Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  For the first time since the pope had known him, Valli appeared flustered, unsure of himself. "We do have a lot to cover," the cardinal pointed out. "There is not much time—"

  "There is always time enough for God," the pope replied. He got down on his knees. Valli hesitated, then did likewise. He had heard that Valli wore a hair shirt, that his housekeeper had discovered him unconscious on the floor of his private chapel after a night of agonized conversation with God. Well then, it should not be difficult for him to say a short prayer kneeling on the thick rug in the papal study.

  "Oh God our heavenly Father," the pope murmured, "we ask your blessing on the journey we are about to undertake. May it magnify Your glory and bring the people of Your Church closer together, Americans and Africans, blacks and whites, those who are rich and powerful and those who need Your loving compassion the most. And may we return home safely to continue to carry out Your will, to the best of our ability. We ask this through Jesus Christ Our Lord."

  The pope waited for Valli's Amen. He glanced over at him; the cardinal's face was white and drawn as he knelt opposite the pope. He looked ill. No, worse: he looked as if he were having a vision of Hell. "Amen," he whispered finally.

  "Amen," the pope added, then rose to his feet. No need to press Valli further, he thought. He knew what he needed to know. "Thank you, Marcello," he said. "Now I think we can proceed."

  When Valli left, the pope's thoughts strayed to Erin McKee once again, still envying the poor child whom life had treated so cruelly. Surely one could envy the serenity of a life where nothing mattered but one's love of God. Was that what her inner life was like? Who could say? But the pope wished it so, because it was the best life he could imagine.

  Tomorrow he would be in America, he thought. Tomorrow he would say Mass in the baseball stadium, and he would meet Erin McKee. He resolved to think about that rather than the crises pressing in on him. Perhaps she could share a little of her serenity with him.

  * * *

  "Doesn't she look adorable?"

  "The Holy Father's heart is just going to melt!"

  The women cooed with delight over Erin, who was modeling the white dress she would be wearing to the papal Mass tomorrow. Sandra smiled, holding Erin in her lap. Erin did look gorgeous, and she seemed to know it, seemed to sense and delight in what was about to happen to her.

  At least for now, she didn't seem to miss her father.

  Except for Sandra's mother, the women who crowded into the family room were people whom Erin had cured, or who were simply attracted to "the little saint," as many of them called her. Acolytes was Mike's term for them. They were all right, Sandra supposed; certainly they adored Erin, although too often they ignored Sandra, or treated her merely as an obstacle in the path of their access to the object of their devotion. It was becoming a cult. But it would all end tomorrow when Erin met the pope; Sandra believed this with the same intense conviction she'd had from the very beginning. These women would fade out of her life, but that would be fine with Sandra. She just wanted her baby back.

  One of them, a large middle-aged woman named Alice Driscoll, began complaining about the article that had appeared in the Herald that morning. "It's all nonsense, is what it is," she proclaimed. "If the reporter had wanted the real story about Erin, why didn't he talk to one of us? Why did he have to make things up?"

  Sandra had seen the article. The headline was "Questions Raised about Child's Healing Powers". It was the archdiocese's counter-offensive, she understood, filled with half-truths and innuendoes about the money they were supposedly making from Erin's cures; it quoted an official statement carefully crafted to make the cures sound ridiculous without disparaging the pope for agreeing to give Erin communion.

  "It's just the media," someone said. "The Globe loves Erin, so the Herald has to hate her. Don't pay any attention to them."

  "But I just can't stand to see this sort of trash," Alice insisted. "How can anyone say bad things about our Erin?"

  Our Erin, Sandra thought. The acolytes thought they had a claim on her. That was the sort of thing that drove Mike nuts. Who were they to appropriate his daughter? "Ladies, I wonder if you'd mind leaving us now," Sandra said. "Tomorrow's the big day, and I want to make sure Erin is well-rested."

  They weren't eager to go. A couple of them glanced pointedly at Erin, as if to dispute the notion that she needed rest. But what could they do? She wasn't, after all, really their Erin. So they grudgingly departed, with kisses for the little saint.

