Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  Lafferty shrugged. "Get in the cruiser," he said.

  At headquarters it turned out to be more than a chat, of course. And it was with more than just Detective Lafferty. Captain Ryan came in after a while, then one of the FBI guys who had been involved in the search for Coulter, and finally the head of Homicide, a dour man named Peterson who seemed constitutionally incapable of smiling. But the commissioner didn't show up. Had Lafferty not bothered to call him? Or was the commissioner fed up with her the way everyone else in the department apparently was?

  At any rate, the questions quickly became pointed and hostile.

  Lieutenant, was Monsignor Doyle responsible for having you removed from your security role in the papal visit?

  Lieutenant, isn't it true that Monsignor Doyle recently fired Father Joseph Hurley as well?

  Aren't you and Hurley lovers, Lieutenant?

  Did you and Hurley break into Monsignor Doyle's apartment earlier today?

  "Look," she repeated, "there is a guy named George Prouse somewhere in this city who has already killed Ed McAllister, Robert Coulter, and now Monsignor Doyle, and he's planning to kill the pope."

  "Except that his name isn't really George Prouse," Lafferty said.

  "And he used to work for some mysterious Vatican security agency, but now he works for an Italian mobster," Peterson added glumly, as if her obvious lies were depressing him further.

  She had to get out of here. She wasn't going to be able to deal with them; she'd have to do it herself. "I want a lawyer," she said. "And I want the commissioner."

  Lafferty shrugged. "A lawyer sounds like a good idea. Lieutenant, I'm sorry to say that I'm going to have to read you your rights. You're officially a suspect in the murder of Lawrence Doyle."

  Lafferty didn't look sorry at all, Morelli thought. This was beyond insane, but it was happening. As she listened to the familiar Miranda warning, for the first time directed at her, she thought of Joe Hurley, who was undoubtedly undergoing a similar interrogation somewhere else in the building. How was he taking it? Nothing was more terrifying for an innocent person than to be caught in the jaws of the criminal justice system.

  She had the right to remain silent. She had the right to an attorney...

  Lafferty might hate her but he wasn't stupid; none of them were stupid. Sooner or later they would have to realize that she wasn't lying. They couldn't hope to nail her, or Hurley, for this murder.

  But in the meantime, the pope was already on his way to America.

  There's no one left to save him, she thought. She recalled Prouse taking her to Fenway Park, and she had a sudden chilling insight: He's going to do it during the Mass. He wasn't a baseball fan; he was there to scout the scene of his crime. And the Mass was tomorrow afternoon. No, she thought, looking up at the clock in the interrogation room. This afternoon. Shortly after the pope's arrival.

  It was going to be up to her.

  Eventually they would let her go. But would it be soon enough to save the pope?

  * * *

  Pope John was supposed to rest on the plane, but he couldn't. His mind kept turning over the problems to be addressed on the trip. Race relations. Sexuality. The American Church.

  And among them now were the other problems that faced him: the Vatican Bank. Cardinal Valli.

  No one had said the job would be easy. He thought back to the conclave, to the recitation of the votes after the final ballot, hearing his name called out again and again in the ancient chapel, each vote feeling almost like a physical blow. So many wise, holy men voting for him, expressing their belief—or perhaps merely their hope—that he could lead them, and all the faithful. How many of them felt let down now? How many were convinced they had made a mistake?

  None would ever tell him. There would be nothing but homage, sincere or not, for the rest of his life. And it would be his job to look into the eyes of those around him and make the call: friend or foe? And if someone was a foe, what was he to do about it? It wasn't a sin to oppose the pope. Perhaps he should do nothing. Perhaps he should simply love his enemy and let it go at that.

  But surely then his enemies would destroy him and block everything he wanted to achieve. What was compassion to him would be weakness to others.

  Race relations. Sexuality. The American Church.

  The evil lurking in the shadows.

  "Holiness?"

  Pope John opened his eyes. Cardinal Valli was standing in front of him, for once looking slightly unsure of himself. "Yes, Marcello," the pope replied.

