The Fraternity of the Stone

by David Morrell

  No, you don’t dare think that way, Drew warned himself. You can’t presume to depend on God. The Lord helps those who help themselves.

  He crossed the street toward the rectory. For a moment, he had a desperate misgiving about having put on the white surplice over the cassock. In the lamp above the door to the rectory, the surplice would make a perfect target. His spine itched. He clutched the doorknob, turned it, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

  But he wasn’t in the rectory. Having been here before, he remembered that the rectory had a vestibule, a short narrow hallway that led to another door, the top half made of frosted glass beyond which pale light outlined the shadows of bulky furniture. A tiny lever projected from the middle of the door, just below the opaque glass, and Drew recalled from the last time that, if he turned the lever, a bell would be set off on the other side, a housekeeper soon arriving to let him in. If he decided not to ring the bell, he could simply open the door and enter, his assumption being that the door wasn’t locked.

  But he did neither. Instead, he turned and watched the outside door and waited. In winter, this vestibule would prevent wind from penetrating the rectory’s interior, though Drew couldn’t help concluding that those drafts would be insignificant when compared with the bone-cold winters he’d spent in the monastery, where his only source of heat had been the logs the custodian brothers had brought to his cell for his wood stove. The custodian brothers. The hermits. Dead! All dead! A groan escaped from him. He suddenly realized that Father Hafer was taking too long, that the priest who’d celebrated the mass would soon be coming from the church and discover him here, a stranger pretending to be a priest, and raise an outcry when he recognized the vestments that Drew had stolen from the sacristy.

  Drew’s pulse quickened as he heard the outside latch. He lunged behind the door as it swung open. A shadow appeared. Drew squeezed himself against the wall, feeling the pressure of the door against his chest. The shadow entered. And as Father Hafer shut the door, coughing, he found himself face to face with Drew.

  12

  “Father, I can explain.”

  Father Hafer’s eyes widened, dark, yet bright with anger. “You.”

  Drew raised his hands. “I’m sorry. Honestly. If I’d realized you were sick, I wouldn’t have—I’d have found another way—”

  “You!”

  “There isn’t time. We have to leave. It isn’t safe to talk here.” Drew spoke in a rush, trying to calm the priest, to keep him from such an outburst of indignation that he’d attract concern in the rectory. “Believe me, I wish I hadn’t made you walk so—”

  “Isn’t time? We have to leave? It isn’t safe?” Father Hafer glared. “What in God’s name are you talking about? You’ve left the monastery. You’ve forced me to suffer through that charade with the note. Look at the way you’re dressed. Have you lost your…” At once he halted, his role as a psychiatrist taking precedence over his other role as a priest. He seemed to recognize the mistake he’d made.

  “No, Father, not my mind. My soul perhaps.” Drew gestured toward the traffic noises outside the door. “And if I’m not careful, my life. The monastery was attacked. All the monks are dead. I’m being hunted.”

  Father Hafer’s gray face turned shockingly pale. He stepped back, either revolted by what Drew had said or afraid to be within Drew’s reach. “Dead? But that’s impossible! Do you realize what you’re saying?”

  “I told you there isn’t time. We’re both in danger. Whoever killed the others might be coming here. They might be here already.”

  Father Hafer stared toward the door. “But this is madness. I don’t…”

  “Later. I’ll explain. But first we’ve got to leave. Do you know a place where we can talk? A place that’s secure.”

  Hearing a sudden noise, Drew whirled toward the inside door to the rectory. It opened, a tall, thin priest squinting out with concern.

  “Yes, I thought I heard voices.” The priest studied the two of them, focusing on Drew’s surplice and cassock, frowning as he became aware of the agitation on their faces. “Father Hafer? Is everything all right?”

  Drew’s chest pounded. He kept his eyes on Father Hafer.

