The Hounds of Rome - Mystery of a Fugitive Priest

by Tom Clancy

  He saw the headlights of a car in the distance and started to trot. He tripped on a small cactus and fell headlong into a ditch striking his temple on a rock. When he came to, he knew he hadn’t been unconscious long because it was still dark, unless, that is, he had been out an entire day and now it was the next night. He wearily got to his feet and walked on.

  At last, he came on a highway. He figured it was the interstate. He sat shivering by the side of the road with his back against a roadside sign for what seemed like an eternity. The light jacket he wore was now so badly shredded, it provided little warmth. He remembered his crumpled suit in the knapsack and pulling it open, slipped the black, now almost ragged, suit-coat over his shoulders. He was dismayed when he saw the trousers—long tears in the legs. The headlights of an approaching car slowed but sped away when the occupants had a closer look at the hunched and torn, bloody specter in the headlights. Then another car passed and another. As the night went by, dozens, maybe hundreds of cars and trucks passed but no one would stop. No good Samaritans in Arizona?

  He stood up, turned around and looked at the sign. It read: DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS. PICACHO PRISON TWO MILES.

  After he read the sign, he knew he had to walk some distance back up the highway towards Phoenix, hoping someone heading to Tucson would stop to pick him up before the car reached the sign. If a driver saw the sign first, he would never be picked up.

  A Border Patrol van came down the road. “Thank God,” Steve said as he saw the white van grind to a halt by the side of the road. “I need help.”

  The uniformed guards looked at him through the windshield of the van and decided he did not look like a Mexican who had sneaked across the border. He was obviously a derelict, probably drunk or stoned.

  The guard on the passenger side rolled the window down. Steve saw him stick his head out. He heard the man say, “Maybe we oughta pick him up anyway. He looks like he needs a hand. You know, a doctor or something.”

  The driver of the van wouldn’t hear of it. “For Chrissake, we both know the border is goin’ wild and I say we’re too goddamn busy to screw around collecting homeless or drunks on the highway. The way they’re comin’ across the desert west of Nogales, you’d think there was a gold strike up in Tucson.”

  As an emergency call came in, the driver shouted, to Steve, “Sorry, but we gotta go. Good luck.”

  A half-hour later, a pickup truck stopped and pulled off to the shoulder. The lights of the pickup played on the ragged figure in front of the truck. Steve couldn’t tell who was in the darkened interior of the vehicle. He limped up to the passenger side window. The driver, a young man, kept the door locked but lowered the window a bit. He was startled at the appearance of the hitchhiker when he saw the dirt, the blood and the torn clothes that hung on Steve like a scarecrow. “You look like you need help, buddy,” he said, wincing at the sight.

  “Yes, I do. Please take me to a doctor or a hospital. I can give you some money.”

  The driver knew the hitchhiker wasn’t a Mexican but he might have been a prisoner from Picacho. “You on the run or something?”

  “In a way, yes, but not from the police. I’m not from the prison.”

  “Then what are you doing out here? Where did you come from?”

  “The Passion Monastery back beyond the mountains.”

  “I’ve heard rumors about that place but never heard of anyone walking out and getting this far alive.”

  “I guess I’m the first although I’m not sure I’m still alive.”

  “OK, hop in. Sit on this old blanket so’s you don’t get blood and shit on the seat. What in hell happened to you, anyway? You a drunk?”

  “No. Just say I was mugged but got away.”

  A quarter mile down the road, they came to the DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS sign. The driver got nervous. He had forgotten about the sign. He kept glancing over at Steve. He pulled the truck over to the side of the road. “Sorry, but I gotta let you out,” he said.

  “But you don’t understand,” Steve argued. “I’m not from the prison. I escaped from the monastery. I’m a priest.” Steve rustled through the shredded knapsack and came out with a roman collar. He showed the crucifix to the driver. He pulled out his wallet and showed the driver his I.D. and credit cards. “I’m a priest,” he said. “I was at the Passion Brothers Monastery in the desert, but I had to leave. Please believe me. I need to be taken to a doctor or a hospital. I need to have these cuts treated.”

