Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God (8 page)

“Stand down, Agent Maxwell. Wait for me in the car,” ordered Thompson, pulling a pack of Camels from his inside pocket. Agent Maxwell, not happy, slid inside the sedan and slammed the door. “Let’s walk,” said Thompson, brushing by Robert, a freshly lit cigarette in his mouth.

Just beyond the gas station was a small park, empty, except for a few joggers and a homeless man carrying two large plastic bags on his shoulders. Thompson stopped at a severely chipped, green wooden bench and sat. Robert eased down next to him, his scowl and wrinkled forehead demanding answers.

“I can’t tell you much,” said Thompson. “In fact, we don’t know much.”

“Then tell me why the CIA is interested in a little boy’s kidnapping?

And don’t feed me the bullshit about
caring for Donavon.
” The silence lasted a second too long, and Robert knew he wouldn’t get the answer he was looking for.

“You know as well as I do that information is handed out on a need to know basis,” said Thompson.

Need to know. You mean, go fuck yourself.
“Donovan says there’s something special about Samuel,” Robert lied. “Do you think that’s why they took him?”

Robert watched his fabrication worm its way through Thompson’s mind. The Assistant Director, his reputation built on calculating intuition, seemed to suppress a smile. “And exactly what is this
special thing
Donavon shared with you?”

“Something valuable enough to put the boy’s life in danger,” answered Robert. “Any idea who’s behind this?” Thompson continued to measure Robert. “None at this time. We were hoping you’d picked up their scent.”

“No such luck. If I knew where the bastards were, I wouldn’t be here bullshitting with you.”

Thompson smiled and lit another cigarette off the one he’d just finished. “If you do find them, we’d appreciate a phone call. We’ll provide any assistance you ask for, including intelligence, hardware, money. It’s your call. Name your price.” Robert, off the bench before he knew it, grabbed Thompson by the collar. “Price! There’s no price you could pay for this, asshole! He’s my godson, not a bounty!”

Thompson continued to smile, the cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth. Two cold taps on the nap of his neck, and Robert turned his head.

“Let the director go,” said Agent Maxwell, his .357 automatic pointed at Robert’s right eye socket.

Robert didn’t let go right away. He wanted to shake Thompson till his brain scrambled. Agent Maxwell cocked the hammer on his weapon.

Robert let Thompson go and took a step back. When Agent Maxwell checked to see if his boss was okay, Robert grabbed the agent’s wrist, and spun clockwise, twisting the gun out of the agent’s grasp and flipped him over his shoulder. Agent Maxwell let out a grunt as he pounded down, back first, to the ground. Robert fired a shot in the dirt just past the agent’s head.

“You pull a gun on me, use it,” he snarled.

“I won’t forget,” said Agent Maxwell. “You can believe it.” Thompson, seated again on the bench, lit another smoke, took a deep drag, leaned back and blew a hazy cloud into the air. He looked down at the two, amused. “Please let him up, Mr. Veil.” Robert stared at the agent, his forearm pressed hard against Maxwell’s throat. But it wasn’t the FBI agent he saw on the ground, it was one of the masked men who kidnapped his godson. Robert hit Agent Maxwell on the temple with the butt of the gun, knocking him out cold.

Then he tossed the weapon to Thompson, who fumbled it, losing his Camel in the process, sending orange ash sparkling in the air.

“That was uncalled for,” raged Thompson, standing.

“So is all this crap you’re trying to hand me,” fired Robert. “And until the CIA learns to share, don’t call on me again.”

“You’re one of us,” growled Thompson. “You know how this is played. Help us with anything you learn, and I’ll do the same. You have my word. I’ll let you in on everything when you find the boy.” Agent Maxwell, groggy, tried to stand, but collapsed back to the ground, hands on his head. Robert headed back to his vehicle, ignoring Thompson’s calls.

Back in the Explorer, Robert gripped the steering wheel tight.
Why is
Samuel drawing attention from the CIA?
He racked his brain, but no scenario that fit made any sense. He started the engine and hit the highway. He dialed his office in Washington D.C. on his cell. Evelyn Hollis, their office manager, picked up.

