The Absolver: Rome (Saint Michael Thriller Series Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  As the plane approached its assigned runway, Michael replayed segments of that night. He finished praying for his assailant’s forgiveness at nearly the same moment the man become a body. Well aware he could do nothing further to intervene, even if he’d wanted to, Michael had reflexively stood and looked around the alley. For what? I can’t say what I thought I’d find there to help. A medic, a witness, a phone? God Himself? Probably just the initial shock setting in. Despite the late hour, he’d then walked to the nearest police station and reported the man’s passing. The cops had recognized and respected Michael’s collarino, so they allowed him to return to the scene without suffering the indignity of handcuffs. They hadn’t even called out a detective. Michael gave his statement to the uniformed supervisor, who told him they knew the dead man on sight. Even though he hadn’t explicitly said so, the lieutenant’s tone identified the deceased as a repeat criminal. A recidivist. When I pushed the black-and-white bumper around Silver City, I only knew the pastors, neighborhood watch captains, and the problems. Mostly the problems, they were the ones I spent all my time talking to.

  Within an hour or so, the police had taken him back to his chapel, where he found Monsignor Medina again waiting up for him. His mentor had shown no surprise when Michael and the cops revealed the killing to him. In fact, he showed no emotion at all. I had expected some sort of anger, outrage, at the attention it would bring to the chapel. At least an, ‘I told you so,’ some indication that his fear and apprehension about my actions had been justified. But, instead, nothing. I don’t think Medina said two unnecessary words to me since, even after the Church granted his emergent request to reassign me to my family’s chapel.

  Michael also thought about Merci, Doctor Renard, just as the jet’s back wheels struck the asphalt runway.

  THUMP

  I didn’t get to explain any of this in person, Michael thought as the plane rapidly slowed. I won’t know if the other Red Cross volunteers delivered my letter unless Merci’s willing to contact me. If not, I’ll just have to accept that God didn’t want it to happen. I’d like to tell her my side before she makes a judgment call from whatever she hears in the barrio. Not sure why I care so much about what she thinks...

  The pilot’s heavy, northern-Italian accent projected through the cabin’s speakers as the plane began taxiing. “Welcome to Albuquerque, Father Michael, and welcome home. We hope you enjoyed the flight and our short layover in Mexico City for fuel. One of the charter aviation companies here has graciously allowed us to make use of their hangar, so we won’t have to go through the hustle and bustle of the larger terminals to your right. We’ll stop in the private hangar in a brief moment, and a Customs official will meet us there to go over our paperwork and belongings as necessary. On behalf of the co-pilot and me, we wish you safe travels and a blessed stay in the Land of Enchantment. Peace be with you.”

  “And with your spirit,” Michael replied toward the closed cockpit doors, even though the pilot could not hear him. “I’ll be much more at peace once I know what’s to become of me,” he uttered to himself. “No one gets whisked back home on a diplomatic jet for awards and commendations. This whole thing feels like consequence.”

  Michael unfastened his seat belt for the first time since leaving Mexico City and again looked out the window as the jet slowly rolled into the private hangar. A uniformed Immigration & Customs Enforcement official stood alongside a man he immediately recognized as Monsignor Eduardo Hernandez. ‘H’ still looks like Jerry Garcia’s Halloween costume!

  Michael’s heart leapt and he smiled at the man’s presence, but immediately recognized its potential, ominous foreshadowing. H had been a part of his life ever since Michael’s birth. He Baptized me, gave my First Communion. Celebrated my Confirmation and acceptance into the priesthood. If they want me to spill my guts, he’s the man they’d send to run the interrogation. Still, Michael felt glad to know Hernandez would be with him for whatever lay ahead, even if that had to be the end of his clerical employment and service. Medina didn’t explain any of this, he just gave me the written travel orders. It’d be nice to know what everyone else thinks they have planned for me.