  Father Hafer seemed to hold his breath. He returned Drew’s gaze, intense, debating, then swung toward the priest in the open doorway. “All right? No, not at all. I’ve just received bad news about someone I’ve been counseling. I’m afraid I’ll have to go back out again.”

  Drew felt his stomach muscles relax.

  The priest at the door considered what he’d heard. “If you have to. Remember, Father, you’re supposed to rest.”

  “In time. But this matter can’t wait.”

  The priest at the door brought his attention back to Drew. “You must have come in a hurry that you didn’t change your vestments after mass. What parish are you…?”

  Father Hafer interrupted. “No, it’s better if he doesn’t violate a confidence. You wouldn’t want to be burdened with troublesome information.”

  “Yes, that’s true. I understand.”

  “But—” distressed, Father Hafer turned to Drew “—perhaps the vestments can be taken off now.”

  They stared at each other.

  PART THREE

  GUARDIAN

  RETREAT HOUSE

  1

  “No. Surely not. All of them?” Father Hafer’s voice cracked. Drew sat across from him, assessing. The priest appeared to believe, and yet to fight against believing, as if having first suspected that Drew had lost his sanity, he now was frantic to protect his own by questioning the unacceptable, the unendurable.

  “None—God help us—survived?”

  “I didn’t check every cell. There wasn’t time. It wasn’t safe. But in the ones I did check … and in the kitchen where I found the two custodians who’d been shot. See, at first the vespers bell didn’t ring. Then it did, but later than it should have. That’s how I know that the others are dead.”

  “I’m not sure I—”

  “Habit. If any monk survived, he couldn’t have known that the others were dead. When he felt the summons of the bell, he’d have automatically gone to the chapel.”

  “And?” Father Hafer seemed to want to add “escaped.”

  “Been executed. I didn’t hear any shots, but the guns would have been equipped with silencers. Then, too, I have to assume that the team had garottes.”

  Father Hafer stared at Drew as if the word “garottes” came from an unintelligible language. With the shock of sudden comprehension, his face contorted. He leaned forward in his chair, buried his face in his hands, and moaned. “May God have mercy on their souls.”

  2

  They were in an apartment on the fifteenth floor of a glass-and-chrome building. Father Hafer had parked the rectory’s station wagon in an underground garage, then taken Drew in an elevator to the private entrance of this unit.

  But after the priest had locked the door and turned on the lights, Drew had glanced around in confusion. The living room was well appointed, yet strangely impersonal, reminding him of an expensive hotel room.

  “What is this place? Are you sure it’s…?”

  “‘Secure’ is the word you used earlier. You needn’t worry. No one, or at least very few, have any knowledge of it.”

  “But why?” The apartment made Drew nervous. It looked unlived in. “What’s it used for?”

  Father Hafer seemed reluctant to answer. “For matters of discretion. My duties as a psychiatrist aren’t limited to advising the Carthusians. I’m often called upon to counsel priests from various orders who—let us say—have special problems. A crisis of faith. An overfondness for a young woman in the parish choir. A preference for alcohol, or drugs, or even another man. I trust I’m not saying anything that shocks you.”

  “Temptation’s the key to human nature. In my former life, I took for granted that everyone had a weakness. I just had to look till I found it. If people weren’t sinners, every intelligence networ
k would be out of business.”

  Father Hafer nodded sadly. “The threat of embarrassment, of scandal. In that respect, perhaps our worlds aren’t far apart. A priest who finds himself in moral conflict with his sacred vows sometimes becomes so distressed that he—”

  “Cracks up?”

  “I’d prefer to say has a nervous breakdown. Or perhaps he drinks so much that he jeopardizes the reputation of the Church.”

  “So you use this place to calm them down or dry them out.”

  “For rest and counseling. Or in an emergency, it’s a temporary cloister while arrangements are made to take them to their order’s rest home. Then, too, the separation of Church and State isn’t always as clear as the constitution demands. Politicians offering incentives to the Church in exchange for the Catholic vote often prefer to meet here rather than be seen arriving at the office of the bishop or the cardinal.”

