Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  Morelli stepped through the metal detector, which beeped its displeasure. The security personnel, following Jimmy's lead, ignored it. "Thanks, Jimmy," she said. "Talk to you later."

  "You bet, Lieutenant."

  Morelli walked quickly inside. She took a look around at the concourse, quiet now that the Mass had begun, then made her way out into the stands. She stood in an aisle and watched for a moment, awed by the spectacle of so many thousands of people here to worship with the little black man out by second base, and terrified by the thought that one of them was here to kill, not worship.

  Terrified by the thought that she wouldn't be able to find him in time.

  She walked up through the stands, scanning the rows of pious faces, wondering where he was, and when he would make his move.

  * * *

  They were seated on the platform where the pope was saying Mass. He was right there, not thirty feet away from them, shorter than Sandra had expected but every bit as holy—every bit as, well, other-worldly. She looked down at Erin, whose eyes never wavered from the pope; her face shone with an intensity, an alertness that Sandra hadn't seen since the accident. It's going to happen, she thought. It has to happen. She noticed that Father Hurley was no longer with them, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the moment when the pope would approach her darling, and the miracle she had been praying for would finally take place.

  She squeezed Erin's hand. Not long now.

  * * *

  The old man shuffled along the sidewalk in front of the park. The street was almost empty now; few people were around to accept his leaflets. He stopped by the entrance where the Red Sox executives and the luxury-box season-ticket holders drove in to park their cars. A plump cop stood in the entrance, looking bored.

  "Save the unborn," the old man croaked, holding out a leaflet.

  The cop took the leaflet and glanced at it. "Good luck to you, fella," he said. "My wife feels the same way. The number of abortions they have every year—it's just a shame."

  "More than a shame," the old man said. "It's a crime. It's murder." He moved closer, as if to point out something on the leaflet, then took a knife from beneath his sandwich board and stabbed the cop in the throat. The man slumped over in his chair, gasping and choking up blood, and the old man quickly pulled him out of sight, where he finished the job. He took off the sandwich board and dropped it next to the corpse, then grabbed the man's security credentials and walked quickly into the parking area, holding tight to his satchel.

  * * *

  "We must love one another," the pope said to the multitudes in his homily, "or there is no point to our lives. We must love one another, or the sacrifice Jesus made on the cross will have been utterly wasted on us. We must love one another, even when we are separated by the chasms of race, or political beliefs, or national origin. These chasms may seem wide, but they are as nothing when compared to what binds us together. We must love one another, because we cannot pretend that we love God if we do not also love His children."

  Pope John felt strangely at ease here, delivering his sermon on this American baseball field. He had dealt with Monroe and Valli, and his papacy had not collapsed. He knew now that he had the strength to deal with whatever else came his way. And he knew he could make America accept him for what he was—just another one of God's children, trying to make the world a better place, trying to serve the Lord.

  He glanced over at Erin McKee, seated in her wheelchair and staring intently at him. "We are all God's children," he said. "If we forget this, we forget what is most important about us. If we remember it, if we live our lives with that thought always before us, then, my friends, we can accomplish miracles.

  "Let us pray."

  * * *

  Joe Hurley couldn't stay seated. He was too nervous. Was he accomplishing anything by prowling through the stands and searching for Prouse? Probably not. But if there was any chance at all of finding him, of stopping him, then he had to do this.

  He had been particularly worried during the homily, with the pope just standing out there at the lectern, alone and defenseless. The homily had been wonderful, but Hurley was glad when it was over. Perhaps they would get through the Mass okay. Perhaps he was mistaken about Prouse. Or perhaps Prouse had chosen some other time to attempt the deed. He had no idea, and he couldn't take any chances. So he kept moving, studying faces, looking for him in the crowd.

  * * *

  The old man had transformed himself. He now wore a Boston Police Department uniform, and he looked twenty years younger. He still clutched the satchel, however. His credentials and uniform got him past the security people with barely a nod. He made his way out onto the field, waving to another cop as he passed, walking slowly but purposefully, a man with a destination but in no hurry to get there. He made his way out towards the left-field wall, the fabled Green Monster, as the Consecration approached, and the pope turned the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ.

