The Blood of the Lamb

by Thomas F Monteleone

  Marion turned off her equipment. “All right, Officer. Off the record: what do you think happened here?”

  He shrugged. “Search me. That’s the truth.”

  “Do you think there was a mugging victim?”

  “Look, I don’t know. But I can tell you one thing, Miz Windsor—if there was, he sure as hell didn’t have any lightnin’ bolts comin’ outta his hands.”

  The paramedics eased past them, carrying the lump of charcoal on their collapsible gurney. Marion could not ignore the still-heavy scent of seared flesh.

  “Well, I gotta get back to work,” said Jaskulski. “It was nice meetin’ ya, Miz Windsor. I catch you whenever I can.”

  “Thank you,” she said absently, switching her equipment back on just in time to track the gurney being loaded into the rear of the ambulance. Beyond the vehicle, just coming into the picture, were two priests in long black cassocks and white Roman collars. One looked to be in his late sixties; the other was broad-shouldered, young, and handsome.

  “You’re a little late for the last rites, Fathers,” said the ambulance driver as he climbed into the cab.

  “Wait!” said the younger priest, the one with thick dark hair and penetrating dark eyes. He looked somewhat distraught. Despite his occupation, Marion found herself extremely attracted to him. Hormones…

  The paramedic in the shotgun seat looked back. “Yeah, Father, what can we do for you?”

  “Someone called us,” said the young priest. “For extreme unction. Can you give us just a minute with the victim?”

  The paramedics exchanged what-the-hell glances and the driver jumped out to reopen the rear doors. “Okay, Father, but you ain’t gonna like this one…”

  Lifting the sheet, the younger priest appeared to be displaying the remains to his older colleague. They exchanged a few words, but Marion was too distant to hear; she wondered if her directional mike was getting anything coherent. After a moment, the younger priest muttered a few words of prayer and made the sign of the cross over what had once been a human being. The entire scene hadn’t taken more than a minute or two to play out, but she could not help but notice how utterly shaken the older priest now appeared to be.

  Something very unusual was going on, Marion thought.

  The paramedics closed their vehicle and drove off. The two priests stood and watched it disappear around the corner, then walked off into the dusky shadows. Strange. Very strange.

  Turning around, Marion was surprised to see the witness, the Latino boy, still standing in the alleyway. His dark bangs hung almost in his eyes, which were large and round, almost too large for his narrow little face. He was looking at Marion with a combination of suspicion and admiration.

  “Hi,” she said, letting her mini-camcorder roll.

  “I seen you on the television,” the boy said.

  “What’s your name?” Marion smiled, took a few steps closer to him. The autofocus on her camera whirred softly, capturing a nice image of the waif’s face.

  “Esteban.”

  “That’s a pretty name,” she said, pausing for a moment, then: “Did you really see what you told that policeman?”

  Esteban nodded.

  “What happened to the man who did it? The man who made the lightning?”

  “He got scared. He ran away.”

  “Oh, I see.” Marion reached up to stop tape.

  “But he came back,” Esteban continued.

  “What? What do you mean? He was here? When?” Her pulse was jumping again. Marion had learned to trust her instincts, her somatic senses. Her body was telling her she might be on to something.

  “Just before the ambulance left. I saw him right back there.” Esteban pointed to the curb behind her.

  “There wasn’t anybody there except those two priests,” she said, trying to fit all the pieces together in her mind.

  “That was him,” said the boy. “The priest. The young one.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Esteban. “He had different clothes on, but it was him. The dude stuck that gun in his face and zap!”

  “Zap?” she asked cautiously.

  Esteban smiled. “Yeah, the padre puts up his hands and Venus is one crispy critter…”

  FIVE

  Brooklyn, New York—Carenza

  * * *

  August 16, 1998

  Peter spent the next day trying to go about his routine duties, trying not to think about the killing.

  Impossible.

