Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God

by Reginald Cook

  “What’s your name?”

  “I won’t ask you again! What is your name?”

  “Charles,” cried the boy. “Charles Tolbert!” Father Tolbert knocked the boy off his leg and jumped back, horrified. The longer he stared at the child, the more frightened he became. The boy just stared at him, an evil scowl on his face.

  “You can’t have me, you know. You’ll never have me,” said young Charles. Then he slowly turned, walked into a heavy bank of fog, and disappeared. Father Tolbert stood there shaking.

  A firm hand rattled his shoulder, and Father Tolbert opened his eyes, gasping for air, face drenched with sweat. Sister Bravo.

  “Sorry to startle you, Father, but we’ve arrived,” she said.

  The fog lifted. Father Tolbert nodded, and on second thought, banished any notion of confessing to anyone but Cardinal Polletto.

  Sister Bravo removed the wrinkled blanket covering him and began gathering his things. Father Tolbert stretched, folded his seat forward and stood.

  “Thank you, Sister. How soon will the car get here?”

  “Fifteen minutes at the most.”

  The priest grunted. He wanted to get settled in quickly, anxious to set his demise in motion, to end his life and pain. He looked out the window and saw a black Mercedes pull away.

  “A car just left,” he said, irritated.

  “Yes,” said Sister Bravo. “The car had mechanical problems.

  They’re sending another one right away.” Father Tolbert thought he saw passengers in the back seat of the Benz, but the tinted windows and distance made him think his eyes were playing tricks on him . Why would there be anybody in the car anyhow?

  Sister Bravo soon had all of his things gathered and another Mercedes, an exact duplicate of the previous car, met them next to the plane. The driver quickly loaded their luggage and drove them past the private terminal for VIP passengers, to the overcrowded customs area in the main terminal.

  “Why are we going to the main terminal?” asked Father Tolbert.

  “I was informed that the private terminal is closed until further notice,” said Sister Bravo. “But they promised to process us through as quickly as possible.”

  Father Tolbert, antagonized and anxious, stared out at the planes landing and taxiing to a stop. He wrung his hands, sweat still beading up on his brow, and took several deep breaths.

  Inside, the main terminal looked like a cattle ranch, with travelers packed in long lines at every station. Clouds of cigarette smoke hung in the air like lost spirits, barely masking the mustiness set in the clothes of travelers who’d suffered through long flights crowded in coach.

  “I’ll check and see where we’re supposed to be, Father. Stay in this line. I’ll be right back,” said Sister Bravo.

  She disappeared into the crowd, leaving Father Tolbert in dismay.

  This is not like her. She’s usually on top of these details. Father Tolbert shrugged it off, chalking the out of ordinary delay up to divine providence. Twenty minutes later, the priest stood only a few people from the front of the line, and Sister Bravo, extremely apologetic, reappeared.

  “Please, Father, come with me. They’ve just now made room for us in a private office,” she said.

  Father Tolbert looked ahead. Only one person, an elderly woman, was in front of him. “We’re almost at the front. Let’s wait here.”

  “But, Father, they’ve made arrangements.” The customs agent waved the elderly woman to the counter.

  “I’m waiting right here,” said Father Tolbert. “Get your passport out and let’s be done with it.”

  Sister Bravo pushed her bags forward after the old woman finished, showed the clerk her passport then rolled the luggage to the inspection station, with Father Tolbert right behind her. The nun lifted her suitcase to put it on the table. The latch popped open, and the entire contents spilled out all over the tiled floor.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Father, I’m so sorry,” cried Sister Bravo, blushing as she quickly gathered up her things.

  Exasperated, he reluctantly bent down to help her. “Don’t worry, Sister, it was an accident. It seems it’s just not our day.” Father Tolbert and Sister Bravo scooped up her belongings, and spent ten minutes having customs look through their suitcases, before finally loading up and heading down Via Appia Antica Road, toward Rome. Sister Bravo used the car cell phone to let the Vatican know they were running late. Father Tolbert, satisfied that they would finally arrive soon, leaned back and rested his eyes. He heard the nun hang up the phone.