  Her mother stayed behind after they'd gone, cleaning up and chatting about tomorrow's Mass. Sandra knew she wanted to ask about Mike but was afraid to; it wasn't a topic her daughter wanted to discuss.

  It wasn't supposed to be like this. Mike was supposed to be by her side, supporting her, supporting his family. That was his job. And he was supposed to be happy about what was going to happen tomorrow. That wasn't his job, of course; it was just Sandra's dream.

  She missed him. She knew where he was—at his friend Gary's, sleeping on the fold-out couch in the basement rec room. He wasn't so big a jerk that he wouldn't tell her where he was staying. But he hadn't come home, either, and he hadn't wanted to talk about what was keeping him away. Just like a man—how could they solve the problem if he wouldn't talk about it? But in a way she didn't want to talk about it either; she just wanted the solidity of his body next to hers in bed, she just wanted the ritual of him opening his beer before supper, she just wanted to hear him sing a lullaby to their daughter as he tucked her in at night.

  "I'll take care of the dishes, Mom," Sandra said, trying not to sound exasperated at her mother's fussing.

  "You're the one who needs rest," she responded. "You have to do the work of two now."

  Her mother adored Mike, but she wasn't about to take his side over this. At least her mother was here. At least her mother cared.

  But eventually her mother, too, left, and Sandra was alone in the empty house with Erin. "Just you and me, kid," she murmured. "But wait until tomorrow. That's going to really be something. That's going to change our lives."

  "Ope," Erin said.

  Sandra kissed the top of her head and started to pray.

  They were eating supper when she heard the sound of a car in the driveway. Another acolyte, she thought, annoyed at their persistence. But the car sounded familiar, and the familiar footsteps came around back, and there was Mike standing in the doorway.

  "Hey," he said.

  "Hey," Sandra replied.

  "Hi, Princess," he said to Erin.

  She wriggled with delight.

  He walked over and kissed her, then got a can of beer out of the refrigerator. Sandra closed her eyes as she listened to the sound of him opening it. Then she heard him put the can down, and she felt his hands massaging her shoulders as she sat at the table. She leaned her head back against him.

  "I couldn't stay away," he murmured. "I missed you both too much. The way I see it, we'll make it work, no matter what happens. We have to—we love each other too much to fail."

  Tears began to leak out of her eyes. "I know it's hard," she said. "But we need you. More than ever."

  "I'm here," he murmured. "I'm staying."

  In the warm kitchen, leaning back against her husband, Sandra's happiness was complete. She wouldn't tell Mike, not sure how he'd take it, and not wanting to ruin the moment, but another one of her prayers had been answered.

  Now all that was left was tomorrow, and the final gift from God.

  Chapter 37

  It was the longest day of Larry Doyle's life. He was groggy from worry and lack of sleep, but still he had to do his job. There was one day left to get ready for the pope's arrival, and he was the man everyone looked to.

  Especially Cardinal Monroe, who was a walking anxiety attack. "It's going to be all right, isn't it, Larry?" he kept asking.

  Doyle resisted the urge to tell him just how bad things were, just what he was going to have to do to make things "all right." Wasn't
worth it. Monroe would probably have a nervous breakdown for real and make things even worse.

  "It'll be fine, your Eminence," he repeated. "Everything is under control."

  Of course, there was no one to reassure Doyle that everything was going to be all right. It was all on his shoulders. At least the police hadn't shown up, or Hurley. Had Hurley even gone to the police? Probably just told his girlfriend, Doyle thought. The two of them deserved each other.

  Day faded into night, and Doyle had to extricate himself from the last-minute crises; he had other preparations to make. He rushed back to his apartment.

  He was only inside for a moment when he knew that something was wrong. The newspaper wasn't where he had left it on the kitchen table; a drawer that had been shut was now half-open. Prouse is here, he thought, suddenly terrified. "Hello?" he called out, and his voice sounded thin, quavering.

  He moved slowly into the bathroom and found the gun that he had hidden there in the morning, taped to the inside of the top of the toilet tank. Holding the gun, he felt a little better as he searched the rest of the apartment.