  Saying morning Mass, shopping at the neighborhood grocery, chairing the monthly Cub Scout meeting, watching a ballgame…no matter what he tried to do, thoughts of the killing intruded.

  He wished he could reach Daniel…

  Father Sobieski had referred to the job of a priest as sometimes a cruel cross to bear. Peter shook his head slowly. How correct his pastor had been…Peter was going nuts. And Sobieski was acting strange, too. Ever since Peter had taken him to the ambulance, the old priest had shied away from him, and he wasn’t making any effort to help him through this whole crazy mess. This morning, Sobieski had informed everyone in the rectory he was taking the day off to visit a sister in New Haven who had been taken suddenly to the hospital.

  The only person with whom Peter had shared everything seemed to be deserting him.

  Peter couldn’t sleep or eat, couldn’t listen to others’ conversations; he had no patience with anything or anyone. He could not even pray without being driven to distraction by the images repeating in his mind’s eye. His colleagues and parishioners noticed the changes in him immediately, and it pained him greatly to see the surprise and shock in their faces. What was the matter with their mild-mannered, kindly parish priest?

  If only he could tell them…

  Clearly, things could not continue like this; he needed to talk to Daniel Ellington as soon as possible. He’d repeatedly called his best friend, who taught English Lit at Fordham, but Dan hadn’t been in his apartment and the department receptionist said he had a heavy class schedule.

  Peter could talk to Dan about anything; and Dan would help. Peter was having an increasingly difficult time trying to pray—something that had always been an integral and comforting part of his life. He was growing more and more terrified that this horrible incident would irrevocably distance him from his God and his charges—the people of Saint Sebastian parish.

  In this way lies madness, he thought. The worst thing he could do at this point would be to doubt his own resolves of faith or the power and wisdom of God.

  Reaching for the phone, Peter decided to try to get through again. Dan would probably be in a summer-school class, but he would try his office anyway. Peter flipped through his Rolodex until he found the number he could never seem to remember, then punched it in.

  You have reached the Department of English…said the recording of a slightly nasal female voice. Regular office hours are from eight AM until four PM Monday through Fridays throughout the summer session. Hours will be extended during fall semester registration during the week of—

  Peter hung up the phone. He’d forgotten it was Sunday and Daniel would be anywhere but locked up in his cave-like office cubicle.

  Peter dialed his friend’s residence number and waited through a series of rings.

  Then: “Hello, this is Father Ellington…”

  “Hello, Dan, it’s Peter.”

  Ellington’s tone immediately brightened. “Peter, how’re you doing? It’s been a while.”

  “You know how it is,” Peter said, trying to chuckle audibly. “You can always say you’re busy and it covers a multitude of sins.”

  Daniel Ellington agreed and they continued to exchange small talk for a minute or two. The men had met and become very close while studying in the seminary and, after both had been ordained, had remained in touch through sporadic correspondence. Peter had accepted his assignment at Saint Sebastian’s while Daniel spent the next few years gaining his Ph.D. with the Jesuits and eventually securing
a professorship at Fordham University. Peter had been surprised and pleased to learn that his close friend had ended up in New York, but in the year since Daniel’s arrival, he and Peter had managed only several afternoons together. Both had busy schedules and commitments, and free time was scarce.

  Peter had always liked Daniel because he was a no-bullshit kind of guy. You always got a straight answer from Daniel because he was insufferably honest. You knew where you stood with him and his opinions were always sincere. He was an intelligent, deep-thinking, sensitive type with an abiding love of books. Peter had always felt he would have made a great writer, had he not chosen the priesthood.

  “So what’s the occasion?” asked Daniel, obviously tiring of the ritual pleasantries. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to talk me into another one of those baseball games…”

  Peter smiled. Daniel had always sneered at organized sports as a means of keeping the working classes’ minds off the real issues of the world.

  “No, no ballgame this time, I need your help, Dan.”

