by Tom Clancy
“I think so,” Steve replied. He whispered thanks to the officer and walked back around to the front of the hospital to the taxi stand as the officer ordered the brothers into their pickup. “Now I want the two of you to sit in there and don’t make a move. If you leave, I’ll catch up with you and have both of you arrested.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Brother Michael said with a sneer. “You haven’t got anything to charge us with.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Greg replied. “For instance, you were brandishing that tire iron like a weapon. Added to that, the vehicle you’re driving doesn’t look roadworthy to me. Bald tires, broken door, no environmental inspection sticker...if you get my drift. Just sit here for a few minutes until I get back.” The officer then walked around to the front of the hospital to join the priest.
“Well so long, Greg. I’m off to the airport,” Steve said as he shook hands and climbed into a cab. “And thanks for your help.”
Greg looked worried. He shook his head. “Now, Father, let me tell you something. If you go to the Tucson International Airport, by the time you get a flight out, they’ll be back on you. I can detain them for a little while, but they’ll be after you soon enough.”
Steve turned to the taxi driver. “Do you know of a small airport nearby where I can charter a plane to Phoenix?”
“I can take you to the Avra Valley Airport,” the driver offered. “It’s about twenty minutes up I-10. You can get a charter there to take you direct to the Phoenix airport. What do you think?”
“Fine,” Steve said.
The police officer agreed. “But I suggest,” he said to the driver, leaning into the taxi window, “you start out driving south down Silverbell Road as if you’re heading for Tucson International Airport, then cut over to I-10 and head back up north to Avra Valley. I’ll keep those guys occupied for a few minutes but I can’t hold them very long. I don’t intend to arrest them. My sergeant’s a Catholic and there’s no way I’m gonna walk into the station with a couple of monks under arrest.”
Saying goodbyes once again, Steve shook the officer’s hand and climbed into the cab. As the cab pulled away Greg walked around to the side lot where he would detain the monks with a brief inspection of the pickup. A few minutes later, he released the monks with a strong warning to make repairs to their vehicle and told them if he caught them speeding down Silverbell they would be arrested. He also said he was calling ahead to make sure there would be no incident at Tucson International Airport.
As he walked back to the police car, the officer thought: I’m no more than l5 minutes out of the confessional and already I’ve told a lie!
*****
At the counter in the small Avra Valley Airport, Steve made arrangements for a charter to Phoenix. Having a few minutes to spare, he placed a call to his brother Jonathon in Wayland and left a message on his recorder.
Several minutes later, Jonathon’s return call came through. “Steve, I gather you’re in Arizona. What’s happening?”
“I’ve run away from the monastery, Jonathon, and I suppose the church now considers me a renegade priest. I’m flying up to see you. If anyone calls and asks about me, don’t tell them anything.”
“What about Janet? What if she calls?”
“Oh, you know about her. If she calls, tell her I’ll meet her at our summer place on Pine River Pond next weekend. Better give her directions on how to get up to New Hampshire to the pond. But don’t tell anyone else about me.”
“Sure thing. Look forward to seeing you. How are you fixed for money?”
“I’ve got quite a bit of cash seeing as how there wasn’t anything to spend it on at the monastery. And my credit cards are still active.”
Steve walked out to the windy flight line where he boarded a Cessna charter aircraft to Phoenix, and from there a commercial flight to Boston.
18
Most Reverend Luis Hernandez, Bishop of Tucson, stepped into a waiting taxi at Dulles Airport. “Where to, Padre?”
“Please take me to the Chancery of the Archdiocese of Washington. Do you know where that is?”
“Been there many times. Have you there in about thirty minutes. Where you in from, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Tucson, Arizona.”
“Never been there but I hear it’s nice country.”
“Yes it is.”
“Hear it’s hot in summer.”
