by Mark Zubro
“And you were going to use it against me? To do what?”
The two men were on their feet. Bruchard screamed, “You had him killed, you son of a bitch.”
Duggan bellowed right back. “He was a good man, you fucker. You knew he was on to you. He knew you were going down.”
Bruchard now waved his fist in the Cardinal’s face. “Like all the times you went down on him?”
“No less the number of times you grabbed your ankles and turned your butt up to him.”
Bruchard lowered his voice. “He had everything on you, you son of a bitch. He knew what you’d been doing with the finances. You really didn’t think anyone would catch on after that cemetery fiasco?”
“You want a list of what you did?” Duggan asked.
“Where are all these lists?” Drake said. “They’ve got stuff on me too.”
“They’ve got a huge chart in their squad room,” Duggan said.
“How do you know that?”
“Some idiot named Carruthers is a good Catholic although not a very good source.”
“Did your source make copies?”
“I don’t know how competent he is. He feels guilt, but he’s not too bright.”
Turner knew that a reckoning with Carruthers about this would be in order on a day and a time in the very near future.
Tresca stopped pacing and spoke. “I knew he was going to dump me so I did what you wanted. I got the information that he had. You made promises to me. I expect them to be fulfilled.”
Pelagius snorted. “Don’t be absurd. Everybody seems to have all the information now. All promises are irrelevant in light of the murder. Did you kill him?”
“Now who’s being absurd? I loved him.”
“The question is,” Pelagius asked, “can we limit the damage?”
They all looked at him.
“You have all screwed up. Rome is not pleased.”
Duggan gave him a shrewd look. “You were here before Kappel died. You came with that message. You and Kappel have been conspiring all this time.”
Pelagius cleared his throat. “Be thankful Bishop Kappel existed.” He pointed at Duggan. “He got you your job as Cardinal.” He swung his finger toward Bruchard. “And you your job as Abbot.”
Bruchard said, “There was an election. The Order voted for me.”
Pelagius chuckled and waved an effeminate hand. “You don’t think we know how to rig the Italian vote? There are still more Italians in the Order than from any other country. We could have out-voted you. And you did get to be in charge and live here. Now there’s a concession. The first head of the Order in seven hundred years who wasn’t an Italian. You think that’s an accident? It was all planned and orchestrated.”
“Ha!” Duggan snorted.
Pelagius turned on him. “Just like your Cardinalate was part of the plan.”
“What plan?”
“Kappel wanted to be a Cardinal in Rome. He’s been monitoring the Order and the Catholic Church in America for years. How do you think he got appointed to all those investigations? Trust me, it is not because of the influence and charm of you two incompetent fools.”
Bruchard snapped. “I wasn’t afraid of an old woman with a video.”
“I’m not afraid,” Duggan said.
“That’s right,” Bruchard said, “the worst about you is known. You only have to attempt to clean up a mess before they transfer you to some quiet job in the third sub-basement of the Vatican. You’re an embarrassment.”
Drake waved his arms. “Forget the rest of this bullshit. Who is this new guy they found? The burly guy who lived out in Morris, Gorman. Did he have copies?”
Pelagius said, “I think so. My source was not available today.”
Turner wondered if Carruthers had switched sides, gotten a conscience, realized whose side he was supposed to be on.
Bruchard turned on Tresca. “Why didn’t we know about him?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Now Drake was pacing. “I don’t want anything to do with you people. I’m not involved in murder. I think I better call my lawyer.” He took out a cell phone.
Pelagius said, “If you want us to help save your career, you’d better listen for a while.”
Drake hesitated.
“Listen to what?” Tresca asked. “Are you taking us all to Rome tonight in a private jet?”
“That could be arranged, I suppose, but we shouldn’t need anything that dramatic, but it would help to know which of you ordered him murdered.” His voice was calm as his eyes flitted from Bruchard to Duggan.
The church officials pointed at each other.
Pelagius said, “Who did you order to take care of it?”