  “Is it anything serious?” Immediately Daniel sounded concerned and solicitous.

  “I would say so, yes…” Peter paused for a moment. “Something happened to me, Dan. Something strange and terrible, and I need to talk about it.”

  “You know you can tell me anything, Peter—you don’t need to be so mysterious about it.”

  Peter cleared his throat, continued. “I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t. Not over the phone.”

  “The phone? Have you started moonlighting for the CIA or something?”

  Peter tried to laugh, failed miserably. “No, nothing like that. I’d just feel better if I talked to you in person.”

  “You’re not in any trouble, are you?” Daniel persisted.

  “Would that be spiritually or physically?” asked Peter, trying to make light of the question.

  “Either one, damn it! Come on, Peter, you sound pretty weird, so don’t be so surprised that it’s worrying me. Let’s cut the bullshit, okay?”

  Peter smiled in spite of the tension twisting inside him. “Spoken like a true Jesuit, Daniel.”

  “We don’t forsake our brains for the Church.” Peter could almost hear his friend shrug. Daniel had often told him that he believed a new order was coming in the Church, and that sooner or later some of the more medieval beliefs and traditions would be blown away. So far, the winds of change blowing from the Vatican had been weak indeed.

  “So when do you want to see me?” asked Daniel. “My guess would be as soon as possible, right?”

  “I was hoping you’d say something like that. What’s your schedule?”

  Daniel exhaled audibly. “I was going to drop off some exams at my office. Why don’t you just head over now, and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Sounds good. See you soon.”

  “Hey,” said Daniel, “whatever it is, everything’s going to be all right.”

  “I hope so…I really do.” He paused, drew in a breath. “Thanks, Dan. I mean that. Bye.”

  Feeling better, Peter hung up the phone. It was good to know that he could depend on Daniel for friendship and guidance—even if the latter was of a radical mien.

  “…and no, it’s not hard to believe,” said Dan. “If you said it happened, then I accept that it happened. Now, where do we go from here? Isn’t that the next question?”

  Peter looked at his friend, who was sitting behind his paper-covered desk with his feet up on the edge. He was stocky, but not overly so. He had longish, golden-blond hair and he’d always looked like a California surfer. Leaning well back in his swivel chair, Dan looked totally relaxed, despite learning his friend had just killed a man. The office was small, lined with sloppy bookcases, and shaded by heavy brown drapes. The space was cramped, but warm and comfortable. He liked the baronial clutter of the room very much. It was like—

  Dan cleared his throat. “Hey, Carenza…you listening?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Peter. “I was just thinking…daydreaming, really. It keeps me from going nuts.”

  “I was hoping that by letting it all out you’d feel some relief,” Dan said, frowning. He sat upright, dropping his feet to the floor.

  “Well, I do, but it’s not just that I…I killed a man, Dan…it’s how I killed him!”

  “I know, I know…”

  “No, you don’t. You can’t possibly know what it’s like to have this force come out of you and…and do what it did. The news said it was a freak lightning accident, but I know better.” He looked up at his friend. “Dan, what’s going on here? Is this a test of my faith? I thought God stopped doing this sort of thing a long time ago.”

  “So did I.” Dan smiled, shook his head. “Actually, we descendants of Saint Ignatius wonder if he ever did this sort of thing in the first place.”

  “So tell me: where do we go from here?”

  Dan lit a cigarette and drew on it slowly. “Well, I think the first step is to do what any Jesuit would do.”

  “What’s that—get drunk?”

  “Your sense of humor’s coming back. That’s a good sign,” said Dan. “No, actually, I was thinking of doing some research. You know—check the literature, and see if anything like this has happened before.”

  Peter brightened a bit. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “Sure. It’s a start. I’d be very surprised to find you were the first case like this on record.”

  Peter nodded. Maybe his friend was right. Without really thinking about it, he checked his watch and saw it was getting late. After dinner he had a practice scheduled with his Pony League team. Standing up, he reached out and took Daniel’s hand.

