Bob decided to drive to Florida from Louisville and bid farewell to his parents and younger brother Ben a week before training camp began. By showing up early, Bob figured to make a good impression with the team management and, he did. Spring training went well and Bob’s hitting and fielding impressed everyone including the fans. He was destined to stay with the team as they headed for the home season opener in April against the Detroit Tigers. His primary goal was to continue to improve in both the field and at the plate. This, he believed, would eventually get him into the starting lineup, if not with the Red Sox, with another team.
Passing the time away when not on the baseball field was something Bob never liked. Except for baseball, his life was empty without Julie. He would go for long walks along Commonwealth Avenue in Boston and would stop at Boston University’s campus, find a quiet bench, and read books. He was not your typical jock.
On a very warm and humid day in July of that year, during one of the team’s extended home stands, the Sox had an off day on a Thursday and Bob and his roommate decided to go to the Lenox Hotel bar on Boylston Street for a bite at lunch.
As they sat quietly at a table in the bar, he was startled by a voice from behind, “Hello Bob.” To his surprise, there stood Julie, as beautiful as ever in a white medical jacket and carrying a pile of books. He rose so quickly that he almost stumbled, his heart beating so fast that he could feel it.
“Julie, is it really you, what are you doing here?” He didn’t know whether to hug her, to kiss her or shake her hand, a very awkward moment from someone with so much self-confidence on the ball field. “What are you doing here?” he repeated. “Come sit down, tell me what’s been happening with you. I didn’t think I would ever hear from you or see you again.” Before Julie could answer, the roommate rose from the table and told Bob that he had several errands to do and excused himself.
“I’m at B.U. med school now, Bob, transferred after my first year at Vanderbilt. My dad lost his job last year and Vanderbilt was just too expensive for him to handle, so I live at home in Somerville and commute here to B.U. I just finished my second year and start again in August with an internship at Mass. General while continuing here at B.U. My dad just got another job but I think I’ll finish up here. B.U. has sort of grown on me and Massachusetts is still home to me. I missed not getting together at Christmas time like we had planned and I think of you all the time, my big baseball star. Where are you living? I was going to call your parents in Louisville and get your address here in Boston.”
“You knew that I was playing for the Red Sox this year?” he asked.
“I may not be a jock like you, Bob, but anyone playing for the Red Sox gets talked about everywhere, even among medical students.”
They sat at that table for hours until Julie mentioned that she had to get home for dinner because her parents were expecting her.
“Would you like to have dinner at our house tonight, Bob, or do you have other plans?” Julie asked.
“Well, I’ll have to cancel my three dates for tonight, but I’d love to meet the rest of the Laflamme family again. Why don’t we walk back to my place, or take a cab, it’s only about a mile down on Boylston, and we can then take my car to Somerville. That way I can drive back later tonight.”
CHAPTER 16
Julie and Bob were married in October of that year following the close of the baseball season. The Red Sox were not in any post-season play in 1976 but Bob’s performance that year was sure to gain him a starting position the following spring. After a honeymoon in the Caribbean, Bob and Julie settled in a lovely house in Medway, away from the hectic pace of Boston.
In 1978, Julie received her medical degree and interned at Mass. General. While Bob’s career in baseball continued to flourish over the next eight years, still with the Red Sox, Julie settled into a podiatry practice in the Medway community. In early 1987, at the Red Sox training camp in Florida, Bob suffered a broken collarbone when he crashed into the outfield wall chasing down a fly ball. Following extensive rehabilitation in the next four months, calcium deposits were detected in the injured arm forcing him to miss the entire season. After winning the American League in 1986 and being one strike away from winning the 1986 World Series, everything went wrong for the Red Sox in 1987, not just Bob Elliott’s injury. After losing on opening day, the Sox never were in contention the whole year. Replacing Bob in the outfield was a newcomer and rising star, Luke Jones, along with several other rookies forced into starting roles due to other injuries on the team.
Now at age thirty-five, Bob Elliott’s career was ending and in October of 1987, the Sox informed him that they would not renew his contract unless his arm strength was back to normal, something that Bob knew was unlikely to happen. Fortunately, Bob owned two restaurants in the area and had always wanted to spend more time developing wedding receptions and other high-class functions, as there were but a few restaurants large enough in the area to handle this type of business. In the off season, Bob had always spent a great deal of time at each location while still having a lot of free time to spend with Julie on ski trips and short vacations in warmer climates. Perhaps now would be the time to start a family, before Julie’s biological clock ran out. The two had discussed this and were not shying away from moving forward. Bob’s folks were wondering if they would ever be grandparents since Ben was not married yet and still lived in Louisville. He had followed in his father’s footsteps as an engineer in the ceramics business for a local manufacturer.
The Elliotts from Louisville would visit New England each year at Thanksgiving, and this year was to be no different as Bob had planned for his parents and Ben to spend that week in Medway. In addition to the customary Thanksgiving dinner, there were tickets to the Patriots, Celtics, and Bruins squeezed in, as well as dinner at each of Bob’s restaurants planned.
