Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God (2 page)

“I bet he’s grown an inch or two,” Robert whispered to Donovan Napier, Samuel’s father.

“An inch and a half since you last saw him,” Donovan whispered back.

“Shhhhhh,” Donavon’s wife, Alison, hissed. “You boys will have plenty of time to stick your chests out over Sam when service is over.” She gave Donavon a sly smile and sat back against the naked wooden pew. Donavon gave Robert a “
we better do as mommy says”
look. He smiled back.
She’s your mommy, not mine.

Robert, born Catholic, defected as soon as he could slip from under his mother’s radar, and had forgotten how opulent Catholic Churches could be, Chicago’s Assumption Church especially.

Below the stained glass masterpiece up front, hung a stunning recreation of Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece,
The Last Supper
, which would’ve made the Italian master proud. Smaller, but every bit as impressive, was an extensive splattering of stained glass images, in addition to dazzling mosaics and murals prominently displayed on the walls and ceiling. Robert counted five different types of Italian marble on the altar rail, and a dozen museum quality statues standing sentry on three sides of the remarkable sanctuary. Under their feet lay a sea of deep royal blue carpet so rich, that walking on it seemed a sin.

Robert glanced over at Donavon and Alison. They were still making goo-goo eyes after ten years of marriage. Seeing his old friend so happy amazed Robert, especially since ten years earlier, while they were working a CIA surveillance assignment in Bohn, Germany, Donavon swore off the lifetime confinement of matrimony, saying
he’d rather roll
around naked in broken glass.

“After service there are a few people we need to meet,” Alison whispered to Donavon, who took a deep breath and bit his lower lip. He looked over at Robert. S
ave me.

Marry one of Chicago’s treasures, and that’s the price you pay
, thought Robert, wanting to laugh.

Melodic Latin phrases from a male falsetto echoed throughout the sanctuary, and Robert watched his godson, Samuel Napier, lead a priest, three other altar boys and an altar girl down the center aisle.

Samuel, draped in a white satin vestment, along with the other altar adolescents, looked deadly serious holding an elaborate silver and gold cross stretched out in front of him toward the sky. They marched toward the altar at a pace more fit for a funeral procession than a spiritual celebration.

One look at Samuel and Robert was sure that he had grown more than the inch and a half Donovan mentioned. The dirty-brown haired boy’s shoulders were starting to broaden, and Robert could already imagine the ten year old birthday boy playing linebacker or center field.

After readings from the book of Isaiah, and several more from Matthew, John and Luke, Robert listened to the priest, Father Charles Tolbert, launch into an additional series of chants, and a sleeping pill of a sermon that Robert vaguely surmised as an exultation to pray for one’s enemies and those that hate you. The need to yawn was almost more than he could bear, and water welled up in his eyes as he fought back the urge.

Samuel and one of the other altar boys, a portly, jovial kid with fiery red hair, freckles and friendly eyes, set up the altar for communion.

When Samuel turned to resume his position on the far left of the altar, Robert noticed that he flinched slightly as he passed Father Tolbert. M
ust
be a little nervous
, thought Robert, remembering Alison’s earlier comment that it was Samuel’s first time setting the communion table.

After communion, more prayer, benediction, and then dismissal, Samuel, cross held high, led the evangelical parade back down the aisle and disappeared through ivory painted, gold encrusted double doors. Ten minutes later, Robert milled around outside in front of the Church with most of the congregation, watching them chat, laugh, and wish each other well.

Chicago’s summer season, in full motion, sported a dark overcast sky, blowing crisp air, but not too cold. The notorious wind, for which the city was well-known, toyed with parishioners’ hats and coats for sport, all subtle precursors to the harsh winter that always followed four or five months later.

Robert watched Donavon and Alison work the crowd like seasoned veterans. Alison flashed a smile that could disarm the most hardened heart, and Donavon, standing slightly behind her, put on a stellar performance worthy of an Oscar. It was like watching a President and the
first husband
campaign.

“Uncle Robert! Uncle Robert!” yelled Samuel.

Robert looked over his shoulder and spied his godson in full sprint, arms pumping, face bright and excited. A foot or two away, Samuel leapt through the air into Robert’s arms and wrapped his legs around him, almost sending his godfather backwards to the ground.

