The Hammer of God v-2 Read online

  The three of them stared in wonder as a ball of flames streaked from the backside of the castle, and disappeared into the lake.

  37

  T o his surprise, Samuel, asleep on his cot, was shaken awake by Sister Bravo late in the evening, after a dinner of garlic drenched pasta, hard rolls, lemon ice cream and more soda, 7 Up this time.

  “One hour outside,” she said plainly, tossing him a navy blue windbreaker.

  Samuel didn’t debate. Tired of confinement in the tower bedroom, the chance to walk around in the open lifted his spirits. He slipped on the jacket, a genuine smile on his face, and grabbed the nun’s hand. She stared down at him, her eyes warning, no foolishness.

  The hallway outside the bedroom was much darker than the bedroom, and Samuel gripped Sister Bravo’s hand tighter as she lead the way down a circular stone stairway. At the bottom, his eyes easily adjusted to the increase in light. It seemed that the entire castle was lit with either candles or very low watt bulbs, adding to the building’s dreary medieval atmosphere.

  Careful not to be obvious, Samuel kept his head forward as Sister Bravo marched him through a large, windowless, sparsely furnished room with blank walls and a stone floor. The room was warm, much warmer than his, aided by the large fire he saw blazing in the fireplace.

  Off to the right, he caught a glimpse of what he guessed to be the kitchen, which looked more modern than the rest of what he’d seen. The ceiling was high, with thick dark wooden beams holding it in place.

  Samuel wondered where Sister Bravo and the two priests slept, but dared not turn his head and give himself away. I’ll see more on my way back.

  They reached a gigantic wooden door. Sister Bravo leaned her shoulder into it and pushed. Outside, the answer to Samuel’s next question stood smoking cigarettes. Fathers Clancy and Murphy stamped out their smokes. The sun was nowhere in sight, and a light mist made the area around the castle look hazy and bleak. The wind cut through Samuel’s windbreaker, but he ignored it. He didn’t care. Each breath of air, however, tinged with algae and dead fish, soothed his spirit in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

  Samuel’s head swiveled back and forth between four men he didn’t recognize. They stared at him with hateful eyes, and each cradled a machine gun.

  Sister Bravo smiled. “As you can see, we’ve taken extra precautions to keep you with us. I’ll introduce you later, but for now know that they’ve been given permission to shoot you if you try to run.” Samuel swallowed. “I promise I won’t run again,” he said. “Thank you for letting me outside.” He forced a smile.

  “Come with us,” said Father Clancy, taking his hand.

  Two of the guards said something in Italian and followed them to a dark green car. Father Murphy put Samuel in the backseat and got in next to him. The two armed guards sat in the front seat. Sister Bravo watched as they backed out, turned around, and drove across a big yard, stopping near some tall grass and brush.

  “We’ll let you out here,” Father Clancy told him. “Remember, the guards will be watching.”

  All of them exited the vehicle. It was almost completely dark outside, and the fog, which seemed to thicken by the minute, hampered Samuel’s ability to examine the surrounding area. If it were not for the car headlights Father Murphy turned on, he wouldn’t have be able to see much at all. Undaunted, head down, hands in his pockets, he made mental notes of as much of the scenery as he could without drawing attention. Samuel paced back and forth in front of the men, aware of the penetrating eyes and trigger fingers monitoring his every step.

  The two priests lit up more cigarettes and stayed near the car, while the gun toting duo followed him a few feet from the thick garden of grass that looked like something out of a headless horsemen story. Samuel looked up across the opposite side of the yard. He couldn’t see the horizon, but knew from his tower bedroom view that the other side was a blanket of water. He noted a small house about half a football field from the castle, and beyond that, what looked like a wooded area. He looked up at one of the gunmen and smiled. The guard answered with a deep frown and grimace.

  A stiff, hard wind sliced through the yard, causing Samuel to cringe inside the wafer thin windbreaker. He fought to keep himself from shivering, not wanting to give the men guarding him a reason to end his brief, but valuable, sojourn outside.

