The episode made Robert feel a bit out of place. He had no intention of bowing or kissing anybody’s hand. Instead, he opted for a firm, respectful handshake.
“And who’s this little fellow?” asked Cardinal Polletto, leaning down to Samuel.
Pressed up against his mother, Samuel eased forward and introduced himself. Father Tolbert added a few compliments on Samuel’s performance as altar boy. Samuel looked relieved when the two men turned their attention elsewhere.
Cardinal Polletto and Father Tolbert excused themselves and disappeared inside the Church. Robert and the others hustled to Donovan’s Lincoln Town car, and headed for Spraggia’s.
“So, have you caught any bad guys lately?” asked Samuel, bouncing in his seat. “Do you have your gun on you? Can I see it? Do you think I can be a bounty hunter when I grow up?”
“No bounty hunting for you,” Alison scolded, smirking.
Since leaving the CIA, Robert and Nikki had opened their own firm and chased down high-level criminals all over the world. Samuel loved to hear the details of their exploits. Stories about terrorists they’d captured, serial killers they hunted down, and exotic places they traveled to all over the world. Most of the details he gave Samuel were fabricated, since the majority of the cases they worked were highly confidential, for which they were sometimes paid millions of dollars for their efforts, by governments, and the wealthy.
“I left my gun with Aunt Nikki today,” said Robert. “That’s not the type of thing you should wear in church. And your mother’s right, I see medical school in your future.”
“Not a chance,” said Samuel. “I want to come work with you and Aunt Nikki. We can be a team.”
Donovan looked back at them in the rearview mirror. Robert saw a big smile on his face. Despite all they’d seen working for the government, intelligence was in Donovan’s blood, and a son in the family business was just fine with him. Donovan even wore the bullet in his hip as a badge of honor.
“You looked a little nervous up at the altar today,” said Robert, changing the subject. “I thought you were gonna choke.”
“Me choke? Never,” answered Samuel. “Just a little game-time jitters. I get the same way before a big game in little league.”
“I understand,” said Robert, kissing Samuel on top of his head. “I get the same way from time to time.”
Samuel smiled and laid his head in Robert’s lap, who stroked his hair and smiled.
Donavon stopped to make a left turn into the restaurant parking lot.
An SUV in front of them made a sudden stop. Donavan hit the brakes.
Bam! Another SUV plowed into them from behind. Robert’s head jerked backwards and snapped forward. The Lincoln lunged into the SUV in front of them. The airbags exploded into Donovan and Alison’s faces. Robert covered Samuel as best he could.
“Is everybody okay?” asked Robert, heart and adrenaline pumping.
“Out of the car, hands up!” a ski masked man shouted, waving an Uzi machine gun.
Robert reached for his gun. Damn, I left my gun with Thorne! He counted four men in total, two from each vehicle. One of the men pulled open Robert’s door and snatched Samuel outside.
“Not my son!” shouted Alison.
Donovan jumped out, cursing. Robert slid out, an Uzi trained at his head. He caught a familiar image running fast in their direction, about fifty yards away. Thorne!
Out of the alley across the street from Spraggia’s, another SUV sped toward them and screeched to a halt. Three of the men holding them at gunpoint scrambled to the vehicle behind them, with Samuel kicking and screaming. Alison took a step, but the forth gunmen fired into the car, sending everyone to the ground, except Robert. Four people jumped out of the SUV that came from the alley, wearing black ski masks, armed with machine guns.
“Save the boy!” one of them shouted.
Robert felt the hard end of an Uzi on the back of his head and fell to the pavement. He heard footsteps, more gunfire, and Thorne’s unmistakable bark. He raised his head and saw the four figures from the alley run back to their vehicle and take off after the kidnappers who’d sped off with Samuel. Robert heard the distinct baritone of a man’s voice shout orders he couldn’t make out, then lowered his head to the pavement, and blacked out.
3
“F orgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“How long has it been since your last confession?”
“About a week, Father.”
“Go on, my son.”