  "There has been an... incident in Boston. I thought you should be made aware of it. The Vicar General of the archdiocese has been murdered."

  "Murdered?"

  "I'm afraid so. I was just on the phone with Cardinal Monroe. Apparently the police suspect a disgruntled priest whom Doyle recently fired."

  Monroe. Do not believe Monroe. Something tugged at the pope's memory. "What was the Vicar General's name?" he asked.

  "Doyle, I believe. Monsignor Lawrence Doyle."

  Yes, Riccielli had mentioned him. He was part of it. "Didn't Monsignor Doyle work at the Vatican Bank before going to Boston?"

  Valli could not hide his astonishment, although he quickly covered it with his usual impassivity. "I don't actually recall, Holiness," he replied. "I can check on that."

  Pope John gazed up at him, and he wondered how Valli had fooled him for so long. He had been desperate for help, he supposed, and too grateful when Valli seemed to offer it to him. "Quite a coincidence if true, wouldn't you say, Eminence?" he asked.

  Valli shrugged. "A lot of people have worked at the IOR over the years. But, yes, I suppose it is a coincidence."

  The pope nodded, as if Valli's agreement were sufficient to settle the matter. "Well," he said, "this may get us off message, as you would put it, but when we land we must pray publicly for Monsignor Doyle's immortal soul."

  "Of course, Holiness," Valli said. "It is only fitting."

  The pope leaned back and closed his eyes once again, silently dismissing Valli. There was much to be done when he reached Boston.

  * * *

  George Prouse sat in his small room, well satisfied with his evening's work. He had even earned five dollars from it, he thought with a smile, taking the bill Hurley had given him out of his pocket.

  But of course tonight was only the appetizer.

  He stared at the remains of his disguise, lying crumpled on the floor. In the distance a siren wailed. Through the thin walls he could hear the grinding bass of a rap song.

  Say a prayer, your Holiness, he thought. Because you are the main course.

  He lay back on his bed, closed his eyes, and slept soundly till morning.

  Chapter 38

  Father Joe Hurley spent the night in jail.

  When he realized that the police suspected that he and Kathleen had murdered Doyle, he fell into a black despair. He was not the kind to give up; he had never given up in his life. But what was the point of struggling, if these guys were going to be so willfully, cosmically stupid—or, worse, if God was so determined that he was going to fail and be punished, Job-like, for his sins...?

  He made little effort to defend himself, freely admitting all the incriminating details they had come up with, even throwing in others for good measure, like the fact that he had touched the murder weapon and, for all he knew, had gotten his bloody fingerprints on it. Of course Prouse had worn gloves as part of his disguise.

  When they got down to business and informed him he had the right to an attorney, he wasn't interested in finding one. The only lawyer he could think of was the smooth-talking Irish BCL who had sat through his previous meeting with Detective Lafferty. If they tried hard enough, maybe they could charge him with Edzo's murder, too. At any rate, that lawyer was the archdiocese's toady and wouldn't be interested in defending the foul renegade who had slain its noble Vicar General.

  So Hurley sat there and brooded while the police interrogated him, and then afterwards, when they fina
lly let him alone to get some sleep, he brooded some more. He had no idea why Prouse would kill Doyle. He thought about the homeless man's parting "God bless," which in retrospect seemed charged with condescension and irony. The bastard is doing this just for the fun of it, he thought bitterly.

  He wondered how Kathleen was making out. She wasn't the kind to sulk in a situation like this. She'd probably be raging at the detectives, insisting that they were idiots for not believing her, and as a result making them even more hostile.

  Well, it didn't matter. Maybe there was no strategy that would work right now. Maybe it was God's plan that he and Kathleen not be believed, prophets without honor, for some reason that passed human understanding.