“Yes, hot, very hot,” the Bishop replied distractedly as he gazed out the window of the taxi at the passing Virginia countryside. As the taxi droned on, Bishop Hernandez became lost in thought. He knew he had to take a stand with Bishop Rhinehart. His diocese and the Archdiocese of Washington were jointly facing a sixty million dollar lawsuit brought by five former altar boys against a pedophile priest. The priest and both dioceses had been named in the suit. The priest was one of those he customarily accepted without question when requested by an American cardinal. In this case, Cardinal Wollman, when he was alive, with Bishop Rhinehart acting as his executive assistant, had shuttled the priest around to various parishes in the Washington diocese for years. Then, after the cardinal died, Bishop Rhinehart finally hoped to get the priest out of the way by transferring him to Tucson to the Passion Brothers monastery. He naively thought the authorities might not find the errant priest at a lonely monastery deep in the desert. But someone had talked and the lawyers located the priest at the monastery.
Bishop Hernandez had convinced himself that at the very least, the Archdiocese of Washington should share in the responsibility and pay a significant portion of any court settlement. In fact, he found it not difficult to conclude that the Washington archdiocese was almost completely at fault in the matter and on top of that certainly wealthy enough to pay all of the final settlement in the case. But, although he had never met Rhinehart, he knew of his reputation, and knew that Rhinehart would fight like a wounded tiger to avoid paying even a dime. And now that Rhinehart, rumored to be a favorite of the pontiff, was likely to be elevated to the red hat, it would be an uphill battle.
As the taxi droned on, Bishop Hernandez had a depressing thought: What if his diocese was forced to raise an amount that could run into the millions? How could he manage it? He recalled that a few years before, short of ready cash, he had instituted the rule of three collections at Sunday Masses in his parish churches. But he soon learned the congregation gave little more in total. They simply stretched out the offerings of the first and second collections to allow for the third. And there were angry complaints from many parishioners. Unhappily, it was the more devout who complained that it was impossible to concentrate on the mystery of the Mass when the jingle of coins and rustle of collection baskets became almost continuous. And so, this attempt at raising money came to naught. He was left with the unnerving thought that although the church’s lawyers would appeal the amount of any settlement and would very likely get it reduced, the amount could still be sizeable—probably in the millions.
Arriving at the chancery, Bishop Hernandez, a man well into middle-age, portly, with traces of neckline red showing through his olive complexion, perspired as he labored up two flights of stairs and was ushered into the anteroom of Bishop Rhinehart’s office. After a few moments, the door opened and the prelate, rigidly erect, his usually stern visage softened by a slight smile, waved his visitor to a seat in his office. Bishop Hernandez, momentarily anticipating a pastoral embrace, but receiving none, shrugged very slightly, nodded and took a seat.
“I trust you had a pleasant flight from Tucson,” Bishop Rhinehart said, to which Bishop Hernandez gave a slight nod. “This is our first face-to-face meeting is it not? You were elevated to the bishopric somewhat recently.”
“That’s correct, Your Grace.”
“No need for such formality, my dear Bishop. The pontiff has not yet made any announcement concerning me. Tell me, how are you making out in your second year in the Tucson diocese?”
“Reasonably well,” Bishop Hernandez replie
d guardedly, realizing that if he said he was doing very well, it could cost him money in the ongoing litigation, and if poorly, it could be reported negatively to the American College of Cardinals.
“The Conference of Bishops will convene tomorrow morning here at the chancery. I assume you are familiar with the agenda topics sent through the mail. I understand you wanted to meet with me before the conference.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Hernandez said, shifting nervously in his chair. “There is something I need to discuss with you. It concerns one of the priests who was transferred to my diocese from the Archdiocese of Washington. The sixty-million dollar lawsuit naming my diocese and the Archdiocese of Washington is a matter of great concern to me. My diocese is one of the poorer in the country. We have a large population of Mexican Americans who are plagued by high unemployment and low wages when employed. Thus, the coffers of the churches are depleted. In order to raise a large sum of money I would have to mortgage a number of my church properties.”
