The Hammer of God v-2 Page 7

  Robert recognized the voice. It’s the group who tried to save Samuel.

  “Where’s Samuel?”

  “Unfortunately, we haven’t a clue at the moment,” said the man.

  “Then who the hell are you?” asked Thorne, tickling the shaft of the Mosberg pistol grip shotgun dangling from her shoulder.

  “You mean, who in heaven,” said the man, removing his ski mask.

  “My name is Cardinal James Francis Maximilian, and we are Il Martello di Dio, The Hammer of God.”

  14

  S amuel finished off the last of two roast beef sandwiches, potato chips, dill pickles, and his second can of orange soda, pushed back his cushiony chair, propped his feet up on the cushion and closed his eyes.

  More hungry than he realized, Samuel felt like he could’ve eaten two more sandwiches, but didn’t ask. He didn’t want to be so stuffed that he couldn’t run away if he got the chance. He had no idea where they were headed or when they would land. He guessed they’d been flying for over five hours, maybe seven, but he wasn’t sure.

  The plane suddenly shook and rocked violently. Samuel looked around the cabin. Sister Bravo and the others were asleep, and except for Father Murphy, who slightly lifted his head then let it fall back in his chair, nobody moved. With nothing to do and nowhere to go, Samuel fell back down in his chair and let his heavy lids fall, drifting off into a deep sleep.

  “Samuel, wake up, it’s time.”

  Samuel opened his eyes, sleep blurring his vision. The soft purr of the plane’s jet engines ceased. Samuel reached out and gave his mother, Alison Napier, a hug.

  “We’ve missed you so much,” she said, stroking his hair.

  “I’ve missed you too,” he told her, eyes wet.

  Samuel tried to express how much he missed her, but the words didn’t come. He hugged her tighter, determined not to let go. He looked up at his mother’s face through blurry eyes, water streaming down his cheeks. His vision cleared. The purr of the engines returned. Samuel awakened.

  “We’re landing,” Sister Bravo told him, looking down. “It’s time to get back in the box.”

  Samuel, confused, looked up, searching for his mother’s face.

  Sister Bravo shook him firmly. “I said get back in the box.” Clarity rushed in, dousing Samuel like ice water. His senses returned.

  I can’t get back in the crate. I’ll never get away. His hands quivered. He stared at the crate, watching Father Sin open one side and holding it for him to crawl inside.

  “It’ll only be for a short time,” Sister Bravo told him, reading his thoughts.

  “I promise I’ll do everything you say,” said Samuel, jumping to his feet. “Please, don’t make me get back in the box. I’ll be good, I swear.” Sister Bravo smiled, her eyes suspicious. “Why should we trust you?

  Only hours ago, you were defiant and cursing.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. It won’t happen again.”

  “Nein,” snapped Father Sin, his German accent thick, commanding.

  “Get back in the box.”

  “Yes,” added Father Murphy. “It’s the safest way.” Samuel looked back and forth between both priests and took a step toward the box. Urine, a small blot spreading into a large one, soaked his trousers, and a quiver that started with his hands, turned into an all-out, all-over quake.

  “Wait,” said Sister Bravo. She walked in front of Samuel. “Okay,” she said, her face still not fully convinced. “You’ll walk through customs with Fathers Sin and Murphy, but if you so much as cough wrong, we’ll kill you. Understood?”

  Samuel nodded his head, calm and relieved.

  “Get his papers,” she told Father Murphy, walking to a small suitcase, removing a fresh pair of blue jeans. “Go to the bathroom and put these on,” she continued. “And hurry up, we’ll be landing soon.” Samuel scurried off to the bathroom. Once inside, his shaking stopped. He looked down at the piss-stained trousers, smiled, then looked in the mirror. The two cans of orange soda showed up just in time, a crowning touch to his begging. He changed quickly, took several deep breaths and braced himself. He exited the bathroom with a false submissive gratefulness on his face.

  Just one chance. Just one.