  Or maybe, he thought in the middle of the night, there is no God. Just chance events in a universe without purpose or point. Belief in God was just humanity's way of coping with the crushing terror and emptiness of such a place, like a nightlight in a child's bedroom. And his own experience of God was just an illusion, a trick of his nervous system or synapses, perhaps even genetically predetermined. Why was he so sure it was otherwise, in the face of so much evidence to the contrary? Why was he so sure that the Church was a force for good and truth, in the face of so much evidence to the contrary?

  He wondered what Larry Doyle had believed, when he saw the gun pointing at him and realized that his life was over. That's when you're supposed to convert, to hope for God's forgiveness and a life to come. But perhaps that is when you are instead ultimately convinced of the futility of everything you have done. None of it matters, because you are returning to dust, and the universe simply does not care one way or the other. You listen for the voice of God, and all you hear is the silence of the void.

  In the morning they started talking to him again, asking the same questions over and over, apparently probing for the inconsistencies that would prove he was lying. But after a while the interrogation stopped, and he was left alone for a while. Finally Detective Lafferty reappeared, looking annoyed. "We're not done with you," he said, "but they told me to let you go. Don't think you're out of this, though. We'll let you know when we want you back."

  Strange, Hurley thought. Who was pulling strings to free him? He wondered if the police had told the world about his arrest. Did his parents know he was a suspected murderer? Were the parishioners at Saint Jerome's being interviewed about their former curate?

  Lafferty turned him over to a cop, who led him through police headquarters and turned him over to the man Hurley least expected to see.

  Monroe's prissy secretary, Father Julian Hynes, was standing in the corridor, sniffing the air with disapproval. "This is quite a situation you've gotten yourself into, Father Hurley," Hynes said.

  Hynes was, of course, delighted that Hurley was in trouble. He himself would never get in trouble, because his greatest joy in life was following orders. "Cut the crap, Julie," Hurley replied. "What's going on?"

  "His Eminence has asked me to fetch you," he said in his usual pompous way. "He is gravely distressed by the events of last night and wishes to speak with you about them in person."

  "Isn't he afraid I'll murder him?"

  Hynes blanched, as if he hadn't actually considered the possibility that he might be in the company of a murderer. He stared at Hurley, who realized that he even looked like a murderer, with bloodstains on his t-shirt and the knees of his jeans. "I was told to bring you a change of clothes," Hynes muttered finally, handing Hurley a shopping bag. "Please hurry. His Eminence doesn't have much time."

  Hurley took the clothes and went into the men's room. What did Monroe want with him? he wondered as he changed and cleaned himself up. Best not to push too hard on it, in case he changed his mind. Hurley had to get out of here, and he didn't care how he did it.

  He finished changing into the priest's outfit Hynes had provided, then returned to where the other priest stood waiting by the front desk.

  "Follow me," Hynes said, a trifle nervously. And he hurried out of the building. It was warm and cloudless outside, a perfect summer day—a great day to be at the ballpark. Hurley was faintly startled by the sight of cars passing, people chatting, life going on as usual while he faced this monumental crisis. Didn't they realize what was happening?

  Hynes was illegally parked in front of police headquarters, but the prominent "Clergy" sign on the dashboard evidently protected his vehicle. Hynes loved his "Clergy" sign, Hurley was sure.

  They got in, and Hynes made a call on his cell phone. "Have to go straight to the airport," he said when he hung up. "His Holiness will be landing shortly. Cardinal Monroe needs to be there to greet him."

  "You're the boss, Julie." Hurley realized that he did want to talk to Monroe. The cardinal wasn't stupid enough to really believe that he had killed Doyle—was he? He had to see at this point that something was going on. He had to listen to reason. The pope was landing. They were running out of time.

  Hynes headed for Logan, driving like someone who knew he was immune from getting tickets. As they approached the tunnel, they saw the crowds already gathering for a sight of the pope's motorcade, the vendors with their pushcarts full of souvenirs, the police in place, preparing to divert traffic.

  "You excited about the pope's visit, Julie?" Hurley asked.

  "Of course. Aren't you?"

  "I am. I'm also absolutely terrified that he won't live through it."

  Hynes glanced over at him, looking a little terrified himself. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said.

