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

by Gavin Reese

  “22-87,” Sergio began, “Those guilty of abusing their authority so as to lead others to sin commit scandal. They will answer for the sum of the encouraged evil that results.”

  Father Harry stood before the class with his hands clasped in front of his waist and a slight smile on his face. Now the debate and dialogue begin, Michael thought. He scanned the trainees before him as though considering how to commence with the mental exercise.

  “Now that we know more of scandal, and the potential offenses that one risks in engaging in such activity, let's consider a few scenarios that may, or may not, risk eternal consequence. First, let’s consider to whom this applies. Is anyone above the commission of this offense?”

  “Of course not,” Michael quickly offered, “all humanity is bound to avoid and refute this conduct.”

  “So, a cardinal who calls for you to violate the teachings? He commits the offense?”

  “Yes,” several voices answered.

  “If he’s engaging in intentional conduct,” Michael added, “then he’s committed the offense.”

  Harry smirked. “I would be hard-pressed to say that such a man could not understand what he’s doing in this regard, but, I suppose I have to agree with you, Andrew. What if the cardinal is acting on behalf of his superiors, instead of his own volition? If he disagrees with an edict, but follows through on teaching and enforcing it, anyway?”

  Several seconds passed as the trainees individually considered the question.

  “I don’t think it matters why he does it,” Matthias offered, “so long as he understands that what’s he’s doing is wrong.”

  Father Harry shrugged. “Does it not lessen his offense that the idea did not originate with him, or that he only carried it out as part of his position?”

  “No,” Michael firmly answered, “I would argue that it should actually increase the offense because a man in his position is obligated to stand up against such forces on behalf of all those below him. The laity relies on his action and integrity to protect them from human interference in the divine actions of our Church.”

  “We haven't had an official Devil’s Advocate in the Church since 1983, but I’m going to play one now,” Harry explained. “But, Andrew, aren’t you forgetting that the Pope is the divinely appointed head of the Catholic Church, a successor to Saint Peter himself? Aren’t we obligated to consider that the understanding His Holiness offers will always be greater and deeper than our own? Isn’t it at least possible that we’re the ones that’ve gotten it wrong, and been acting in error all these centuries?”

  “That logic forces us to believe that today’s pope is more enlightened and divinely inspired than all of his predecessors,” Michael replied. “I’ll concede that someone has got to be the most divine and enlightened pope in human history, but I feel it’s pretty arrogant for us to advocate that our pope, who serves in our time is him.”

  “So, you don’t give the head of the papacy more leeway than anyone else? His divine appointment is something of a cornerstone of our faith, Andrew.”

  “Forgive me if that's what I said,” Michael humbly countered, “but what I meant is that even the pope is human. He's sometimes proud, vain, arrogant, and selfish, just like all the rest of us, even if it’s only for a fraction of a second and he never takes action on it. He can also be power-hungry, and I don’t necessarily mean the current pope, I mean all mankind, of which he’s just one member. If the pope decrees tomorrow that marriages are no longer valid sacraments, I will follow the scriptures and the Catechism rather than the man.”

  “So, in light of the recent edict and catechism alterations with regards to the death penalty,” Father Harry offered, “are this pope and his cardinals right, or are all the other popes and councils correct? I’m sure you agree it cannot be both.”

  Michael leaned back in his chair and smiled at his self-created dilemma. I should've looked ahead and predicted that he'd force someone into an ethical corner. “I don’t disagree with the Church’s position that death penalties, in general, are egregious and harmful to human dignity and our efforts to proselytize the incarcerated masses. They’re probably the population in greatest need of hearing about God’s mercy and love. I think—”

  Father Harry shook his head in disapproval and interrupted. “You’re qualifying the answer and trying not to actually give one. I want to know, based on what you just said, if this pope is right or wrong to alter the teachings and understanding of centuries of popes and cardinals before him?”

