by Tom Clancy
“Good morning,” Bishop Hernandez said, with an unintentionally harsh squawk that sounded like an angry bird of prey fighting over a carcass. “May I speak to Brother Berard?”
“Good morning, Your Grace. This is Brother Berard speaking.”
“How are things going at the monastery? Are you getting all the supplies you need?”
Brother Berard could have launched into a series of complaints about the poor provisioning provided by the diocese, but he had learned it would do no good. When payments, and in some cases, supplies intended for the Passion Monastery came in from dioceses around the country, addressed to the Diocese of Tucson—a region always engulfed in a tidal wave of dirt-poor Mexicans who had slipped across the border and needed his help, the Most Reverend Luis Hernandez in the goodness of his heart almost invariably found higher priority spending needs than an outlying monastery which adhered to a religious order rather than diocesan rule.
“I’m calling about a priest who has been staying with you,” the bishop said, his voice barely penetrating the annoying squeal. “His name is Stephen Murphy. He is the diocesan priest who was transferred here from Washington. I sent you a letter stating that I wanted him to resign from the priesthood. Has he done that?”
“No, Your Grace. I told him about your wishes, but he refused to resign.”
“Did you explain that he would leave the priesthood with the blessing of the church and thus be permitted to lead a full Catholic life?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I did, at length, but he was adamant.”
“Well, in that case, we must take steps to defrock him because for a reason I have yet to determine, Bishop Rhinehart of Washington says we must remove him from the priesthood by any means possible. I really do not like doing this. It harms the man’s soul and it hurts Holy Mother Church, but I must.”
“I understand,” Brother Berard answered.
“You must keep him at the compound until I’ve drawn up the necessary paperwork.”
Brother Berard grew concerned. He visualized the bishop coming to a rapid boil as he was forced to admit, “I can’t do that, you see he has already left us.”
“Do you mean you just let him leave?” The squeal was louder now and more irritating as it moved into a higher pitch. “You didn’t try to stop him?”
“No I didn’t. He left last night. I tried to talk him out of it, Your Grace. I explained that he would be a renegade if he left.”
“Well, you simply must get him back. Since he has refused to resign, he will very likely try to continue his role as a priest. We can’t have that.”
Brother Berard was growing tired of listening to the squeal. “I tried to take care of that. I gave his chalice to another priest to prevent him from saying Mass.”
“Not good enough! He can easily get another. Brother Berard, I want you to send some of your monks out to find him and bring him back. Then hold him by force if necessary.”
“I’ll do what I can, Your Grace. But he has about a five hour head start. Frankly, I’m confused about this situation. Father Murphy was sent here with none of the abuses in his record that bring other priests to us. When he was assigned here, no therapy group was recommended, which I found unusual. Can you tell me why he was sent here? In the months he has been a resident, he has appeared to be a devout priest.”
“I can’t tell you any more than you have already been told. In fact, I do not know his particular problem myself. As I said before, Bishop Rhinehart has taken the lead on this. He writes that it is a serious matter and now that Cardinal Wollman is dead, Bishop Rhinehart will almost certainly be elevated to cardinal by the holy father. I am assuming there has been a serious past violation that is too sensitive to document in Murphy’s file. Now if Bishop Rhinehart wants Murphy to resign or defrocked, that is all I need to know. However, you do arouse my curiosity and when I’m in Washington next week, I will take it up with his eminence.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Is that all?” Brother Berard asked, impatient to end the call. The squeal had produced a ringing in his ear and possibly the beginnings of a migraine.
“See that you find this priest. Do whatever you have to. Just bring him back.”
“I will do what I can Your Grace, and without meaning to sound impertinent, may I ask you to remember the Crucified Christ?”
“Yes, Brother Berard, I can assure you I always remember the Crucified Christ.”
After hanging up, Brother Berard summoned two of the brothers, Michael and John, to his office. On entering, the hulking monks stood silently on the earthen floor in front of his desk. He had selected these two brothers in particular because he knew they harbored a grudge against Murphy which would make them well-suited to capturing him and dragging him back. Added to that, they were both tall, strong and through the years had exhibited a simple-minded obedience of which he was at times contemptuous but nevertheless always found useful. As the Principal Brother impatiently drummed his fingers on his desk, it was obvious to the pair that their leader was very disturbed. It made them anxious to do whatever was necessary to calm him. “Are both of you aware that Father Steve Murphy left the monastery last night?”
“We heard of it,” Brother Michael answered.
“Bishop Hernandez says we have to find him and bring him back. I’d like you two to go out together to find him. Use the Ford pickup and take whatever supplies you need. Make sure you have plenty of gas. We don’t need to be sending out a search party to find both of you as well. There is a problem: I don’t know whether he was heading north to Phoenix or going east to Tucson. So it may take you several days to track him down.”
“When we find him what if he refuses to come back?” asked Brother Michael with a leer that betrayed his relish for the upcoming task.
