“Sure. I’m free, whatever you—”
“Meet me at the bottom of the steps. Fifteen minutes.”
I stood at the bottom of the Spanish Steps, waiting. Then she was calling to me, out of breath. I took her shoulders in my hands. “Stand still,” I said. She looked at me expectantly. “It seems a month since I last saw you.” She smiled and I kissed her softly on the mouth. It was the most normal thing in the world. She was wearing her blazer with the rosette of the Order in the lapel.
“Come on,” she said, tugging me along behind her. “How much do you know?”
“More than I can quite believe,” I said.
“You know Indelicato’s dead?”
“Know? Elizabeth—D’Ambrizzi and I turned the body over … we saw the knife at the same time—”
“Knife? What knife? What are you talking about?”
“Florentine dagger, to be precise.”
She was staring at me as if I were mad. She pulled up short, pulled at my sleeve, led the way into a small park. A crowd of children had gathered around a puppeteer’s stage. It was a peculiar show with Pinocchio cast as a lying cleric in Roman collar, nose growing ever longer, as he boasted to a pretty girl about how brave he was. While he blabbered on of his mighty victories over evil, a huge black knight clad in armor and riding a horse with snarling lips was prancing up behind him. The pretty girl with blond hair didn’t know how to interrupt him to warn him. It looked to me like Father Pinocchio was about to get it in the neck. The cries of the children, shrill and full of half-hysterical laughter and cries of warning, rose and fell with the action on the tiny stage. We walked off to the side and sat on a bench beneath trees with their crowns full of wind.
“Ben, Cardinal Indelicato died of a heart attack.” She gave me a severe look. “D’Ambrizzi called me this morning. He told me Indelicato had a coronary while talking with Callistus, collapsed, and died, but they’re saving the news until tomorrow—”
“Did he mention how Callistus is taking it?”
“No, but—”
“Look, trust me on this one. I was there. Cardinal Indelicato was murdered by … by—now, don’t bail out on me here—murdered by Callistus.”
“You don’t mean—”
That’s how the conversation went. Callistus the killer, now in a coma. Sandanato dead by Horstmann’s hand. It wasn’t that she fought the story: she knew so much, she wouldn’t have wasted time fighting the truth. But it was rather a lot to take in.
When I had finished, Pinocchio and the black knight were gone and the uniformed schoolchildren and the younger ones with their mothers and nurses were slowly scattering. The sunny sky had grayed over. The wind was pushing a chill this way and that. Christmas was coming.
“I can’t help thinking like an editor,” she said, the flecked green eyes staring across the park. She raked her fingers through the tawny, heavy hair. Her fingers were long and slender and strong. “What a story it would be.” She couldn’t keep from grinning. “My God … what an ending. The pope killing a—”
“It was Salvatore di Mona who killed Indelicato.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. And now he’s in a coma. So D’Ambrizzi lied to me.” She stood up.
“One more thing. Simon told him to do it. To kill Indelicato.”
“Simon … D’Ambrizzi?”
“Yes. He put it in a note reminding Callistus that he’d been one of the assassini and he had a job to do. I saw the letter. It was on Callistus’s bed when we found him.”
“D’Ambrizzi sees me as the press, I suppose,” she said. “So he didn’t tell me. But he must have known you’d tell me.”
“Of course. And he knew you’d never violate the confidence.”
“Well,” she said, “what would be the point? How could I ever prove any of it? Where’s the smoking gun?”
We were walking back toward her office, the traffic yapping and sputtering.
“Think of the toll in human life,” she said. “I wonder how many there were? Ones we know nothing of?”
“Who knows? There must be the odd stiff tucked away in shadowy places.” I blurted out, “My God, I’m going to miss you, Elizabeth.”
“I should think you would. You are in love with me, Ben.”
“Making light of my affections?”
“Making light of your sad face.”
“I make no apologies for this face. It’s been through a lot lately. Good reason to be sad, things taken all in all. And I am in love with you, now that you mention it.”