“That sounds very sensible, Bishop. Why don’t you do that? I can offer you this good news: I agree to contribute half of any court settlement.”
“But that might still leave me to pay thirty million. Has it ever occurred to Your Grace that even if we mortgaged some diocesan properties, we might not have the resources even to make the mortgage payments?”
“God will find a way,” Bishop Rhinehart said. “Besides, these lawsuits are always settled for a much smaller amount.” Rhinehart found himself growing increasingly irritated that Hernandez was attempting to pass the problem back to Washington when Tucson had happily accepted the priest and the accompanying payments from Washington and without doubt intended to make money on the deal. He was aware that Hernandez and his predecessors had willingly accepted priests from all over the country together with somewhat exorbitant payments for their keep, and presumably for therapy at the monastery. Rhinehart had little sympathy at being asked to contribute any more money when it had been Hernandez’ responsibility to accept this latest errant priest on a permanent, supposedly irrevocable transfer. “I’ll take it up with my accountants, but I have grave doubts that we can do more than offer to pay half.”
Bishop Hernandez realized that further protest was futile. He might appeal to the Conference of Bishops, but doubted they would do any more than offer their condolences. He had a sinking feeling he would have to raise a substantial amount in his own diocese.
Bishop Rhinehart’s supercilious attitude began to grate on Hernandez who decided to change the subject. His tone grew firmer as he took up a matter concerning another priest in which he felt he had a stronger hand. “I would like to know more about another priest you sent me named Stephen Murphy. Brother Berard and I are frankly puzzled by your sending him to us without the benefit of any explanation of his aah...background. Most recently you asked that Murphy return to Washington presumably to pressure him to resign or to be defrocked. He has refused. Since he has been transferred to me, I at the very least should be made privy to his background and made aware of whatever errant behavior he may be guilty of. When we accepted Murphy, Your Grace, you said a complete personnel file would be forwarded to us. We have the file, but it is not complete.”
“My dear Bishop, I have decided this matter needs the utmost secrecy because of potential grave scandal to the Church. I decided to enter nothing in Murphy’s personnel file; however, by word of mouth, I can tell you what this is all about.” Bishop Rhinehart got up from his desk and walked over taking a seat close to Bishop Hernandez. He leaned over close to his fellow prelate and lowered his voice, mainly to impress the other with the need for delicate handling of the information.
“What I am about to tell you must remain in this room. Even Brother Berard must not be privy to what I am about to say. At the present time, only a priest in Boston who reported the information and I know the story—as well as Murphy’s brother. We are not sure whether Murphy himself is aware of this, although his brother in Boston certainly is.”
“About a year ago, an elderly woman made a deathbed confession. She said that Stephen Murphy was born out of an incestuous relationship between the mother and her older son, Murphy’s brother.”
“So? Why should that impugn Murphy? He is no more than an innocent product of the sinful event. Is that the only reason why you are trying to remove him?”
“When it is fully understood, you will see that it is reason enough. You see the union we are aware of was not sexual incest. It was conducted in a laboratory thereby making Murphy the product of a lab process.”
“Are you referring to in-vitro fertilization? Although the church condemns this manner of procreation, why should this affect Murphy’s life as a priest? Once again, he is an innocent party.”
“My dear Bishop, I suppose I am not making myself clear. Since I am not a biologist I know none of the details. All I can tell you is that Murphy was...how shall I describe it?...produced, manufactured, if you will, in a laboratory. By the way, since he did not return to Washington after my order to do so, I assume you are holding him at the monastery until he either resigns the priesthood or you take further action against him. And if you don’t, I certainly will.”
“I do not like to admit this, Your Grace, but Murphy escaped from the monastery. At the moment, we do not know where he is; however, I have ordered that a few of Brother Berard’s monks track him down and return him to the monastery.”
“How could you have let this happen?” Bishop Rhinehart fumed. “You must have understood that Murphy represents a threat to the church? A threat of scandal?”