  “He's wrong,” Michael blurted out before he had time to reconsider. “Even though we in the ‘civilized’ world often forget that secular governments are generally too willing to kill their opponents or detractors, or to make the threshold for death penalties too low. However, I believe there are offenses so grievous that they warrant the forfeiture of your life, and, there are defects in the human psyche and spirit that cannot ever be improved or altered. In those few, and rare, circumstances, I believe the best option we have to protect, preserve, and celebrate human dignity and life is to end that of the unjust aggressor. Simply put, Father, dead serial killers don’t ever claim another victim.”

  “How is it possible that the pope is wrong, Andrew, and, simultaneously, infallible as a cornerstone of our faith?

  Michael cleared his throat and wished he’d kept his mouth shut this morning. “I liken the paradox to Saint Aquinas’ explanation of demons. I think it’s somewhere near Question Sixty-Four, Part Three. He explains how God can even use demons to achieve His objectives, should he choose to do so, much in the same way that I believe he used Pontius Pilot to crucify His own son. So, I can believe in the pope’s infallibility, even if he does wrong, because God must have directed him to do it.”

  Father Harry smirked at Michael before scanning the rest of the trainees. “Well played, Father Andrew, you got yourself out of that quandary very neatly without making heretical allegations that Pope Cornelius II is busy scandalizing all the world around us.”

  Michael smiled back at the monsignor. “This is not my first barbeque, sir.”

  “Except, perhaps, that the next logical conclusion I’ll ask you to defend is this, hypothetical, example, of course. I don’t expect you to answer now, but I’m curious to hear your thoughts. Will you, Father Andrew, go along with the infallible pope’s scandalous conduct out of your belief that, even when wrong, he’s divinely inspired and beyond error; or, will you refuse to aid the pontiff’s grave efforts and therefore go against God’s will, which surely must be for you to conspire to commit whatever acts His Holiness directs, as, surely, they must all come from God?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Training Day 7, 1948 hours.

  Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.

  Michael sat on top of his bed covers, leaned back against his pillow and headboard, and used the hard, back cover of his Bible to write a letter home to his parents. Gonna be hard to write a full letter without saying anything about what I’m actually doing. I could tell them about the new monsignor who’s delivering mass to us here. As long as I don’t say anything to identify him, John shouldn’t have a problem with it. Seems like the kinda thing I oughta be excited about. What would pop think of all this, at least, what I might be doing here?

  Michael brought his focus back to the letter itself and paraphrased Father Harry’s homily for his parents. I can honestly tell them I’m right where God wants me to be. Right place, right time, right reasons. Easy to tell the truth, it’s the lies that are tough, no matter how white their intention. He grinned as he imagined his parents’ reaction to learning that his new monsignor was also his psychiatrist. Probably oughta leave that part out. If they knew the Church was sending me to regular head-shrink appointments, they’ll think I’ve gone all ‘coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs.’ They’ve got enough problems already without me dropping that much truth in their lives.

  Michael looked up from the nearly-blank page, and Bartholomew’s perfectly-made bed caught his eye.
That dude is definitely not cool enough to go by ‘Bart.’ He’d tried to suck everyone into another argument earlier that night, just before everyone headed up for dinner. I don’t think there’s any grey area in his brain. Everything’s black or white, and nothing’s subjective. It’s like he just wants affirmation that he’s right, the classroom discussions and debates are unjust, and Father Harry’s a jackass. That might end up being true about Harry, but it’s his job to make us uncomfortable and push us to examine our beliefs and the basis for them. As frustrating as it is to live with Bartholomew, it’s gotta be ten times worse to live inside his head. He won’t last long here, and, likely, not anywhere inside the Church. The human experience is a shitload messier than he can tolerate.

  Michael heard the front, upstairs door open and footsteps approaching the basement stairs. A few seconds and two dozen thumps later, Thomas appeared and hurriedly walked over to his bunk. “Hell of a week, huh?”

  Michael kept his eyes on the paper and wished he could just start writing anything to appear too busy to chat. “Yeah,” he distantly offered, hoping his nonverbal cues would tell Thomas he wasn’t interested in talking.