Both clerics looked at Tresca.
The bishop began backing away. “You are not going to pin this on me. I just did what you told me to do.”
Pelagius smiled. “So you both wanted to eliminate him. Well, well, well.”
Drake whispered, “Are you guys all nuts?”
Turner thought this was an excellent question.
Fenwick whispered to him, “Do you smell smoke?”
Turner moved his head slightly in Fenwick’s direction. He drew in a breath. “Not re…” He looked up, nudged Fenwick’s arm, pointed up. “Is that smoke?”
Fire alarms began to clang and whine.
FIFTY-TWO
Thursday 8:46 P.M.
Ian grabbed his phone. The four of them scrambled out of the choir loft and down the stairs. Turner saw flames in the direction from which they’d entered. They hurried in the opposite direction toward the transept. They ran into the others in the nave.
“Not that way,” Fenwick yelled. “There’s fire back there.”
They ran toward the altar. Flames and smoke filled the exit they used to go to Bruchard’s office Saturday night.
Pelagius yelled, “We’re all going to die.” The chance of dying was what it took to move the prelate from his pseudo-suave manner.
Demarco said, “This way.”
He led them to a confessional booth, opened the central door, and slipped inside. “Through here,” he called back.
Most of them had to turn sideways to get through. The detectives let the civilians slip into the narrow opening.
Duggan turned at the entrance. “We should save the paintings!”
“Screw the paintings.” Bruchard tried to shove him forward. “They aren’t your personal property. Besides, they’re all fake. And they’re insured.”
“That’s insurance fraud.”
Bruchard grinned. “Yes, I know.”
“You set the fire?” Duggan yelled.
“Are you mad? I’ve been with you.”
“You could have ordered it.”
“Not while I’m inside, you moron. Get moving.” He shoved him again.
Duggan stumbled and fell. Bruchard stepped on him in his rush to get out, but his ankle twisted and he fell on top of the prelate.
Turner and Fenwick untangled them, helped them up. When everyone else was out of the transept, Fenwick started through. Turner looked back. Flames had caught on the pews and were licking up some of the wooden trusses.
Demarco was on the other side. He pointed the way to go. In moments they were outside.
In the courtyard, fire trucks and lights filled the lawn and parking lot. An odd scene played out as Turner stumbled through the door. Ian was on top of Tresca. The bishop was squirming and struggling. Duggan and Bruchard were trying to rip Ian off of Tresca. Pelagius slapped at the mêlée ineffectually. Prelates went flying as Fenwick waded in. Demarco stood aside. The other religious leaders’ screams were lost in the cacophony of the building conflagration and the accumulating apparatus to fight it.
“What the hell is going on?” Fenwick demanded. Ian had Tresca’s right wrist up against the middle of his back. Every time Tresca attempted to struggle, he twisted the wrist and tried to yank it higher on his back. Tresca gave up trying to get free and bega
n shouting to be let go.
Fenwick had his arms wide holding back any intervention by the angry prelates.
Turner saw that Ian had blood on his lip. Red oozed from Tresca’s nose.
Breathing heavily, Ian responded to Fenwick’s question. “He tried to run. I tackled him. He seemed to think making a mad dash away from us was a good idea. I felt like stopping him. I decided not to be gentle.”
Duggan said, “He gang-tackled him. Let him go.”
Fenwick ignored him. Fire personnel swirled around them, directing their group away from the buildings. When they got to the street, Fenwick found a group of uniformed officers. He pointed to Tresca. “Cuff him. Take him to the back of a squad car.”
Fenwick ignored all the prelates’ protests.
Turner told the next few uniformed cops, two of whom were Sanchez and Deveneaux, “Keep these guys in one place.” He indicated Pelagius, Drake, Bruchard, and Duggan. “Don’t let them leave.”
Fenwick added, “If they try anything, cuff them too.”
Pelagius got in Fenwick’s face. “I have diplomatic immunity.”