“As I recall,” Bishop Hernandez said almost in a growl, “it wasn’t until just a few minutes ago that you offered an explanation. And even that is sketchy at best.”
Recovering his composure with some difficulty, and getting up from his chair to usher Bishop Hernandez to the door, Bishop Rhinehart said, “Now, if you will excuse me, I have important things to take care of that cannot wait. Rest assured this matter will become clearer at tomorrow’s conference. I have put it on the agenda as the opening issue for tomorrow morning. Try not to be late.”
Bishop Hernandez, who had never been late for a meeting in his life, bristled at the comment but decided to say nothing.
Bishop Rhinehart, cupping a hand under the elbow of his fellow prelate, gently but firmly guided him to the door and snapped the door shut behind him.
19
The old woman lay in bed dying. The priest was at her bedside administering Extreme Unction—the church’s sacrament for preparing a soul to face Christ and eternity. After dipping his fingers into the holy unguent, he touched each of her senses—her eyes, nose, ears, lips and hands, blessing them with the Sign of the Cross. He leaned over a body that had become wasted from alcohol and age—now in the clutches of death but soon it was believed, to be cradled in the arms of a forgiving Christ. The pungent odor of holy oil and smoke from the bedside candle permeated the air around the bed, mixing with the smell of death. The woman’s frail hands, wrinkled skin covering porous bones attached with bulbous knuckles, groped spastically for her rosary beads like a drowning victim trying with frantic movements to grab onto anything that floated.
Jonathon stood in the dim light near the wall, a nurse at his side, stethoscope in her hand. It would confirm the cessation of heartbeats. She would announce death’s arrival.
As the priest stepped back from the bed, the old lady’s halting, grating voice called out to her son: “Jonathon...come closer...I need to talk to you...”. Then rasping, “Get that nurse out of here, she doesn’t need to hear this.” The nurse glanced at Jonathon who whispered, “Just for a few minutes, please.” The nurse left the room, but unknown to the dying woman, the priest who had conducted Last Rites, remained sitting in a dim corner, unobserved, reading from a prayer book.
Jonathon leaned close to his mother. He held one of her hands. Her dry shriveled lips were trembling as she spoke: “Jonathon, maybe I was wrong, but I always favor
ed you. As the years went by I realized I loved you even more than I ever loved your father. He never had time for me. He was always tied up in his only love, politics...goddamn politics.”
“Mother, you will soon be with God. Careful what you say.”
“Goldarn politics. How’s that?” she croaked, showing a trace of the fiery spirit he remembered from years back.
“Better, Dear. Now what did you want to tell me?”
“I want you to tell Steve that you and I produced him. He is the product of our flesh—yours and mine.”
On hearing these words, the priest in the corner looked up from his prayer book stunned. Since the old lady had never mentioned it when he heard her last confession, he could only hope she had confessed the incest many years before and received absolution.
“Mother, what are you talking about? How could you have a child without father? I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you remember when you and I were vacationing in upper Maine near the Canadian border? And don’t you remember when I had to go into that small hospital? I lied when I said I had caught a bug and you were put in that hospital for a day of tests to make sure you didn’t have it.”
“Yes, I remember the incident, Mother, but I never really knew what was going on. They did a few tests and took a few tissue samples as I recall and then released me.”
“Months later, my pregnancy was obvious. Your father jumped to the conclusion that I had had an affair because our marriage had become a kind of sham. That’s when he left us for six months, although he came back later, after Steve was born.”
“I do remember that! He threw me out of the house without so much as an explanation and said he’d kill me if he ever saw me again.”
“Why do you think he threw you out of the house?”
“I never really understood. I thought he was out of his head.”
“Frankly, he was suspicious of you because we were very close. He thought we were too close. He also noticed a remarkable resemblance between you and Steve. Although you were born many years apart, he said you looked like twins. Don’t be too harsh on your father’s memory, Jonathon. He had a lot to put up with. You were invited back home when I told him the whole story.”