  “So, while it’s just you and me, Andrew,” Thomas offered in a more hushed tone, “I think we’re two of the only ones that actually have a chance of graduating. Whaddayou really think they’re gonna have us doing?”

  Michael quietly sighed, looked up, and still tried to show his disinterest without directly confronting Thomas. “No idea, but I bet we find out if you’re right about us graduating.”

  “Hey, so, I think all this privacy stuff and not knowing our fellow brothers-in-arms is all bullshit, right? I mean, I’m pretty sure they're training us to be some kinda Holy Roman warriors, right, and every war movie and book you read always shows the characters, well, the heroes, anyway, pretty routinely breaking all the stupid little chickenshit rules that the old men, their tired old bosses, are puttin’ over ‘em. I figure this is all kinda like that, you know, and maybe John’s just testin’ us out to see how far we’re willing to take his bullshit. I mean, what’s next, right, we can only chew on the left side of our mouth because Templar Knights had to worry about attacks comin’ from their right side? Bullshit, right?”

  Perplexed by the prolonged statement, Michael looked at Thomas and tried to predict what he wanted. Silence, Michael thought, right now, I will give him silence, and he’ll tell me what he’s after.

  Only a few seconds passed between them until Thomas stuck out his right hand to Michael. “I’m Shawn.”

  Michael incredulously looked at the outstretched hand for a moment and didn’t even consider extending his own. I could play this off and give him a fake name. Let him think he’s got a secret alliance and quietly got one over on John, but what’d be the point? I don’t have the time and energy to keep up the facade, especially when there’s no real payout on it. “Is that with S-H or S-E?”

  Thomas’ face scrunched, and Michael knew he didn’t understand the reason for the question. “S-H, why?”

  “Just wanted to make sure I spell it right for the ‘Guess What’ card tomorrow.”

  Thomas withdrew his hand and his face reddened with anger. “You don’t, why, whaddayou think you know, Andrew? I’ll tell him you tricked me into givin’ that to you!”

  “Do what you like,” Michael counseled and returned his focus to writing his letter. “John’s been clear about integrity. Wonder what he thinks about mutiny?”

  “Mutiny?! I did no such thing!”

  Michael remained calm despite Thomas’ growing anger, volume, and decreased distance. “I think conspiring to undermine the leadership is a cornerstone of mutiny.” Thomas had now stepped close enough that Michael shifted his focus to the man’s hands and chest. “Here’s my problem, Thomas. If I keep your faux pas between us, John will eventually jump in the middle of me with both feet when he finds out about it later. I’m not willing to trade secrets with you, or you’d have my name. Nobody gets to hang anything over my head. Those kinda debts earn interest that I don’t wanna pay.”

  “I won’t let you do this, I—”

  Michael looked directly into the man’s eyes to ensure Thomas understood he didn’t fear him. “Thomas,” he firmly and quietly advised, “you misread me. You can’t act surprised or angry because you knew the rules and the consequences. So, now, you need to back up, keep your distance from me, and just go about your business for the night.” I will ruin more than your night if you force me to.

  “This isn’t over.” Thomas retreated back to his bunk for a moment before stomping upstairs and out of sight.

  Michael watched the top of the stairs until he heard Thomas reach the kitchen door and walk outside. I still think Bartholomew might be the Judas that John fears, but Thomas could be his insider. He’s definitely not an external mole, that’d have to be someone like Sergio that’s an ideal student, candidate, and teammate that’s here for the long haul. Maybe Thomas just has an authority problem. Maybe he’s just an asshole. Priests are people, too, and they come in all flavors of personality, just like everyone else.

  Looking back to the nearly-blank page, Michael tried to focus on finishing the letter.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Training Day 8, 1230 hours.

  Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.