“Then don’t be sad. Love is happy. Val would tell you the same, you know.”
“Not if it’s a one-way love affair.”
“What’s that got to do with any of this?”
I smiled. “What, indeed?”
“Let’s say good-bye here, Ben.” We were about to cross a busy square.
“I keep wondering. About Summerhays. Not just buying the papacy for D’Ambrizzi, but …”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why was he in Avignon? He never explained that—what was he doing? Why did he have Marco with him?”
“Well, it’s over. What does it matter?”
“But it’s never over, don’t you see? Not if Summerhays is Archduke …”
There was no point in going on, holding her there. “Look, Elizabeth, keep well—I don’t know what else to say.” It was time to go.
“Give your father my blessings at Christmas, Ben. And just stay steady-on, all right? I need—we both need some time to get it all straight. You do understand?”
“Sure.”
“And we’ll talk soon.”
“When?”
“Not knowing, that’s the point, Ben. Don’t be impatient with me.”
I gave her a look that said I hoped she knew what she was doing.
I watched her cross the square.
She waved her hand once over her shoulder without looking back.
I climbed aboard the plane for the flight home, sank into the seat, and my exhaustion hit me like a hammer blow. I hovered in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness and I had plenty of company. It was their presence that kept me from going all the way under, from diving down into the darkness where the ghost waited.
I was surrounded by all the faces, past and present, the photograph from the drum came to life but the figure holding the camera still in shadow, a mystery … and I saw Richter and I wondered who would partner him—and his interests—within the Church now that Indelicato was dead … and I saw LeBecq in his art gallery in Alexandria, his face frozen with terror as I pushed him, as my sister had.… The beautiful nun who had pointed me on my way and had had dinner with me, it seemed so long ago, and lovely Gabrielle, whom I would never see again … all the faces, the Torricelli nephew, such a snot, and Paternoster with his incredible nose and the tramps cooking dinner in the rain in the Place de la Contrescarpe … and Leo and the time in the fog on the rocky shingle with the surf shaking the world and my soul dying, drowned in fear … and Artie Dunn with his story of the D’Ambrizzi memoir, Artie Dunn appearing like a genie, almost in a puff of smoke, in Ireland … and Sister Elizabeth sobbing in Val’s room that rainy night in Paris … Avignon, Erich Kessler, Summerhays and his little protector moving like dream figures … and Horstmann finding me in the little church, mocking my plastic gun, telling me to go home … Elizabeth confiding her secrets to me in Avignon and my anger and hatred of the Church disfiguring everything, everything I needed … and then Rome …
The shade was drawn on the plane window, shutting out the endless, bright day as we flew westward. A couple of drinks, something to eat, and finally I could no longer resist the plunge into the dark pool.
And she was there, waiting. The same tired old act.
My mother in the role of the specter from beyond never changed the material.
She was still calling to me, reliving a moment my conscious mind denied ever existed. She was still talking about Father Governeau, the poo
r bastard.…
You did it.… It was you! You, you, you did it.…
Her finger was pointing at me.
She was absolutely sure.
1
DRISKILL
The jack-o’-lanterns, the witches on broomsticks, and the hobgoblins in Nixon masks had all gone, replaced by merry, plump Santa Clauses, snowmen, elves, and reindeer with red noses. The campus lay under several inches of snow, crusty and windswept, and the big gate on Nassau Street was shiny with ice. It was an unusually early, oddly frigid winter. The street was rutted and frozen and the wind whistled nastily up your sleeves and you could hear the carols pouring from outdoor speakers. Shop doors tinkled happily, the gifts sparkled in the decorated windows. It was Christmastime, all right, time for the family to come together if the fates allowed, time to have yourself a merry little Christmas.
The house was empty when I pulled the Mercedes into the drive and went inside. It was clear that nobody had driven up from the road in several days. The house proved the point: chilled, echoing, empty. I wandered around aimlessly, wondering what exactly was going on. No notes. Plenty of evidence that my father had been there, home from the hospital. I thought about the chances of a relapse. I called Margaret Korder at the office in Manhattan and told her I was home and couldn’t seem to find my father.