  The place was empty, he discovered to his relief. He sat on his bed, heart pounding, and tried to think it through. Someone had definitely broken in to his apartment. Why would it be Prouse, though? But Hurley, on the other hand, looking for more evidence about DiStefano...

  Damn him—wouldn't he ever stop meddling? But he wouldn't have found anything here, Doyle was sure. And at least this showed he was still skulking around trying to figure things out by himself, instead of going to the police.

  Doyle couldn't worry about Hurley now. He looked at the gun. He was almost as terrified of it as he was of Prouse. What was a priest doing walking around with a gun in his hand? He'd had to make up a crazy story to borrow it from one of his connections in the militant pro-life movement, something about needing protection after receiving a death threat from an equally militant pro-abortionist. Well, he had the gun now, and he would have to use it, and then he would have to be ready with a less crazy story to satisfy the police. Prouse called me and wanted to meet with me, alone. He warned me not to call the police. I knew I'd be in danger. After all, I'm ardently pro-life myself—though not a madman like Robert Coulter, of course. Prouse was clearly a madman, too. He tried to kill me, the way he killed Coulter. I had to defend myself...

  No, Doyle realized, it wouldn't work, not with what Hurley would have to say. He would have to escape without the police finding out about him. It was possible, wasn't it? It had to be possible. Possible that Prouse wouldn't suspect anything and let his guard down, possible that Doyle could get away with murder, the pope would make it unscathed through his trip to America, the police would ignore Hurley... Possible that Doyle could put it all behind him and just do his job, give glory to God, give thanks that he still had the chance...

  He closed his eyes. All things were possible, through God. But was God still on his side?

  Finally he opened his eyes and looked at his watch. It was time. He slowly changed out of his priest's suit and put the gun in a pocket of his jacket. Please, he thought as he stood at the door, getting ready to go. Please be with me tonight. I have only ever tried to do Your will. And then he walked out into the night.

  The drive into town was infuriatingly slow. What if he was late and Prouse didn't show up? What if he couldn't even find the place?

  Finally he reached the Fenway. He parked in a residents-only space and looked up at the light towers of the nearby ballpark, still lit as workers finished their preparations for tomorrow's Mass. Security would be tight, but he knew it wouldn't be tight enough to stop George Prouse.

  He walked in the opposite direction, following Prouse's directions. Into part of the Fenway itself. He had always thought of the Fenway as urban parkland, filled with shade trees and winding walkways. But this part of it seemed almost untamed, with high reeds bordering dirt paths that wound past fenced-in garden plots. The few people he passed seemed furtive, wary. Were they on the way to assignations in the reeds? Or were they muggers looking for the right victim? Doyle shuddered and put his hand inside his jacket to be reassured by the hard cold menace of the gun.

  At last he found the bench Prouse had specified. He thought it was the right bench, at any rate. There was no one around. The reeds stirred in the wind. In the distance he could still see the lights of the park.

  He sat down, scanning the darkness for the man he had to kill.

  It had come to this, he thought. Like Hurley, such great things had been expected of him. He had expected them of himself. But here he was. If you use evil, you can expect it to try equally hard to use you. And sometimes it will succeed. And that was where he had gone wrong, he now understood. He had thought he could master it, but instead it had enveloped him in murder and deceit until he was no longer sure he knew right from wrong.

  Larry Doyle looked around in fear and anticipation. Evil was out there somewhere. Would it claim him once and for all? Not without a fight, he thought. Not without a fight.

  * * *

  Hurley and Kathleen stood in the reeds near the path leading up to where Doyle sat, as close as they could get to him without risking being seen.

  It had been a struggle coming this far, following him through the traffic into Boston, then on foot into this desolate part of the Fenway, always sure he had to be aware of them close behind him. But they were desperate, and their only remaining hope was that Doyle would lead them to Prouse.

  "He's scared to death," Kathleen whispered.

  Hurley watched him turn this way and that, obviously on the lookout for someone. "So am I," he said.

