The Absolver: Rome (Saint Michael Thriller Series Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  Michael had already preplanned his lies, just in case someone did come out to question the unfamiliar driver parked near the employee vehicles. As long as they don’t actually have a dude named ‘Mitchell Tanner’ workin’ for ‘em, then I can pass the whole thing off as a miscommunication and leave without creating a scene. Divorces have to be common enough among these guys that they’ll understand a colleague would wanna sign the papers without having to take time off to go back home, wherever that is.

  Having positioned his truck to both blend into the vehicles already parked in the lot and give himself the best available view of Loving County Road 100, Michael estimated Jordan Miller should drive within twenty-five or thirty yards when he passed by. If he sticks to his routine, Miller should leave his house, just to my west, and drive out eastbound on the dirt access road that connects with L-C-R 100 just about a hundred yards north of here. His only option, other than off-roading through the scrub brush, is to turn south and drive right past me. Glad that Texas requires front license plates, that’s gonna make it a lot easier to identify Miller’s rig.

  Michael had driven that same route several hours ago, which had confirmed his earlier assumption from the overhead satellite photos. I can drive past his place and look for other vehicles, people, and animals. All the tire tracks at the end of the road look like the locals routinely park there to access the river behind Miller’s house. As long as I look the part, I can leave my truck there without raising anyone’s suspicions. My new waders and fishing pole are gonna give me a great alibi to walk upstream and enter Miller’s property with the sun at my back. If he hadn’t bought waterfront property, I’d have a much harder time getting into his place without being noticed. Who’s gonna question a fisherman going up to a stranger’s house to get help for chest pains?

  Michael saw an eastbound dust trail rising from the access road about thirty seconds before the truck came into view. Whatever’s coming this way’s moving pretty quick. Probably the norm out here, no reason to slow down and enjoy the scenery. A white Ford truck emerged from behind the scrub brush and slowed before intersecting the county road. Michael raised his binoculars as it turned south toward him and confirmed the black-and-white Texas license plate on its front bumper. It’s the right truck. Windows are too dark to see inside, but, Miller oughta be inside his own rig, given the intel on his routine. I’m just gonna have to trust it.

  Michael stayed in the parking lot as Miller’s truck accelerated south past him. A black cloud of diesel exhaust and engine noise showed the man was in a hurry. Miller’s place is two-point-three miles away. No time like the present. He started his truck, shifted into Drive, and headed toward his objective. With any luck, I’ll be inside Miller’s place in about forty-five minutes.

  Sticking to his plan, Michael parked, donned his waders, and stumbled northwest along the east bank of the Pecos River with a shiny new fishing pole. Just to be more convincing, should anyone have spotted him, he occasionally cast his line into the murky water. There’s nothing swimming in here that’s gonna bite on this massive lure in middle of the afternoon. He chuckled at the small problem that actually catching something would present. I’d raise suspicion just by tossing it back. Not a lot of catch-and-release fisherman around here.

  By the time he finally entered Miller’s property from the river bank and approached an unusual landmark that he’d identified from overhead photos, a little more than an hour had passed. I’m already behind schedule, but at least I know I’m headed to the right house. Although he hadn’t been able to specifically identify the small structure from satellite photos, he now saw it was a shaded gazebo with a large, portable barbeque grill and picnic table beneath it. Michael looked back west toward the river and understood why Miller had built it there. It’s the best and greenest view of anywhere around here. He’s making do with what he has. Still not sure why a guy with his assets and paradigm would wanna live out here, though. If the locals knew how he makes his living, they’d likely see it as dirty money and refuse to even sell the guy a cup of coffee. Probably why the local sheriff prefers the rattlesnake problem in his rural county to the lawyer problems in the cities. Michael continued on toward the house, careful to try to keep his behavior consistent with his fictional distress.

  Still about fifty yards to go. Didn’t consider how slow I’d be hiking around in these damned rubber waders, or how dense the riverside brush was. He plodded through the short, evergreen hardwoods and worked to keep his cover story intact. If someone is home, I wanna look like I might actually be in distress, but I don’t wanna over-sell it. Chest pain comes in all varieties, and I’ll have to convince ‘em to let me walk away before any emergency medical services arrive. The medics won’t care about checking my I-D, but, out here, the fastest and closest responder’s definitely gonna be a Sheriff’s Deputy.

  Michael paid as much attention to the house as he did to avoiding trip hazards with the clumsy, oversized waders. Don’t see any movement, don’t hear any dogs. It’s too early for many lights to be on, so that doesn’t mean there’s no one inside. Michael took a deep, calming breath and focused on keeping his cover story believable. Don’t need to worry about entry yet, just focus on the first step and making sure no one’s home.