“Why, Ben, you should have given us warning. He’s up at the lodge in the Adirondacks. And, if I may speak freely,” she said edgily, “he’s being a damned problem. Just impossible, Ben. He had a nurse up there these last few days, but she called me in tears yesterday—he’d thrown her out. At his most imperious and impossible, from the sound of it. Now I’m not sure what we should do.”
“How did he get there, Margaret? Is he well enough to be alone?”
“Are you kidding? He thinks he’s well enough, but he’s no kid, Ben. Of course he’s not well enough. But try to tell him where he can go and what he can do. He was just on an absolute tear. He had that priest friend of yours, Father Peaches, with him—he drove him up there and stayed several days but he does have a job.…” She stopped for breath.
“I think I’ll drop in on the old boy, Margaret. I don’t like his being up there alone. I’ll go up tomorrow.”
“Well, be careful. There’s a big snowstorm headed our way. Chicago got two feet—Ben, when did you get back? What all happened over there?”
“Oh, Margaret, what can I tell you? But I got to New York yesterday.”
“Well, welcome home. Everything cleared up to your satisfaction?”
“Tell me the last time anything was cleared up to anyone’s satisfaction. It just never quite happens, does it?”
“Quite a shock, Cardinal Indelicato’s death. Did you meet him?”
“Yes,” I said. “And it certainly was shocking.” I told her I had to get a move on and she warned me again about the approaching storm. I hung up the telephone, sat wondering how long it would take me to get used to knowing so much I could never reveal, never discuss. What a time Val and I would have had with it!
I ran into the same problem over lunch.
I called Peaches and we met at the Nassau Inn, in the downstairs taproom, where we’d happened into each other on that other cold and snowy occasion when Val already lay dead in our chapel. He drove over from New Pru full of questions about what I’d gotten into “over there.”
I told him it was incredibly complicated, but when you got right down to it, it really was a Church matter and I had been excluded from any big conclusions. So on and so forth. He gave me a funny look and winked as if to say he knew how they did things in Rome.
“But tell me this,” he said. “Did you find out who killed Val?” There was that deep hurt, the open wound he would never outlive. He figured I owed him this one. “Was it the same guy who attacked you and that monsignor from Rome?”
“The same man. That seems to be the prevailing view, anyway. A mad old priest. Who knows what happened to him? I don’t expect we’ll ever find him or see him again. Look, Peaches, I’m pretty worn out by all this. We’ll have to talk about it later. Right now—well, it’s a maze, it all gives me a headache.”
“I hear you, pal.” He flashed the old grin from boyhood, but his face was tired and lined. It was three o’clock and we were chewing on cheeseburgers and fries. We were the lone customers. We could hear the wind howling outside. “So how are you disposed toward the dear old Church of Rome these days?”
I felt the laughter welling up at the odd question. “It’s funny, Peaches, it doesn’t make any sense, but the Church has never seemed more human to me than it does now. It’s so imperfect—you almost have to love the poor old thing.”
I asked him what my father was up to and that led him into the story of how he’d found the D’Ambrizzi manuscript, how he’d taken it to Artie Dunn.
“I ran into Dunn over there,” I said. “He told me about the papers.”
“You did? You saw him? God, what a piece of work he is! When I found the stuff, Artie and I spent quite a night. You should see this condo he’s got. On a clear day you’ve gotta be able to see Princeton … he says helicopters fly below his windows!”
“He took me through the basic content,” I said. “It was all pretty mysterious. I know it was D’Ambrizzi’s insurance policy but it was pretty old news.” I saw no point in giving Peaches any reason to get more involved. He was better off entirely out of it.
His eyes were gleaming, cheeks pink. “All those code names, all the cloak-and-dagger stuff. The odd thing—all the secrecy and hiding places aside—the odd thing was your dad knew all about it! He said it was none of his business and had never given it another thought … but he knew D’Ambrizzi had given it to the old blabbermouth priest. And now, ten days ago, he’s suddenly got it on his mind. Weird, the way the mind works, Ben, weird.”
