He escorted them to the street, and without so much as a nod, walked back inside the church, slamming the door behind him. They headed for Thorne’s car.
“What the hell is going on?” asked Robert. “They act like they’re the ones who took Samuel.”
“No shit,” said Thorne. “But you know how the Catholic Church operates. They don’t get involved unless it’s one of their own, and getting information out of them is like squeezing blood from a penny.”
“It’s a child for Christ’s sake!” Robert bellowed, stopping next to the Monte Carlo. “You’d think they’d do everything they could.” He leaned on the car and tried to gather his thoughts.
“What about Father Tolbert?” asked Thorne. “He’s still numero uno on the list that we should talk to.”
“Yeah, but unless we’re going to Italy, we’d better think up something else. We’ll leave Father Tolbert to the FBI for now. Let them hassle with the Vatican.”
Robert looked at his watch, his heart hanging in his chest like a paperweight. Time ticked away for Samuel, so they couldn’t worry about the cardinal, Father Tolbert, or the Vatican. They needed a solid lead.
“Let’s split up,” said Robert. “I’ll rent a car, go to Samuel’s school, and talk to his teachers, maybe a few of his classmates. You contact your boyfriend.” Thorne’s face twisted. “I’m sorry, your friend, Detective Reynolds. Find out if the police or FBI has anything we can use. Let’s talk around noon, and take it from there.”
“Got it,” said Thorne.
Robert and Thorne sped away. Father Ortega, who’d been watching them the whole time, observed silently from the bushes a half a block behind them as they got in the car and drove away.
7
C old and scared, Samuel sat, knees to chest, rocking back and forth in a musty wooden crate. Despite the darkness, he pressed his eyes shut tight, and struggled to conjure up the faces of his parents and godfather.
But as quickly as they came, the mental photographs in his head dissipated like a rising vapor.
A sudden series of bumps jarred Samuel from his daydream nightmare. He was sure the wooden box that housed him was on an airplane in the sky. He had felt the takeoff and heard the engines roar. He guessed they’d been in the air for almost an hour, maybe longer.
More turbulence, and this time Samuel pitched forward against the crate, head first, bumping his chin. He heard chatter in the cabin, and counted four voices, three males, one female. None of them spoke English, and he couldn’t place the language. It sounded French, but he wasn’t sure. Time edged along, as did the mental torture. Samuel whimpered, then cried. The chatter outside turned to whispers.
Moments later, the crate cracked open and light stampeded inside, needling his eyes, leaving him momentarily blind. The cold nudge of what he knew to be a gun under his chin, and the firm bark of a language foreign, entreated him to stifle his breakdown and choke back his sniffles.
Samuel’s vision cleared, but his eyes ached. He crawled out of the crate and looked around. He was definitely inside an airplane, but not like the planes he and his parents flew in while on vacation.
This plane looked more like one of the cool private jets he’d watched on MTV
Cribs, and could’ve belonged to P-Diddy or Jay-Z.
“Over here,” called a soft, female voice. Samuel, awestruck by his surroundings, focused on the four individuals in the cabin for the first time, and was stunned. “You’ll be more comfortable on the couch,” the woman told him. “And there are a few rules you need to obey.” Samuel, trying to make sense of the scene before him, was unable to move. “Its okay, Samuel,” the woman continued, “please have a seat.” Samuel, his feet feeling about twenty pounds each, lumbered over and practically fell down in the deep, cushioned tan-green leather chair.
“Here, drink this.” The woman handed him a mug with a mountain of whipped cream on top. “This will warm you up, and make you feel more comfortable. I have to attend to a matter in the forward cabin.
When I return, you and I will have our little talk.” Samuel held the cup. It took everything he could muster to keep from dropping it on the deep tan carpet. Confused, he looked up at the smiling angelic face, but couldn’t make sense of it. His captures were three priests and a nun.
“My name is Sister Maria Bravo. Drink your cocoa, I’ll be back in a moment.”
Father Tolbert rested back, eyes closed, as the Vatican’s Gulfstream G550 cruised to, then leveled off at forty thousand feet. Two Kettle One martinis into his flight to Rome, and the torment that had been a part of his life since high school, seemed to temporarily evaporate.
“Excuse me, Father, is there anything else I can get for you?” Father Tolbert lifted his eyelids. Sister Maria Bravo, one of Cardinal Polletto’s assistants, a broad smile on her angelic face, leaned over and covered him with an extra dark crimson wool blanket.
“No thank you, Sister, everything is fine.”
“Good. Dinner will be served in a few hours. Until then, there are appetizers on the counter in the galley, and of course, the bar is fully stocked. If you need anything else, press the button on your chair and I’ll be happy to serve you.”
Father Tolbert said thank you, and watched the always gracious nun disappear through a door of the cabin. No doubt to get some much deserved rest herself.
He closed his eyes. The vodka took over. Father Tolbert thought of Samuel, and drifted off to a place somewhere in the clouds.
8
S amuel barely tasted the hot cocoa, even though he’d drained the mug by more than half. The three priests sitting with him didn’t speak, but each shot him an occasional glare, as if to let him know they’d just as soon slit his throat as say hello. One in particular, a neckless, red-faced linebacker, with the largest hands Samuel had ever seen, clinched his fists every time their eyes met. Each time, Samuel wanted to piss his pants.
The door opened. Sister Maria Bravo slid back inside and snatched off her habit, shaking her silky black hair down past her shoulders. The three priests snapped to attention. She whispered something to them, but didn’t so much as look Samuel’s way.
Five minutes later, the whispering stopped. Sister Bravo, the three black suits in tow, walked over and sat down next to him. The holy trio stood behind her, stone-faced and silent. Samuel tried to swallow, but his throat felt like sandpaper. His hands quivered, splattering cocoa on his pants.
“There are a few important rules you must abide by while in our care,” Sister Bravo said, a smile on her face. “But first, let me introduce the others.” Samuel raised his eyes without fully lifting his head. “This is Father Matthew Clancy.”
The stoic menace plastered on the slender, sandy haired cleric, turned hospitable with a smile. “Please to make your acquaintance,” said the priest, in a light British accent.
Next, Sister Bravo introduced Father Theodore Murphy, whose face softened too, with a wide show of teeth. Samuel noticed for the first time, Father Murphy’s light green eyes, which framed an almost serene countenance. The priest didn’t utter a word, but Samuel felt a chill hit his spine, and the hair on the back of his head bristled as Father Murphy’s smile turned fiendish.
Samuel turned his head to the last of the three, the linebacker in black, who made him the most nervous. “I’m Father Adolfo Sin,” he said, his accent heavy German. “If you try to escape, I’m the one who’ll catch and kill you.”
Father Sin’s words took a moment to register. Samuel’s moist brow confirmed that he believed every word.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” said Sister Bravo.
She motioned for the priests to leave, and each adjourned to a different part of the cabin. Fathers Murphy and Clancy leaned back in two billowy leather chairs, and closed their eyes. Father Sin leaned back in his, and continued to stare.
Sister Bravo took a deep breath. “Don’t mind him. He’s a teddy bear once you get to know him.”