  The driver stared at Steve long and hard. Behind the dirt and the blood and a face with a stubbly beard, he saw what was probably a halfway decent guy. For the first time, he noticed the gash on his passenger’s head. He doubted the man he had picked up was an escaped prisoner. Probably some kind of religious kook—maybe a priest, maybe not.

  Steve slumped in the seat. The driver shook him. “Shit, he’s out cold. Why does this have to happen to me?” He started to drive as the thought occurred to him that his passenger might be dead rather than unconscious. “Jesus,” he said to himself, “I could be driving a goddamn corpse!” He thought of pulling off the road and dumping the body, but Steve stirred in the seat. He began breathing with short rapid breaths followed by hard exhales as if he were in pain but was reluctant to admit it.

  “You probably haven’t eaten much. I’ve got some crackers and a beer in the cooler on the floor. Help yourself.”

  Forty-five minutes later, the driver pulled the pickup in front of the Emergency Room of Tucson General Hospital. Hurrying inside, he told them about his passenger and stood aside as two attendants ran out. Then gently, very gently they lifted Steve out of the pickup and onto a gurney. As soon as Steve was wheeled into the hospital, the driver took off. There was nothing more he could do and he certainly did not want his name on some piece of paper. The hospital people would call the cops and he might be accused of having beaten the man, or he could be sued. I got enough problems without all that bullshit, he thought as he sped away from the hospital.

  In the emergency room, after checking his pulse, temperature and blood pressure, lifting his eyelids, feeling for broken bones, examining his legs and the wound on Steve’s head, the ER doctor came to a conclusion: “He’s pretty bunged up and the skin on his legs is cut up, but he’ll live. Also looks like he’s been bitten by a scorpion. “Let’s get these rags off him, clean him up, and begin warming him to bring him out of hypothermia. The hypothermia’s potentially a lot riskier than his other injuries. Then, get some X-rays. Let’s look for a concussion. One of you check his pockets for an I.D. Call the police, although I see no sign of drugs. But his breath smells like he must have had a beer. He’s most likely a homeless. He doesn’t look old enough for Medicare, and I’ll bet he doesn’t have ten cents worth of insurance.”

  *****

  Steve was slowly warmed out of his hypothermia. His injuries turned out not to be serious. There were no broken bones. The tests showed he had had a mild concussion but even that was dismissed by the doctors with a few words of caution that he should take it easy for awhile. The scorpion venom had been absorbed by his body without any noticeable harm. He was admitted to the hospital overnight. When they learned he was a priest, he was given a private room but happily, from Steve’s standpoint, no one thought to contact the Catholic diocese. On the following afternoon, a police officer stopped by his room as Steve sat on the edge of the bed wondering what happened to his clothes. His legs were covered with some kind of ointment. He lightly touched the cuts and scratches from his trek through the desert. They weren’t as bad as he might have thought. He could probably slip on a pair of pants, if he had a pair of pants.

  “How’re you feeling, Father?”

  “Groggy,” Steve replied as he struggled to his feet and began to brush his hair in the mirror. In the reflection he saw the police officer seated in a chair behind him.

  “I want to get out of here,” Steve said.

  “I came by here last night but you were unconscious. Are you sure you f
eel well enough to leave?”

  “Yes, I want to get a taxi out of here right away.”

  “That’s not necessary. We contacted the Tucson Diocesan office. They’re sending a couple of monks from the Passion Monastery. The diocese wants you to wait here for them.”

  “When was the call made to the diocese?”

  “A little while ago. But the monks won’t be here for another hour or so— seems they were looking for you in Phoenix. They’re on the way down here now.”

  “By the way,” the officer said with a hint of a smile, “they discarded the clothes you came in here with. The nurse said she didn’t think you’d mind because they were little more than a bunch of rags. They were covered with blood. The only thing worth saving was a long piece of purple cloth. It was rolled up tight.”

