But after the priest had locked the door and turned on the lights, Drew had glanced around in confusion. The living room was well appointed, yet strangely impersonal, reminding Drew of an expensive hotel room.
"What is this place? Are you sure it's...?"
" 'Secure' is the word you used earlier. You needn't worry. No one, or at least very few, have any knowledge of it."
"But why?" The apartment made Drew nervous. It looked unlived in. "What's it used for?"
Father Hafer seemed reluctant to answer. "For matters of discretion. My duties as a psychiatrist aren't limited to advising the Carthusians. I'm often called upon to counsel priests from various orders who - let us say - have special problems. A crisis of faith. An overfondness for a young woman in the parish choir. A preference for alcohol, or drugs, or even another man. I trust I'm not saying anything that shocks you."
"Temptation's the key to human nature. In my former life, I took for granted that everyone had a weakness. I just had to look till I found it. If people weren't sinners, every intelligence network would be out of business."
Father Hafer nodded sadly. "The threat of embarrassment, of scandal. In that respect, perhaps our worlds aren't far apart. A priest who finds himself in moral conflict with his sacred vows sometimes becomes so distressed that he -"
"Cracks up?"
"I'd prefer to say has a nervous breakdown. Or perhaps he drinks so much that he jeopardizes the reputation of the Church."
"So you use this place to calm them down or dry them out."
"For rest and counseling. Or in an emergency, it's a temporary cloister while arrangements are made to take them to their order's rest home. Then, too, the separation of Church and State isn't always as clear as the constitution demands. Politicians offering incentives to the Church in exchange for the Catholic vote often prefer to meet here rather than be seen arriving at the office of the bishop or the cardinal."
"In other words, a safe house for priests," Drew said grimly. "No, Father, our worlds aren't different at all."
3
"May God have mercy on their souls,"
Drew wasn't sure whose souls Father Hafer meant -those of the monks who'd been killed or the men who'd murdered them.
The moan produced another coughing fit.
Drew watched him, helpless. As sick as Father Hafer had appeared when Drew first saw him from the distant roof at Boston Common, the priest looked even worse up close. His skin, which had always been gray, was now even darker, drabber, making Drew think of lead poisoning.
Or another kind of poisoning. Chemotherapy. The flesh had shrunk on his cheeks and chin, emphasizing his facial bones. At the same time, the flesh seemed unconnected to those bones, about to peel away. His eyes seemed to bulge. His hair- once salt-and-pepper-was now a lusterless white, thin and brittle, sparse.
His body as well had begun to shrink; the black suit and white collar hung on him as if they'd been borrowed from a larger man. Drew couldn't help comparing their oversize fit with the way his own borrowed jeans, shirt, and vest were slightly too large for him. But there was a difference. Drew's lean, lithe body had the healthy glow of asceticism, whereas the priest's seemed to absorb light instead of giving it off - a collapsing black hole.
Of death.
"Garottes?" Father Hafer swallowed sickly. "But you don't know for sure. As far as you can tell, only the two custodian brothers in the kitchen were shot. You saw no evidence of strangulation."
"That's right. Except for the kitchen staff, the bodies I saw had been poisoned."
"Then - God help them - there's a chance that they didn't suffer."
"Oh, more than a chance. They never knew what hit them."
"But how can you be sure?"
"Because of the mouse."
The priest stared with utter incomprehension.
"That's something I've been waiting to tell you about." Sighing, Drew showed him the plastic bag containing the body of Stuart Little. "The poison killed him instantly. If I hadn't tossed him a chunk of bread and paused to say grace, I'd be dead myself."
Father Hafer reacted with horror. "You've been carrying that thing with you all this time?"
"I had to."
"Why?"
"When I came down from the attic, I didn't know if the corpses had been removed. Later I saw that they were still in their cells. But what if, after I escaped, the team came back and disposed of them? I still had to take the mouse's body with me to find out what poison was used. Some specialists have trademarks. They're fond of particular types. I'm hoping that an autopsy will tell me-"
"Specialists? Trademarks? Autopsy on a mouse? And
you've been carrying it in your pocket? I was wrong. May God have mercy on them? No, not on them. May God have mercy on us all."
Father Hafer stood angrily. "You say that the monastery was attacked four nights ago?"
"That's right."
"And you escaped two nights later?" The priest's voice became strident.
"Yes."
"But instead of going to the police, you wasted all that time coming to me."
"I couldn't take the risk that they'd keep me in jail. I'd have been a target."
"But for Heaven's sake, couldn't you at least have phoned them? Now the trail's gotten colder. It'll be harder for them to investigate."
"No. There was another reason that I didn't call them. Couldn't."