Cardinal Giafranco Polletto rested comfortably against a high-back leather chair in the den at his forty-one acre estate in Yorkville, Illinois, an hour and a half outside of downtown Chicago. He pretended to pay close attention to Father Tolbert, whose chair sat back to back with his, as the priest droned on about drinking too much wine and lies he’d told.
“Go on, my son,” the cardinal entreated, stroking his chin, eyes closed, his mind on other matters.
“And I’ve sinned again against a child,” said Father Tolbert, reluctance in his tone.
Cardinal Polletto’s eyes opened. “Go on, my son.” For twenty minutes, Father Tolbert, snorting and crying, confessed to having sex with several young boys, including Samuel Napier, whom the cardinal had met earlier. The cardinal asked the priest to elaborate about Samuel. He listened to the pathetic cleric confess misguided love for a child, and smiled. “Your sins are great, my son,” he said, “but fortunately, the forgiveness of our Lord is greater.” The cardinal launched into a litany of prayer and Latin chants, asking God to grant forgiveness to a soul he knew would fill hell, along with his own. They finished, turned their chairs facing each other, and the cardinal poured two glasses of red wine from a crystal carafe on the small round marble table next to them.
“I’m afraid I have some disturbing news,” said the cardinal, taking a long sip of wine.
Father Tolbert’s hands quivered, spilling wine on his pants and the Persian carpet, a gift from the Prime Minister of Egypt. “News?” he asked.
“Yes,” Cardinal Polletto continued. “The boy you love so much has been taken into custody by my people. As I explained to you a few months ago, he’s important to our cause.”
“Taken in? You mean kidnapped?”
“Let’s say, forcefully recruited,” said Cardinal Polletto, pouring himself another glass. “It’s the best thing for The Order, and for you.” Father Tolbert stood. “You didn’t say anything about a kidnapping,” he fired, his fear morphing into anger.
“I didn’t have to say anything about it,” snapped the cardinal. “Just be glad we haven’t snatched you up. Now sit.” Slowly, Father Tolbert lowered himself to his seat. “What are you going to do with him?”
The cardinal took a deep breath. “Don’t worry yourself about it,” he said. “The boy’s safe, and he’ll stay that way. Let’s focus our attention on you.”
“I don’t want to talk about me. Whatever I’ve done, whatever you think of me, please don’t punish the boy for it.” You imbecile, do you really believe this is all about you? “Now, Father Tolbert, you know you’re our first and most important concern.
We take care of our own. Relax and leave it to my people. You’re in good hands.”
Father Tolbert’s face turned purple-red, his eyes bulged, and veins crisscrossed his forehead. “No!” he shouted, flinging his glass against the wall.
The door to the den flung open, and Father Ortega Alamino, the pit bull chauffeur, rushed inside. Cardinal Polletto motioned that everything was okay, and Father Ortega hesitantly closed the door behind him.
Father Tolbert collapsed in his chair, head in hands, and burst into tears.
Cardinal Polletto finished his wine, and carefully placed the empty glass on the table. He watched with contempt, as Father Tolbert fell just short of a full breakdown, revolted by the blubbering priest’s weakness.
The cardinal walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“There, there,” he said, insincere and c
ondescending, “I promise you things will come together for the good, and they will.” Father Tolbert looked up, his eyes wet, red, and puffy, and his nose running. Saliva dripped off his chin. “I’ve got to atone for the things I’ve done. I’ve got to make it right,” he sniveled.
Cardinal Polletto snatched Father Tolbert to his feet. “Get a hold of yourself,” he growled through gritted teeth, shaking the priest with the force of a much younger man.
Father Tolbert snatched loose. “No,” he growled, stepping back.
“I’m the monster, not Samuel. Why are you hurting the boy? I’m the one who should die.”
“Nobody’s going to die,” said the cardinal, with all the comfort of a grandfather. “I have plans for you that you know nothing about, very important plans, plans that involve Samuel. Now, let’s sit and talk.”
“I’m going to the police,” shot Father Tolbert. “I’m going to turn myself in. I can’t live like this anymore.” Cardinal Polletto sprang forward and slapped the priest to the floor.
