Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  "How could God do this to Erin?" he began. "Hadn't she suffered enough? Hadn't she accomplished enough—hadn't she cured enough people, hadn't she spread sufficient joy among those who knew her? What kind of God would put a bullet through this little girl's heart?"

  People were sobbing already in the small church. These were the questions, he thought. That was the easy part. But where were the answers?

  "I don't pretend to possess any extraordinary wisdom," Hurley went on. "I don't know how to make your pain—or my own—disappear. All I can say is this. I have experienced God's love countless times in my life—in my own spirit, in Erin's spirit, and in the spirits of others I have met. I am as sure of God's love as I am of anything in this world. You can point to any calamity, any tragedy, you can point to the evil and disease and destruction that surround us, and I will weep with you over them, I will rage with you, at times I will despair with you. But still I feel His love. And, despite all that Erin suffered in her short life, I am certain that He loved her as well—perhaps even in a special way that was somehow reserved for her alone. And I am certain that today she is with God—not just looking down at us from on high, but all around us, inside us, part of the air we breathe, part of our laughter and our tears. And I believe that, if you can somehow get beyond your grief, in the stillness of your days and nights, you will be able to feel Erin's love as well, just as pure and powerful as if she were sitting here with us, and even more miraculous than the touch of her living hand.

  "And now let us rise and proclaim together the mystery of our faith: 'I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth...' "

  The weeping congregation stood and recited the Creed with Him. It truly was a mystery, Hurley thought as he said the familiar words. A rational man would rage at God, or discard Him in favor of a universe where our lives are ruled and ruined by chance and tragic coincidence. Hurley had come close to making that decision himself. But he was not a rational man, it seemed. And that, he knew, was what would save him, because that was how he found his way to God's love.

  He prayed that the McKees would find it in their hearts to be irrational, too.

  * * *

  Sandra went into the sacristy, where Father Hurley was putting away his vestments. "I just wanted to say thank you, Father," she said. "That was a lovely Mass."

  "You're welcome," he replied. He studied her for a moment. "How are you doing, Sandra?"

  She shrugged. "There's a hole in my heart about a mile wide. But you're right—Erin's still here with us somehow. And I know this sounds like a stupid Catholic cliché, but I think God wanted her. And I guess that makes me feel a little better.

  "What's still frustrating, though, is—there was that one instant. When she stood up, and I thought—yes, he's cured her, just the way I had imagined it, night after night in my dreams. And I felt such pure joy—for an instant—"

  She started to cry. Father Hurley approached, but she waved him away. Sometimes—often—she just had to shed a few more tears. When she had regained control, she wiped her face, tried to smile, and said, "So, should Mike and I get pregnant again? He figures that's what we should do."

  "I'm with Mike," Hurley replied with his own smile. "Get pregnant tonight. No, this afternoon. Love the living, as well as the dead."

  "But what if—"

  "I don't know, Sandra. If you're going to love, there's going to be pain—and maybe too much pain. But if you're not going to love, what's the point of being alive?"

  Sandra nodded. "So," she said, "why don't you get Lieutenant Morelli pregnant?"

  He stared at her. "Um, Sandra—"

  "We've been in touch," she explained. "I visited her in the hospital. She's quite a woman, Father."

  "I know that."

  "Well, if you're not going to love... Anyway, come back to the house and have a sandwich. I promise not to bug you about it anymore. I just felt I had to say something."

  Father Hurley managed a smile. "I'll do that. And thanks for the advice. I guess."

  Sandra smiled in return. "You're welcome."

  * * *

  Morelli was sitting on one of the swings in Erin's play set, balancing a plate of food on her lap, when she saw Hurley approach, beer in hand. It was September, and the day was overcast and chilly, but Morelli enjoyed being outdoors after being stuck in the hospital for so long.

  "Hiya," he said.

  "Hiya."

  He sat on the swing next to her.

  "Nice sermon," she said.

  "Thanks. You believe what I said?"

  "I have no idea. But it had me in tears. And it made me feel better afterwards, and I guess that's the point."

  Hurley had visited a couple of times in the hospital. The first time she'd been too drugged up to talk. And the second time, she had wanted to say so much, but her mother had been there, along with a couple of people from the department, and the opportunity had slipped away. It was just as well. Gave her time to think about a lot of things.

  "So how do you feel, really?" he asked after a while.

  "Not bad," she replied. "Everyone says I was incredibly lucky. Didn't feel like it at the time."

  Hurley nodded. "You were bleeding a heck of a lot for someone who was incredibly lucky. You were also incredibly brave, by the way."

  "You know, it didn't feel like bravery at the time, either. I was just so damn angry. If I'd thought about it for a second, I probably wouldn't have opened that door."

  "I read that they're giving you a medal."

  "Yeah, well, they want to promote me, too, but that's not going to happen."

  "Why not?"

  "I've resigned from the police department, Joe."

  Hurley stopped and stared at her. "You resigned?" he repeated.