  * * *

  The security command center was in a luxury box overlooking the infield. It was there that the critical calls came in, one after another, and were relayed to Captain Ryan and his counterparts.

  The first one came during the Consecration. "Captain, Deegan in Section 12 says he saw Lieutenant Morelli walking through the stands," an officer reported. "He wants to know if she's supposed to be here and should he do something."

  Before Ryan could respond, someone manning another phone shouted, "We've got an officer down at the entrance to the parking garage. Stab wounds, no sign of the assailant."

  "Witnesses?" Ryan demanded. "Any witnesses?"

  "Negative."

  "Is he alive? Can he talk?"

  "Not responsive—doesn't look good. We've got some anti-abortion-type material at the scene."

  Abortion again? Ryan shuddered. What was going on?

  "Shut it down and get the pope out of here," Clausman, the Secret Service coordinator, demanded. "We can't take any chances."

  But Agnello, from the Vatican, shook his head emphatically. "We can't overreact," he responded. "The pope would be most upset. We have come this far. We can't just stop the Mass and send people home."

  "He'll be even more upset if he ends up dead," Clausman said. But then he turned to Ryan. "What's going on with Morelli?" he asked. "Why isn't she locked up?"

  "We didn't have the evidence to hold her," Ryan said, "but she's not supposed to be in the park."

  "Well, damn it, then what's she doing here? Do you think she's behind this?"

  Ryan threw up his hands in exasperation. He didn't know what to think. He could maybe bring himself to believe that she'd killed that monsignor last night. But why in the world would she want to kill the pope? Well, explanations didn't matter at this point. "Find Morelli," he ordered the officer who had reported the sighting. "Bring her in—but use caution. She may be dangerous."

  "We've got snipers on the roof—we could take her out," Clausman said.

  "Too dangerous."

  "Should we shut it down?" Clausman persisted.

  They looked at Agnello. It was the Vatican's call. The security chief was sweating with tension, but he slowly shook his head. "The Mass must continue," he murmured.

  The three men looked down on the field, where the ancient ritual was taking place. "God help us if we screw this up," Clausman murmured.

  Amen, Ryan thought.

  * * *

  The outfield was filled with people—a strange sight to a baseball fan, used to the wide expanses of grass patrolled by three lone figures, but helpful if you didn't want to be noticed as you headed for the Wall.

  The lower part of the Wall was dominated by an old-fashioned hand-operated scoreboard; someone sat inside the Wall, manually raising the numbers that tracked the progress of the game.

  There was no game to track today.

  The old-man-turned-cop approached it. "Hey!" someone shouted.

  He turned. A sallow-looking officer was looking at him. "You k
now Lieutenant Morelli?" he said.

  "Sure."

  "If you see her, put her in custody," the officer said. "She's supposed to be in the park somewhere."

  "Will do."

  The officer turned away, and the old man made his way up to the Wall. A door to the left of the scoreboard led to its interior. He tried the handle. It was open. He slipped inside.

  It was empty. The interior was small and dimly lit, and the walls were covered with graffiti. Large numbers hung on hooks, waiting to be posted on the scoreboard. He sat down on a wooden bench and looked out through a narrow opening in the scoreboard. As he had already determined, there was a clear view of the altar and the pope. Excellent.

  He put the satchel onto the bench beside him, then removed the remaining leaflets and threw them onto the ground. Hidden beneath them, wrapped in cloth, were the pieces of a rifle, dark and powerful, filled with inchoate death. He quickly started to assemble it.

  There was no time to waste.

  * * *

  Handing out Communion to the throng at Fenway was as big a logistical exercise as anything about the Mass. Hundreds of priests, tens of thousands of Hosts... everyone who wanted to receive Communion had to be given the opportunity, but it all had to be done on a tight schedule, or else the Mass would last into the night.