  Michael walked up onto the covered back patio and knocked loudly on the sliding glass door there. “Hello,” he called out, trying to sound frantic and harmless. “Anyone home?! I need help!” Waiting only a few seconds with no response, he pounded on the glass again, only louder. Someone afraid they’re having a heart attack wouldn’t be polite or patient. “Hello?! Please help! Call an ambulance, please!!” Michael dropped his fishing pole on the porch, cupped his hands around his face, and pressed against the glass door to get a clear view inside. No one’s visible, nothing’s moving. He stood still, held his breath for a few moments, and concentrated on listening for sounds or movement coming from the home. Nothing. Michael glanced at his watch and saw he had only about four hours left to find corroborating evidence and prepare for Miller’s absolution. If I even find anything, he reminded himself, it’s certainly possible there’s more than one Jordan Miller in this world and I’ve got the wrong one. That might actually make more sense at this point.

  Continuing on with his entry plan, Michael checked the sliding door. Unlocked. Probably not that unusual out here. He pushed the door open and listened intently for any indication of an alarm system. Nothing. “Hello?! Please, I was fishing and I’m having chest pain! Please, help, I think I’m having a heart attack! Hello?! Can someone help me?!” Nothing greeted him but the repetitious, exact ticking of a nearby wall clock.

  Now more confident that Miller had left the residence, Michael stepped inside. Still have to make sure it’s empty before I start. Just a quick protective sweep of the interior and I can get to work after I know I’m alone.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Wednesday, 2132 hours.

  Miller Residence. Loving County, Texas.

  Michael stopped and stood in the middle of Jordan Miller's living room. Frantic and out of time, he forced himself to breathe and focus. Where is it? Where haven’t I looked? Where haven’t I searched? Michael deliberately looked at the furniture in the room and tried to confirm to himself that he had completed a detailed search of each nook and cranny. I know I’ve checked everywhere in here. I’m already more than thirty minutes behind schedule. On to the next room.

  Michael moved through the rest of the residence as his growing apprehension and sense of failure dominated his emotions. I know it’s possible that the hard drive was never here. Maybe the information and intel were bad. Maybe this is the wrong Jordan Miller. He went through the home office again and quickly searched for hiding places. This drive’s not the kinda thing someone’d ever just leave laying around, or even keep in the regular desk drawers. Those secrets are gonna stay locked away.

  Still without evidence in-hand, Michael left the office and moved back into the bedroom. Gotta move fast, he’s gonna be
home anytime now, and I won’t have much warning before he opens the front door, especially from the back of the house. He searched through the master bedroom again for only a few minutes before realizing he had to give up. I’m outta time, and I’ve still gotta make sure everything’s back where it belongs.

  Starting from the master bedroom and working his way toward the back door and his presumed exit, Michael examined digital photographs he took with his cell phone when he first entered each room. He compared the room’s condition and placement of its belongings to reduce the possibility that Miller would realize someone had been inside his home. Michael also ensured that he left the home’s interior lights in the same condition he found them. If he’s got this consistent a routine, he probably doesn’t leave lights on by accident. That kinda dedication to habit is gonna bleed over into all the other aspects of his life. After convincing himself that he’d returned each room to something close to its original appearance, Michael moved toward the home’s main living area.

  As he entered the kitchen, Michael saw headlights approaching the residence. Dammit, I still have two rooms to check. He quickly strode to a living room window and very slightly pulled the blinds back to look outside. Yep, the truck’s coming here, whether it’s Miller or not doesn’t matter. Time to go!

  Michael jogged to the back sliding door. Just as he started to pull it open, he saw a thick wood dowel rod leaned against the back of its frame. The low-tech security system. He urgently pulled the glass door open, grabbed the rod, and propped it inside the frame against the back of the sliding door. It isn’t how he left it, but I might need to slow him down if he sees me. Michael stepped out the door just as he heard a truck door slam closed in front of the house. Not the time to panic, stay calm. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. He cautiously pulled the door closed to ensure the rod held against the back of the frame and fell onto the frame’s track as the door closed.

  thuck

  As soon as the rod fell onto the metal tracks as he’d hoped, Michael pulled the door closed the final few inches. He quietly retrieved his fishing pole from the porch and stepped backward away from the sliding door. I don’t want Miller to get a look at my face, but, if he does see me, I need to know to start talking. Or running. Or fake a heart attack. Remember the pain would radiate down the right arm…wait, fuck, no, the left! Right?! Through the glass slider, Michael watched Miller step through his front door. His target absentmindedly walked into the house and tossed his keys onto a small table nearby. He doesn’t suspect anything...yet... Although grateful for the early autumn sunset and the complete darkness that could soon conceal him, he also feared it would slow his retreat while his vision adjusted from the home’s bright interior lights.