“Then use force,” Brother Berard said. Noticing the look on Brother Michael’s face, he decided to tease the brothers into action. “Murphy must be returned. And, after the beating both of you took the night when you were, shall we say, punishing that other priest, do I detect that you might enjoy this little trip?”
Brother Michael, with downcast eyes, ground the ball of one sandal-shod foot into the earthen floor. He was angry and embarrassed that his leader seemed to be fully knowledgeable about the incident. He decided to cover his embarrassment with tough talk: “If we bring him back with a few broken ribs to make up for when he almost broke my jaw, will that be all right?”
“Why do you think that if he beat you once, he can’t do it again? Just do whatever is necessary to bring him back.”
“May I ask a question?“ Brother John chimed in. The Principal Brother gave a silent nod. “What should we wear on this task?”
“My thought,” Brother Berard said, stroking his beard, “is that you are better off wearing your monastic habits. If by any chance Murphy has reached either of the cities and you need to apply pressure to bring him back, it would seem less like a kidnapping if you were dressed as monks. Added to that, the Border Patrol hiding on the back roads would be more likely to leave you alone. And remember, you must act quickly—once Murphy reaches a city, he could be very difficult to find. My thinking is he might try to get to Tucson because he came here originally through Tucson and would be more familiar with it. He would have to cross the mountains of course, which is probably impossible. If so, you may find yourselves looking for a corpse. But use your own judgment about where to look. One other thing, your vow of silence and other religious duties are suspended until this matter is finished.”
17
Steve stopped his trek momentarily, wiped his brow with his torn sleeve, slipped off his backpack and fished around in it for his breviary. Slinging the pack over his shoulder again, he read his daily priestly office as he resumed walking. He felt he needed to keep moving. He read with only one eye on the book because he had to be careful about running into the spines of cactus that in places grew so thick they almost blocked his way. When he nearly stepped into a hole filled with crawling pit vipers, he dec
ided to put away the breviary and focus on the ground in front. He ate a sandwich he had taken from the kitchen in the monastery and drank a mouthful from a flask of water. The nourishment lifted his spirits. Happily, when late morning came, the sun became comfortably warm.
He had a sudden uneasy feeling. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a dust cloud rising from a vehicle in the distance. His first thought was that someone from the monastery might be pursuing him. On the other hand, he thought it might be Jeremy returning from the monastery after dropping off someone or something. If so, he could hitch a ride. But as the vehicle came nearer Steve saw it was not Jeremy’s high off-road vehicle. As he studied the surrounding area, he estimated that he had strayed about a quarter-mile from the road. He crouched down hiding behind a cactus as the vehicle bumped along the road approaching him. It was a pickup truck with driver and passenger both in the gray habits of the monastery. It was hard to tell from the dust kicked up by the truck, but he thought he caught a glimpse of Brothers Michael and John. He remained hidden, hoping they hadn’t seen him.
The vehicle passed, apparently heading in the direction of Tucson, but after bouncing a mile or so up the road it turned to the left on a dusty road as if the driver had decided to head in the direction of Phoenix. It crossed Steve’s mind that they might be searching for him, that Brother Berard might have changed his mind about letting him go. If that were true, the monks’ futile search for him in Phoenix would buy him some time in Tucson, if he ever got to Tucson.
The long tedious day wore on, the sun becoming hotter. He remembered in the old Hollywood movies how the rule in the desert was to sleep by day and travel by night. But he had no time to waste and although it was getting hot, this desert was certainly not as forbidding as the endless sands of the scorching Sahara or Death Valley in California. So he pushed on and although uncomfortable, he found his situation bearable. Sighting on the afternoon sun, he tried to head in the direction that would take him back to Interstate 10—the main thruway between Phoenix and Tucson.
Evening came. “Sunset and Evening Star and one clear call for me....” His hollow voice sounded almost unearthly in the silent desert as snatches of a poem came to him from the distant past. “Twilight and evening bell and after that the dark, and may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark....” He tried to remember the remainder of the poem, but gave up. Soon it would be night. Grimly, he knew the cold would come with it.
In the distance, across the flat tableland he saw the dark misty peaks of the high mountains, their jagged fingers pointing upwards toward the heavens. Lofty, black craggy shapes were outlined against the fading light of the sky. He had no idea what mountain range it was, but he knew he had to get over it to get back to Tucson and civilization. As daylight waned, so did the warmth. As soon as the sun set, the cloudless sky radiated the heat back into space. He began to shiver as he walked. He knew he would need shelter to last the night. Finally, he came upon a low-lying ridge bordering an arroyo. He climbed down, happy that the streambed was dry. He crumpled down in the sand with his back propped against a large rock that still held some of the heat of the day. Dinner consisted of a half-sandwich and a mouthful of water. It grew dark. As he drifted off to sleep he realized he had been walking for probably eighteen hours. He couldn’t really keep track of time because although Brother Berard had given him his watch back the battery was dead.
