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. Before 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 brushcut, 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 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 t
he 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 hours 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.
A slight wind touched Drew's face. Unsettled, he came back down the steps and walked with Hal across the lawn toward the building on the right. Something else bothered him. "If we're not supposed to be noticed, don't you think you'd better move the car?"
"I will in a couple of minutes. I've got to come back anyway."
"Oh?"
"To get you some clothes. I don't have much to choose from. These seminarians don't exactly dress for style. Black shoes, black socks, black pants. Depressing. But they like to play sports, so I think I can get you a sweatshirt. Maybe a workshirt. Could be even a wind-breaker. Are you hungry?"
"Vegetables. Fresh. A lot."
Hal laughed. "Yeah, carrots, huh? What's up, Doc? You want anything to read?"
Drew shook his head. "I figured I'd exercise."
"Great! You like basketball? You feel like a little one-on-one? No, wait a minute, that's no good. The court's outside. You're not supposed to show yourself."
Drew stopped abruptly.
"Something wrong?"
"A question. I'm bursting to ask it"
"Be my guest."
"Are you really a priest?"
"Does the Pope hate Polish jokes? Was John a Baptist? You better believe I'm a priest."
"What else?"
"Beg pardon?"
"What else are - were - you? You've got military intelligence written all over you." Drew watched him soberly.
"Okay. Yeah, I used to be in military intelligence. The Navy. Like Magnum, P.I."
Drew didn't understand the reference. "What made you join the priesthood?"
Hal started walking again. "You've got your choice of rooms. Which one?"
Drew answered quickly, not wanting to change the subject. "Anything near the stairs on the second floor."
"Yeah, that's what I'd choose, too. No chance of somebody coming through your window. And the high ground's easier to defend. But it's not like on the third floor, where it takes too long to get outside."
"I asked you, why did you join the priesthood?"
"And you can keep asking."
"Then let me ask you this."
Hal stopped, impatient.
"I'm used to a pattern. Five days ago, I was forced to give it up. And now it's Sunday."
"So?"
"At the bishop's, Father Hafer heard my confession. Five days are too long. I want to receive communion."
"Hey, now you're talking. Never mind basketball. I haven't said my mass for today. But I don't have a server."
"Sure, you do. Just show me the way to an altar."
"There's a chapel in the retreat house."
"I'll fill the cruets for your water and wine. I'll serve the best mass you ever said." "Pal, you've got a deal. What's funny?" "We sound like two kids getting ready to play."
7
A board creaked, Drew knelt, praying, in the front pew of the chapel. He raised his head to look past his shoulder toward the shadows behind him.
No one. He turned to the altar and resumed his prayers.
It was after midnight. Though the mass he'd served for Hal had been almost twelve hours ealier, he still remembered the touch of the thin stiff host on his tongue. His spirit had swelled.
The rest of the day had depressed him. He'd tried to keep busy - washed and shaved and put on the clothes that Hal had brought him. He'd paced his room, done pushups and situps, rehearsed the dance steps of martial arts, and wondered where Hal had gone.
By mid-afternoon, he knew that the helicopter would long ago have reached the monastery. The Jesuits would have found the bodies and told the bishop. The bishop would have talked to the cardinal. The cardinal would have talked to Rome. So why hasn't someone talked to me? What decisions were made? What's happening?
The irony of his nervous boredom struck him forcibly. For six years, living in solitude, he'd never felt the burden of time. And now, after five days' absence from the monastery, he couldn't keep from looking at his watch, a watch that he'd taken from a man he'd killed. Moaning, he sank to his knees and begged for this burden to be lifted from him. I know that nothing happens without a reason. I'm only an instrument. But please, Lord, pass this cup from my lips. All I want is peace.
All? He touched the bulge in the jacket pocket, remembering the urge he'd felt to seek revenge for the death of the monks. He felt the photographs in another pocket - the man and woman in flames, the young boy screaming - and prayed for his
soul.
Near six, Hal entered his room. "I brought you some milk and vegetables. Raw cauliflower you said you wanted? I can't even stand the stuff cooked."
"How long am I supposed to stay here?"
"Till they tell us different, I suppose. Hey, if you're bored, they've got just one television here, and that's in the seminary building, but I can get you a radio."
David Morrell - Fraternity of the Stone Page 14