much interest in it. They had been here before. They knew that the well raised the value of this land. They asked question after question. Carleson answered them all. It didn’t matter to him whether they dug their own well. Probably back at base camp there were women and children that could use the convenience of their own water supply. At one point, he simply gave them the book he’d used to bring water to Sandego. The colonel cursorily paged through the book and handed it to the major, who looked at it, shrugged, and tossed it aside. They were illiterate.
From time to time, Carleson would note the gratuitous cruelty of the soldiers. Twice he moved toward intervening. Each time, the colonel’s aides jabbed rifles into his ribs.
Finally, the day was done. The villagers were forced to prepare food and serve it to the invaders. The residents were allowed nothing. If any Sandegan dared smuggle a morsel for self, one of the old people or a child was beaten.
Carleson was excused from serving the dinner. He was even invited to eat. He refused. It made absolutely no difference to the Contras. He could starve for all they cared.
After the meal, the soldiers gave the scraps to the stock animals that they would take with them when they left. They had shot all the village dogs.
A young soldier walked across the firelit circle, knelt next to the major, and whispered something. The major whispered to the colonel. Both laughed heartily. The colonel waved his hand signifying permission.
The soldier, with four comrades, walked slowly around the circle of attending villagers. They stopped before a strikingly beautiful girl barely out of childhood.
Two grabbed her and dragged her screaming to the center of the circle near the fire. Her parents shrieked their pleas for her. They were clubbed back, as were the others who objected.
Slowing, savoringly, they stripped her. While four pinned her to the ground, the young soldier lowered his trousers and gleefully raped her, thrusting more brutally with each of her screams, which seemingly added to his enjoyment.
Villagers tried to look away, but the soldiers forced them to watch.
Carleson, seated near the two commanding officers, was not observed so carefully. He shut his eyes so tightly that tears rolled down his cheeks. He pressed his hands against his ears, but could still hear the girl’s horrible screams.
For the first time in his life, Carleson knew rage. He felt hatred. There was not an ounce of forgiveness or understanding remaining in him.
He opened his eyes to see the other four soldiers raping their helpless victim in turn.
There was no clear thought in his mind. There was an explosion.
While all around him were absorbed in the entertainment, he noticed a guard, who, in his glee, had loosened his grip on a machete.
In one fluid movement, Carleson rose, grabbed the machete, and with a sweeping arc severed the colonel’s head.
It was as a freeze-frame. Even in peripheral vision, everyone had seen the sweep of the blade. Everyone saw the colonel’s head fall to the ground, followed by his spurting blood.
No one moved. The raping soldier halted in midthrust.
Seconds later, when Carleson made no further threat to anyone, a soldier raised his gun to the priest’s temple, finger on the trigger. Before Carleson could even think his last thoughts or pray his last prayers, a shouted command from the major halted the soldier’s straining trigger finger.
It was at once evident to the major that he was now in charge. But, what to do?
To buy time, he ordered Carleson placed in captivity. The villagers were commanded to construct a bamboo cage. When it was finished, the soldiers shoved Carleson into the cage and lowered it into the well. There they left him while what passed for a judicial board was created.
Some on the board plumped for Carleson’s immediate execution. Others preferred torture and death. A few pointed out that this Contra unit itself was in considerable trouble.
After all, they had not been in combat with the Sandinista army. They had been sent to terrorize a helpless village. How to explain a security so vacuous that the ranking officer is killed by a Yankee priest?
And that reminded them that the assassin was, indeed, Yankee. Without knowing exactly how such things worked, they knew the priest belonged to some organization-a diocese, a religious order? — in North America.
If they killed the priest, it would cause an uproar in the United States. Their financing could be interrupted- even crippled.
Of course, they could kill the priest and all the villagers-and no one would be left to tell the tale. Such wholesale slaughter was not beyond their experience. But if there were no villagers, there would be no village-and no stock or crops to sustain them in future raids. Amazing how these villagers managed to grub up food out of nothing.
The major had never perspired so freely.
In the end, he decided to leave the priest caged for the few days required to round up all possible supplies. Then, after a brutal beating of the priest, which all the villagers were forced to watch, and graphic threats of what would happen should anything concerning this episode ever be made public, they would return to their base camp. They would report that their colonel had been infected by some lethal bug and had been buried on the trail.
Carleson had no idea what his fate might be. He assumed he would be executed. He hoped his death would not include torture.
He had ample time and seclusion to reflect on what he had done. The thought of killing anyone had never ever occurred to him. Now he’d done it, and it had proved not all that difficult or strange … oddly, almost natural. If he had it to do over-God forgive me, he prayed-he would do what he had done.
Three days passed. Carleson was terribly weak, having had nothing to eat or drink. He was beaten within an inch of his life.
The Contras packed all they had commandeered and left. The villagers nursed Carleson back to relative health. They began the arduous and dogged effort to return to their former condition.
When his superiors at Maryknoll learned what had happened, they quickly arranged his return to the New York headquarters. There he was professionally cared for, physically and emotionally.
What had happened to the Contra colonel was never mentioned. It was part of no readily accessible report.
When he recovered, he was returned to another Central American mission. And then another and another. But he no longer had patience with red tape and institutional protectionism.
He realized he would have to take more command over his own life. He no longer could trust the bishops with whom he had to deal. Thus his request to be incardinated into Cardinal Boyle’s Detroit.
The cell block in Detroit Police Headquarters was quieting down. Still, Carleson couldn’t sleep.
Compared with those three days in his cage in Sandego, this could realistically be described as comfortable.
Still he lay awake. What would happen to him? Was he a disgrace to the priests of Detroit?
And the most disturbing question of all: Would anyone reveal or discover what had happened when the Contras had invaded his precious little village?
Prayer did not come easily. But it was his only consolation. He prayed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It had snowed overnight, an inch or so. Just enough to put a quiet white cover over the outside.
Father Koesler had retrieved the morning
Three separate stories relating to Diego’s murder and Carleson’s arrest on page 1A. Two of them jumped to an inside page where there were more sidebars and photos. Those seeking saturation information would not be disappointed.