“Well hello, birthday boy! I’m happy to see you too!” Samuel thanked Robert but didn’t release his grip. When Robert finally pried him loose and lowered him to the ground, he took a step back.

“Let’s have a look at you,” he said, hands on his chin, as if inspecting every inch of the boy.

“I’ve grown two whole inches,” said Samuel, beaming with pride.

“I see that,” said Robert. “You’ll tower over me soon.” At this, Samuel’s smile broadened and his back straightened. He took Robert’s hand and led him over to his mother and father.

“Well, I see you’ve found your favorite playmate,” said Alison, kissing her son on the cheek.

“Yes,” added Donavon. “Now we won’t get an ounce of sleep over the next few days.”

“Oh, like you won’t enjoy it yourself,” chided Alison. “I’ll have to find a place to stay for the next two days, the way you three carry on.”

“We’re not that bad,” Robert joked, knowing that they were.

When he visited Samuel, the kid inside of him shook loose, and he loved it. It was like reclaiming something he’d lost in his own youth, the day his father was murdered.

“Where’s Aunt Nikki?” asked Samuel.

“She’s going to meet us at the restaurant,” answered Robert. “She said to tell you she wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world.” Nikki Thorne, Robert’s partner and best friend, was a Baptist, as much as he was a Catholic. Thorne passed on morning mass, opting instead to visit an old friend, which Robert knew without asking meant a visit to Nelson Reynolds, a detective on Chicago’s police force, and an old flame.

“I’m starving,” said Donavon. “Let’s head for Spraggia.” Spraggia was Robert’s favorite Italian restaurant. A choice he knew Samuel made with him in mind. “I’m with that,” he answered, smiling at Samuel. “We’ll eat, and then presents.”

Samuel’s face beamed, and he bounced around like he was going to wet himself.

“Well, this must be the famous godfather I’ve heard so much about,” a voice said behind them.

“Father Tolbert,” said Alison, pulsating with charm and respect.

“Allow me to introduce Mr. Robert Veil from our nation’s capitol.” Robert shook the priest moist, clammy hand. The cleric greeted Donavon and gave Alison a hug. “Our little angel here did a great job today,” said Father Tolbert, turning to Samuel, placing his hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Father,” answered Samuel, eyes glued to his feet.

“Now, don’t be so modest,” said Father Tolbert. “I’ll allow a little pride today, it’s your birthday.”

Everyone laughed, except Samuel, who seemed to force a smile.

“Thank you, Father.”

“Thank you so much, Father, for taking an interest in Samuel. We’re very grateful,” said Alison.

“Not at all,” said the priest. “He’s an exceptional child. It’s my pleasure.”

They continued to banter and make small talk for several minutes, when a black Cadillac sedan swooped up to the curb. The driver, a broad shouldered priest with a pit bull mug, hurried to the rear passenger door and snatched it open. A tall, lean, elderly gentleman unfolded out onto the sidewalk, draped in a blood red silk cape, wearing a black wool cassock trimmed in scarlet, and the air of Catholic royalty.

“Cardinal Polletto,” Father Tolbert gushed. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour or so,” he continued, kissing the elder priest’s hand.

“Yes, I know,” answered the Cardinal. “I left St. Francis as soon as mass was over. I wanted to make sure you and I had plenty of time to spend together.”

Father Tolbert introduced everyone to Cardinal Poletto, the Archbishop of Chicago. Donovan fell just short of kissing his hand, and Alison bowed and curtsied as though she’d just met the Pope himself.

The episode made Robert feel a bit out of place. He had no intention of bowing or kissing anybody’s hand. Instead, he opted for a firm, respectful handshake.

“And who’s this little fellow?” asked Cardinal Polletto, leaning down to Samuel.

Pressed up against his mother, Samuel eased forward and introduced himself. Father Tolbert added a few compliments on Samuel’s performance as altar boy. Samuel looked relieved when the two men turned their attention elsewhere.

Cardinal Polletto and Father Tolbert excused themselves and disappeared inside the Church. Robert and the others hustled to Donovan’s Lincoln Town car, and headed for Spraggia’s.

“So, have you caught any bad guys lately?” asked Samuel, bouncing in his seat. “Do you have your gun on you? Can I see it? Do you think I can be a bounty hunter when I grow up?”

“No bounty hunting for you,” Alison scolded, smirking.