"I can't imagine why."
"It wasn't my choice to make. The Church authorities had to know first. They had to decide what to do."
"Decide? You honestly think they'd have had an option and not have called the police?"
"They probably would have, but not right away."
"You're not making sense."
"Perfect sense. Remember who I am. Who I was. Where I was."
As the implications struck him, Father Hafer groaned. "How I wish that you'd never come to my office." He paled. "You say that our worlds aren't different? That's certainly how the Church's enemies will interpret this. Because of you. And me. Because of my weakness in believing that you wanted salvation despite your shocking sins."
"But I do!"
Father Hafer dug his fingernails into his palms. "Because I recommended that the Carthusians accept you. Because your crimes caught up with you and now those holy monks have suffered the punishment intended for you" - he coughed - "I've jeopardized the reputation not just of the Carthusians, but of the Holy Mother Church herself. I can see the headlines now. Catholic Church Protects an Assassin, Gives Refuge to an International Killer."
"But I was on the side of..."
"Good? Is that what you wanted to say? Good? Killing?"
"I did it for my country. I thought I was right."
"But then you decided you were wrong?" Father Hafer's voice was filled with scorn. "And you wanted to be forgiven? Ah. Now those monks are dead. And you've put the Church in danger."
"You'd better get control."
"Control?" He walked to the sofa, grabbed the phone on the table beside it, and pressed a sequence of numbers.
"Wait a minute. Who are you calling? If that's the police..." Drew reached for the phone.
With unexpected strength, Father Hafer shoved Drew's hand away.
"This is Father Hafer. Is he in? Well, wake him. I said wake him. It's an emergency."
With his ear to the phone, Father Hafer cupped a hand across the mouthpiece. "I'll be dead by the end of the year." He held up his hand, asking for silence. "What does it have to do with this? Do you recall our interview six years ago?"
"Of course."
"We talked about vows. I said I was fearful that if I recommended admitting so young a man as yourself to the rigors of the Carthusians, I'd be responsible for your soul if you found the order's sacred vows too harsh and broke them."
"I remember."
"And your response? You said that I'd be responsible anyhow, in a different way, if I refused your application. Because you felt such despair that you we
re tempted otherwise to kill yourself. If I turned you away,
I'd be responsible for your damnation."
"Yes."
"It was specious reasoning. Every man's soul is his own responsibility. Your suicide would have been self-willed damnation. But I heard your confession. I thought, a man with your past, what hope did you have for salvation? What possible penance could compensate for your terrible sins?"
"So you recommended that the order accept me?"
"And now, if not for me, those monks would still be striving to save their souls. Because of me, they're dead. This isn't just a scandal. It's not just a controversy about the Church protecting a killer. God damn you. You're responsible. To them, to me. And I to them. Because of you, I've jeopardized my soul. I told you I'm going to die. By Christmas. I think you've put me in Hell."
Drew stared, absorbing the accusation, and now it was his turn to lean forward, to bury his face in his hands. He glanced up abruptly, hearing Father Hafer speak into the phone.
"Your Excellency? I deeply regret disturbing you this late, but something terrible has happened. Catastrophic. It's imperative that I meet with you at once."
4
The bishop, His Excellency the Most Reverent Peter B. Hanrahan, had a lean, rectangular face. He was in his late forties, and though he'd been wakened less than an hour ago, his short, sandy hair looked freshly washed and blow-dried. It was combed impeccably. His green eyes reminded Drew of porcelain, but their glint, he noted, was that of steel.
The bishop sat behind a large oak desk in a paneled office decorated with testimonial plaques from various charitable organizations - Protestant and Jewish as well as Catholic - along with framed glossy photographs of him in a grinning handshake with various mayors of
Boston, governors of Massachusetts, and presidents of the United States. But the pictures of him with several popes took the place of honor on the wall behind his desk.
Perhaps because he'd sensed that this meeting would be both disturbing and lengthy, he'd arrived at his office wearing clothes that looked considerably more comfortable than his bishop's robes or his priest's black suit and white collar. He'd chosen gray loafers, navy corduroy slacks, a light-blue Oxford button-down, and on top of it a burgundy sweater, the sleeves of which were pushed up slightly, revealing a Rolex watch. Steel, though, not gold.
To Drew, he looked like a politician, an appropriate comparison since at this level a Church official had to be a politician. The smoothness in the voice, the carefully effective choice of words, were probably less the result of Sunday sermonizing than negotiating with local Catholic businessmen for donations to construction projects in the diocese.
His Excellency sat behind his desk, tilting his chair back, eyes firm with concentration, as first Father Hafer and then Drew explained.
