The Fraternity of the Stone

by David Morrell

  His Excellency sat behind his desk, tilting his chair back, eyes firm with concentration, as first Father Hafer and then Drew explained.

  Four times, the bishop asked Drew for clarification. He considered the mouse in the plastic bag, nodded, and gestured For Drew to continue.

  At last Drew concluded what he automatically thought of as his debriefing, indeed his second of the night. He glanced at his watch. It was seven minutes after one. Though thick beige draperies covered the windows, the muffled roar of a car rushing past outside intruded. Otherwise the room was silent.

  The bishop shifted his gaze impassively from Drew to Father Hafer, then back to Drew. He blinked but otherwise stayed motionless. The silence persisted. At once his chair creaked as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk.

  His eyes glinted sharply. “You’ve certainly endured a most remarkable series of events.” His voice remained resonant, smooth. “And of course most disturbing.” He debated, then pressed a button on his intercom. “Paul?”

  An equally smooth male voice responded. “Your Excellency?”

  “Ah, good, you haven’t gone back to your room.”

  “I thought you might need me.”

  “I don’t know how I’d get along without you. Do you remember Pat Kelley?”

  “Vaguely. But I can check his file.”

  “No need. He owns a construction equipment business. Last summer he and his wife took a trip to Rome. He asked if I could arrange for His Holiness to give them a blessing.”

  “Ah yes, I remember now.” The voice chuckled. “He framed the certificate of the blessing and hung it on a wall in his office.”

  “If memory serves, his firm owns a helicopter. He claims it’s for lifting heavy equipment onto high-rises, but I’ve always suspected that it’s merely a toy that he writes off on his income tax. Would you phone him, please? Tell him that his Church needs a favor from him, the loan of his helicopter. Explain that I’ll be in touch to thank him as soon as I can.”

  “Of course, your Excellency. I’ll make sure I talk to him before he leaves his home for the office.”

  “No, now.”

  “You mean wake him?”

  “I want that helicopter available by dawn. If he hesitates, hint that the Knights of Columbus might hold a banquet in his honor. Next, check our computer for priests in the diocese who’ve had experience in hospitals or been in combat. Three will be sufficient, but one of them has to be able to fly the helicopter.”

  “Very good, your Excellency. Anything else?”

  “Yes, bring us some coffee, maybe some doughnuts. I’m going to be busy for quite a while.”

  Bishop Hanrahan took his finger off the intercom and seemed to organize his thoughts. “Let me ask you something, Brother MacLane. I want to make sure that I understand the situation. After you escaped, your concern—apart for your safety—was for the well-being of the Church? That was your reason for not alerting the authorities but instead coming to your confessor and then to me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then may I assume you have some practical suggestions about how I should deal with this information?”

  Drew nodded.

  “What precisely?”

  “Three possibilities.” Drew touched his index fingers together. “First, as Carthusians those monks had removed themselves from the world. They’d sold whatever property they owned, closed out their bank accounts, quit their jobs. They’d said their final goodbyes to friends and relatives and made clear that no one from their former life could ever be in touch with them again. No visits, no phone calls, no letters. They even notified the government that they’d stop filing tax returns.”

  “I’m aware of that. Please make your suggestion.”

  “As far as the world is concerned, those men might as well have been dead already. They’d made themselves invisible, and in the normal course of events, when they did die, they should have been equally invisible. As I’m sure you know, the Carthusians don’t use a coffin. The fully clothed body is placed on a board, the face covered with a cowl. The robe is nailed to the board. Then the corpse is buried in a private cemetery, marked only with a simple white cross. To emphasize humility, there’s no inscription.”

  “I’m aware of that, too. Just what are you getting at?”

  “Follow the procedure.”

  “What?”

  “Go ahead and bury them.”

  “And not tell anyone?”

  “Who otherwise would know? If they’d died from an epidemic or from accidental food poisoning, would the Church have publicized it? The Church would merely have laid them to rest. They’d have still been invisible. The Church’s secret.”

  “In other words, you’re suggesting that the Church cover up a mass murder?”

  “It’s one possibility.”

  Bishop Hanrahan stared. “But if the authorities can’t investigate, if they can’t track down the men responsible, who may I ask is supposed to punish…?”

  “God.”

  The bishop jerked his head back. “I seem to have forgotten that you too were a Carthusian. Your faith is remarkable.”

  “No, please don’t say that. Faith? I believe in Hell.”

  “Indeed.” The bishop frowned. “So to protect the Church’s reputation, we consign the murderers to their ultimate judgment and in the meantime pretend that the killings never occurred?”

  “I said it’s one option. It has to be considered.”

  “But would you act upon it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s too great a risk of the story getting out. That kind of operation—the cleanup, the burial—requires a lot of personnel, the probability of gossip. If this were an intelligence assignment, if professionals did the cleanup, I wouldn’t be worried. But priests would be doing the work, and what they’d have to deal with would be so shocking that they might not be able to keep their mouths shut afterward.”

  The bishop considered. “Perhaps. But don’t forget that priests are used to the vow of secrecy. I could make them swear discretion.”