  “In other words, a safe house for priests,” Drew said grimly. “No, Father, our worlds aren’t different at all.”

  3

  “May God have mercy on their souls.”

  Drew wasn’t sure whose souls Father Hafer meant—those of the monks who’d been killed or the men who’d murdered them.

  The moan produced another coughing fit.

  Drew watched him, helpless. As sick as Father Hafer had appeared when Drew first saw him from the distant roof at Boston Common, the priest looked even worse up close. His skin, which had always been gray, was now even darker, drabber, making Drew think of lead poisoning.

  Or another kind of poisoning. Chemotherapy. The flesh had shrunk on his cheeks and chin, emphasizing his facial bones. At the same time, the flesh seemed unconnected to those bones, about to peel away. His eyes seemed to bulge. His hair—once salt-and-pepper—was now a lusterless white, thin and brittle, sparse.

  His body as well had begun to shrink; the black suit and white collar hung on him as if they’d been borrowed from a larger man. Drew couldn’t help comparing their oversize fit with the way his own borrowed jeans, shirt, and vest were slightly too large for him. But there was a difference. Drew’s lean, lithe body had the healthy glow of asceticism, whereas the priest’s seemed to absorb light instead of giving it off—a collapsing black hole.

  Of death.

  “Garottes?” Father Hafer swallowed sickly. “But you don’t know for sure. As far as you can tell, only the two custodian brothers in the kitchen were shot. You saw no evidence of strangulation.”

  “That’s right. Except for the kitchen staff, the bodies I saw had been poisoned.”

  “Then—God help them—there’s a chance that they didn’t suffer.”

  “Oh, more than a chance. They never knew what hit them.”

  “But how can you be sure?”

  “Because of the mouse.”

  The priest stared with utter incomprehension.

  “That’s something I’ve been waiting to tell you about.” Sighing, Drew showed him the plastic bag containing the body of Stuart Little. “The poison killed him instantly. If I hadn’t tossed him a chunk of bread and paused to say grace, I’d be dead myself.”

  Father Hafer reacted with horror. “You’ve been carrying that thing with you all this time?”

  “I had to.”

  “Why?”

  “When I came down from the attic, I didn’t know if the corpses had been removed. Later I saw that they were still in their cells. But what if, after I escaped, the team came back and disposed of them? I still had to take the mouse’s body with me to find out what poison was used. Some specialists have trademarks. They’re fond of particular types. I’m hoping that an autopsy will tell me—”

  “Specialists? Trademarks? Autopsy on a mouse? And you’ve been carrying it in your pocket? I was wrong. May God have mercy on them? No, not on them. May God have mercy on us all.”

  Father Hafer stood angrily. “You say that the monastery was attacked four nights ago?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you escaped two nights later?” The priest’s voice became strident.

  “Yes.”

  “But instead of going to the police, you wasted all that time coming to me.”

  “I couldn’t take the risk that they’d keep me in jail. I’d have been a target.”

  “But for Heaven’s sake, couldn’t you at least have phoned them? Now the trail’s gotten colder. It’ll be harder for them to investigate.”

  “No. There was another reason that I didn’t call them. Couldn’t.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “It wasn’t my choice to make. The Church authorities had to know first. They had to decide what to do.”

  “Decide? You honestly think they’d have had an option and not have called the police?”

  “They probably would have, but not right away.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “Perfect sense. Remember who I am. Who I was. Where I was.”

  As the implications struck him, Father Hafer groaned. “How I wish that you’d never come to my office.” He paled. “You say that our worlds aren’t different? That’s certainly how the Church’s enemies will interpret this. Because of you. And me. Because of my weakness in believing that you wanted salvation despite your shocking sins.”

  “But I do!”