The cardinal leered down with rage and fire in his eyes. He hoped that he could calm Father Tolbert down, and was sorry he allowed the situation to spiral so far out of his grasp. He needed Samuel, and the kidnapping would put enough pressure on his plans without Father Tolbert doing something rash. The feeble cleric would be done away with in time, but for now, he needed him alive.
“Get to your feet,” he ordered. Father Tolbert, dazed, pulled himself up on the side of the cardinal’s dark mahogany desk. The high-priest tossed him a handkerchief. “You’re not going to say a thing. Go home and pack only what you need for the next few weeks. I’ll make sure you get the rest later.”
Father Tolbert’s eyes, confused and inquisitive, asked where he was going.
Cardinal Polletto flashed a dangerous smile. “I’m sending you to Rome.”
4
J ust after midnight, under a moonless sky filled with black ominous clouds, Father Ortega pulled up to Assumption Church, but didn’t bother to open Father Tolbert’s door. Nor did he offer his farewells. Dejected and sullen, the priest stepped out into the night chill, barely noticing the light mist that showed up as soon as his feet touched the pavement, and lurched towards his residence in back of the church.
“Good evening and goodnight,” he said to Sister Isabella Cacciavillian, a Spanish nun there on temporary assignment. She was a self-proclaimed night owl who almost never seemed to sleep. He considered turning back to apologize for his rudeness, but didn’t have the energy. Each step a burden, he dragged his feet along the marble corridor as though ten pounds of cement filled his black sole shoes.
Father Tolbert opened the door to his small apartment-like living quarters and felt his way through a tiny, sparsely decorated living room, to the bedroom in the back, like a blind man in familiar surroundings, not wanting to illuminate his despair. He plopped down on the full size bed, which was more a crime scene than a place of rest, and wallowed in the blackness of his soul. Ten minutes later, two soft-white bulbs on each side of the headboard bathed the room in foggy light, casting murky shadows that loitered around the room like vagabonds up to no good.
Two large, worn suitcases took Father Tolbert’s place on the bed.
Sniffling and wiping his nose, he tossed the items he deemed necessary for two weeks survival into each case. His thoughts turned to Samuel, and his fear for the boy gave way to lust and longing. He closed his eyes tight to fight off images of the boy in his embrace. Hopeless. He resumed packing, hands quivering so violently he could barely fold his clothes and place them in the suitcase. No, fight back! Fight dammit! His hands relaxed, but just as suddenly, the shaking returned. He fell to his knees and clasped his hands together, searching for the strength to ask God for forgiveness, but unable to find the words. Call the police. Turn yourself in. Atone.
Father Tolbert picked up the phone and hit “9”. Cardinal Polletto’s voice pierced through his mind. Put that fucking phone down! Father Tolbert hit the number “1” knowing he wouldn’t go through with it, and dropped the phone on the floor. He scrambled to his feet, slipped on a pair jeans and a sweatshirt, snatched an overcoat from the rack next to the door, a brown London Fog, a gift from a wealthy patron looking for special prayer, and hit the streets for a walk. Self-prescribed therapy that often helped quell the pain.
The blanket of mist that greeted him earlier was now a light drizzle.
Collar up, he took his regular route, head down, the rain blending with his tears, his groans lost in the nearly barren, moonless night. I can control this. I can stop. I have to fight it. I have to fight.
A mile and a half from the church he turned right on Columbus Drive then left on Grand. Cardinal Polletto is right. He’s always right.
Rome is the perfect place right now. I’ve never even seen the Vatican.
There I’ll be able to draw strength. Father Tolbert, hands in his pockets, mixed in with the night shift crowd of drug dealers and buyers, the homeless, the lost, and those who simply wanted to remain anonymous.
A sharp spark hit the sky, and nature’s faucet turned to full.
Father Tolbert crossed Grand in a light trot and stopped in front of a dilapidated brick apartment building, eyes focused on a third floor window, one of the few not shattered. His chest heaved in and out. He hustled inside, nearly tripping over an old woman wrapped in all she owned, the streetlight glimmering off the blade gripped tight in her fist.