  The plane softly stopped, and its engines shut down as the pilot emerged from the cockpit, smiled at Michael, and opened the outer hatch. Michael didn’t bother to stand up until he’d finished. The interior cabin was too short for him to fully stand, even though he stood only 5’11”. There are times I’m glad I never got to be 6’2”, and I guess this has to be among them. He finally overheard the pilot and Customs official speaking, so he rose, retrieved his two duffel bags from a small compartment near the hatch, and stepped down out of the plane. Hernandez smiled at him, but it was the greeting of a tired and worried man, not the unreserved joy he’d always known from his lifelong mentor. The ICE official required only a cursory examination of his declarations manifest and didn’t bother asking any questions or even opening his passport. “Thank you, Father, and welcome home.” The man reached out his hand, which Michael accepted and shook.

  “Thank you, and thank you for your service. Peace be with you.”

  “And with your spirit, Father.” The official crisply turned around and strode away from them, so Michael dropped his bags and embraced Hernandez.

  “Welcome home, Michael,” Hernandez quietly exclaimed while they hugged. “I’m so very sorry for the circumstances, but I’m also so very grateful to God that you’re safe and well.”

  The men released one another and Michael retrieved his luggage. “As long as I have to answer to a monsignor, H, I’m glad it’s gonna be you for a while.” Three days of unanswered questions sprang to the front of Michael’s mind, and he glanced around to make sure no one would overhear their conversation. “I’ve been in some kinda communication time-out. My monsignor in Bogotá even forbade me from speaking with anyone else about what’s happened! Has anyone talked to my family? Do they know anything about what happened, or that I’m even back in the U-S? What the hell am I doing back here, anyway, if the Columbian authorities had no interest in pursuing charges against me? All I got was a written order that I was reassigned to San Miguel and leaving on the next flight home!”

  “Well, one thing at a time,” H offered as they walked toward the hangar’s parking lot. “No, no one’s talked to your family, at least as far as I know, and I think I would be their first phone call if they heard the news. As far as what you’re doing here, I’m not sure anyone’s sure. At least not yet. This whole thing is new for everyone involved, so we’re all sorting out what needs to be done, and, also, what can be overlooked and forgotten.”

  “I think I’m owed at least some sort of explanation about what they’re thinking. I’m not sure if I’m being saved or executed here, H.”

  “Well, let’s not go getting ahead of ourselves, Michael,” he abruptly remarked as they exited the hangar. “Nothing like that’s happening here, and, I’m not so sure there’s any concern about negative consequence or repercussions from this. I mean, all men, even those of the cloth, have the right to defend themselves from violence and harm.”

  “Then why does it feel like I’m being scolded? It’s like my monsignor in Bogotá told me to wait until my father gets home, and then sent me to you for a good, proper lashing. I didn’t even know the Vatican had aircraft.”

  “They don’t, publicly, anyway,” Hernandez explained. “The pope always makes a show of flying commercial on Alitalia and such, but, when they need people and things moved about quietly, they have a small fleet that goes far and fast. Don’t forget that the Vatican is overseen by the Holy See. Just like every other nation, they’ve got ambassadors, diplomatic pouches, documents, and people that get legal protections under the Geneva Convention. You wouldn’t wanna put state secrets in the overhead bin on a commercial flight, would you?”

  “Of course not, I guess I’d just never considered the need.”

  “How was it,” H asked through a broad, Cheshire Cat smile. “The plane, I mean?�
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  “It was pretty great,” Michael reluctantly acknowledged. “A real table, soft leather seats, and actual legroom. And, no layover in weird airports I’d never choose to stop in. If I could skip the suspicious circumstances, but I’d be happy to fly like that again.”

  “If you start killing people every time you wanna go somewhere, you’ll have much bigger problems than just worrying about your job!”

  Michael and his mentor both laughed at the gallows humor. Even as a teen, he’d enjoyed H’s dark comedy. H had served in the Army just after high school, but he’d rarely spoken of it. When Michael became a cop, he saw that same jaded humor in all his coworkers and realized Hernandez had likely developed it over time and trauma. Just like the rest of us faced with the repeated choice to laugh or cry. Laugh now, cry later. Preferably into a tall glass of whiskey.

  “Come on, Michael, let’s get you back to Santa Fe for some well-deserved rest,” Hernandez offered as they approached a beige, aging sedan that had been assigned to their beloved San Miguel Chapel for the past two decades.