  “Cardinal Polletto left a message, asking me to run a special errand for him. There’s a car waiting for me downtown.” Father Tolbert continued to relax. “We must do what we must do.”

  “You’ve not been to Rome lately?” asked Sister Bravo, after a few minutes silence.

  “Not in a long while,” said Father Tolbert, his eyes still closed. “But I plan to make the most of my time here.”

  “You’re fortunate that Cardinal Polletto could get you such an assignment on such short notice. To work in the Vatican Archives is a real honor.”

  Yes, if you consider hiding out an honor. “Thank you, Sister, that it is.”

  The car slid into downtown Rome. Father Tolbert sat up and looked out at the hustling, busy streets, taking in the unique flavor of one of the world’s oldest cities. He marveled at the sight of ancient ruins and marble columns, standing beside office complexes, luxurious villas, and modern apartment buildings on noisy boulevards. Father Tolbert pressed his face against the glass. The duality between the past and present left him astounded.

  The driver navigated the downtown streets with an ease of the familiar. They traveled down the narrow and busy Via del Corso and went north from the Piazza Venezia, past the Piazza Colonna to the heart of the city.

  “The other car is just up ahead,” said the driver, swerving in front of a parked Benz, identical to their own.

  “I’ll see you at the Vatican,” said Sister Bravo. “The driver will tend to my things.”

  Father Tolbert heard shouting and a commotion behind them. The driver and Sister Bravo bolted from the car. Father Tolbert turned and saw several men, including the driver, run into a crowd gathered on the other side of the street, with Sister Bravo in tow. Confused, Father Tolbert jumped out and headed in that direction.

  The driver quickly ran toward him, waving him back to the car.

  “Sister Bravo says that we should continue on to the Vatican,” he told the priest.

  “What’s all the fuss about?” asked Father Tolbert.

  “Nothing to worry yourself about, Father. We should go on to the Vatican. She’ll catch up with us later.”

  “But we shouldn’t leave her stranded,” Father Tolbert pressed.

  The driver, dark and robust, with long thick fingers scowled. “We should leave immediately,” he growled.

  Father Tolbert felt a shiver. The driver’s face said it was not a request. y slid back inside the back seat, perspiration pouring down his forehead into his eyes. He pulled his already wet handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and wiped his drenched face. He continued to look back, but there was still no sign of Sister Bravo.

  The engine revved and the driver sped off, sending nonchalant patrons crossing the street, diving for cover.

  17

  Samuel bolted down the sidewalk, arms and legs pumping like mini pistons, his jaw as tight as a pit bull. Everything around him zipped by in a blur. He crashed into several angry Italians, including, to his chagrin, an old woman, probably somebody’s grandmother, fell hard to the pavement, chest-first. Then he sprang to his feet and kept running, with no idea where he was or where he was going. Terrified, he looked back.

  Nobody was chasing him.

  Legs aching, needles prickling his lungs, he slowed down to a trot, then a fast walk, constantly glancing back over his shoulder. Samuel squinted through the sweat searing his eyes, but there were no galloping hooves or cursing priests rocketing in his di
rection. Five blocks later, he leaned up against the brick wall of an old antique shop, breathing hard, heart pounding, and his legs rubber. Eyes glued down the street, he was ready to take off at the first sight of Father Sin’s gargoyle mug, but the faces that stared back at him flashed only mild interest and curiosity, not the intent to kill.

  Samuel stomped his feet hard on the concrete to fend off the numbness in his legs, a trick he learned during cold winters in Chicago.

  He pressed his face against an antique shop window, but only old furniture, dusty lamps, and an assortment of dull, lifeless figurines, the kind you might find on many grandmothers’ mantles, stared back, sparking not a single bit of interest. His stomach tightened. I want to go home.

  He looked around the dimly lit, nearly barren, street lined with small shops and stores all closed for the night, and felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. He sobbed. I’m lost. He steadied his breathing, lungs grateful for the rest, took another long look down the street, and then headed in the opposite direction at a brisk pace.

  “Excuse me, can you help me? I’m lost,” Samuel pleaded to an old man toting two brown paper sacks.