  15

  S amuel fidgeted in his aisle seat, wishing he were next to a window as the plane angled downward. Sister Bravo and the two priests broke off their whisper filled conversation they were holding on the far side of the cabin and buckled up in their seats. Samuel took a couple of deep, imperceptible breathes to relax, trying not to look too calm. He scanned the cabin. Father Sin’s glare bored a hole right through Samuel’s forehead. It made him uncomfortable, and he avoided direct eye contact.

  Father Murphy stared out of the window, humming a choppy tune Samuel didn’t recognize, and Sister Bravo thumbed through a thick manila folder, reading a file, her dark silky hair back up in her habit.

  Samuel heard the plane’s landing gear unfold and lock into place. He remembered a similar sound on the much larger jets he flew in when he went on trips with his parents. Joyous moments that meant Disneyland or Six Flags were just around the corner, or that a long, boring flight to some place his mother thought would be educational had just started, or mercifully come to an end. This time though, a large stone, the size of a pit from a just eaten peach, was imbedded in the bottom of his stomach like a small boulder.

  Twenty minutes later, the plane touched down, and not long after, glided to a stop. Everybody unbuckled and stood. Samuel stayed in front of his seat and watched the others scramble around the cabin, gathering their things in organized chaos. Sister Bravo shoved a purple backpack in Samuel’s face.

  “It’s filled with extra clothing,” she told him. “You need to know in case customs check. Here’s your passport.” Samuel opened it, and immediately recognized the photo he took the year before at St. Paul Elementary, during the annual picture day held at most schools. He remembered that his mother chose Package A, which provided enough wallet photos for half of Chicago. Sister Bravo took back the passport.

  “Your name is Samuel Peterson,” she told him. Samuel repeated the name. “You’re an orphan,” she continued. “That’s all you need to know.

  Fathers Sin and Murphy will walk you inside and answer any other questions. I’ll be along later.” She handed the passport to Father Sin and abruptly disappeared through the door that led to the front of the plane.

  Samuel looked over at Father Sin.

  “Let’s go,” the priest grumbled. “And remember your place.” Father Sin’s face softened as much as Samuel imagined it probably could, and he extended his massive hand to the ten year old, whose tiny fingers disappeared in the giant’s grip. They walked to the far rear of the plane, Father Murphy right behind them. The back door opened, and a short flight of stairs rolled into place. Father Sin led the way down into a large airplane hanger, where they were greeted by two men in matching dark-brown shirts and pants, with patches of a jet similar to the one they flew in on pasted on the right side of their chests, with the words Ciampino Aero Jet above the patch.

  Fathers Sin and Murphy kissed the men on both sides of their cheeks and greeted them in a language Samuel still couldn’t place. Samuel looked back at the plane for any sign of Sister Bravo, who was nowhere in sight. He did notice a large symbol on the tail of the plane. A gold crown with two majestic keys crossed under it, all laid on top of a deep orange shield. Samuel recalled seeing the symbol before at church in Father Tolbert’s office, but couldn’t remember what it meant.

  Fathers Sin and Murphy and the two airport workers laughed and talked in a language Samuel now guessed to be Italian or French. They ended the brief conversation, and the airport workers moved the stairs from the back door to the front, as a shiny black Mercedes Benz eased inside the hanger and stopped in front of them. The driver popped the trunk, and the two airport workers loaded the bags. Father Murphy sat up front with the driver. Samuel slid in back with Father Sin. H
e made a mental note of the time from a digital clock with bright green numbers on the dashboard… 7:00 p.m. The driver pulled out of the hanger, past a group of planes similar to the one they flew in on, minus the symbol on the tail Samuel still couldn’t place.

  Outside, the sun had all but vanished, leaving the airport bathed in the light dust of evening, that moment between sunset and night. The airport was much smaller than Chicago O’Hare, or any of the airports Samuel remembered. He spotted several planes with names he recognized; American Airlines, United, Continental, the sight of which made him long for home even more.

  The car abruptly stopped at a small terminal and Samuel heard the trunk pop. Father Murphy and the driver gathered the bags, while Father Sin and Samuel stood by the car. The evening air was crisp, but not too cold, and Samuel welcomed it as it lightly caressed his face.

