deaths were. And when Valli wasn't elected to succeed the old pope, suddenly there was the specter of the whole plot unraveling.
And what was he supposed to do then? Wring his hands like Monroe until he was sent to prison?
But even he didn't have the daring, the imagination, to see the solution. Cardinal Valli alone did. Valli came up with the plan, along with DiStefano. Valli swept away any objections Doyle had, made him see that the plan was right, was necessary—was, really, inevitable.
Doyle had simply provided the assassin.
Another mistake. He had been sure he could control Coulter, as he controlled the rest of the Protectors. DiStefano had been dubious, but went along. Then Coulter had gone off the deep end, blabbing to the talk-show host, and DiStefano's hired gun had to step in and save the situation.
In the meantime, of course, Doyle had hired Joe Hurley. And that had been the greatest mistake of all. He was just trying to do his day job and bring in talent to help Monroe. Hurley seemed to have it all—youth, charm, enthusiasm—everything that Monroe, and much of the rest of the hierarchy, lacked. Why did he have to be friends with that McAllister creep? Why couldn't he have learned to follow orders?
Doyle was deleting email messages now, though he despaired of finding them all. Everything he had hoped to achieve was gone, he thought. He would have been better off if he had been like Mother Teresa or the Little Flower. Just heal the sick, just say your prayers, don't try to do anything more.
He realized that what he needed to do now more than anything was pray. Pray that his crimes would not catch up with him, pray that he would stay out of prison. Pray, above all, that the pope would survive.
He put his head in his hands and began.
* * *
Morelli opened the front door. Joe Hurley was standing there in jeans and a sweat shirt, carrying a duffel bag. "Hiya," he said, smiling that unbearably sweet smile of his.
"Hiya," she replied. She hadn't set eyes on him since she'd kissed him after the Red Sox game—after he'd saved her from Prouse, she realized with a shudder. "C'mon in."
He followed her into her mother's house, which she wished were less rundown, more tasteful. She was always depressed when she came here. "I hope you didn't wake your mom," he said.
"No, I left her a note in case she w
akes up and finds a stranger in Sean's bed and decides to brain you with the fireplace poker or something. Are you hungry?"
"No, not really. Maybe I should just, um—"
"Okay. Your room's upstairs. I made the bed and put out towels and stuff."
"That's very kind."
They headed quietly up the stairs to the second floor and into her brother's room, which still had heavy-metal rock posters on the walls and a few of his hockey trophies in the bookcase. Sean had never used the bookcase for much else, not seeing the point of doing well in school when you could make good money driving a truck. Strangely, life had yet to prove him wrong.
"Well," she said softly. "This is it. Bathroom's right down the hall."
Hurley put down his duffel bag. "You're thinking," he said, "this isn't right, him sleeping—what?—twenty feet away from me. Just what is the point of that? He could be with me, and the hell with my mother or anything else."
"Yeah," she said, "that occurred to me. We could both use some comforting. And here we are."
He closed his eyes. He looked beaten down. Reluctantly, Morelli decided that forcing this particular issue wasn't going to make him feel any better.
She reached out and caressed his cheek. "Don't worry about it, Joe," she said. "I won't bug you—tonight."
He pressed her hand against his cheek. "I'm a very confused fellow," he said.
"I'll be happy to straighten you out. Tomorrow."
He smiled that smile of his. She took her hand away and quickly left for her own bedroom.
It was going to be a long night.
* * *
DiStefano stared at his mistress, snoring comfortably in the four-poster bed. The grey light was not kind to her. She was growing old and petulant, and he was growing bored and impatient; she would not last much longer. He turned away. He wasn't going to get back to sleep, he supposed.
He had expected better from Doyle. Doyle hadn't been one of the pious idiots, except about this abortion nonsense. And it was the abortion nonsense that had done him in, apparently—thinking that he could be Robert Coulter's puppet-master and convince him it was his moral duty to assassinate the pope. Well, now the entire plan lay in ruins. DiStefano could see no way out of it. Even if he believed that Riccielli would keep quiet, they would not be able to control the leaks in Boston. They would be hard enough to control even if every law enforcement agency in the world weren't focused on them.
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