  “Even so, what’s the point of doing it the hard way? Why involve a lot of people? The problem isn’t that those monks were killed. The problem is…”

  “You,” Father Hafer said, the first time he’d spoken in quite a while.

  Drew nodded somberly. “Me.”

  “And you as well,” the bishop told Father Hafer. “If not for you, there would have been no massacre.”

  “I’m well aware, your Excellency. Mea culpa. I’ll soon have to make a case for my soul.” Father Hafer tried unsuccessfully to stifle a cough.

  The bishop’s hard gaze softened. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t speak harshly.” He turned to Drew. “Your second suggestion?”

  “Don’t erase the evidence of the murders. Instead, erase the evidence of my presence in the monastery. Take everything out of my cell. Make it look unlived in. Remove my file from the order’s records. Then alert the authorities, and when they ask about the empty cell, explain that the order’s been having difficulty attracting recruits, that the monastery wasn’t fully occupied. Because there’ll be no way for the police to find out that a former assassin was given refuge there, the Church avoids the scandal.”

  “And do you recommend that second option?”

  “It has the merit of being simple. The police can investigate. There’s almost no chance that someone’ll talk. The only people who’d know are the three of us and whoever cleans out my cell.” He paused. “There is a third option, of course.”

  “Indeed?”

  “The simplest of all.”

  “And that is?”

  “To tell the police the truth.”

  The bishop narrowed his eyes.

  The intercom buzzed. He pressed a button on it. “Yes?”

  “Your Excellency, I’ve made arrangements for the helicopter.”

  “And the crew?”

  “Jesuits. B
efore they joined the order, they served in Vietnam. One of them flew a gunship.”

  “Appropriate. The commandos of the Church. A few other things,” the bishop said. “I’d like you to make an appointment for me with the cardinal as soon as possible this morning.”

  “Do you want me to wake him?”

  “Good gracious, no. Wait until seven. Before he says his private daily mass. And, Paul, I’m a little confused about who has jurisdiction over the Carthusians in Vermont. Find out.”

  “At once, your Excellency.”

  The bishop released the button on the intercom. He settled back. “You must be wondering what I’m doing.”

  “Not at all,” Drew said. “You’re planning to send those Jesuits up to the monastery. To make sure I’m telling the truth.”

  The bishop blinked.

  “And you plan to meet with the cardinal in time to send a message to stop them if he disagrees with you. But you doubt that the cardinal will. The chances are that he’ll commend you for acting so quickly. But the hard part, the final decision, you’ll leave to him.”

  “You have to admit that your story makes one skeptical. A monastery filled with corpses? Really, I’d be foolish to make decisions before I had all the facts.”

  “But why would I lie?”

  “Perhaps not lie. Perhaps after six years as a hermit, you’re mistaken. Confused.”

  “Deranged?” Drew felt angry.

  “Of course not. Confused. At this point, who can say? All I know is that you’ve been carrying a dead mouse in your pocket for several days. In my place, would you feel that inspires confidence?”

  The bishop glanced at the plastic bag on his desk. Too casually, he reached for it.

  In a blur, Drew intercepted his hand. The bishop flinched. Drew put the bag back into his pocket.

  “Attached to your little friend?”

  “Let’s say I’m sentimental.”

  The bishop’s expression hardened. “Very well. If His Eminence, the cardinal, agrees, the helicopter should arrive at the monastery by midday. And if what you claim is true, we’ll decide which of the options you suggest seems wisest.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “You’ll need a place to stay. Whatever the truth of what you’ve been through, you’re clearly exhausted. And I might suggest that a change of clothing would be appropriate.”

  Drew peered down, self-conscious, at his battered woodsman’s clothes. “Then where are you sending me?”

  “I don’t quite know yet. I’ll have to consult with Paul.”

  Father Hafer coughed. “And what about myself? Should I plan to go with him?”

  The bishop pursed his lips. “I think not. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. Until we know exactly how the situation stands, it’s better if we go about our regular routine. There is one thing I suggest, however. Did you hear this man’s confession?”

  “Of course. Before I recommended that the Carthusians accept him. His life as a hermit was his penance.”

  “No, I mean recently. Tonight.”

  “Well, no. That is…” Father Hafer frowned. “I never thought…”

  “Because he claims he killed a man two nights ago. If true, his soul is in danger. He has to be absolved.”

  Drew remembered the crucifix that he’d used as a weapon and wondered if absolution was possible.

  5

  “Wake up. We’re there,” the voice said.

  Drew lay on the rear seat of the black Cadillac that the bishop had sent for. The driver—a young, trim, athletic-looking man with blue eyes and a brush cut, wearing deck shoes, jeans, and a U. of Mass. sweatshirt—had been introduced to him as Father Logan. “But you can just call me Hal.” The priest looked as if he belonged on a varsity track team. It took Drew a moment to recognize the double significance of “Mass” on his sweatshirt.

  They’d left the bishop’s residence shortly before dawn, and as the Cadillac headed west on Interstate 90 through the sparse lights of traffic out of Boston, Hal had said, “We’ll be driving awhile. You might as well get some sleep.”