  “Thank you. For listening.”

  “Isn’t that what they told us in the seminary: ‘Be a good listener and you’ll be a good priest’?”

  “I guess so.”

  “So give me a few days to check some things out. I’ll be finished with my summer school class and then go to the theological library and do some digging around. Can you meet me back here a week from Monday, in the morning?”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be here. About ten?”

  Dan nodded, the friends shook hands again, and Peter left the office, making his way out of the complex of Fordham University buildings, into the streets of the Bronx. Although by no means cool, the blistering heat of the previous week had eased up. Peter had never grown accustomed to the overwhelming humidity that plagued New York during the summers. How much longer till October?

  As he stood there, trying to flag down a cab at the intersection of Webster Avenue and Fordham Road, Peter considered what he should do next. His pastor didn’t look like he was going to be any help. Thank God he had a friend like Dan Ellington, or Peter might have to book himself an appointment with a psychiatrist. Dan could be trusted with whatever Peter told him.

  He was a true friend.

  A cab slipped out of the main traffic flow and homed in on his position. Cries of children playing stick-ball punctuated the street sounds of horns and screeching tires. Everything seemed so normal, it was hard to hold on to the reality of what had happened to him. Maybe he was wrong; perhaps he had only imagined the energy coming from his hands.

  The cab pulled to a stop in front of him.

  Peter climbed inside, giving the rectory’s address in Bay Ridge, and the cabbie nodded and punched the accelerator. Peter was seized by the back seat as the big Checker surged into the southbound current on Webster Avenue.

  His next thought was dark; no, not freak lightning—just a freak.

  SIX

  Vatican City—Lareggia

  * * *

  August 17, 1998

  Deep within the bureaucratic warren of the Governorato, the Vatican’s largest governmental administration building, lay the unimpressive office of Paolo Cardinal Lareggia, who served on the Curia as the Chief of the Office for Personnel Relations of the Holy See. The name of the Curia implied something impressive and powerful, but Lareggia knew in
reality that it was nothing more than a vast civil service administration that blanketed the Vatican with paperwork and bureaucracy. The widespread arms of the Curia embraced every concern of the city—from economic affairs to newspaper publishing to the Cohors Helvetica, the Swiss Guard.

  Cardinal Lareggia’s job was to oversee the lay employees who worked for the bishopric of Rome and see that they were kept happy. This was no small task considering Italy’s galloping inflation and the relatively meager wages offered by the Curial payroll masters.

  This did not mean, however, that Lareggia lived a likewise spartan existence.

  The Cardinal was a large man—a man some would call fat, almost grossly so. The feasts at Lareggia’s table had become almost legendary within the Sacred College of Cardinals. He lived well, and why not? At the age of seventy-two he was one of the elder statesmen in that select group of Church leaders. With age came some privileges and some power.

  Paolo Lareggia was not above using whatever of both came his way.

  His intercom buzzed erratically as he sat behind his desk initialing some requisitions for reshipments of office supplies.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “You have a security communication on the scrambler,” said the flat voice of his male secretary. “Code name: Bronzini.”

  The Cardinal grinned to himself. Bronzini! What a surprise to hear the code name. It was a name he had spent so many years waiting to hear, the name of a person with a message both wondrous and mysterious. His breath stuck in his chest; he forced himself to swallow and willed his heart to reclaim its regular rhythm. Bronzini…at last.

  The Cardinal spoke into the voice-activated intercom: “I will see to this myself. Thank you.”

  Lareggia pushed his bulk away from the desk; the wheels of his chair groaned. He stood with effort and trundled across his office to a sophisticated electronics console. He had shied away from hi-tech equipment as long as possible, but as his position within the Church infrastructure rose and his superiors recognized the need for the Vatican to be conversant in the twenty-first century, he had acquiesced to the demands of keyboards, mice, and terminals.