“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 condescending, “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.