  The old man reminded him of the cartoon character he’d seen on old cartoon reruns on Nickelodeon, Mr. Magoo, with his big bulbous head, thick glasses, and total confusion. The old man gave an indifferent huff, humped his shoulders and kept walking, mumbling under his breath in Italian.

  Samuel spotted a young couple walking toward him, arm in arm, and stepped in front of them. “P-P-Please, I’m lost,” he stammered, his eyes filled with tears. “Can you help me?”

  The young man, a Brad Pitt clone, pulled out several coins and dropped them in Samuel’s palm. His girlfriend, apparently moved by his generosity, kissed and hugged every inch of his face. The young lovers crossed the street, lips locked tight, as though the ten year old was never there.

  The darkness brought a stiff, cold breeze that cut through Samuel to the bone. He continued down the street, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched forward for warmth. Most of the buildings he passed were empty. The longer he walked, the more the area took on the ambiance of a cheap horror film. Samuel forced himself to think, what should I do?

  He looked around for a policeman, a taxi driver, anyone who looked official, but saw nobody. Think! Think! Samuel stopped. Of course, the Embassy! The U.S. Embassy!

  He spotted a woman, who looked to be about his mother’s age, walking across the street in the opposite direction. He ran over to her, shaking, nervous. “Please, I’m looking for the U.S. Embassy. Can you help me?” he frantically asked.

  The woman, tall with long reddish hair, and a mosey nose, furrowed her brow. “Excuse me?” she asked.

  “The Embassy,” said Samuel, struggling not to scream. “I need to get to the U.S. Embassy.”

  “I no understand,” said the woman, confused. “What’s Embebe?”

  “No, Em-ba-see,” he repeated, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “American’s Embassy.”

  The woman ran a hand back through her long, silky vines. Finally, a look of recollection lit up her face. “Oh, American’s, Em-baa-see.” Samuel, encouraged, wiped his face on his shirtsleeve. “Yes,” he said. “I need to get there. Can you help?” The woman, now happy she could be of assistance, pointed down an alley to a well-lit street about fifteen hundred feet on the other side.

  “American Embassy on Vittorio Veneto.”

  Samuel slowly repeated the street named. “Vi-tor-ia Ven-e-to.” He said his thanks and gave her, to her astonishment, a tight, extended hug, then sprinted across the street into the alley, a smile chiseled on his face.

  He wondered what his parents would say to him. What he would say when he talked to them. The pain in his legs disappeared. His head cleared, which made him run faster. I’m going home!

  A sudden slap burned across Samuel’s face. He saw a spark of light, flew backwards up off his feet, and crashed to the ground, hitting the back of his head on the pavement.

  “What are you doing in my alley?” a voice demanded in broken English. “You don’t have permission to be here.” Samuel dazed, his head pounding, tried to shake it off, and wobbled to his feet amid scattered laughter. When his vision cleared, he saw four boys, two who looked to be around his age, and two older, standing in front of him.

  “I said, what are you doing in my alley?” repeated a skinny kid with dark hair and a handsome face. He appeared to be the oldest.

  Samuel continued to shake his head, trying to rid himself of the ringing in his ears. “What, huh?”

  The skinny kid moved closer. “You’re trespassing. You’re not supposed to be here,” he repeated in Italian.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” said Samuel. “I don’t speak Italian.” The boy turned to the others. “Americano, a fucking Americano.” He looked back at Samuel. “My name is Carlo,” he said, in butchered English. “What are you doing in my alley?” Samuel, his heart a bass drum, bent over to catch his breath. “I’m lost, and I’m trying to get to the American Embassy. Please help me.” Carlo, his green eyes pools of fierce deceit, pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, put it between his lips, but didn’t light up. “Why should we help you? What’s in it for us?”

  Nervous, Samuel stood up straight and examined each boy closely.

  They looked like hardened criminals to him, and even if he were at full-strength, he knew he couldn’t take them all at once. Two of the boys circled around to his rear.

  “I don’t have anything,” Samuel told them through gritted teeth. “I just want to get to the Embassy.”