  The pope had been assigned his own list of communicants—the usual politicians and dignitaries and Big Catholic Laymen, of course, but also some nuns and schoolchildren and other lucky members of the faithful. And, of course, Erin McKee.

  Sandra McKee's hand continued to squeeze Erin's. Their world had narrowed to this place, this moment, approaching at long last. Sandra's heart felt as if it were about to burst.

  * * *

  Hurley was walking along the top of the grandstand when he overheard the conversation between the policeman and the thin man wearing a suit and an earpiece. "She was spotted in the right-field stands," the thin man was saying. "You know what she looks like?"

  "Morelli?" the cop responded. "Sure. Short, good-looking, black hair, green eyes."

  "All right. If you see her, let me know. Let's be careful, though. Sounds like she's gone over the edge."

  "The officer okay?"

  "Don't know, but it sounds bad. Let's go."

  Hurley kept walking. Kathleen was here, too? Something had happened to a cop? Jesus. It's coming, he thought.

  And he thought: Communion. The pope standing at the front of the altar, motionless, exposed...

  He headed down toward the field once again. Where was Kathleen?

  Where was Prouse?

  * * *

  Erin McKee was happy. The sky was blue. The air was warm. Her mother was next to her, holding her hand. But what mattered most was that God was here. God was everywhere, but especially here, now.

  Pope, pope, her mind kept saying.

  She loved God. And God loved her, she knew. He had been calling to her, and He called to her now. "Erin," He said, "it's all right. I am with you. Don't be afraid. Don't ever be afraid."

  And she wasn't. Why would she be?

  Pope, pope.

  * * *

  "Morelli! Stop right there!"

  Morelli was in center field. She turned to see a burly cop she didn't recognize heading for her. Shit. She glanced at the altar. Communion was starting. People were lining up to receive. The choir was blaring over the speakers. Now, she thought. It was going to happen now. She looked around wildly. Where are you, damn it?

  And then at last she saw something. The gleam of a rifle barrel, just barely visible through an opening in the scoreboard.

  He had talked to her about that Wall. Now he was inside it.

  She sprinted across the outfield towards him, pushing aside the shocked communicants, reaching for her gun, hoping the burly cop didn't shoot her in the back. She was going to be too late. She knew it. She knew it.

  * * *

  Hurley noticed the commotion in the outfield, then saw Morelli fighting her way through the crowds. The Wall, he realized. Oh God, the Green Monster. He raced after her.

  * * *

  Prouse was ready. He had waited a lifetime for this moment. Nothing would compare to it. Oswald, Ray, Sirhan. Their accomplishments would pale next to his. He thought of his other murders. McAllister, Coulter, Doyle. Trivial people, trivial deaths. This was it. Now.

  The pope was in his sights. Prouse was sweating in the cramped space, but that didn't matter. His aim would be true. The pope was giving out Communion, placing the hosts on the tongues of the faithful... They got in Prouse's way, but he only needed a moment...

  There. He saw it coming up. The girl in the wheelchair.

  Perfect.

  * * *

  Erin, God called to her, come to me. It's time.

  And here was the pope, smiling at her like a loving father. He had a white circle in his hand. And Erin knew that it, too, was God.

  * * *

  The rifle in the scoreboard was out of Morelli's reach. She raced past it to the door and kicked it in. "Prouse!" she shouted.

  Too late.

  * * *

  Prouse ignored her. The moment was his. He had to seize it.

  He pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Erin was so happy. Now everything was right, now anything was possible. She rose from her wheelchair, light as a bird, and held out her arms to give God a hug.

  * * *

  NO!

  * * *

  God smiled at Erin and took her into His embrace.

  * * *

  Prouse saw the white dress explode into red. She'd been in a wheelchair—how could she stand up? How could she block the pope just at the instant when he...

  Prouse would never know the answer. He felt a searing, overwhelming pain, and he knew his moment had passed. In frustration he pulled the rifle in from the scoreboard and aimed it at the woman who had killed him. As blackness descended he squeezed the trigger one final time, but the blackness was complete before he could tell if this last act of his life was a failure as well. There was only pain.