*****
It was first light. Sleepily, Steve felt a slight tingling on his leg. As he moved his hand down to scratch, the scorpion struck. He was instantly aware of his mistake. He should have lain motionless until he knew what was pressing on his leg. After the attack, the insect quickly disappeared. It disappeared so quickly he couldn’t tell if it was one of the small deadly scorpions. The searing pain of the venom spread through Steve’s lower leg. In a panic, he knew that some scorpion stings were fatal. He knew that if he didn’t calm himself down, he could have a heart attack whether or not the sting itself was fatal. He remembered reading that men in the southwest stung by pit vipers sometimes survived the fatal bites by lying absolutely motionless. With eyes closed against the pain, he prayed as he lay as motionless as possible. His only hope was that the venom would be absorbed in the tissues of his leg and not travel to his heart.
Three hours later, with the sun rising higher in the sky, Steve was able to get to his feet although he felt wobbly. Convinced now that he would survive, he decided to push on. He limped all day, his second day in the desert, and as twilight came on, he began to shiver again. Now in the foothills of the mountains, the extra effort in climbing the steepened grade tended to warm him, but it was never enough to make him feel comfortable.
In the night, it grew much colder as he climbed to a narrow pass that appeared to thread between two of the lesser peaks. Here and there in hollowed-out areas were patches of snow. He was freezing, his teeth chattering as he unsteadily labored to put one foot in front of the other. How could it be like summer in the daytime and winter at night? As his body temperature dropped, more than once he thought of lying down and letting the sleep of hypothermia end his misery, but he knew that as a priest it would be a sleep with an angry Christ waiting on the other side of the vale. Knowing that Christ expected, nay demanded, that despite pain and suffering, he and other Catholics like him fight to stay alive, he struggled on.
After a few hours in the dark, deep hypothermia began setting in as his brain clouded over. He decided he had to test himself by trying to remember simple things—it would give him a clue about how low his body temperature had fallen. But try as he might, he could barely remember his own name, a few simple prayers and little else. When he tried to pray out loud, his teeth chattered so badly, the words sounded like gibberish.
As he came through the pass and began the descent, a distant glow in the dark sky told him there was civilization ahead. How many miles away was it? With his slow progress the more important question was: How many days away was it? He began to hallucinate. Phantasms appeared before his eyes. In the moonless night, lit only by dim starlight, he thought he saw bats circling above him. They swooped down near his head as he flailed his arms to keep them away. He placed his hands flat on top of his head hoping to keep them out of his hair as he started to trot to get away. A little later in what he thought was a lucid moment, he wondered whether the bats had been real—or might he have imagined them? Were they simply the tricks played on the mind by deep hypothermia?
Steve came onto a level plain where the ground was smooth and loamy with no rocks or holes. He began feeling a little warmer. As he dragged himself across the mesa in the blackness, cut and bleeding from tumbling on rocks and scraping against cactus spines, he saw a large dark shape looming in front of him. It was a black ball seemingly suspended four feet off the ground. It looked like an oversized, almost giant, fuzzy bowling ball. He was certain he was hallucinating until it moved towards him. Then he wasn’t so sure. Suddenly he was surrounded by other large suspended black balls. They rushed inward, scrambling and pushing to get at him. He fell to the ground. They nipped at his face, hands and torn feet. They kicked him with sharp clawed feet. He knew the Sonora Desert had several dozen species of birds of prey known as raptors. His mind raced. Weren’t the Jurassic raptors ancestors of modern birds? Was this some throwback to the dinosaur age? Didn’t they inhabit this desert at one time? What were these monsters? The oversized birdlike animals pecked at him in the dark with sharp pointed beaks on long twisted snakelike necks. They crowded around pushing to get at him. His screams rang across the open space but were unheard. He was on his back, covering his face with his hands as the animals nipped tiny bits of flesh from the backs of his hands and feet. The kicks opened bleeding cuts on his legs. His knapsack, which had fallen to his side was now being torn. If it kept up there wouldn’t be much left of his black suit.
Suddenly, the animals stopped attacking him. He wondered why. Maybe they discovered they didn’t like the taste of grimy, blood-soaked human tissue.
His last sandwich disappeared in a struggle between the animals. There was now a crescent moon rising giving enough light so he could barely make out the cluster of birdlike faces with owl-shaped eyes that seemed to stare back at him in wonder, It suddenly occurred to him that these were emus—relatives of ostriches. He first thought he had stumbled onto an ostrich farm, but since he had come upon no fences, these birds must have been roaming wild. They had probably escaped from a farm. He knew that emus, although not generally considered dangerous, scavenged for food constantly, night and day.
Steve rolled over kneeling on all fours and scooped up a handful of sand mixed with dirt. He threw one handful after another at the birds. Finally, flapping their body feathers, they ran away on their toes like ballet dancers to look for food elsewhere.
He saw the headlights of a car in the distance and started to trot. He tripped on a small cactus and fell headlong into a ditch striking his temple on a rock. When he came to, he knew he hadn’t been unconscious long because it was still dark, unless, that is, he had been out an entire day and now it was the next night. He wearily got to his feet and walked on.