  "Yeah. They jumped up and down, offered me any job I wanted, but I wasn't interested. I'm a hero now, but I'm just not a very good cop, you know? My heart has never really been in it, I think. I can't be bothered with rules, I don't like following orders. I just wanted to show my father that I could be a better cop than he was—which wasn't all that bright, considering that he was dead. What happened over the past couple of months just helped me figure all this out."

  "So what are you going to do instead?"

  Morelli paused. "I was thinking I might become a nun."

  Hurley rolled his eyes. She grinned. "Bad idea, huh? Actually, I was thinking I'd go to law school. I still want to help people. I just don't want to carry a gun."

  "You'll be a great lawyer," Hurley said.

  "So what about you, Joe? Last time we talked, you were pretty much unemployed."

  "Not any more, I'm pleased to say. If you're not cut out for police work, I'm certainly not cut out for office work. But Billy Flynn at Saint Jerome's has decided to hang up his cleats, and I'm told the parish is mine for the asking. I need to get back with real people, and now I'll have my chance."

  "That's great," she lied.

  He smiled his crooked smile at her and had a swig of his beer.

  "I'm not exactly sure where I'm going to go to law school," she went on, "but I know that it won't be within a thousand miles of Saint Jerome's parish."

  He looked at her glumly.

  "Come with me, Joe," she said. "Come to California or Michigan or wherever and start a new life."

  Hurley shook his head. "I'm a priest, Kathleen. We can be friends."

  "I don't want to be your friend," Morelli replied. "I want to be your wife. I want to have your babies. I want us to grow old together and argue about whose turn it is to take out the garbage. Joe, remember in the ambulance, when you were holding my hand? You know what I thought? Wouldn't it be great if I was in the delivery room, and you were there with me, holding my hand just like that. Haven't you thought the same sort of thing? I've already proposed to you once, dammit. You're running out of chances. So what do you say, Joe?"

  * * *

  Hurley swung back and forth, back and forth. He gazed at this woman who h
ad taught him what it meant to be in love.

  He thought about Pope John's openness to discussing changes in the Church's views on sexuality, which he started to bring up later in his American visit. Would that make a difference? Maybe someday, but not soon. And Kathleen wouldn't wait.

  Was the current situation stupid, misguided, anachronistic, misogynist, unrealistic, counterproductive? Well, sure, and maybe there were a few worse adjectives to be thrown at it. But he loved his God and he loved his team, no matter how infuriating both of them could be.

  He thought of the holiness he had seen in the pope's face, there on the airport tarmac.

  He thought of Sandra McKee, trying to figure out if she should risk her love again.

  He thought of the young couple he was going to marry a week from Saturday at Saint Jerome's.

  He thought of the prayers he'd said over Kathleen as she lay bleeding in the ambulance.

  He thought about what God had called him to do, and how much remained. A lifetime of service and sacrifice and, yes, some amount of insanity.

  He couldn't give it up, not even for this beautiful woman beside him.

  He looked away. "Friendship isn't that bad," he murmured. "And when you're in town you can stop by and take out my garbage anytime you like."

  "You can take out your own stinking garbage," she said. He glanced over at her. Tears were streaming down her face. "Your Church is idiotic," she went on, "and you're an idiot, too."

  Hurley took out his handkerchief and dried her tears. "This is what friends do," he said, pressing it against her cheek. And then he put the handkerchief away and held out his hand. "Shake?"

  She glowered at him, but finally she took his hand in hers and squeezed it. "Idiot," she repeated when she let it go.

  Hurley smiled at her, and Kathleen managed a small smile in return. And then she got up from the swing and walked slowly out of the McKees' backyard. Hurley watched her until she was out of sight, and then he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer.

  Saint Erin, give me strength.

  And after a while he, too, rose from the swing, and he went inside to give Erin's relatives what comfort he could.

  The End

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  SENATOR

  Excerpt from

  Senator

  A Novel

  by

  Richard Bowker

  SENATOR

  Reviews & Accolades

  "An exciting mystery... Those with a taste for mixing politics and murder will savor the tale to the end."

  ~Booklist

  "Bowker is a smooth and sensitive writer."

  ~The New York Times Book Review

  "Senator actually is three stories in one: a political thesis, a murder mystery and a morality tale, each complementing the other in a skillful blend that is as contemporary as today’s headlines. Senator is timely, profound, and suspenseful."

  ~Cape Cod Times

  "A page turner... Well worth reading."

  ~Library Journal

  I am a politician.

  I stare at the blank screen, and that is the first thing I can think of to write.

  It's astonishing, really. I have never thought of myself as a politician. I certainly didn't plan to become one. Even as I campaigned, as I shook hands and kissed babies, gave canned speeches and attended endless fund raisers, it didn't occur to me that these activities were defining me; I always thought of them as simply a means to an end. Until now. Now, when it has all changed forever.

  I'm a politician, and I have just finished the toughest campaign of my life. But it isn't just the campaign I want to write about in this unfamiliar room, on this intimidating machine. Because I want to be something more than a politician, and that will require an understanding of far more than the mechanics of running for public office. It won't be easy to find that understanding.

  But this is where I have to start.