Since leaving the CIA, Robert and Nikki had opened their own firm and chased down high-level criminals all over the world. Samuel loved to hear the details of their exploits. Stories about terrorists they’d captured, serial killers they hunted down, and exotic places they traveled to all over the world. Most of the details he gave Samuel were fabricated, since the majority of the cases they worked were highly confidential, for which they were sometimes paid millions of dollars for their efforts, by governments, and the wealthy.

“I left my gun with Aunt Nikki today,” said Robert. “That’s not the type of thing you should wear in church. And your mother’s right, I see medical school in your future.”

“Not a chance,” said Samuel. “I want to come work with you and Aunt Nikki. We can be a team.”

Donovan looked back at them in the rearview mirror. Robert saw a big smile on his face. Despite all they’d seen working for the government, intelligence was in Donovan’s blood, and a son in the family business was just fine with him. Donovan even wore the bullet in his hip as a badge of honor.

“You looked a little nervous up at the altar today,” said Robert, changing the subject. “I thought you were gonna choke.”

“Me choke? Never,” answered Samuel. “Just a little game-time jitters. I get the same way before a big game in little league.”

“I understand,” said Robert, kissing Samuel on top of his head. “I get the same way from time to time.”

Samuel smiled and laid his head in Robert’s lap, who stroked his hair and smiled.

Donavon stopped to make a left turn into the restaurant parking lot.

An SUV in front of them made a sudden stop. Donavan hit the brakes.

Bam! Another SUV plowed into them from behind. Robert’s head jerked backwards and snapped forward. The Lincoln lunged into the SUV in front of them. The airbags exploded into Donovan and Alison’s faces. Robert covered Samuel as best he could.

“Is everybody okay?” asked Robert, heart and adrenaline pumping.

“Out of the car, hands up!” a ski masked man shouted, waving an Uzi machine gun.

Robert reached for his gun.
Damn, I left my gun with Thorne!
He counted four men in total, two from each vehicle. One of the men pulled open Robert’s door and snatched Samuel outside.

“Not my son!” shouted Alison.

Donovan jumped out, cursing. Robert slid out, an Uzi trained at his head. He caught a familiar image running fast in their direction, about fifty yards away.
Thorne!

Out of the alley across the street from Spraggia’s, another SUV sped toward them and screeched to a halt. Three of the men holding them at gunpoint scrambled to the vehicle behind them, with Samuel kicking and screaming. Alison took a step, but the forth gunmen fired into the car, sending everyone to the ground, except Robert. Four people jumped out of the SUV that came from the alley, wearing black ski masks, armed with machine guns.

“Save the boy!” one of them shouted.

Robert felt the hard end of an Uzi on the back of his head and fell to the pavement. He heard footsteps, more gunfire, and Thorne’s unmistakable bark. He raised his head and saw the four figures from the alley run back to their vehicle and take off after the kidnappers who’d sped off with Samuel. Robert heard the distinct baritone of a man’s voice shout orders he couldn’t make out, then lowered his head to the pavement, and blacked out.

“F
orgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“About a week, Father.”

“Go on, my son.”

Cardinal Giafranco Polletto rested comfortably against a high-back leather chair in the den at his forty-one acre estate in Yorkville, Illinois, an hour and a half outside of downtown Chicago. He pretended to pay close attention to Father Tolbert, whose chair sat back to back with his, as the priest droned on about drinking too much wine and lies he’d told.

“Go on, my son,” the cardinal entreated, stroking his chin, eyes closed, his mind on other matters.

“And I’ve sinned again against a child,” said Father Tolbert, reluctance in his tone.

Cardinal Polletto’s eyes opened. “Go on, my son.” For twenty minutes, Father Tolbert, snorting and crying, confessed to having sex with several young boys, including Samuel Napier, whom the cardinal had met earlier. The cardinal asked the priest to elaborate about Samuel. He listened to the pathetic cleric confess misguided love for a child, and smiled. “Your sins are great, my son,” he said, “but fortunately, the forgiveness of our Lord is greater.” The cardinal launched into a litany of prayer and Latin chants, asking God to grant forgiveness to a soul he knew would fill hell, along with his own. They finished, turned their chairs facing each other, and the cardinal poured two glasses of red wine from a crystal carafe on the small round marble table next to them.