  Hurley shook his head. It wasn't worth pursuing. Hynes sped through the tunnel, heading for the airport. He seemed put out that he couldn't park illegally outside the international terminal—not even the "Clergy" sign would work there. They parked in the garage and hurried inside the terminal. The place was crawling with security people, Hurley noted approvingly. Monroe was already on the tarmac with all the other dignitaries, and it took Hynes a heated discussion with a supervisor and a couple of phone calls to the security on the tarmac before they got permission to head down, escorted by a burly state trooper escorted.

  When they were outside, Hynes ordered Hurley to stay where he was, and he strode over to Monroe, who was waiting in a crowd of politicians and church leaders and TV cameras. Doyle had put a lot of work into the welcome ceremony, Hurley recalled. He leaned back against a luggage trolley and waited. After a moment Monroe turned and stared at Hurley through his thick glasses. Hurley expected to be summoned, but instead Monroe walked over to him. Staying out of range of the TV cameras, he thought.

  "Your Eminence," Hurley said when Monroe was standing in front of him.

  "Father Hurley." The cardinal looked unhappy and frightened, like a little boy lost in the woods. Hurley wondered just how much he knew, or suspected. Could he conceivably be part of it? It seemed impossible, but a couple of days ago Doyle's involvement would have seemed impossible, too. "What's going on?" Monroe demanded. He seemed to be trying to sound cold and superior, but his voice was trembling. "What happened to Monsignor Doyle?"

  Hurley decided to ignore the details and get to the point. "Stop the visit," he said. "If you care for the Holy Father, if you care for the Church, tell Pope John it's too dangerous here. If you can't stop the visit, at least call off the public Mass. The same guy who killed Doyle, who killed Robert Coulter, is going to try to assassinate the pope. He's associated with Dominic DiStefano and may have something to do with the Vatican Bank. You worked at the Bank with Doyle, and for all I know you're aware of some of this. But I'm not trying to challenge you. I don't care what you did or didn't do. I just want you to help me save the pope."

  Monroe's eyes widened, but he said nothing. He needs Doyle to tell him what to do, Hurley thought. "You're completely mistaken," the cardinal managed to say finally. "You don't know what you're talking about."

  But his expression told a different story.

  "It's not too late," Hurley urged him. "Why did you get me out of jail, if not to have me tell you this? Do the ri
ght thing, your Eminence. Don't count the cost."

  Hynes came up to them, full of self-importance. "Eminence, you're needed," he said. "The Holy Father's plane is about to land."

  Monroe looked at him. "Yes, coming," he muttered distractedly. Then he turned back to Hurley. "Larry Doyle was a good man," he said.

  "So is the pope," Hurley replied. "So is the pope."

  Monroe turned away and walked back to the crowd awaiting the pope's arrival.

  Hurley shook his head. Was there anything more he could have said? Was there something he should do now? He noticed the state trooper, still standing nearby. I'm not the one you should be worried about, he thought. Was Prouse here? he wondered. Was he lurking in the crowds that had gathered to see the popemobile speed through the city? He had no idea; he only knew that something was going to happen. Soon.

  In the distance Hurley saw a plane taxiing towards them. He hadn't even seen it land. It came to a halt, and a staircase and a red carpet were rolled up to it. The TV cameras swung round to focus on the plane's exit door. Minutes passed, until Hurley began to wonder if something had gone wrong—or, better, if the pope had gotten the message somehow, and wasn't even going to leave the plane. Unconsciously he moved forward, trying to get a better look. Finally the door swung open, and a moment later a small, gray-haired black man dressed in white appeared at the top of the stairs.

  The pope stood there for a moment as the crowd burst into applause. He smiled a little and cocked his head to one side, looking both puzzled and pleased. Finally he descended the stairs somewhat stiffly. A microphone had been set up on the red carpet, and he walked up to it. "God bless America," the pope said in his soft, British-accented English, and the crowd cheered. Then the rest of the people on the plane disembarked, and the handshaking and embraces began.