Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God

by Reginald Cook

  Father Tolbert, hands in his pockets, fingered the rubber ball and hard candy he’d brought with him as bait. He scanned the crowd, nodding with feigned benevolence to each passerby who acknowledged his black suit and white collar, paying particular attention to each adult accompanied by children. Most of the kids he saw were far too young for his taste, although the bright faces and big smiles of even the little ones increased his desire and anticipation. He’d been without a lover longer than he thought he could handle, due mostly to Samuel’s abduction, but mostly because of his trip to Rome. He had no real connections in the city, at least not on its darker side, a disadvantage he planned to change soon.

  An hour into his search, with no opportunities at hand, Father Tolbert caught another taxi to the open air market near the center of town. Filled with fresh fruit and flower stands, butchers and fresh fish, the market was fairly busy for a Roman afternoon. The priest stopped at a fruit stand and picked out a large red apple. The owner, a short, stout woman with large forearms, refused to let him pay.

  “Grazie, grazie,” said Father Tolbert, thanking her. “Bless you.” The woman, near toothless, smiled and offered him more fruit, but he graciously declined and continued his search, taking note of each young boy as he strolled through the food-filled menagerie eating the apple.

  Father Tolbert knew he could easily meet his needs in the red light district, but young male prostitutes provided only temporary satisfaction, and couldn’t give him the closeness, the tenderness of a child turned his way.

  He dropped his half eaten apple on the ground. His jaw fell, his eyes widened. My God, it’s him! Samuel! Standing fifty feet from him, dressed in a soiled white apron and black cap was Samuel. The priest’s legs went weak, but he managed to take a few steps toward the fish stand where Samuel was working. He tried to get the boy’s attention, but each time he made eye contact, Samuel turned away and continued to help a dark-skinned man with serious eyes and no nonsense jaw at the fish stand.

  “Eduardo,” the man called, without looking at the boy.

  “Si, Papa?” the boy answered.

  “Get Signore Ugo ten fresh eel, rapidamente!”

  “Si, Papa, rapidamente!”

  “Eduardo?” Father Tolbert whispered. It’s not him. It’s not my Samuel.

  Father Tolbert eased closer to the fish stand, keeping an eye on the thick necked Italian, who he assumed to be Eduardo’s father, but continued to focus heavily on the boy who could’ve passed for Samuel’s twin.

  “Posso esserte utile desidera, Padre?” asked the thick Italian. “May I help you, Father?”

  “No thank you. Just looking, Signore.”

  “Ahhhh, Americano!” the man answered, his heavy demeanor transforming to one of delight.

  “Yes,” said Father Tolbert. “I’m an American. Please excuse me my Italian is not so good.”

  “Don’t worry, Father, we speak some English. It means money around here.”

  Both men laughed, as Eduardo appeared from behind a drape with a fresh box of eel.

  “And who is this fine lad?” asked the priest.

  “Please, excuse Padre. My name is Armanno DiRisio, because my father and my father’s father were soldiers. I, sir, am not. And this is my son, Eduardo, because one day he will be a very rich man.” Eduardo gave a wide smile. “Si, Papa, very rich.” Father Tolbert introduced himself. Amazing, if I didn’t know it couldn’t be true, I’d swear this was my Samuel. Awestruck, he had to work not to stare at the boy too long or hard, not wanting his attraction conspicuous.

  “Eduardo, give me the eel, and keep Father Tolbert company while I take care of Signore Ugo.”

  Eduardo handed his father the box. The priest took a piece of candy from his pocket, knelt down and handed it to the boy. Eduardo thanked him, and pulled off his cap to reveal thick locks of jet-black hair, unlike Samuel’s dirty brown, but sported the same soft blue eyes. The longer Father Tolbert looked, the more enchanted he became. If he couldn’t have Samuel, this replacement would do.

  “You’re a very handsome boy, Eduardo,” beamed the priest.

  “Thank you, Father. Papa says I’m smart too,” said Eduardo, slipping the lemon-lime candy in his mouth, smiling.