  Carlo signaled to one of the boys behind Samuel, who proceeded to rifle through his pockets. He found the money the young couple gave him earlier. Smiling at his apparent discovery, the black-toothed boy with a pug nose handed the money to Carlo, who examined it, then stared hard at Samuel.

  “What is this?” asked Carlo.

  “I forgot about that. A man gave it to me earlier.” Carlo slapped Samuel back to the ground. “Bastardo!” Samuel, flat on his back, closed his eyes tight and balled up his fists, teeth grinding. Tired, frustration turned to anger. He pushed himself up so fast, and with such force, the boys all jumped several steps back.

  “Leave me alone,” he bellowed, meaning every word of it.

  “Look, its John Wayne,” scoffed Carlo, laughing. “Bang, bang, he’s going to get us all.”

  The boys all laughed, several grabbing their sides. Samuel fists tightened. He rushed Carlo, growling like a mad dog, tackled the older boy, and wailed on his face with everything he had left. The others, momentarily stunned, snapped out of it and jumped Samuel, pulling him off their leader. They tossed him to the concrete, pounding and kicking his face and body.

  “Stop!” ordered Carlo, now on his feet, wiping his bloody nose.

  “Hold him up.”

  The boys lifted up Samuel, battered and beaten. They had to hold him up to keep him from toppling over. Carlo pulled a knife from his sock.

  “So, Mr. John Wayne, let’s see how you like the blade.” Samuel struggled to break free, but with each strain and pull his energy drained away. Carlo stepped forward. Samuel lifted his head, snot running from his nose, face blazed over with rage, and with all his strength, smashed his foot into Carlo’s groin. The Italian boy dropped the knife, curled over, and crashed back to the ground. The others loosened their grip. Samuel broke free and ran. He heard fast footsteps behind him but didn’t turn around. The closer he got to the street, the harder he pressed. Ten feet from his goal, two strong arms wrapped around his waist and snatched him to the ground.

  Samuel rolled over onto his back and looked up at a chubby, round-faced boy with bushy brown hair and elephant ears. He wanted to fight back, but could barely breathe because of the boy’s full weight pressing down on his chest. Samuel turned his head. Down the alley, he watched Carlo, assisted by the others, limp toward him, demon possessed. The fat kid on top of him picked up a fist-sized rock and r
aised it over Samuel’s head.

  “Close your eyes American cowboy,” he said.

  Samuel relaxed, resigned to his fate. Tears swelled from under his eyelids and he cried like a newborn. Suddenly, the weight lifted off of him, and he heard the sound of a grainy Italian voice, screaming and yelling in Italian. Barely able to move, Samuel peered down the alley and saw all of the boys running in the other direction. Samuel rested his head back on the asphalt. When he looked up, he saw the face of a large man with a scraggly salt and pepper beard and a long ponytail.

  “Get up, my friend,” said the man, reaching down and lifting Samuel with little effort. “What are you doing here this time of night?” Samuel, exhausted and confused, could barely speak.

  “I’m…trying…to…get home,” he finally stammered, exasperated. “I need…to get to…the American…Em…bassy.” He bent over. His head and the alley swirled all around, and then his legs gave away. The giant caught Samuel and lifted him up like a new bride.

  “No, no, my friend, Luciano will take you home where you can rest.

  We’ll deal with your problems tomorrow.” Samuel wanted to protest, but didn’t have the strength. Luciano’s kind eyes told him he was in good hands for the moment, so Samuel let his body go limp, and collapsed into a deep sleep.

  18

  Cardinal Polletto sat behind his immaculate glass-top desk, phone glued to his ear, sipping a Brazilian espresso. He’d just finished thanking Bishop Niccolo at the Vatican Archives for overriding Cardinal Maximilian’s request that Father Tolbert be brought back to Chicago for questioning. The bishop told Cardinal Maximilian that he didn’t have a ready replacement, and that he was already shorthanded. The cardinal didn’t put up much fuss. Maintaining the precious heirlooms and artifacts in the archives was a priority at the Holy See, so Cardinal Maximilian agreed to conduct any needed interviews over the phone via conference calls.

  However, as Cardinal Polletto listened to the bad news being reported to him by Sister Bravo, the temporary victory evaporated, and the knot in his stomach cramped.