  After turning in the “Guess What” card earlier that morning to report Thomas’ violation, Michael had chosen to eat lunch in the relative solitude of the basement while most of his classmates stayed upstairs. No one but Thomas and John knows who dropped paper, but I’d just prefer some isolation right now. He stretched out his aching back and shoulders as he ate. John had followed their morning runs with bodyweight calisthenics, two hours of ground fighting, and more practice on the parkour obstacle course. Thomas had spent a lot of that time suffering through intermittent physical discipline. The only part of the classmate’s remediation that had actually given Michael some pleasure happened when the female instructor, “Jane,” jogged alongside him while Thomas plodded dozens of laps around the grinder while holding a heavy rubber shotgun up over his head.

  “Why’s this happening, Thomas,” she'd demanded.

  “Cause, I’m, a piece, of shit,” Thomas had gasped in response.

  “That's right, Thomas, you are a piece of shit, and we’re gonna be out here until your corners are square!”

  The last few hours of the morning had been taken up with a classroom introduction to firearms. Michael had struggled to stay awake while John droned on about basic vocabulary, firearms components, elementary firearms physics and mechanics, and, finally, the terminal ballistics of different types of ammunition rounds. They let Thomas stay for the class, but took him out and smoked him on the grinder again at every break. He oughta be grateful I only told them I knew his name and not how I got it. John’d probably dismiss him. Maybe worse.

  With only a few minutes before class resumed, Michael bounded upstairs and out the front door. As he strode across the few dozen yards of windswept grassland toward their classroom, Michael continued to work on his aching shoulders. I’ll be sore tomorrow, but a couple dudes are gonna have trouble getting outta bed and upstairs. Z’s getting along better than that first day. Good to see he really is catching up quick.

  “You sore, too, Andrew,” a familiar voice asked from behind him.

  Michael looked back and saw Sergio inconspicuously catching up to him. He slowed his pace slightly and nonchalantly glanced around to see if they were alone. “Yeah, not used to this much ground fighting and core training.” Don’t see anyone watching us.

  “That’s surprising,” his friend coyly and quietly responded. “I figured you for the kinda guy that’d teach martial arts in his spare time.”

  “As long as it’s not that MC-MAP bullshit,” he practically whispered back.

  “Real quick, Mike, I’m good pretending we don’t know each other. You think of me as ‘Jude,’ I’ll think of you as ‘Andrew,’ and we’ll play a
long like we just met.”

  “Good by me,” Michael replied just as they reached the classroom doors and he pulled one open for ‘Jude’ to enter.

  “What’s ‘good by you,’ Andrew,” John asked from just inside the doorway. “Other than some burpees for being late to class?”

  Michael looked at his watch and realized they were, technically, not back inside the room before 12:30. I bucking hate furpees. “Jude’s going for a short jog after class tonight to work out some soreness,” Michael flatly replied. “Figured I’d join him, John, so I invited myself along. You wanna go with us?”

  “Huh. I get my miles indoors. Runnin’ in this godforsaken wind is bullshit. Hurry up, shitheads, we’re waiting on you.”

  Sergio followed Michael through the doorway and on to their respective seats. Michael saw that Thomas sat in his chair, as well, but still wore his sweat-stained workout clothes. They must not be done with that dude yet. He's definitely sleeping on the floor tonight.

  “Alright, now that we’re all here, let’s get on with the program,” John announced and took his place at the front of the room. “I’m about the best-goddamned shooter you’re ever gonna find, especially with a handgun. I’m pretty alright with a rifle, fairly dead-on with a scoped bolt gun, but, man, a pistol? I will shoot you a smiley face at a hundred yards with no trouble. Despite that, I hate teachin’ it, at least the classroom portion of it. Absolutely hate it. So, I found some other asshole that actually enjoys talkin’ to people that got no idea what the hell they’re doing.”

  A few students chuckled at John’s frankness.

  “Y’all think I’m kidding? It tries my patience to no end, and I just wanna cut your damned fingers off every time they land on the trigger before you’re up on target. Damn, gettin’ worked up just talkin’ about it! Anyhow, your instructor’s name is Paul, and you’re damned lucky to have him teachin’ you.”