CHAPTER 17
Karl Pelland knocked on the door at 5 boulevard des Agneaux in Paris. The house was a three-story brick structure with three mailboxes outside.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” Karl said to the elderly gentleman. “I am looking for a Mr. and Mrs. Elliott that once lived at this address in the ‘70s. Do you remember these people, monsieur? I am trying to locate them on an urgent matter.”
“Americans. Carl Elliott was an American who lived here for just a year. Nice couple with a baby. I believe they went back to America, yes they had passage, I remember, on a ship,” mentioned the elderly man, explaining that he owned the building and often corresponded with former tenants. The Elliotts were no different as Judy would send photos of Robert at least once a year following his birthday or as part of a family picture at Christmas.
“Would you have an address for the Elliotts?”
“Why should I give you their address, I do not even know who you are?”
Karl flashed his American Embassy card and explained that there were items that they were holding for the Elliotts from years before and the embassy just wanted to see if the Elliotts wanted these items returned to them, nothing serious but, if the embassy could not locate the family, the items would be thrown away, mostly records of their stay in France.
“The cards and pictures were stamped from Louisville, Kentucky, monsieur, that’s all I know. I have not heard from them now in almost fifteen years. The boy in the pictures would not be a boy any longer, say about thirty-five years old or so. I did not know the second boy in the pictures later on, he was called Ben. I have the pictures, would you like to see them?”
The phone rang at Jim Howard’s apartment in Providence at 9:00 p.m., 3:00 p.m. Paris time. An excited Karl Pelland was at the other end of the line.
“Jim, Karl here from Paris. The second kid’s in the States, last address in Louisville, Kentucky. He’s got a brother named Ben and his parents are Carl and Judy Elliott, gotta be in their sixties by now. I don’t have any more on the kid, Robert Elliott, but I think you can take over from here since he’s likely somewhere back there, maybe still in Louisville. Jim, another t
hing though, the old man in the building told me I was the second person asking about the Elliotts. The other guy was Arab-looking, wearing a dark suit, and speaking with a heavy foreign accent according to the old man who gave him the same information you’re getting right now. Apparently, the Arab was very generous with the French francs for the old man.”
“Holy shit, Karl, this is getting serious here. Okay, I’ll take it from here. Thanks for your help and not a word to anyone about this.”
“Right now, Jim, I don’t even remember who you are, let alone these two kids. Good luck with this, I hope you find him before someone else does.”
“Father Merrill, please,” Jim said to the housekeeper answering the phone at St. Matthew’s Rectory. Jim could hardly wait for Father Dick to come to the phone. After what seemed to be an eternity, he picked up the extension.
“Mr. Howard, you have news for me?” he queried.
“I have good news and bad news, Father. The good news is that we found both kids, one in Dijon and the other, believe it or not, back here in the United States, Louisville, Kentucky, I think. The bad news is that the one in Dijon, named Charles Larouche, a professor at the University of Bourgogne, was murdered three days ago and some Arab guy is hot on the trail for the second one, Robert Elliott, who may still be in Louisville. I’m flying out there first thing in the morning. I tried phoning them first, got their number through the operator in Kentucky, but there was no answer.”
“Oh, my God, I can’t believe this is happening,” mumbled Father Dick as he collapsed in the lounge chair next to the telephone in his room. For several moments there was nothing but silence at both ends of the line.
“Father, Father Merrill, are you still there?”
“Mr. Howard, what can you tell me about Charles? Does he have a family—what happened?”
“My contact in Paris is mailing me the entire story as it appeared in the local paper in Dijon. I’ll have the article translated and bring you a copy when I get back from Louisville. That’s all I know right now, Father, but someone’s looking to get rid of these guys real bad, and now there’s only one left. I’ll call you from Louisville if I can find him before someone else does. Sorry for being so abrupt, but I have some other things I need to do before flying out there and I need to make several more calls.”
Father Dick was still in shock. First, after over thirty-five years, he finds out he is the father of two sons. Now, before he can even digest the information, he is informed that one was murdered and the other is in danger for his life wherever he is.
Charles Larouche and Robert Elliott, my sons, he pondered. A weird feeling came over him and he didn’t know whether to feel remorse and anger on what was happening or no feelings at all. Father Dick just sat there staring aimlessly as if in a trance. This would be a long night.
At the breakfast table the following morning, following the seven o’clock Mass, Father Dick picked up the Providence Journal with his customary cup of coffee while the housekeeper prepared his usual eggs over easy with bacon and toast. On page 2, under the heading of World News, was the caption, eastern emirate to undergo surgery in US. Father Dick read on, The king of the small oil-rich Middle eastern country of Khatamori, King Ahmad Maurier, will undergo a kidney transplant at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston later this week. The king, age 68, has been suffering from progressive kidney failure for some time and was informed that a donor had been found. King Ahmad will be accompanied by his wife, Queen Farah, and an entourage scheduled to arrive in Boston today.
“Bill, Father Dick here,” said Father Dick on the phone to his long-time friend, Captain William Sullivan, in the Lincoln Police Department. “Say, an old acquaintance—once a prince and now a king of a small Middle Eastern country—is coming to Boston for surgery. It’s been years since I’ve seen him and thought I’d visit him before his surgery to cheer him up. How would I find out what hotel he’s staying at in Boston? His name is King Ahmad Maurier from a country called Khatamori.”