  But there’d been too much to think about. Drew hadn’t felt tired. Still, after they’d stopped for breakfast, he’d fallen asleep as soon as he got back in the car. He later wondered if he’d been sedated. But Hal had never been close to Drew’s food. Except, Drew thought, when I went to the men’s room. But why would the bishop want me sedated?

  He thought about it as he lay in the back of the Cadillac, pretending to waken slowly after Hal had spoken to him. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and squinted at the brilliant morning sunlight, the gorgeous hues of maples on the hills along the road. At once he realized that, even if he hadn’t been sedated, the effect was the same. He didn’t know where he was.

  “We left the interstate?”

  “Quite a while ago. How did you sleep?”

  “Like a baby.”

  Drew noticed Hal’s smile.

  The road was a two-lane blacktop with mountains on either side. Drew didn’t see any traffic or buildings. The digital clock on the dashboard showed 10:31. “Are we still in Massachusetts?”

  “Yep.”

  “What part?”

  “Far west.”

  “But where exactly?”

  “It’s a complicated route. It’d take too long to explain.”

  “And you said we’d arrived—wherever it is that you’re taking me.”

  “It isn’t far ahead. I wanted to give you the chance to wake up before we got there.”

  Dissatisfied, Drew studied the terrain, still wondering where he was. They entered a gentle wooded valley and turned down another road. A quarter mile along it, they reached a high stone wall on the right and drove through an open iron fence. In the distance, Drew saw a looming white crucifix, haloed by sunlight, on top of a large rectangular building. Smaller buildings flanked it. The grounds were spacious. The lawn, though brown in October, looked recently cut. Shrubs bordered gardens whose flowers had died. As Drew came closer, he noticed a deserted basketball court.

  “What is this place?” Its apparent peacefulness did not reassure him. He wondered if it might be a sanitarium.

  “A couple of things,” Hal said. “It started as a seminary. But candidates for the priesthood haven’t exactly been lining up these past few years. So the Church decided that the empty rooms ought to be put to use. That building to the right is a dormitory. Once a month for a weekend, various Catholic men’s clubs come here to have a retreat.”

  Drew nodded, sympathetic with the concept. The Church believed that the faithful needed to escape the pressures of the world from time to time. So for forty-eight hours, usually from a Friday to a Sunday night, parishioners had the chance for a nominal fee to go to a “retreat house,” often a seminary, where they immersed themselves in Catholic rituals. A retreat master, usually an eminent priest, gave lectures on matters of dogma and spirituality. Except during discussion groups, conversation was not permitted. Abundant religious literature was available in each dormitory room as an aid to meditation.

  “But that’s just once a month,” Hal said. “That building on the left gets the most use. It’s a rest home. At the bishop’s, I saw you talking to Father Hafer. I guess you know he’s a psychiatrist. I wouldn’t want his job for anything. He has to counsel priests who can’t bear the strain of their vows.”

  “Well, people get weak sometimes.”

  “Don’t I know. It’s sad. You’d be surprised how many burned-out cases I’ve driven out here. From what I’m told, there are three or four other places like this in the country. But this is the only one I’ve seen. That building to the left of the seminary is where they sleep. They don’t have any duties, except of course to say their daily mass. Otherwise, they get medication and therapy from the local staff.”

  “How long do they stay?”

  “A month or two for most of them. Till they’re off the booze or they realize that even saints don’t have to work twenty-five h
ours a day. But a few of them—well, I took an old pastor out here four years ago, and he still swears that the Virgin Mary sings to him every night.”

  6

  They stopped at the large middle building, the one with the crucifix on top. The angle of the sun was such that the cross’s shadow fell across the Cadillac, and as Drew got out, he noted that despite the clear bright sky, the air was crisp.

  He faced the building, scanning its windows. The bricks looked dingy. The concrete steps were cracked.

  “The place seems deserted.”

  Hal shrugged. “It’s almost eleven. The seminarians must be in class.”

  As if on cue, the voices of young men drifted out from somewhere deep in the building. “Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy. Glory to God in the highest…”

  “It sounds like the Kyrie and the Gloria,” Hal said. “They must be practicing the liturgy.”

  Drew shook his head. “Classes on Sunday? I don’t think so. And mass would have been first thing this morning. No, something isn’t right.”

  He started up the cracked concrete steps.

  Hal stopped him. “Sure, but this Sunday was special. Mass was postponed till now.”

  Puzzled, Drew turned to him.

  “We’re supposed to stay away from the seminarians. The bishop told the housemaster you’d be here. But it’s understood that you’re not to attract attention. You’ll be sleeping over there.” Hal pointed toward the building on the right. “Where they hold the retreats.”

  Drew felt uneasy. “But if they’re holding a retreat, what’s the difference, if they see me or the seminarians do?”

  “There’s no retreat this weekend. We’ve got that building all to ourselves.”

  How much has Hal been told about me? Drew wondered. Why do I feel I’ve met his type before? The way he stands at attention. The way he kept checking the Cadillac’s rear-view mirror.

  In another line of work.

  “Yeah, it’ll be nice and quiet. Restful,” Hal said.