  Michael cautiously turned around at the end of the porch and purposefully stepped west through the darkness. He tried to land his feet near the base of the low scrub bushes he passed to conceal and limit the footprints he left behind. I still have to get away, and it might take me another half-hour to get back to the truck and drive past Miller’s home. Can’t leave a buncha prints that make him suspicious if he looks around out here. Be patient, be efficient. A few extra seconds right now might save me from spending years in prison. If he realizes someone’s been in his house, he might be willing to confront me as I’m driving away from the river and the back of his property. That also might give the local sheriff’s deputy time to show up and investigate. I should’ve left an hour ago! I just couldn’t accept defeat, and now I might really pay for it! Dumbshit! I knew success could also be finding nothing, but I took this first assignment too personally! My own ego got in the way, and things might go real sideways because of it! Shortest fuckin’ clandestine career in Holy See history! I’ll have to remind myself later to laugh that at least no one would know about it.

  Michael finally reached the gazebo. Now that he had put fifty yards between him and Miller’s back door, he felt safe moving with greater urgency. With the fishing pole still in his right hand, he ran as fast as the awkward waders would allow. Another forty yards to the bank, and then I’ll have to slow down again. If anyone wanted to fish this section of the river, they’d get here about dusk and stay for a while, probably sitting in lawn chairs on the bank, drinking Lonestar and Shinerbock in the dark. He breathed deep and encouraged himself to stay calm. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast, Michael reminded himself as he reached the steep river bank. Gotta be convincing again.

  Moonlight reflected off the dark river as he stepped down to its lapping water line. Casting his line downstream, he used the ambient light to scan the area for anyone that might notice his presence and departure. Now I’m the hunted, and anyone pursuing me’s not gonna have the same threshold for violence. Even though I went there with the intent of killing Miller’s mortal body, I had to try to leave without a trace without the right evidence. If he thinks I trespassed in his home, he might be willing to kill me with or without evidence. Michael knew he’d have laughed at the irony if it didn’t threaten to end his life. It’d be terrible if I ended up killing Miller in self-defense after I just passed on an opportunity to kill him over unsubstantiated allegations. But, if God wants to call him home tonight, it’s not too late for Him to still use me as a tool to make that happen. With God, all things are possible.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Thursday, 2145 hours.

  Denver International Airport. Denver, Colorado.

  Michael sat in the front passenger seat of Sergio’s rental car. His friend drove around DIA’s exterior loop at just under the ever-changing speed limits, and Michael swept his hand over the sedan’s interior trim and compartments. Gotta make sure we’re clean.

  “Tellin’ you, mijo, there’s no way even John could plant somethin’ in here,” Sergio chided. “When I saw you on the train to the terminal, I made this rental car reservation just before it stopped. No way anyone could know what car we’d be getting into. Still, we can’t circle the airport forever without having the cops take notice, and I got a few things I wanna talk about before we get back up to John’s compound.”

  “I know we’re probably safe in here,” Michael absentmindedly replied. “If I’m gonna get booted from the program, I want it to be for the right reasons.”

  “Not because we’ve been keepin’ this secret from John the whole time?”

  “Dammit,” Michael swore and glared at his friend, who only smiled back. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about! No point in worrying about it now.” He shut the glove compartment and tried to settle his mind.

  “So, you wanna talk about it?”

  Michael scowled. “Which ‘what?’ The training program, the fact that you and I have known each other for years? Our assignments?”

  “Yeah, the last one, mostly. Pretty sure everything else is old news.”

  Michael nodded his head and accepted the potential consequences. At least we’ll get to share a ride back to the airport if John does somehow get wind of this. “First, they wouldn’t tell me what assignments anyone else got.”

  “Nope, me neither,” Sergio agreed, “they made me an absolver.” He looked at Michael with an air of confidence and pride.

  “Same here,” Michael explained. “You think we’re all absolvers?”

  “No idea. It’s hard to know what’s real and what John’s made up to backstop their operational security. They might also recruit for security and intel positions at Vatican City, but, then again, maybe not.”

  “Nobody knows but John.”

  “Oh, there’s someone else that knows,” Sergio proclaimed. “John’s definitely not the top of this food chain, so there’s for-sure another guy givin’ him marching orders.”

  Michael slowly offered his own opinion. “I think it’s Father Harry.”

  “The monsignor-shrink? Really?”

  “Well, there was this moment,” Michael offered, “when they were telling me about the position and explaining what I’d be doing—”

  “Without actually explaining what you’
d be doing,” Sergio finished the sentence.

  “Yeah, that. Anyway, I kept pressing them for more details, and, just before John said the word ‘absolver,’ he looked over to the monsignor. Father Harry looked back at him, and, it looked to me, like he gave John permission to continue.”

  “Huh. I didn’t get that impression at all when they talked to me. They could-a worked the kinks outta their delivery by then, you did hafta go first.”

  “So,” Michael cautiously paused and considered whether to ask what he wanted to know. Best to proceed slowly and offer something up before I get the whole question out. “You, uh, just get back from an assignment, too?”

  Sergio smirked at his disclosure. “Yep. You, too, then, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Michael nodded and briefly looked out at the moonlit landscape along the freeway. “Didn’t go like I hoped, though.”

  “Mine, either. I didn’t find anything, no evidence at all.”

  “Are you serious, Serge? I didn’t find a scrap, man, not even a hint of what I was looking for!”