“Father, I can see how that information might not be that easy to get, security and all, you know. Let me see what I can find out. My brother Tom still works for the Globe up there. Let me call you back.”
“He may not be up there too long, Bill, so I’d appreciate anything you can do for me.”
Thirty minutes later, Bill Sullivan returned the call and, through his brother’s press connections, found out that the Mauriers were staying at the Westin Hotel at Copley Square. “As the royalty of a Middle Eastern oil country,” Tom mentioned, “security is all over the place. There is no way anyone can get near the thirty-fifth floor where their suites are located.”
Father Dick summoned his housekeeper and instructed her to reschedule any appointments he had for the day and informed her that he needed to go to Boston on an urgent matter. He ran to his quarters and threw a change of clothing into a valise along with his shaving kit. Within five minutes, he was out the rectory door and into his four-door Toyota Corolla headed toward Route 95 and downtown Boston, about an hour away. His hands began to sweat and he could feel perspiration across his forehead and on his body. What in the world was he doing? What would he say if he came face to face with Françoise, the Queen of Khatamori? What could he say, “Let’s talk about the kids!”
Should he head directly to Mass. General or to the Westin? Was the operation today or tomorrow or whenever? Suppose it’s already happened and it didn’t go well? What could he say then? All these things ran through his mind that Tuesday morning in late November, just two days before Thanksgiving. He knew that he would need to be back at St. Matthew’s by early Thanksgiving morning to say Mass. But right now that was the furthest thing from his mind.
The Corolla seemed to automatically take the exit toward Mass. General and he accepted that as being easier than trying to get to see Françoise in a highly guarded surrounding at the hotel. As he entered the main entrance to the hospital, he approached the reception desk and asked if the hospital chaplain was in. He explained that he was visiting Mass. General for the first time and wanted to introduce himself.
“I will page Father O’Malley for you. Who may I say is visiting?”
“Tell him, Father Richard Merrill from Rhode Island.”
No sooner than Father Dick had plopped himself down in a chair in the reception area, a plump, red-cheeked priest headed directly toward him. “Father Merrill, is it now?” Father O’Malley asked with a smile. “I’m Sean O’Malley. Welcome to my parish among the sick. What brings you up to Mass. General, visiting a sick parishioner or relative?”
“No, Father, it’s a little more complicated than that. Years ago, I befriended a young French girl who went on to become the Queen of Khatamori and she and her husband, King Ahmad Maurier, are scheduled to be here either today or tomorrow, but I don’t know how to let her know that I’m here, what with all the security I’m sure will be around her husband.”
“They’re not here yet, Father; not until tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll make a few calls and see what I come up with. Where can I reach you?”
“Try the Westin Hotel. If I’m not there, call me at St. Matthew’s Church in Lincoln, Rhode Island, four-oh-one, three-three-four, eight-six-three-two. I’m not sure if I can get a room at the Westin.”
“If I can’t reach you at either place, Father Merrill, I should be in my office near the chapel at six-one-seven, five-five-five, two thousand, extension five-five-six-two.”
There was still time to see Françoise at the Westin today, Father Dick thought. Off he went headed for the hotel, not exactly sure yet just how he would get to see Françoise, but he would figure that out en route. Fifteen minutes later, he parked his car and entered the Westin heading straight for the front desk. Once there, he asked a clerk for paper and pen and an envelope with a message that he wanted delivered immediately to Queen Farah in her suite. Within minutes, a bellman was headed for an elevator. He inserted a special key just before punching the thirty-fifth floor button on the
elevator. Father Dick then headed for the lounge and sat facing the bank of elevators and waited for what seemed like hours. As the note was handed to a member of the royalty’s entourage, the bellman left. Within moments, the servant knocked on Queen Farah’s bedroom door.
“A message for you, Your Highness. The hotel said the sender said it was urgent.”
“Thank you, Kaleel, let me read it.”
My dear Françoise,
I have news of the two boys. Must see you today.
I am downstairs in the lobby lounge.
Fr. Richard Merrill
Françoise scampered through the parlor area of the suite toward her husband’s bedroom only to find his trusted personal assistant seated in a chair near the bedroom door.
“He is sleeping, Your Highness. I fear that the long journey from Khatamori has not been kind to him. He does not look well. Let us pray that the new kidney will be successful.”
“I must leave briefly to meet an old friend in the lobby of the hotel.”
“Your Highness, that is not wise and much too dangerous. We have enemies everywhere and it would be better if this old friend came to our suite instead where we have the local police stationed on the floor. Why not send Kaleel to the lobby to bring this friend here?”
“As you wish. Kaleel, the man is a priest by the name of Father Richard Merrill. I wish I could tell you more about what he looks like, but I have not seen him for many years. To be certain it is the right person, ask him the name of the French girl he once knew in Paris. He should answer Françoise Dupont. Make certain he tells you the entire name.”
Flower of Heaven Page 13