Fenwick asked, “Do I look like the kind of guy who gives a shit about that right now?”
A group of priests, Turner presumed from the Abbey, stood half a block away inside the police perimeter but outside the walls of the grounds. They gesticulated and pointed towards their high ranking colleagues, but none of them moved closer.
The uniformed cops got Tresca into the back of a cop car. They surrounded the remaining clerics and Drake with a cordon of officers. They put Sanchez in charge.
They left the bellyaching clerics and headed back toward the burning Abbey. Turner noted the representatives of the church avoided getting near any of the crush of television vehicles and reporters standing half a block away behind the police line.
As Turner, Fenwick, and Ian walked toward the fire, the reporter dabbed at his still-oozing lip.
FIFTY-THREE
Thursday 9:15 P.M.
North Avenue was completely blocked off. They joined the battalion chief twenty feet up the Abbey driveway. Three huge Halogen lights from the fire vehicles lit the building. Turner, Fenwick, and Ian stood to the side of a fire engine out of the way of the firemen.
A line led from one hydrant up the front steps and through the front door. Several trucks were clustered near the chapel.
Moments later, the lights inside the Abbey went dark. A second later emergency lights dimly shone. They were dwarfed by the glow from the fire department apparatus. Turner asked one of the lesser chiefs standing with them, “Did everyone get out safely?”
The incident chief, a short squat guy said, “We managed to do a primary search of the dorms. They’re not on fire, but they’ve been evacuated. The fire must have started in this medieval section. It’s caught good. We couldn’t get far in.”
Seconds later, Ian pointed and shouted, “There’s some poor son of a bitch on that second story balcony.”
Everyone looked. Fully lit by the encroaching flames one level above the gothic entrance, a man stood with his arms outstretched. He was on the mansion tower.
The battalion chief issued commands. “Get a ladder over there.” Men were already moving. It took thirty to forty-five seconds for a ladder to be placed up against the building.
The ladders against the building only reached to the second story. The person on the balcony watched the activity for a moment then reached over to the side of the balcony and began to climb higher.
The battalion chief shouted, “Get a truck ladder over there. What the fuck is he doing?”
“Is it too hot?” Ian asked. “Maybe he’s trying to climb to safety.”
“Another few seconds and we’d have had him from that balcony.”
Turner said, “It’s Graffius.”
Fenwick peered intently. “Yeah.” He shaded his eyes to try and get a better look. “How’s the old guy climbing?”
The incident commander who stood with them said, “I did the inspection on this place. That tower he’s on? I checked it inside and out.” He jabbed a finger at where, with obvious difficulty, the old man swung a foot onto a third floor balcony and eased himself onto it. For now there was no fire in the windows behind him. “See those iron things protruding out?”
Turner had seen Graffius’s hands clutching onto them as he climbed. “Those things were put in when the place was built. The original owner was worried about fire in the tower. Those things are in there solid. They knew how to build back then. Even the doors and the floors between them are “fire rated.” The fire’s caught good, but it will take a little while to get that high in the tower. We should have time to get to the guy.”
Turner remembered Graffius’s mention of welcoming death. Maybe the old guy wanted to die. Maybe he even set the fire.
“Why don’t the firemen use those handholds?” Ian asked.
“Can’t get to them. The whole ground level is on fire.”
None of the fire trucks were parked next to the building. Turner knew this was because they didn’t know if the walls would collapse, or if in collapsing if the concrete would fall inward or outward. The ladder truck was not closest to the tower so it took several minutes for other vehicles to be moved so it could be maneuvered into position.
Pads swung out from the truck so it would be stabilized when the ladder began to rise. All of this took more precious seconds. Now Turner could see flames in the room behind Graffius’s third floor perch.
Finally, the longer ladder began to be deployed. Outriggers anchored it to ground, pads two feet by two feet. Graffius saw this ladder and climbed higher.
The fire alarms inside cut off as did the emergency lights. Turner knew a main line or main switch must have been destroyed by the rapidly moving fire. With all that aged wood, he presumed the whole place would go.