Four times, the bishop asked Drew for clarification. He considered the mouse in the plastic bag, nodded, and gestured for Drew to continue.
At last Drew concluded what he automatically thought of as his debriefing, indeed his second of the night. He glanced at his watch. It was seven minutes after one. Though thick beige draperies covered the windows, the muffled roar of a car rushing past outside intruded. Otherwise the room was silent.
The bishop shifted his gaze impassively from Drew to Father Hafer, then back to Drew. He blinked but otherwise stayed motionless. The silence persisted. At once his chair creaked as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk.
His eyes glinted sharply. "You've certainly endured a most remarkable series of events." His voice remained resonant, smooth. "And of course most disturbing." He debated, then pressed a button on his intercom. "Paul?"
An equally smooth male voice responded. "Your Excellency?"
"Ah, good, you haven't gone back to your room."
"I thought you might need me."
"I don't know how I'd get along without you. Do you remember Pat Kelley?"
"Vaguely. But I can check his file."
"No need. He owns a construction equipment business. Last summer he and his wife took a trip to Rome. He asked if I could arrange for His Holiness to give them a blessing."
"Ah yes, I remember now." The voice chuckled. "He framed the certificate of the blessing and hung it on a wall in his office."
"If memory serves, his firm owns a helicopter. He claims it's for lifting heavy equipment onto high-rises, but I've always suspected that it's merely a toy that he writes off on his income tax. Would you phone him, please? Tell him that his Church needs a favor from him, the loan of his helicopter. Explain that I'll be in touch to thank him as soon as I can."
"Of course, your Excellency. I'll make sure I talk to him before he leaves his home for the office."
"No, now."
"You mean wake him?"
"I want that helicopter available by dawn. If he hesitates, hint that the Knights of Columbus might hold a banquet in his honor. Next, check our computer for priests in the diocese who've had experience in hospitals or been in combat. Three will be sufficient, but one of them has to be able to fly the helicopter."
"Very good, your Excellency. Anything else?"
"Yes, bring us some coffee, maybe some doughnuts. I'm going to be busy for quite a while."
Bishop Hanrahan took his finger off the intercom and seemed to organize his thoughts. "Let me ask you something, Brother MacLane. I want to make sure that I understand the situation. After you escaped, your concern - apart for your safety - was for the well-being of the Church? That was your reason for not alerting the authorities but instead coming to your confessor and then to me?"
"That's right."
"Then may I assume you have some practical suggestions about how I should deal with this information?"
Drew nodded.
"What precisely?"
"Three possibilities." Drew touched his index fingers together. "First, as Carthusians those monks had removed themselves from the world. They'd sold whatever property they owned, closed out their bank accounts, quit their jobs. They'd said their final goodbyes to friends and relatives and made clear that no one from their former life could ever be in touch with them again. No visits, no phone calls, no letters. They even notified the government that they'd stop filing tax returns."
"I'm aware of that. Please make your suggestion."
"As far as the world is concerned, those men might as well have been dead already. They'd made themselves invisible, and in the normal course of events, when they did die, they should have been equally invisible. As I'm sure you know, the Carthusians don't use a coffin. The fully clothed body is placed on a board, the face covered with a cowl. The robe is nailed to the board. Then the corpse is buried in a private cemetery, marked only with a simple white cross. To emphasize humility, there's no inscription."
"I'm aware of that, too. Just what are you getting at?"
"Follow the procedure."
"What?"
"Go ahead and bury them."
"And not tell anyone?"
"Who otherwise would know? If they'd died from an epidemic or from accidental food poisoning, would the
Church have publicized it? The Church would merely have laid them to rest. They'd have still been invisible. The Church's secret."
"In other words, you're suggesting that the Church cover up a mass murder?"
"It's one possibility."
Bishop Hanrahan stared. "But if the authorities can't investigate, if they can't track down the men responsible, who may I ask is supposed to punish...?"
"God."
The bishop jerked his head back. "I seem to have forgotten that you too were a Carthusian. Your faith is remarkable."
"No, please don't say that. Faith? I believe in Hell."
"Indeed." The bishop frowned. "So to protect the Church's reputation, we consign the murderers to their ultimate judgment and in the meantime pretend that the killings never occurred?"
"I said it's one option. It has to be considered."
"But would you act u
pon it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because there's too great a risk of the story getting out. That kind of operation - the cleanup, the burial -requires a lot of personnel, the probability of gossip. If this were an intelligence assignment, if professionals did the cleanup, I wouldn't be worried. But priests would be doing the work, and what they'd have to deal with would be so shocking that they might not be able to keep their mouths shut afterward."
David Morrell - Fraternity of the Stone Page 13