He excused himself and bounded up three flights of stairs, hopping over bodies, some sleep, some high, along the way, stopping in front of a beaten wooden door with 316 painted neatly on front. I can stop. I can stop.
The door opened before he could knock.
“I saw you from the window,” said a soft voice from inside. “Come in.”
Father Tolbert hesitated and took a step back. A soft, smooth hand pulled him inside the damp, murky, barely lit room. A lone mattress, surrounded by crates and boxes, posed as a furniture ensemble.
“Over here by the light,” the voice continued, the hand gripping his tighter. “It’ll be fifty dollars, same as usual.” Father Tolbert lumbered along in a stupor, fighting the urge to stay.
Then Alex, a twelve-year-old runaway, fell to his knees and took the priest inside his mouth, and Father Tolbert surrendered.
Yes, Rome, that’s where I’ll do it. I’ll atone for my sins and end this nightmare. Hell is waiting for me anyway. I’ll end my life at the Vatican.
5
T hrobbing and tender, the knot on the back of Robert’s head pulsated in concert with his heartbeat, but he barely noticed.
Thorne pressed a fresh ice pack to the contusion. “I leave your ass for a couple of hours and look what happens.” Thorne, tall, lean, with milk chocolate skin and piercing brown eyes, shook her head in disgust.
Robert jerked the ice pack out of her hand and stomped over to the bedroom window of the Napier’s guesthouse. The night rain left a cloudless morning blue sky, and the estate grounds buzzed with activity, as FBI agents and Chicago detectives filed in and out of the large Tudor mansion five hundred feet away. Robert replayed the details of the kidnapping over in his head just as he explained to the authorities.
It was a well-planned ambush to the letter. The assailants waited for the perfect spot, just before they reached the restaurant parking lot. Two SUV’s, toting machine gun wielding assholes, surrounded them within seconds, and dragged Samuel from the car. Then, an oddity occurred, another SUV showed up, apparently coming to their aid.
Robert shut his eyes tight and struggled to conjure up more details, but only saw masked faces, although the distinct voice of a tall statuesque man who’d come to help, rang clearly in his ears. The voice, a thick baritone, distinct and commanding, was one he’d never forget, but he chose to leave the detail out of his recounting to the agents and detectives who questioned him. In his three year experience as a bounty hunter, he knew you always held something back from the police until you knew exactly who was
on the team, and who on the team was a fuck up.
“What do you think they’ll ask for?” interrupted Thorne, easing up behind him.
Truth was Robert didn’t have the slightest idea. Donovan had been out of commission at the CIA for over ten years, and even if he hadn’t, it was highly unusual for someone to target a child as retaliation. If they wanted to hurt Donovan, they could’ve killed him right there.
“Hopefully, it’s just money,” said Robert. “I’m sure they know about Alison’s wealth. Maybe it’s just a shakedown.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Thorne, heading for the bathroom. “That’ll mean we can get this over quickly. Give’em the money and catch their sorry asses later.”
Thorne shut the bathroom door hard behind her. Robert plopped down on the white Indian embroidered couch, hoping the entire episode was just about money. It would end quickly, and they would help the FBI track down those behind it. If they found them before the authorities did, they’d dish out a little justice of their own before turning the kidnappers over to them.
Robert recalled the first time he laid eyes on his godson. Donovan and Alison had brought Samuel home from the adoption agency wrapped in a navy blue and gold blanket from Donovan and Robert’s alma mater, the University of Michigan. Robert fell in love with the child in an instant, and with no children of his own, considered the boy as his too.
Thorne marched out of the bathroom as the phone rang. Robert answered. It was FBI agent-in-charge, Ken Baxter. He asked Robert to come back to the main house for a few more questions.
Inside, the main house was crowded, but not noisy. Agents and detectives searched the house for clues, while others simply stood guard.
Robert and Thorne were directed to the family room, where they saw Donovan on one side, with four agents huddled around him asking questions. Alison sat to the left side, sprawled out on a thick black leather couch, a compress on her forehead, tears streaming down her face.
The Hammer of God v-2 Page 2