  “I haven’t talked to my folks for almost a week, how are they doing?”

  “Your mother, well, she’s pretty much the same from what I can tell. Not getting too much worse, just not getting any better. Your father, ever the caretaker, refuses to admit she won’t make a complete recovery someday. I think he’ll accept nothing less, and, quite frankly, I worry about how he’ll react when God calls your mother home.”

  “So, nothing’s really changed?”

  “No,” Hernandez replied, “not really.” He opened the trunk, and Michael dropped his duffels inside. “You wanna stop at Sadies, El Pinto, or what? What’ve you missed the most?”

  “I need to see my parents, H. They need to hear this from me, not from someone in the archdiocese grapevine.” Michael gently closed the trunk and heavily pressed down to overcome the car’s familiar nuance. “They know too many people for this to stay quiet. So, how about the Gordo’s drive-through on the way home. I’ll buy.”

  “Oooo, excellent choice, best stuffed sopapillas in the world! Green chili and family, no better New Mexico than that.”

  TEN

  Monday, 0803 hours.

  Archdiocese of Santa Fe. Albuquerque, NM

  Michael followed his mentor, Monsignor Hernandez, through a dimly lit hallway on the second, less-public floor of the Archdiocese of Santa Fe. Sconces high on the dark brown walls directed soft light upward to the coffered, light cream ceiling. The long, tacit hallway seemed to glow from above, which had likely been the decorator’s intent. This hallway’s always had a distinct, rich aroma, but I’ve never been able to place it. Michael breathed in deep through his nose as he walked. It smells like tradition. And history. His steps noticeably sank into the plush Berber carpeting and kept even their purposeful strides silent. Michael expected this allowed the daily efforts of the Archdiocese to politely go on without disturbing the influential few who worked nearby.

  Even if he hadn’t been urgently summoned there, Michael would have been wearing his black cassock and collarino. My assignment to a prestigious and historic church like San Miguel Chapel demands the traditional clerical garb. He now dutifully followed Hernandez to whatever fate awaited him and didn’t want to be dismissed in something as irreverent as a black button-down shirt.

  “This way, Michael.” The aging monsignor checked his wristwatch and lightly shook it as though he hoped the watch was broken. “We’re almost there, and almost on time, I think.” The back of the taller man’s black tunic lightly took flight in his ample wake, while his legs mercilessly mushed the front of the garment onward. Staying up with Hernandez required effort from the shorter man, even though Michael stood nearly six feet tall.

  If my fate’s already been decided, there’s nothing I can do to positively change it, Michael told himself. Hell, I’ll be lucky if they even let me stay Catholic after everything that’s happened. Michael smirked at his own melodrama. They won’t actually deprive me of the sacraments over this. The Holy See and the Vatican don’t excommunicate people for killings, not even for murders. I just need to believe my imminent dismissal isn’t the worst thing they can do to me, but, for them, it’s probably just a run-of-the-mill ‘loss of clerical status.’

  They strode past a small group of older men, who each looked at them with a mix of curiosity and concern. There are few Catholic emergencies worth our rush, after all. Michael self-consciously avoided their eye contact. Toward the end of the hallway, Hernandez stopped in front of a heavy solid wood door and firmly rapped on it twice.

  “Enter,” an unfamiliar voice called out from the other side.

  Hernandez pulled the heavy door open and stepped aside.

  Michael nodded at his beloved mentor and strode into the room. This felt like consequence, and now it looks like it, too. Four old men in black cassocks sat in a line of matching dark leather chairs on the other side of a long, heavy wood table. Their clerical robes matched his own and gave Michael no indication of their position in the Church hierarchy. No one smiled at him or directed Michael to sit in the lone empty chair opposite them. Presuming its intent, he approached and reverently stood next to the chair and waited for their permission.

  “Please, sit,” the man to his far left offered, and Michael realized he’d been the one who had granted them admittance to the room.

  Michael sat, but deliberately maintained a stoic, upright posture. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, and I won’t leave here with a sad heart and hanging head.