“Evie, it’s me. I want you to do a full background work-up on Samuel. Go back as far as you can, and list every name you can find.” Evelyn grilled him, and he brought her up to date as much as he could over the phone. She hung up with promises to move as quickly as possible. Robert dialed Thorne, who picked up on the first ring.

“I have news, Robert. Come to Detective Reynolds apartment. It doesn’t look good,” said Thorne.

R
obert sped into Chicago and headed for South Shore, where Detective Reynolds owned a condominium. Forty-five minutes past noon, most of the city’s faithful went about their daily routine with systematic ease. City street crews directed traffic around pylons, while they repaired chuckholes in the asphalt, and scheduled maintenance before a hard winter took its toll. Hustlers hawked their wares, some legit, most illegal, all under the occasional watchful eyes of Chicago’s patrolling finest.

Detective Reynolds, a twenty year police veteran, was somewhat of a legend on the streets of Chicago. Tales of his exploits were many, however, one story stood out as Robert’s favorite.

Late one Friday night, back when the detective was still a uniform patrolman, he and his partner were cruising through one of the seedier sections of the city’s South Side, when an explosion in a house the next street over rocked the neighborhood. Reynolds and his partner were the first to arrive on the scene and found an old, beaten down house quickly being gobbled up in flames.

“My babies, my babies!” a distraught mother in a nightgown bellowed, running up to the car. “My son and daughter are up there! Help them, please!”

“How old are they?” Reynolds asked, calm and controlled.

“Six and eight,” she screamed.

“What are their names?”

“Carl and Kendra,” the mother told him, collapsing to the ground.

Detective Reynolds’ partner called for backup and the Fire Department. Reynolds looked up at the flames filling the second floor, and without hesitation, rushed inside and bolted up the stairs, fire crackling all around, screaming the children’s names. He found both kids unconscious on the floor in their bedroom, the exit blocked by the raging inferno. Witnesses outside said they heard a loud crash, looked up, and saw Detective Reynolds falling toward them with Carl and Kendra under each arm. He landed hard on the grassless lawn, breaking his right leg in two places, but saving the children, who suffered a few bruises and were treated for smoke inhalation, but otherwise were okay.

When Detective Reynolds returned to work he received the highest honors the police department and the City of Chicago could bestow, not to mention, street credibility any officer would dream of, and the nickname of a comic book superhero with the persona of a bat.

As with many women, Thorne kept the intimate details of her love life guarded, but in all the years Robert had known her, no man could ever boast the impact Detective Reynolds had on her. Where most of Thorne’s relationships lasted six, nine months at the most, the detective had managed to survive close to three years, and Robert wasn’t surprised when she accepted the detective’s proposal of marriage. Thorne was the happiest Robert had ever seen her, and he was glad she found someone to share her life with.

However, a month before they all flew to Martha’s Vineyard for a small ceremony, the whole thing was suddenly called off. Thorne spent a week at Robert’s place moping. He didn’t press her, and she never said a word about why the wedding was canceled. Thorne eventually shook it off and remained close friends with Detective Reynolds. They even took trips together on occasion, but the subject of marriage never came up again.

Robert drove into the underground garage of the detective’s complex and parked. Shadowy and dark, the drab concrete felt more like a tomb, adding to Robert’s already foreboding sense of dread. He strode out of the elevator on the tenth floor and knocked on the white and gold trim door, numbered ten-twelve. Thorne snatched open the door, all smiles, and gave Robert a long, tight hug, as though she knew it was just the medicine he needed.

Detective Reynolds, six-three, muscle plastered, with flawless, midnight black skin, emerged from the kitchen hand extended, and offered Robert his sympathy concerning Samuel. Words Robert found comforting.

Robert plopped down on the sofa and filled them in on his encounters with Samuel’s friends at school, his conversation with Donavon, and his clash with Glenn Thompson and the CIA.