  “Remember,” Father Sin hissed, “I’ll do the talking.” Samuel nodded his consent and followed the priest inside the terminal, which looked more like the lobby of his father’s country club than an airport terminal. Thick tan carpet cushioned their feet, and artwork like he’d seen during field trips to the Chicago Art Museum lined the walls. An emotionless uniformed man stood behind a wooden counter, another waited at a table just a few feet away. A sign hung over each station that read Customs. Another sign over the counter read Welcome to Italy.

  Father Sin led the way to the front counter, greeted the customs agent, and handed over three passports. Father Murphy stood next to him with the bags. The agent eyed them carefully, thumbed through the passports, occasionally looking up to scan the three of them. The agent said something to Father Sin, who managed to somehow transform himself into a model of patience and piety, an image that made him even more frightening. He smiled, pointed to Samuel, and said something to the agent that caused him to respond, “I see, I see,” in a thick, Italian accent. The agent smiled at Samuel, handed the passports back to Father Sin, and pointed them in the direction of the customs agent waiting a few feet away.

  “Anything to declare?” asked the customs agent, in much better English.

  “No, nothing,” answered Father Sin, with a broad smile.

  Father Murphy placed their bags on the table.

  “No, Father, that won’t be necessary,” the agent told him, waving them through.

  “Grazie, grazie,” gushed Father Sin, grabbing Samuel’s hand, pulling him toward the exit.

  Samuel considered making his stand right there at customs, but feared he might not be able to get the agent to understand. He had to wait until he had a greater advantage.

  Outside, the black Mercedes was waiting at the curb. Father Murphy tossed the bags in the trunk and resumed his seat up front with the driver.

  Father Sin pushed Samuel in the back seat and the car sped away. The Mercedes pulled out of the airport area past a sign that read Roma Ciampino Airport onto Via Appia Nuova Road. Samuel watched rural Italy pass by, most of it green flat land and rolling hills. The longer Samuel watched unfamiliar landmarks zip by, he realized just how far he was from home, and the sickness in his stomach bubbled. You’ll never see your mother and father ever again, he heard Sister Bravo’s voice sneer. Samuel gritted his teeth. No, I won’t accept that! Never!

  “Sit back and relax,” Father Sin told him, with icy stillness. “It won’t take long for us to reach our destination.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Samuel, trying to sound more curious than nosey.

  “Never you mind,” snapped the priest. “Just mind yourself and stay quiet.”

  Samuel continued to gaze out the window, wondering how anyone would figure out he was halfway around the world. He tried to think of a reason a nun and priests would want to take him from home, but couldn’t. The deeper his confusion, the angrier he felt. An odd, unfamiliar sensation came over him. A feeling of control and momentary strength he couldn’t explain. He shook it off, and twenty minutes later, they passed a city sign Samuel could read. We’re in Rome!

  The streets of Rome reminded him of any other city, but much more.

  There was an air about it that felt different, but Samuel couldn’t put a finger on why. It looked modern, but also looked and felt older, like the Rome he had studied in history class back at school.

  They drove around a big circle crowded with cars, which Samuel guessed to be the middle of the city. His eyes took in as much as possible, not that it did him any good. As fast as he memorized landmarks and street signs, the images faded from his memory.

  The car pulled out of the circle, down a dimly lit street, drove three blocks, and stopped in a busy section of the city, lined with small restaurants and cafes. Samuel thought he heard jazz music. Boring sounds his father and Uncle Robert loved to listen to for hours. The music came from a cafe a few feet from the car. Samuel memorized its name, Galaassia. He repeated the name in his head and looked for an address, but saw none.

  A large bus pulled in front of them and stopped. Samuel’s heart pumped hard as he watched a load of Americans exit the bus and spread out along the street, laughing and pointing, snapping pictures and joking around. Samuel slowly looked over at Father Sin, who paid little attention to the American tourists. The priest talked to the driver and Father Murphy in Italian, then pulled out a cell phone and dialed. A few grunts later, he hung up.

  “Sister Bravo is on her way,” stated Father Murphy.