  “It’s time to go back inside,” called Father Murphy, the cold wind obviously getting the best of him.

  Samuel reminded them of their deal.

  “Okay,” answered Father Clancy, none too happy with the night chill himself. “But we’re going back inside in ten minutes.” Samuel kicked at rocks and continued to pace. Ten minutes later, Father Clancy ordered him back to the car. The two armed guards smiled for the first time, and momentarily looked away. Samuel turned his head, then hesitated, a flash of light, quick but definite, caught his eye.

  Someone’s out there!

  The guards turned their attention back to him, and Samuel walked to the car and jumped in the backseat, head straight, heart pumping.

  Someone’s out there in the grass! Someone who wants me to know they’re watching!

  Father Murphy took the wheel and Father Clancy sat in back with Samuel. The two guards stayed out in the yard. He wanted desperately to look back, but didn’t dare. His mind raced as they rode back to the castle.

  Who could it be? Who would hide there in the grass? He wanted to believe that his godfather had come for him, but forced the thought away.

  Maybe it’s the police, or someone from the U.S. Embassy.

  The car reached the castle. The entire area was now completely bathed in darkness, except for a small overhead light just above the front door. The three of them got out of the car. Samuel stole a quick glance back at the grassy area, nothing.

  “Carlos and Michael are going to check the area and stay in the other house tonight,” Father Clancy told the two men guarding the castle.

  “You two will stay in the castle tonight and rotate with them each day.” The guards nodded their heads in agreement. Samuel looked back one last time. He saw the beams of two flashlights heading toward the grass, and swallowed. I have to let whoever’s out there know I saw their signal.

  Inside, Sister Bravo took him by the hand, and led him back toward the circular stairs.

  “Can I use the bathroom?” he asked, twisting his face, his legs crossed. “I didn’t go before I went outside, now I need to use it bad.”

  “Use the one upstairs,” said Sister Bravo.

  Samuel continued to hop around. “I don’t think I can make it.” Sister Bravo, impatient, pointed to a door next to the kitchen entrance. “Be quick about it,” she said.

  Samuel thanked her and cut across the room quickly, his mind racing, sweat beading up on his face. His eyes flickered around the room as he walked, but nothing sparked in his mind. Inside the bathroom, he sat on the toilet, head in his hands, hoping the person hiding out in the grass wouldn’t be discovered by the guards.

  He searched the small, blue concrete bathroom. Under the sink, he found an assortment of cleaning products, extra rolls of toilet paper, and a box of steel wool pads, similar to those he’d seen in the kitchen at home. He grabbed one of the steel wool pads and wrapped as much toilet paper around his hand as he felt he could hide, and stuffed them down the front and back of his pants. He flushed the toilet and washed his hands, aware that he was taking too much time.

  When he opened the door, Sister Bravo was standing right outside.

  She leered down. “That took long enough,” she said.

  “I was washing my hands,” he said, a big smile on his face. “Think I could have a can of coke before bed?”

  “You just finished in the bathroom,” she answered. “I think you’ve had enough to drink.”

  “I usually have two at dinner,” said Samuel, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

  Sister Bravo took a deep breath. “Okay, but if you piss a river tonight you get to sleep i
n it, or on the floor.”

  “I’m a big boy,” Samuel answered, meaning it. I haven’t wet the bed since I was five years old, asshole.

  Sister Bravo went and got him the can of Coke, and then dropped him off in his room, with directions to turn out the lights within the half hour. Samuel thanked her again for letting him go outside and gave her a hug. When he stepped back, the nun’s face lit up with a smile.

  “You’re very welcome,” she told him, and left the room.

  Samuel sat down on the cot and waited several minutes, the steel wool irritating his crotch. When all was clear, he quickly opened the soda can and gladly drained every drop. His throat was dry from the tension.