Minutes later the longer ladder was in position. The old man managed to move to the balcony next to the one he was on and then to the next higher floor.
Turner said, “He wants to die.”
“He set the fire?”
“A fairly sane guess at this moment.”
In the midst of the noise from the crackling flames, the shooting water, the firemen’s cries, and the rumble of the diesel engines of the trucks, they could hear a faint voice.
“Is he calling for help?” Fenwick asked.
Graffius was shouting and gesticulating, but it was difficult to make out the words.
Fenwick asked, “What’s he saying?”
Graffius had his hands up and was staring at the distant stars. They could hear a faint chant. “It’s Latin,” Turner said. “I think maybe Salve Regina.”
Fenwick said, “Reminds me of Urfried the Hag in Ivanhoe.”
Ian snapped, “Her name was Ulrica.”
Fenwick snapped back. “It’s Urfried when she sets fire to the castle of those who have kept her captive to destroy them all. She was chanting some ancient Celtic song as the flames took her.”
“You cannot know that,” Ian snarled. “Besides, it was a Latin chant.”
“You can quote the first line Bette Davis said in every one of her movies, but I can’t know a literary reference?”
“Yours is more obscure than mine.”
Fenwick muttered, “Yeah, well, mine’s bigger than yours.”
Ian’s gaze swung from Graffius to Fenwick. “How the hell do you know such a literary reference? Or are you making that up?”
“I’m not just a poet. I read Classic Comic books as a kid. I always thought that was a cool scene, a great way to get even.”
“Good to know you’re up on all this revenge shit.”
“From Shakespeare to the morning news.”
Turner didn’t take his eyes away as the ladder approached Graffius, but the priest began to climb again. Maybe when he reached the top, they could get to him. He said, “That man wants to die. Poor old thing.” He sighed. “And it was an ancient Scandinavian scald not in Latin
or ancient Anglo-Saxon, and she was introduced in chapter 24 as Urfried, but is Ulrica as the castle burns.”
Fenwick and Ian gaped at their friend.
Again, the firemen began to move the ladder toward where they presumed Graffius would be on the fourth balcony. Several firemen were on the roof and were, perhaps, waiting for the old priest to climb that high.
A young fireman rushed up to the battalion chief, who immediately yelled, “Get those men off the roof. The whole thing is going to collapse.” A second ladder truck was maneuvered next to the first. This took less time as ladders had been presumed to be needed. The ladder headed straight to the roof.
Fenwick asked, “How the hell do you know that, or are you making it up?”
Turner said, “The world is burning down and crashing around these people, and only you two get to know obscure literary references? Besides, I had to read the damn book in eighth grade as a punishment. It was a true punishment, but I read the damn thing.”
“What on earth were you in trouble for?” Ian asked.
“I’d turned in the same book report on the same book for five straight months. We owed the teacher one a month. She hadn’t noticed my deception. I think she was embarrassed she missed what I’d done. She may have been as pissed at herself as at me. She never told my parents, but she got even. I had to stay after school for weeks and read Ivanhoe, the whole thing. I couldn’t go home until I summarized everything I’d read that day. So at least I’ve got an excuse for knowing that nonsense.”
They watched the fire department ladder as it neared the fourth balcony. As the aged priest saw it approach, he stopped chanting and began climbing toward the fifth floor. Flames were coming out of the windows above and below him.
Turner saw and heard firemen shouting up to him to hold on. Other shouts were for the firemen on the roof to get down now. The old man planted his feet on the balcony he’d reached and began pointing and shrieking.
Turner caught only occasional words. It wasn’t Latin or anything else. He heard, “Traitors. Cowards.” And little else. The glass behind Graffius burst outward. The flames took hold on his cassock. His shouting turned into a shriek, but he gripped the side of the end of the wall where it met the balcony, and he did not let go. Moments later, with a last horrific cry, flames engulfed him.