  * * *

  The battle had been shaping up ever since Bobby Finn announced in late spring that he was going to run against me, but the public didn't pay attention until after the primary. Couldn't blame them; we were both lying low—raising funds, doing research, plotting strategy. Neither of us had opposition in the primary, so we spent our time stockpiling ammunition; better to do that than to use it up early and risk having nothing left for the final struggle.

  But even when we started in earnest, people were slow to react to the legendary confrontation. The pros blamed it on the weather. It was a soggy September. Flights were delayed, parades canceled; people at factory entrances and subway stops rushed past us to get out of the perpetual rain. Even indoors the crowds were small and inattentive, worried more about whether their basements were flooding than about who would get their vote for senator. Maybe after the baseball season, the pros thought. Eventually they would have to take an interest.

  Eventually they did, but Lord, it wasn't the way I wanted.

  I may as well start with the Friday evening it all began. Just another speech—this one to the Newton Republican Women's Club. Not an especially important event; I was preaching to the converted, and there were only a couple of local reporters there to take my message to the masses. My mind was far away, but still, it went well; the fine ladies laughed at the jokes and applauded at the proper places and were generally thrilled to be in my presence. A politician is an actor whose performance never ends.

  Kevin Feeney was with me. It was his job to grab me away from the fine ladies as soon as possible after my speech. Let them blame him, not me, for not staying longer. Sorry, ladies. I'm a slave to my schedule, and Kevin is its keeper.

  He did his job—he always does—and together we headed out into the fog and drizzle. He held an umbrella over the two of us as we stood in the parking lot. "Let me drive you home, Senator," he said.

  "Don't be silly. What'll we do with the extra car? Take the night off. Relax."

  "You should have let me drive you here."

  By using my own car, I had provided the evening with a logistical complication that Kevin found unnerving. He was supposed to take care of me, and I wasn't cooperating. "I managed to get here by myself, Kevin," I said. "I'm sure I can make it back. Go home. Introduce yourself to Barbara and the kids. I'll see you in the morning."

  Kevin still didn't look happy. His wife and children came in a distant second in his loyalties. But I wasn't going to argue with him; I had more important things to do. I got into my Buick and opened the window. "Go home, Kevin," I repeated. And then I left him standing forlornly in the parking lot.

  I didn't feel sorry for him; in fact, I didn't give him another thought. Kevin would always be there. I drove along Commonwealth Avenue, an oldies station on low, the windshield wipers keeping time with Neil Sedaka. Generally I like driving alone—offstage, if only for a while. But tonight the pleasure was soured. I had a problem, and I had to solve it by myself.

  At a stoplight I picked up the car phone and dialed a number. After the fourth ring the answering machine clicked on: "Hi, this is Amanda Taylor. I can't come to the phone right now, but—" The light turned green, and I slammed the receiver down.

  Maybe she's there, I thought. Maybe she just isn't answering.

  But maybe it would be better if she weren't there. I had a key.

  Newton turned into Brighton, and the big old Victorian houses gave way to dorms and apartment buildings, laundromats and convenience stores and bars. I come from Brighton, but not this part; this was academic territory. First Boston College and then Boston University, the campus sprawling in urban disarray on both sides of the road for a mile or two before petering out in the dance clubs and record stores and pizza joints of Kenmore Square. To the right, the light towers above Fenway Park blazed in the darkness; the Red Sox were trying to get the game in despite the fog. Big advance sale, probably. I cursed silently: ten thousand extra cars in the neighborhood.

  I made my way through the cha
os of Kenmore Square traffic and into the Back Bay, where Commonwealth Avenue became elegant once again. I didn't pay attention to the stately elms and old brick town houses, though; like everyone else in the Back Bay, I was looking for a place to park.

  The best I could find was a "residents only" space on Gloucester Street. I decided that I didn't have a choice, so I pulled into it. I got out of the car and opened my umbrella. At least the fog would make it less likely that I'd be recognized; I didn't need a conversation about abortion or someone's Social Security benefits just now. I started walking.

  If she was there, what would I say? It was important not to lose my temper. I didn't need an argument. Above all, I didn't need her angry at me. And I did need to know what was going on.

  If she wasn't there, I would have to wait for her. This couldn't be put off.

  The building was on Commonwealth, between Gloucester and Fairfield. Out front a low hedge surrounded a magnolia tree, glistening in the light from an old-fashioned streetlamp. Black wrought-iron bars enclosed the windows in the basement and first floor. In the basement I could see the flicker of a TV through the bars. A woman approached, walking a Doberman. The Doberman paused at the streetlamp; the woman stared at me. Where had she seen that face before? I hurried up the front steps and inside.

  I closed the umbrella and glanced around. A row of mailboxes to the right. On the wall next to them, a handwritten notice about a lost cat. On the floor beneath, a few faded sheets advertising a Scientology lecture. The ever-present smell of disinfectant. I had caught a whiff of the same disinfectant once in a bathroom at a fund raiser and found myself becoming aroused. I expect that will happen to me again someday. I rang her bell; no answer. I didn't want to hang around the lobby. As usual someone had left the inner door unlocked. I opened it and hurried up the stairs.