  “My stole.”

  “And your prayer book and crucifix. And they found your wallet.”

  “My black shoes?”

  “No sign of them. Must’ve fallen out of the knapsack.”

  “Oh great,” Steve said with a grimace. “Now what do I wear when I leave here?”

  “The hospital is going to donate an outfit of sorts to you. You know, underwear, slacks, shirt, shoes and some kind of jacket. Nothing fancy, just what they had on hand. A hospital orderly took a few measurements while you were sleeping.”

  “But where do they get the stuff?” Steve asked, then quickly added with a slight grin, “Never mind. I guess I don’t want to know.”

  None of the clothes brought by the nurse fit properly but Steve didn’t really care. He had one thought—to get out of the hospital before the brothers arrived. He dressed in front of the cop who politely stared out the window. Steve tried to look calm as he packed his few belongings into a small plastic carry-all bag the nurse gave him. Then, leaving the officer behind in the room with the donated jacket and bag, he went to check out of the hospital. When asked if he was covered by the Tucson Diocesan health plan, it crossed his mind that he would be justified in sticking the diocese with the bill, but he didn’t want to lose time with the paperwork. He paid the hospital bill with a credit card that he was pleased to find was still active after months of non-use.

  Returning to his room to retrieve his things, he was surprised to find the police officer still seated in a chair in the corner. He had a sudden fear the officer might feel it his duty to restrain him and turn him over to the monks.

  “Well, I’m about to leave,” Steve said as he narrowly eyed the police officer, slipped into the jacket, and started to leave the room.

  “Father, hold on a moment. Aren’t you going to wait for the monks?”

  “No, I’m kind of in a hurry.”

  “But hold on, please. I’d like to talk to you. By the way, my name is Greg. I wanted to talk to you about confession.”

  Steve raised his eyebrows. Although he was anxious to get out of the hospital, instinctively based on years of pastoral ministry, he resignedly put down his bag and drew up a chair near the officer. “What did you want to know?”

  “I’m a lapsed Catholic,” the officer replied. Haven’t been to confession or Holy Communion in years. My wife thinks I should start going to Mass again and receive the sacraments...because of our kids.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Steve said. “Why don’t you?”

  “This may sound silly, Father, but you know how when someone hasn’t been to confession in a long time, how it takes a long time to get it all out? Added to that, I’m not sure I can give a complete reckoning of all my sins.”

  “God understands we are not perfect. All He asks is that we do our best.”

  “Father, I’m so well-known in my church and the other parishes around here, I’d be embarrassed to see a long line of friends waiting for me to get finished. I also don’t think our parish priest is very understanding. He’d recognize my voice. He’s impatient and frankly, kind of sarcastic. I don’t think I want to go through all of that.”

  “So?”

  “So, since you’re here and I’m here, I wondered if you’d hear my confession.”

  “Right here? Right now?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

  Steve caught his breath. He glanced at the wall clock. He had a vision of the Passion Brothers speeding down the highway to Tucson. He figured he knew which monks Berard would have sent. It would be Michael and John, the strong-arm thugs. What a scandal if a scuffle broke out at the hospital between a priest and two monks. And there might well be a scuffle because he did not intend to go peacefully. But no matter what, here was a sinner who needed absolution. Reaching into the bag, Steve pulled out the purple stole. He unrolled it, kissed it and slipped over his head.

  “All right Greg, he said softly. “Why don’t I sit here in the chair? You kneel beside me.”

  “Bless me Father,” Greg said in throaty whisper. “My last confession was eight years ago....”

  Steve’s mind raced. Good grief, he thought. I have less than forty-five minutes remaining to cover eight years.

  The confession and absolution took fifty-two minutes.

  “Greg, I’ve got to leave here right now,” Steve said, hurriedly grabbing his bag. “Those monks are coming to take me back to the Passion Monastery and I don’t want to go with them. I don’t intend to go back to that place.”