“What the hell does Thompson and the CIA want with Samuel?” asked Thorne, forehead wrinkled, eyes tight.

“Exactly,” exclaimed Robert. “The whole thing smells. Evelyn is looking into Samuel’s history; as far back as she can go.”

“Maybe they’re just watching out for one of their own. A former

‘Company’ man,” said Detective Reynolds.

“Not a chance,” said Thorne, beating Robert to it. “These guys don’t take a shit unless there’s something in it for them.” Robert agreed, shaking his head. “I wish the assholes who snatched Samuel would make contact, send a note, or something. At least we’d know he’s alive. Maybe even pick up their trail.” Thorne and Detective Reynolds looked at each other, then at Robert.

“There is a note,” the detective finally said. “The FBI received it this morning.”

Robert’s heart pounded. “But I talked to Donovan earlier, he didn’t mention a thing.”

Thorne slid down next to Robert. “He knows, Donovan was there when it arrived Federal Express from a dead end address in Kansas City.

The Feds read it, and then asked everyone to leave.”

“Yes,” added Reynolds. “And when they let us back inside, everyone acted as if the note didn’t exist. I have an FBI contact, who says Donovan and his wife were briefed, but everyone else is being kept out of the loop. When I asked about the Fed Ex package, they said, and I quote,
what Fed Ex package?
” Robert collapsed back into the deep blue leather couch.

Thorne put a hand on his knee. “Partner, I’m afraid it gets worse,” she said.

Robert snapped up, eyes on the two of them.
Worse!
How?
No one spoke. Detective Reynolds shifted his eyes away from Robert’s. Thorne stood firm, her gaze never leaving his. Robert stood. “Well, is somebody going to tell me, or do I have to read your minds?” Thorne took a deep breath. “It concerns Father Tolbert.”

“Yes,” said Detective Reynolds. “We’ve been getting complaints for the last six months, accusations that he’s been molesting children in the Church. A few have mentioned Samuel as a possible victim, but nothing’s been confirmed.”

The pressure started in the back of Robert’s head and stabbed at his brain. It moved just behind his eyes, pulsating in his sinuses. “Are you saying Samuel was being molested?”

“It’s a possibility,” said Thorne, as gently as possible. “Nothing has been confirmed, they’re only suspicions.” Robert sat back down and rocked back and forth. “I don’t believe it,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Not Samuel.” Thorne massaged the back of his neck. “Easy partner, it’s just something in the wind. Let’s not bust a vessel right now.” Detective Reynolds went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of cold water. Robert drained it and shook off any notion of Samuel being molested.

“We should have another conversation with Cardinal Polletto,” said Thorne. “If rumors are floating around about molested children, he already knows about it.”

“It doesn’t mean he knows anything about Samuel,” said Detective Reynolds. “And remember, they’ll do anything to protect the Church.

You know how these guys operate.”

“You’re right,” said Thorne. “But on the off chance Father Tolbert has hurt Samuel, he may have noticed something strange or out of place, something that may lead us to the kidnappers.” Robert pounded his fist in the palm of his hand. “Let’s go see the cardinal right now. It’s all we have until we find out what the note says.” Thorne and the detective agreed. She disappeared to a back room and returned with her jacket. Detective Reynolds gave her an extended hug.

“You coming with us?” Thorne asked Reynolds.

“No,” answered the detective. “I have to hit the office and clean up a few reports.”

Thorne laid a long deep kiss on Detective Reynolds. “Be here when I get back.”

The detective smiled. “You’ve got the key. It’s your house.” In the hallway Robert asked if wedding bells were again a possibility.

“We’ve agreed that I’ll be the one to propose this time,” she said, a slight smile etched on her face. “Right now, I’m just not ready.” Robert wanted to ask more questions, but Thorne’s eyes said,
save it
for another time.

In the parking deck, five feet from Robert’s vehicle, six masked figures, two with shotguns, surrounded them. Robert reached for his 9mm.

“Please don’t do that, Mr. Veil, we’re only here to speak with you.

We mean you no harm,” said one of the men.

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.”

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.