  He removed the wadded toilet paper and steel wool, and proceeded to bend the soda can back and forth until it cracked open. He stuffed the toilet paper and steel wool inside the can, grabbed the candle from the table and ran to the window. The sky was cloudy and black, but the wind had died down considerably. Samuel lit the paper and let the flames build until he could barely hold the can. He hurled it as far out over the water as he could, a tail of flames and sparkles streaking through the night, then quickly vanished into the water.

  Samuel, his chest pounding, stood at the window, his hands and bottom lip quivering, his eyes welling up with tears. He hoped someone saw his signal, but even if they didn’t he felt hopeful. He knelt down, not to pray, but out of exhaustion. His legs would no longer support him. He sat there for an hour, then crawled to his bed and passed out.

  38

  S olemn and pious, each cardinal and bishop summoned to Rome, to sit before the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith (CDF), slowly filed into the Palace of Holy Office, quiet and tense. Summoned by the Pope himself, they had gathered at the Holy See to discuss the rash exposure of child molestations sweeping the United States, devastating the Church’s reputation and credibility around the world, costing millions of dollars in lost contributions and out of court settlements.

  The CDF was the oldest, and most active, of the nine congregations of the Roman Catholic Church, that managed church affairs and oversaw the Roman Curia’s operations.

  From his studies of the Apostolic Constitution on Roman Curia, Cardinal Polletto recalled Article 48, which defined the duties of the CDF as a mandate to safeguard the doctrine of faith and morals throughout the world of Catholicism, and to defend the integrity of the faith, a broad directive that encompassed much.

  Cardinal Polletto, draped in a new cardinal red vestment, wore his favorite twenty-two carat ring, with a blood red ruby surrounded by twenty half carat diamonds. He followed the stream of nervous, concerned holy men, feigning the same trepidation that was plastered on their faces, knowing full well that many of them had more interest in the Church’s economic and political well-being, than for the injured children.

  Cardinal Polletto gave pious nods and smiles to several men he counted in the service of The Order. He pretended to acknowledge several cardinals he knew would vigorously oppose his drive to destroy the Church if they knew his true intentions. He even tossed a smile and bow of his head to Cardinal Maximilian, the man he would destroy if given a speck of an opportunity.

  Nobody in the chamber now taking their seat worried or gave him reason to fret. Especially since only forty-eight hours before, he’d stood with a chill running down his spine, as Father Tolbert pointed a loaded revolver at his head.

  On the edge of a breakdown, Father Tolbert had pulled a gun after Cardinal Polletto told him that the two Samuel look-a-likes, Eduardo and Felipe, as well as Samuel himself, were the priest’s genetic clones.

  Father Tolbert took a shot at him, but the bullet whizzed by the cardinal’s right ear and lodged in the wall. Father Ortega rushed inside and tackled Father Tolbert, knocking the gun from his grasp. Cardinal Polletto fumed, stomped forward, his hand drawn back to deliver a hard slap, but before he could, Father Tolbert collapsed and passed out cold.

  Fortunately, Father Tolbert’s living quarters were near empty, with most of the men living there at a special presentation at the Vatican Museum. Those who did hear it had probably dismissed it as something other than gunfire, because nobody came running or asked any questions.

  Father Ortega quickly snatched up the gun and slipped it in his pocket. Cardinal Polletto removed the bullet from the wall with a knife and told Father Ortega to repair the wall himself. Father Ortega slapped Father Tolbert into a barely lucid state, then pulled him to his feet.

  Cardinal Polletto followed them to the car.

  “Take him to Bracciano Castle until further notice. Sedate him,” the cardinal ordered. “Keep him under until I arrive.” Everyone sat quietly as the ten cardinals, who were members of the CDF, Cardinal Angelo Ottaviani, and to Cardinal Polletto’s dismay, Cardinal Maximilian, all took their seats up front behind a long sixteenth century gothic table on a riser above them.

  Cardinal Polletto eased back in his chair and soaked in the scene, sizing up each cleric in the room. Ten bishops, five archbishops, and five additional cardinals had been ordered to Rome. Most of the bishops invited were executive committee members of the National Bishops Organizational Committee (NBOC) from the United States, who had recently adopted a policy recommending expulsion for any priest who molested a child. The policy was non-binding, without the approval of the Vatican, and the discussion and debate that was about to take place was the beginning of a process that would take years to complete.