  Father Tolbert glanced over at Armanno, who finished his business with Mr. Ugo, and was attending to the next customer, an old woman wearing a black scarf and gray shawl, who couldn’t seem to make up her mind.

  The priest reached in his pocket. “Do you like sports?” he asked Eduardo, gripping the rubber sphere.

  “Si, Padre, I like baseball, but Papa says football is the game I should play.”

  Father Tolbert knew Eduardo was referring to the game of soccer, and smiled at the opportunity. He put a finger to his lips and motioned for Eduardo to keep quiet. He slipped the ball from his pocket to the boy.

  Eduardo’s eyes widened, his face brightened.

  “I like baseball too,” said Father Tolbert. “We can play catch sometimes, but let’s keep the ball our secret.” Father Tolbert looked over at Eduardo’s father, who was still consumed with the old woman. He smiled at the boy. Eduardo laughed.

  The priest put the boy’s hat back on his head, whispered in Eduardo’s ear that he had a baseball glove he could have, and would get it to him soon.

  Eduardo gave Father Tolbert a hug. The priest folded another piece of hard candy, cherry this time, in the boy’s hand and kissed him on the forehead. Armanno finally finished with the old woman. Father Tolbert stood.

  “Signore DiRisio, you have a fine son,” he said, walking over and shaking the elder DiRisio’s hand.

  “Thank you, Padre,” said Armanno, proud, his barrel chest out.

  “I think he’d make a fine altar boy at the Vatican,” said Father Tolbert, looking over at the boy.

  Armanno’s face froze in shock. “My boy at il Vaticano?”

  “Well, we can at least start the process,” said Father Tolbert. “I’ll need to spend time interviewing him. Preparing him before any formal application can be made.”

  “Yes, of course,” beamed Armanno. “Just tell us what to do, and where to be.”

  Father Tolbert took down their information and gave them his. He shook Armanno’s hand, said goodbye to Eduardo, and gave the boy a wink.

  “Dio la benedica!” cried Armanno, waving as the priest walked away.

  “Yes,” mused Father Tolbert, “God bless you too.”

  29

  Samuel dangled his arms out the window, four stories above ground, in the tower of a brown brick medieval building that reminded him of the old castles in the Robin Hood books he enjoyed reading at school. He didn’t know exactly where he was, because Father Sin had covered his head with a hood on the way there.

  When they arrived he could tell they were close to the water from the sound of waves crashing when they exited the car, and the odors that came with fish and algae. As far as he could tell, he’d been at the castle for three days.

  He leaned out the window as far as he could, but only saw water stretched out to the horizon on his left and right. As far as he knew, they were in the middle of the ocean on some small island, a thought that left him feeling depressed and hopeless. The nearest landing below was solid rock, inviting only if suicide was the order of the day.

  Damp and rank, the room at the top of tower was barren except for a small cot, a beaten down couch with its stuffing protruding from holes splattered all over it, a rickety wooden chair, and a small table with a single large candle next to a large pitcher of ice water. A fireplace roared and crackled, the one item Samuel was happy to see. Without it I’d freeze at night.

  He flopped down on the cot, which sent a cloud of dust bunnies into the air, and tried to organize his thoughts. He squeezed his eyes tight and cursed under his breath, imagining Luciano dead in the trunk of the Mercedes, his body now who knows where.

  Samuel sat up on the side of the bed, arms on his knees, his brief depression mixed with anger. They need me, but for wh
at? Why haven’t they killed me? If they were going to I’d be dead already. He walked back over to the small square window and stared out at the endless body of water. For some reason they need me. I don’t know why, and don’t care. I’m going to push until I find out why they took me. He planned to be more aggressive. If they were going to hurt me, they would’ve after I ran away.

  The more he thought about having been caught, the more upset he got, especially when he remembered Dianora and her father, Rinaldo, who made a fool out of him, preventing him from getting to the U.S.

  Embassy. For the first time in his life, he understood why some people killed.