  The pair walked down the long corridor to the elevator. “I’ve heard stories about that place, Father. They say it’s run more like a prison than a rehab center. And, if you don’t mind my asking, how did you come to leave that monastery, by the way? And before you answer that, how come you went there in the first place? I hear tell it’s for bad priests...alcoholics, drug users. Guys like that. You don’t strike me as being in those categories. But there’s also pedophile priests,” he added, glancing suspiciously at Steve out of the corner of his eye as they walked.

  “Pedophile priests are a lot less obvious, I realize, and maybe you never really know, do you,” Steve replied testily. “Why try to explain,” he said to himself. “I don’t know why I was sent there so how can I explain it to this guy?”

  “No, I guess they don’t brag about crimes like that do they,” the officer said sourly, shaking his head as he thought of his own young children.

  Steve relented. “You may not believe me,” he said as they stepped into the elevator, “but I’m not a pedophile priest, and I’m not an alcoholic and I don’t do drugs and I never embezzled a dime of church funds. To tell you the plain truth, I have no idea why I was sent there. They never gave me a reason and there were no clues. For openers, they assign priests to therapy groups at the monastery. You know—one for substance abusers, another for sex deviants, and so forth. When I was there, if I had been accused of something, I really had no way of knowing what it might be because I never was assigned to a group. I was just left hanging.”

  “Doesn’t speak well for the church I’m about to re-enter, does it, Father,” the officer said as the two walked through the lobby of the hospital towards the front door.

  “Don’t judge the church too harshly. There may be a very good reason— one that I haven’t found out yet.”

  “You angry about this, Father?”

  “To say the least, and worried. That’s why I ran away. I knew I could never solve the problem from inside that monastery.”

  There was something about this priest that led the officer to believe he was telling the truth. It was most likely the caring, gentle way the priest led him from a long sinful background into a present, which, through absolution, filled him with Sanctifying Grace. Sanctifying Grace—like a bright white light shining inside the body. A simple but powerful and uplifting purity that must surely resemble the state of the glorified body after death.

  Steve smiled as he looked over at the officer. He could tell from the look on the officer’s face exactly the emotions the officer was feeling at being suddenly elevated from the realm of sinful flesh into a state that presaged immortality in the awesome brilliance of the
beatific vision—in Steve’s mind, the unique gift of the Catholic Church.

  “So where are you off to, Father, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Do you promise not to tell?” Steve asked with a sly smile. “By the way, do you have to file a report on all of this?”

  “No report. I was just curious. You’ve got a trace of a New England accent.”

  “I’m heading to Boston to see my brother. He lives on the outskirts of the city, a small town near Concord. I may be able to work through him to find out what’s going on concerning me and the church.”

  As the pair approached the front exit of the hospital, they shook hands and said goodbye. The officer turned and walked back along a side corridor to see if anything was going on in the emergency room.

  Steve went out of the front entrance to a taxi stand. As he was entering a cab, brothers Michael and John came up behind him. They pinned his arms and began dragging him to their pickup parked in the side lot of the hospital. The few people who witnessed the abduction wondered about it, but did nothing. A woman passerby said, “What is this world coming to when you have monks beating up a man and no one to stop it. And is there ever a cop around when you need one?” A scuffle began as the three men reached the pickup. Brother Michael punched Steve in the stomach doubling the priest over as Brother John grabbed a tire iron.

  Suddenly, Greg appeared at the side door. He confronted the monks. “What’s going on?”

  “We have orders to take him back to the monastery.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to go?”

  “We have orders to take him anyway.”

  “Put that tire iron down. He doesn’t want to go with you.”

  “How do you know?” Brother Michael asked as he and Brother John began loosening their grip on Steve.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Greg said, looking at Steve who was still slightly bent over and struggling to free himself.

  “He’s drunk, that’s all. We got a lot of them up at the monastery,” Brother Michael replied. “This one got loose and went on a drinking spree.”