  The bus drove away, the Americans, parceled out amongst the eateries and coffee houses, were nowhere to be found, although seeing them seemed to renew Samuel’s sense of hope. He looked down at the door handle then back up at Father Sin.

  “Any chance we’ll get something to eat soon?” he asked.

  “You ate enough for two on the plane,” said Father Sin, not looking at him, scanning the area.

  “I know, but I’m still hungry.”

  Father Murphy and the driver laughed. Father Sin continued to ignore him. Samuel looked down at the door handle again, certain that it was locked. He wanted to check it to make sure, but couldn’t find an opening. He looked around the street then leaned back and closed his eyes. If Father Sin or one of the others looked down at him, he wanted to appear still under their control. Samuel opened his eyes. Father Sin looked over momentarily then turned his attention back to the crowded street. Samuel peeked at the lock again, slid his hand to it, and fingered the handle.

  Another black Mercedes swooped in front of them and parked.

  “It’s Sister Bravo,” said Father Sin, now looking at Samuel. “Slide over to the middle and make room.”

  Samuel braced himself and leaned toward the middle of the seat. The driver hit the locks. Samuel grabbed the handle and slammed his shoulder hard against the door. It crashed open and he fell to the ground.

  A car screeched to a halt a foot from his head.

  “Get him! Get him!” Father Sin screamed.

  Samuel jumped to his feet and ran into the crowd on the opposite side of the street. He heard Father Sin’s voice fade the farther he ran. The crowd parted, making a way for him, some cursing in Italian, others in broken English. Samuel didn’t care, he was free.

  16

  D ead asleep, Father Tolbert lay caught up in a dream he’d have to confess as soon as he reached the Vatican. A boy, close to Samuel’s age, sat on his knee staring up at him, sad and confused. The boy looked oddly familiar, but the priest couldn’t place him.

  “Who are you?” Father Tolbert asked the boy, who was now close to tears.

  “I’m you,” the boy stammered.

  “Me, what nonsense is this? What’s your name?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I won’t ask you again! What is your name?”

  “Charles,” cried the boy. “Charles Tolbert!” Father Tolbert knocked the boy off his leg and jumped back, horrified. The longer he stared at the child, the more frightened he became. The boy just stared at him, an evil scowl on his face.

  “You can’t have me, you know. You’ll never
have me,” said young Charles. Then he slowly turned, walked into a heavy bank of fog, and disappeared. Father Tolbert stood there shaking.

  A firm hand rattled his shoulder, and Father Tolbert opened his eyes, gasping for air, face drenched with sweat. Sister Bravo.

  “Sorry to startle you, Father, but we’ve arrived,” she said.

  The fog lifted. Father Tolbert nodded, and on second thought, banished any notion of confessing to anyone but Cardinal Polletto.

  Sister Bravo removed the wrinkled blanket covering him and began gathering his things. Father Tolbert stretched, folded his seat forward and stood.

  “Thank you, Sister. How soon will the car get here?”

  “Fifteen minutes at the most.”

  The priest grunted. He wanted to get settled in quickly, anxious to set his demise in motion, to end his life and pain. He looked out the window and saw a black Mercedes pull away.

  “A car just left,” he said, irritated.

  “Yes,” said Sister Bravo. “The car had mechanical problems.

  They’re sending another one right away.” Father Tolbert thought he saw passengers in the back seat of the Benz, but the tinted windows and distance made him think his eyes were playing tricks on him. Why would there be anybody in the car anyhow?

  Sister Bravo soon had all of his things gathered and another Mercedes, an exact duplicate of the previous car, met them next to the plane. The driver quickly loaded their luggage and drove them past the private terminal for VIP passengers, to the overcrowded customs area in the main terminal.

  “Why are we going to the main terminal?” asked Father Tolbert.

  “I was informed that the private terminal is closed until further notice,” said Sister Bravo. “But they promised to process us through as quickly as possible.”

  Father Tolbert, antagonized and anxious, stared out at the planes landing and taxiing to a stop. He wrung his hands, sweat still beading up on his brow, and took several deep breaths.