  Samuel poured himself a glass of cold water and plopped down on the couch, which to his surprise launched less dust than the bed. He sat there, wondering what he should do next. Since he figured they wouldn’t kill him, he decided to be more demanding, and press and push for more information. Wear them down the way only a kid could. Afterwards, he’d plan his next escape, but carefully this time. First, he had to find out where he was and get them to let him outside. The drive they took to the castle wasn’t long, so he knew he was still near Rome.

  The idea of battle, of having some kind of plan encouraged Samuel.

  The stronger he felt, the hungrier he got.

  “I’m hungry, when can I get something to eat?” he bellowed, banging and kicking the weathered wooden door.

  Nobody answered, but fifteen minutes later, he heard keys rattle and the door unlock. Sister Bravo walked inside, carrying a tray of hot food and a newspaper. She ignored him and sat it down on the table.

  “I’ll thank you not to bang on the door,” she finally said.

  “Then don’t take so long with the food next time,” he snapped, eyes tight, brow furrowed.

  Sister Bravo quickly crossed the room, hand raised, ready to strike.

  Samuel stood firm. She hesitated, then lowered her hand. “You can’t manipulate me,” she said. “Eat your food. I’ll pick up the tray in an hour.”

  “Good, because I have a few questions,” said Samuel, forcefully.

  Sister Bravo slowly sat down on the cot. “Fire away,” she sneered.

  “Why am I here?”

  Sister Bravo carefully pondered. “Because you’re very valuable,” she answered. .

  “How so…I mean, how much have you asked for?”

  “This isn’t about money.”

  Samuel’s face twisted. “Then what?”

  “I can’t say at this time, but when instructed to do so, you’ll know right away.”

  Samuel’s mind raced. This has something to do with the CIA and my dad’s work. I know it! “How soon will that be?

  “In due time. Anything else?”

  “Where are we, and what is this place?”

  Again, Sister Bravo mulled over her answer. Samuel could almost see the wheels turning. “You’re in Torre Astura Tower, in the city of Nettuna. It’s a small castle fort, very secluded, very quiet.”

  “So, we’re still close to Rome?”

  Impatient, Sister Bravo stood. “Enough questions. I’ve already told you more than I should have.”

  Samuel jumped to his feet, determined and angry. “I want to talk to my mother and father!”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Why not? They don’t know where I am. I just want to tell them I’m okay.”

  Sister Bravo bristled. “No! And don’t ask again!” Samuel rushed toward the nun, open hand held high, ready to strike.

  Sister Bravo took a step back. Samuel saw a flash of fear streak across her face. He stopped short of her, and slowly lowered his hand, a strange burst of power radiated all over him. Anger mixed with strength.

  “When my father gets hold of you, you all will be sorry,” he said.

  Sister Bravo regained her composure. “Now that I guarantee won’t happen.” Samuel looked up at her, curious. She handed him the newspaper. “Your father’s dead.”

  He unfolded the paper. Bewildered, he stared down at a photo of his mother, dressed in black, following a coffin down the familiar stairs of the Assumption of Our Lady Church. The headline read, Father of Kidnapped Boy Killed in Tragic Crash. Reality crept in. Samuel wobbled and swayed, tears burst from his eyes and dropped on the paper.

  “This… is a fake,” he sniffled.

  “Don’t be dismayed,” said Sister Bravo. “He’s only your earthly father. You have another who’ll take much better care of you from here on out.”

  Samuel didn’t understand her words, didn’t know what she was referring to, and didn’t care. My father’s dead. He hobbled over to the bed and collapsed.

  Sister Bravo walked to the door. “Sorry I had to bring you such bad news.”

  Samuel looked up. Sister Bravo wore a faint smile. “I thought priests and nuns did God’s work,” he said, sniffling.

  “This is God’s work,” she answered, closing the door behind her.

  Samuel fell back on the bed and cried. Twenty minutes passed before he sat up, wiped his face and stared down at the picture. Seeing his mother gave him relief, but didn’t stop the ache in his stomach. He ran his fingers down the page across her face, wondering how she was holding up with the two men of the house gone. The thought of her loneliness hurt him all the more.