  It had already been nerve-wracking breaking into Doyle's apartment earlier that day. That, however, had turned out to be a waste of time. If there had been anything in the place to link Doyle to DiStefano or a papal assassination, it was long gone by the time they arrived to search it. Now they had run out of ideas. If Doyle didn't bring them to Prouse tonight, there would be nothing left but an inevitably futile plea to Captain Ryan or Cardinal Monroe to stop the visit.

  A homeless person with a scraggly gray beard and rheumy eyes shuffled along the path and noticed them peering out from the reeds. "Spare change?" he asked in a rasping, tired voice. He was wearing a tattered overcoat and woolen gloves, despite the summer heat, and he carried a shopping bag.

  Hurley took out a five-dollar bill and pressed it into the man's trembling hand to get rid of him. The man stared at it intently, as if to make sure it was real. "God bless," he said finally, then walked off with a little extra spring in his step.

  He continued on his way, out onto the path that led towards Doyle. Doyle glanced at him as he approached, then turned away.

  The man slowed down and reached into his bag, then straightened up. It was Kathleen who understood first. "No!" she shouted.

  Doyle looked up. The homeless man leaned forward and they heard a pop, then another pop, and Doyle jerked backward, then slumped over on the bench. Kathleen was running, gun drawn, and Hurley was right behind her. "Stop!" she shouted, but the man had dropped his bag and was running now as well, all traces of his torpid shuffling gone in an instant.

  Hurley stopped by Doyle, who was leaning to one side now, his eyes sightless, blood seeping from his mouth and pumping out of his chest. Oh, God. He knelt and tried to stop the flow of blood, but it was hopeless. "Larry, damn it," he said, but there was no response. He felt himself starting to cry. He pressed Doyle's eyelids closed, and through his tears started to say the prayers of the Anointing of the Sick.

  After a few moments he felt something sticking into his leg. He looked down and saw that he was kneeling on the barrel of the murderer's gun. He gingerly pushed it aside, then continued praying.

  When he looked up again Kathleen was walking towards him, breathing heavily and talking on her cell phone, a grim look on her face. In the distance he heard sirens. A few people had gathered, gaping at them but not approaching. She knelt down next to Doyle and fel
t for a pulse. "Dead," she muttered.

  "What happened with you?" Hurley asked.

  "He got away," she said. "I'm sure it was Prouse. He's toying with us, Joe." The sirens were much louder now. "I think," she added, "that things are about to get very complicated."

  * * *

  It didn't take Morelli long to find out just how complicated. She got her first inkling when Detective Lafferty arrived, and he looked at her with the same undisguised loathing he had shown when she had offered him advice about the McAllister case. She started her explanation, and almost at the same moment he started shaking his head, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "This guy's a monsignor," he said. "You followed him here, and some homeless person shot him while you were watching?"

  "He was disguised as a homeless person," she corrected him. "I'm sure it was George Prouse."

  "The same guy you said murdered Robert Coulter the other day. While you were watching."

  "Yes, the same guy," Morelli replied impatiently. "The same guy who's going to assassinate the pope if we don't find him."

  "The same guy that no one else knows anything else about—except your boyfriend over there."

  "Yes, that's right. Look, Tim, I know this all sounds strange, but we've really got a big problem on our hands here."

  Lafferty shook his head. "Frankly, Lieutenant, you're the one with the big problem."

  "Oh, come on. If I'm involved in this murder somehow, why am I still here? Why did I call it in as soon as it happened?"

  "I have no idea why you do the things you do," he replied. "And I have no idea why your father did the things he did. I'm just a dim-witted cop trying to do his job, not some hotshot who thinks he knows everything. Now let's go back to headquarters and have a chat, shall we?"

  She looked over at Joe Hurley, who was being pushed into the back of a cruiser. She wanted to scream at Lafferty that he really was dim-witted, that he was screwing up the biggest cases of his career. And then, suddenly, she became calm. She had screamed at people too much, gotten angry and lost sight of what was important. She couldn't lose her focus now; no matter what happened to her, she had to figure out how to save the pope. "Fine, Tim," she said, "but this is a lot bigger than you. I want the commissioner called in. It's his career too if the pope is assassinated."