  The cardinals attending included Cardinals Polletto and Maximilian from the United States, Cardinal E’Tienne Rousseau from France, Cardinal Abubakar Osagiobare from Nigeria, and Cardinal Niklas Bauer from Germany.

  Cardinal Polletto hadn’t laid eyes on the men who ran the CDF, now glaring down at them from the stage, in more than a year. Five of them were over the age of eighty, past the limit set by the Church to participate in a vote for a new Pope should the need arise, but every bit the influential force in Rome, with direct contact to the ear of those who mattered most at the Holy See.

  When everyone was in place, Cardinal Angelo Ottaviani rose and thanked them for coming on such short notice, extended warm regards from the Holy Bishop of Rome, and turned the meeting over to Cardinal Maximilian. Cardinal Maximilian’s piercing brown eyes softened as he stood, his face a pallet of sincerity. He asked everyone to stand and opened the meeting with a prayer. Cardinal Polletto let the corners of his mouth upturn slightly.

  When he finished, Cardinal Maximilian remained standing as everyone else took their seats, and gave a brief summary of why they were assembled, as though common knowledge had slipped their ears.

  “The credibility of the Church has taken a severe global beating,” said Cardinal Maximilian. “I believe the edict passed by the NBOC is just the beginning. We should encourage a more thorough background investigation for all candidates of the priesthood, and close psychological analysis and treatment for any offender under our roof.” A buzz reverberated throughout the room, and several hands rose into the air.

  Cardinal Maximilian pointed to a hand on the front row. “Bishop Wilmington.”

  Bishop Curtis Wilmington, studious, wise for his age, and overseer of the diocese in Dallas stood. “Thank you, Cardinal Maximilian. I wonder if adopting such an immediate, harsh policy is in concert with the Holy Scriptures.”

  “Certainly you’re aware that the scriptures speak against such abominations as harming children,” responded Cardinal Rousseau. “The Church can’t be seen as condoning such behavior.” Amused, Cardinal Polletto bit his tongue, not wanting to chime in too early. Since initiating and carefully nurturing the public exposure of one of the Church’s age old skeletons, priests and young boys, he’d found that the mire of debate and confrontation deepened if he just kept quiet and nudged it along at the opportune time.

  “The Bible also speaks of forgiveness,” added Bishop Timothy Rogers of Philadelphia. “If second chances apply to parishioners, then why not to those who serve them?”

  “Not to m
ention that canon law doesn’t allow for the random expulsion of priests,” droned Cardinal Bauer, in a heavy German accent.

  “For that, new laws must be structured, carefully studied and passed.

  Laws that will apply to the entire Church, not just our brethren in the States.”

  The murmuring and loud whispering swelled. Cardinal Maximilian, gentle but firm, asked for quiet, which slowly returned. “I understand the need to maintain consistency in the Church precepts, but we can’t ignore the sexual violation of children.”

  “We understand,” responded Cardinal Osagiobare, his baritone voice and distinct African accent booming, “but many sins plague us from hell.

  How does this outrank other pressing issues, such as homosexuality?

  Surely, one sin does not outrank another.” Again, Cardinal Polletto smiled inside. He knew that Cardinal Osagiobare spoke of a faction of homosexual priests who called themselves Saint Sebastian’s Angels. Initially formed in the States, their numbers had grown substantially outside the U.S. in recent years.

  “Maybe the strategy should lean more toward temporary censure, than outright expulsion? At least until we get a better handle on how to proceed,” Cardinal Polletto finally said.

  “What do you mean?” asked the rotund African cleric.

  “Instead of expulsion, they could be reassigned. Not allowed to preside over mass or serve in any capacity where children will be at risk.”

  “That’s not new,” shot Cardinal Maximilian. “It’s been tried by many of the parishes. It makes us look as though we’re trying to hide the problem. Sweep it under the rug.”