  He went back to the window and stared out at the sea. I have to get hold of myself. I have to think. His mind raced. I have to get away. I have to escape again. He decided he wouldn’t disrupt things after all. Instead, he’d play along and act as though he’d been broken, that the news of his father’s death made him more cooperative. He’d watch, wait, and at the right time, run away, for good this time, live or die.

  Samuel looked down at the paper again. Something caught his eye.

  He looked closely at the faces of the pallbearers. Most of them were family and friends he recognized, but he was still confused.

  “Where’s Uncle Robert and Aunt Nikki?”

  30

  Robert and Thorne sat quietly in the dark, waiting. Sister Isabella and Father Kong ushered them inside the room and departed, but were not far away.

  Reeling from Donovan’s death, Robert managed to pull himself together during the flight to Rome. He’d lost his godson, one of his best friends, and learned that Samuel was the product of cloning, commissioned by a rouge sect inside the Roman Catholic Church that considered Samuel the Bible defined character known to the world as the Anti-Christ.

  Robert drank half a bottle of Old Forrester during the flight over, and the high-octane bourbon whiskey went a long way toward calming his nerves. Now, sitting there in the dark, he suppressed his emotions, allowing only a controlled anger to fester, ready to do whatever was necessary to get his godson back.

  He squinted, barely able to see Thorne sitting on the other side of the room. She loved Samuel as much as he did, and he knew she’d go to hell with him to find the boy and take him home.

  He heard stirring outside the room, and trained his attention on the direction of the door. He heard a key slide into place. The door opened, and a sliver of light sliced through the darkness. Robert saw Thorne clearly, now on her feet, standing directly behind the shadow draped figure, who fumbled for the light switch.

  “Excuse me, Father,” said Robert, startling the man.

  “Who’s there?” called the priest, a nervous surprise in his voice. A ceiling light cast a bright white light across the room. Thorne pushed the door shut. Father Tolbert stood shaking. “Who are you? Why are you hiding in my room?” he asked.

  Robert, both hands on his knees, fought back the urge to spring forward and pummel the man to death. “We’ve met before, Father Tolbert, in Chicago.”

  “And that gives you the right to trespass and invade my privacy?

  Who let you in?”

  Thorne grabbed Father Tolbert by the shoulder. “Have a seat. We need to ask you a few questions.”

  Father Tolbert winced. Thorne practically dragged him to the bed, forced him down, and to
ok her seat on the other side of the room, facing Robert.

  “My name is Robert Veil, Father. This is my partner, Nikki Thorne. I met you at Assumption of Our Lady the day Samuel Napier was kidnapped. I’m his godfather.”

  A flash of recognition splashed across Father Tolbert’s face. “I see. I remember.”

  Robert studied the priest closely, as did Thorne. “We’re here because Samuel’s still missing, and we have reason to believe he’s in Rome.” Father Tolbert swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to hear Samuel’s still missing. He’s a wonderful boy, but what makes you think I know anything about the kidnapping?” Robert felt himself tense up, but forced a smile. “It’s not that, Father, we’re just following up on every lead possible. I understand you left Chicago before anybody could talk to you.”

  “That’s true. My assignment at the Vatican Library came through at the last minute.” He looked back at Thorne. “But the diocese has my information, so the authorities can contact me anytime.” Thorne remained stoic, poker faced. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary the day Samuel was abducted?”

  “No, nothing,” answered the priest, sweat beading up on his forehead. “It was a normal Sunday, nothing out of place.”

  “How close were you to Samuel?” asked Robert.

  Father Tolbert squirmed. “Samuel’s been an altar boy for almost a year. Before that, I put him through training.”

  “So you were close?” asked Robert.

  “You could say that. We had a good friendship.” Robert felt the 9mm Father Kong provided, since he couldn’t bring his own through customs, press against his side. I should plug you here and now. “Samuel looked a bit uncomfortable during mass that day,” he said.

  “That’s nothing unusual,” said the priest. “We all get nervous. It’s normal.”

  Robert remembered how confident Samuel could be, and his phone conversations with him about being an altar boy. “It’s a cinch, Uncle Robert! No problem at all!” Samuel had told him.

  Father Tolbert cleared his throat again. “Now, you say Samuel may be here in Rome?”