  And then there was nothing.

  * * *

  Security personnel surrounded the pope, tried to pull him away to safety, but he wouldn't go, wouldn't leave the little girl and her family. Everywhere there was blood and tears, and some of the tears were his own. God help us all, he thought, as he laid his hands on the little girl's beautiful, lifeless face.

  * * *

  Cardinal Valli stood amid the chaos, holding on to the ciborium that contained the sacred Hosts. The communicants had flung themselves to the ground. Priests were fleeing from the altar. Police screamed at him to get down. He ignored them. Instead he gazed at the weeping pope fearlessly cradling the little girl who had been shot, and he imagined the video clips, the magazine covers, the breathless prose of a thousand reporters. And he understood that all he had managed to accomplish was to turn the pope from a novelty into a hero, and destroy himself in the bargain.

  He returned the ciborium to the altar and sat down, impassive amid the chaos. God had abandoned him, and now he could not think of a single thing to do.

  * * *

  Joe Hurley was the first one to reach Kathleen. She was bleeding heavily but still alive. Prouse was sprawled on a bench, rifle by his side, and his eyes gazed sightlessly at them. Then the police burst in, guns drawn, and Hurley thought for a moment he was going to become another casualty. "It's over," he said. "Get a stretcher."

  * * *

  When Morelli fluttered her eyes open the first thing she saw was Joe Hurley. "What?" she tried to say. "Where?"

  "You've been shot," he said. "You're on the way to the hospital."

  He was holding her hand. She tried to squeeze it, but her arm hurt too much. "The pope?" she whispered.

  "He's fine, they tell me. And you will be, too. But you've got to stay quiet."

  "I love you, Joe," she said, starting to cry from relief and pain and fear. "I love you."

  "I
know," he said.

  "Would you pray for me, Joe? Please pray for me."

  "That's just what I was doing. Now shut up and let me do my job."

  Morelli closed her eyes. For some reason, it didn't hurt to smile.

  * * *

  Hurley had forgotten every prayer he'd ever learned, so he had to wing it. I suppose You know what You're doing, he thought. But in case You don't, I'm begging You to let this woman live. She has done Your will, has risked her life to save your pope. Isn't that enough?

  He thought of Erin McKee, whose death he had learned of from one of the EMTs, and wondered just what was enough for God. Finally he couldn't even make up a prayer. He just closed his eyes and sat there in the racing ambulance, holding Kathleen's hand and trying his best not to think. He'd have to think eventually, but for now it was enough just to know that she was alive.

  Chapter 40

  The world changes, but always there is the Mass, timeless and essential. Every Mass is the same at its core, but the one Joe Hurley was saying today would be special.

  Erin McKee's funeral had been public, immense, and unsatisfying, as if it had been merely a continuation of the events at Fenway Park. The crowd spilled out of the church onto the sidewalk. Strangers pressed in from all sides, trying to touch the small casket. No one seemed to care about the little girl, only about the saint, the heroine, the symbol. So Sandra McKee had asked Hurley to say a private memorial Mass a month later, just for the family and invited guests. He was happy to oblige.

  The McKees sat in the front pew. Sandra leaned heavily against her husband. Both still seemed shell-shocked, disbelieving. When Hurley had met with her to talk about the Mass she had raged against God and the universe, until finally he had asked her, as gently as he could, "Sandra, if you hate God so much, why do you want to have a Mass?"

  "Because," she replied, "God has to give me a reason. And maybe I'll find it in the Mass."

  At the back of the church he noticed a guest, sitting by herself, looking pale and wearing a gray dress. Her eyes made contact with his, then looked down as she prayed.

  He had worked on the homily for days. It was for himself as much as for the worshippers. He couldn't know what he truly felt, truly believed, until he found a way to put it into words. After all his efforts, though, he still felt puzzled, uncertain, inadequate. He was just a minor player in the drama. Who was he to explicate the mysteries and paradoxes it presented? But he had to say something. So he said what was in his heart on that morning.