  “You understand why you’re here today, Father Michael?” The same man spoke while the others remained silent and stared at him as though attempting to examine his very soul.

  “Not explicitly,” he replied, “but I assume it’s because of the recent events in Bogotá.”

  “Yes,” Far Left confirmed. “We hoped you would openly discuss that with us.”

  “To what end,” Michael inquired. “What is it that you hope to accomplish by doing that, sir? I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”

  “Peter.”

  “Peter…?”

  “Yes. Just, Peter.”

  “And what is it you do for the church,” Michael asked. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

  “I do, well, whatever’s necessary, Father Michael, and today,” he raised his hands just above the table, palms up, and motioned toward Michael, “well, today, I’m here to speak with you.”

  “And, if I may, Father Peter, who are your colleagues?”

  A second, elderly man, seated next to the apparent leader, raised his hand. “I’m Father Peter.”

  The third merely smiled and nodded at Michael. “I, too, am Father Peter.”

  “So, I suppose that means,” Michael waved his right hand toward the fourth man, a middle-aged Latino also dressed in a black cassock, “that, you’re also—”

  “Father Pedro,” he dryly replied.

  Michael chuckled. “Of course, it is, my apologies.” The very rocks upon which the Church is built.

  “And we’re here to help, Michael,” Pedro continued.

  “I’m sure you feel that way, sir.” I bet. A backroom inquisition by four anonymous church elders. Historically, these things have never gone so well for men on this side of the table. Maybe the new Vatican’s becoming so politically correct that I’ll be excommunicated, after all. Michael smiled and sought to play nice for as long as possible.

  “Father Michael,” Far Left asked, “can you tell us about what led you to the cloth?”

  “It’s a long story, sir, and I’m sure—”

  “We may not have many years left, Father,” Far Left interrupted, “but we do have time for details. If you don’t mind, of course.”

  So, they wanna drag this out and assure themselves they’re making the right choice. So be it. “Well, I was born into a devout family in 1980, so, I suppose it started there, unless you wanna go back to my parents’ upbringing in the church that assured mine.” Fa
r Left smirked and nodded as though Michael should continue. “My birthday’s November first, so, All Saint’s Day, a Holy Day of Obligation. Even though the local bishop long ago waived that requirement, my family always attended mass whether the holiday fell on a Sunday or not.”

  “Tell us about your family,” Pedro interrupted and emotionlessly demanded. “What was your upbringing like?”

  Michael inhaled and briefly pondered how to answer such a broad and complicated question. How do I sum up decades of love and trust, and the memories and experiences that they created? “I’ll do my best to give you a short answer. I grew up on my family’s ranch surrounded by cows, alfalfa, and the Roman Catholic church, at least until the water crisis worsened and we moved into town. My family’s been part of San Miguel Chapel for more than eighty years, ever since my great-grandparents moved their families into the area.”

  “Can you tell us more about your family life, your development and growth in the Church,” Far Left patiently asked.

  Michael nodded and tried to offer what he believed were the relevant highlights. “My parents and I walked an annual pilgrimage to San Miguel. Growing up, they were so convinced I’d always be Catholic that they felt free to discuss other religions and faith systems. For example,” Michael continued when Far Left motioned for more detail, “they explained the days around my birthday were important to so many different peoples that they must have inherent value and significance for all God’s children.

  “Mom taught me about how All Saints’ Day falls just after the pagan holiday Samhain, secular Halloween, overlaps with Dia de los Muertos in Mexico, and immediately precedes the Islamic month of Muharram.

  “My dad,” Michael further explained, “he loves Halloween, but made sure I knew and appreciated the Roman Catholic history of my birthday and its celebration of all the faithful departed. He taught me about Pope Boniface IV cementing All Saint’s Day in our dogma in the 7th-century about three-hundred years after the holiday began. Pope Gregory declared it a Holy Day of Obligation and moved the celebration to November 1st in the 8th-century. My folks believe my birthday was a divine indication that I would always live a pleasing life of service to God. The Church and the scriptures have been so much a part of my life that unless someone was contagious, we never went more than four days without stepping into San Miguel Chapel.”