Peaches told me the story my father had told him of the drunken, jealous, loquacious priest who’d held the D’Ambrizzi papers and taunted him with them. It rang all too true. I remembered the old nitwit with his gin-laden breath.
“So,” Peaches said, mopping up the last puddle of ketchup with the last fry, “he just seemed to know I knew all about it. It was eerie as hell. He made me get it all out again—”
“Did you tell him about showing it to Dunn?”
He shrugged. “Well … gosh, I don’t think I did. I didn’t want to explain it all, I guess. Anyway, he had me drive him up to the lodge. He has that way about him—I felt like an employee. He can be a very domineering guy.”
“You noticed that, did you?” I said.
“Well, I spent the better part of a week up there, neglecting hell out of my parishioners. I mean, it was great, I tramped around on the mountain … it’s a great place, that huge bear standing in the corner—”
“What else?”
“I made a snowman! I stocked the larder from the supermarket in Everett. I puttered around, I read two novels, I cooked, fetched, and carried for your father.”
“And what did my father do?”
“Read the D’Ambrizzi stuff a few times, didn’t really have all that much to say about it. He brought a lot of records and some sketch pads with him. He played records all the time. We didn’t talk that much … he kept to himself but friendly. It was fine. We talked about you and what you might be doing. He’s recovering pretty well, Ben. But he was worried about you, thought you were asking for trouble digging around inside the Church. He said you just didn’t understand the Church. I just nodded on cue and let him talk. He took Val’s death very hard, Ben. I heard him crying one night.… I went into his room, asked him if he was okay and he said he was dreaming about Val and then woke up and remembered she was dead. I felt for him, Ben, I’ll tell you that.”
“I’m going up tomorrow,” I said. “He got a nurse after you left but kicked her out. I don’t want him alone up there.”
“You want me to come along, ride shotgun? There’s supposed to be a hell of a snowstorm headed this way.”
/> “It’s okay, Peach. I’ll be fine. You tend your flock.”
“My flock,” he said. “Poor bastards.”
Alone in the house that night, I couldn’t get to sleep. Indelicato’s death made the national news on television, primarily in the context of speculation regarding the health of the pope, who hadn’t been seen publicly in two months. There was nothing else on the late news about the Church, other than Archbishop Cardinal Klammer’s decision to stay in Rome for Indelicato’s funeral. I sat in the Long Room sipping my third Laphroaig double on ice, listening to the wind outside and the sound of snow blowing off the crust, rattling on the windows.
I was trying not to dwell on what had happened since Val’s murder, but it was a pointless attempt. I could think of nothing else: it was as if I’d come to life that day. Finally I finished the drink, slipped into my old sheepskin coat and a pair of Wellies, and went outside.
The cold air filled my lungs and cleared my head. I walked out toward the orchard where, maybe on a night much like this one, someone had strung up the already-dead body of Father Governeau. So long ago. It was the same walk Sandanato and I had taken with the ice skates. The ice lay beyond the orchard, shining in the moonlight. A couple of skaters moved silently like models for Currier and Ives. The blades caught and reflected silver across the ice.
I was drawn inevitably, irresistibly, to the chapel. It wasn’t sentiment: I didn’t know what it was until I was inside. The door was unlocked, the steps slippery with ice. The night was clouded with freezing mist.
I turned on the lights. What was I doing there? What did I expect? There was no ghost in the chapel, no voice from the darkness.
I sat down on the bench where Val had been sitting when Horstmann had pressed the gun’s smooth snout to the back of her head.
And then I did something I hadn’t done in twenty-five years.
In the house of God, I knelt, bowed my head, and prayed for my little sister’s eternal soul. And in the dim light, my eyes shut, I whispered aloud, still a Catholic, confessed my sins and begged forgiveness from whoever might be dispensing it these days.
The Assassini Page 65