  Father Hafer dug his fingernails into his palms. “Because I recommended that the Carthusians accept you. Because your crimes caught up with you and now those holy monks have suffered the punishment intended for you—” he coughed “—I’ve jeopardized the reputation not just of the Carthusians, but of the Holy Mother Church herself. I can see the headlines now. ‘Catholic Church Protects an Assassin, Gives Refuge to an International Killer.’”

  “But I was on the side of…”

  “Good? Is that what you wanted to say? Good? Killing?”

  “I did it for my country. I thought I was right.”

  “But then you decided you were wrong?” Father Hafer’s voice was filled with scorn. “And you wanted to be forgiven? Ah. Now those monks are dead. And you’ve put the Church in danger.”

  “You’d better get control.”

  “Control?” He walked to the sofa, grabbed the phone on the table beside it, and pressed a sequence of numbers.

  “Wait a minute. Who are you calling? If that’s the police…” Drew reached for the phone.

  With unexpected strength, Father Hafer shoved Drew’s hand away.

  “This is Father Hafer. Is he in? Well, wake him. I said wake him. It’s an emergency.”

  With his ear to the phone, Father Hafer cupped a hand across the mouthpiece. “I’ll be dead by the end of the year.” He held up his hand, asking for silence. “What does it have to do with this? Do you recall our interview six years ago?”

  “Of course.”

  “We talked about vows. I said I was fearful that if I recommended admitting so young a man as yourself to the rigors of the Carthusians, I’d be responsible for your soul if you found the order’s sacred vows too harsh and broke them.”

  “I remember.”

  “And your response? You said that I’d be responsible anyhow, in a different way, if I refused your application. Because you felt such despair that you were tempted otherwise to kill yourself. If I turned you away, I’d be responsible for your damnation.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was specious reasoning. Every man’s soul is his own responsibility. Your suicide would have been self-willed damnation. But I heard your confession. I thought, a man with your past, what hope did you have for salvation? What possible penance could compensate for your terrible sins?”

  “So you recommended that the order accept me.”

  “And now, if not for me, those monks would still be striving to save their souls. Because of me, they’re dead. This isn’t just a scandal. It’s not just a controversy about the Church protecting a killer. God damn you. You’re responsible. To them, to me. And I to them. Because of you, I’ve jeopardized my soul.
I told you I’m going to die. By Christmas. I think you’ve put me in Hell.”

  Drew stared, absorbing the accusation, and now it was his turn to lean forward, to bury his face in his hands. He glanced up abruptly, hearing Father Hafer speak into the phone.

  “Your Excellency? I deeply regret disturbing you this late, but something terrible has happened. Catastrophic. It’s imperative that I meet with you at once.”

  4

  The bishop, His Excellency the Most Reverent Peter B. Hanrahan, had a lean, rectangular face. He was in his late forties, and though he’d been wakened less than an hour ago, his short, sandy hair looked freshly washed and blow-dried. It was combed impeccably. His green eyes reminded Drew of porcelain, but their glint, he noted, was that of steel.

  The bishop sat behind a large oak desk in a paneled office decorated with testimonial plaques from various charitable organizations—Protestant and Jewish as well as Catholic—along with framed glossy photographs of him in a grinning handshake with various mayors of Boston, governors of Massachusetts, and presidents of the United States. But the pictures of him with several popes took the place of honor on the wall behind his desk.

  Perhaps because he’d sensed that this meeting would be both disturbing and lengthy, he’d arrived at his office wearing clothes that looked considerably more comfortable than his bishop’s robes or his priest’s black suit and white collar. He’d chosen gray loafers, navy corduroy slacks, a light-blue Oxford button-down, and on top of it a burgundy sweater, the sleeves of which were pushed up slightly, revealing a Rolex watch. Steel, though, not gold.

  To Drew, he looked like a politician, an appropriate comparison since at this level a Church official had to be a politician. The smoothness in the voice, the carefully effective choice of words, were probably less the result of Sunday sermonizing than negotiating with local Catholic businessmen for donations to construction projects in the diocese.