“Put that gun down,” snapped Cardinal Polletto, pointing his long bony finger at the priest. “Soon, you’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted. Don’t fuck it up!”
“I’ve done things! Terrible things!”
“And God has forgiven you. Believe me, you’ll be rewarded for your struggles.”
Father Tolbert’s eyes reddened, his face contorted with rage. He pulled back the hammer on the gun and straightened his aim at the cardinal. “Please forgive me,” he whispered.
The door exploded into splinters as Father Ortega crashed inside.
Father Tolbert closed his eyes and fired.
35
T he morning air, crisp with the aroma of seawater, fish and algae, assaulted Samuel’s nostrils and coaxed him out of sleep. His body felt numb and tired. He’d spent most of the night tossing, turning and crying.
Frustrated and despondent, he laid there sprawled out on his cot, staring at the water stained ceiling, wishing he were home.
News that his father had been killed in a car crash left him devastated. The Chicago Sun Times given to him by Sister Bravo said his father was injured beyond recognition, and had to be officially identified using dental records. The article also stated that Samuel’s godfather, Robert Veil, and his Aunt Nikki, who were present at the scene, were unable to ID the drivers or get the license plate numbers of the vehicles. Beyond recognition. Samuel closed his eyes and conjured up his father’s image, unable to imagine not being able to recognize a man he loved and admired.
Lethargic, his head spinning, Samuel rolled over and let his arm dangle over the side of the bed. No one knows I’m here. Nobody knows I’m in Rome. The sound of the sea splashing against the castle lulled Samuel him into a soothing twilight sleep, welcome after a fitful night of unrest.
Four hours later, he awakened to find lunch waiting for him on the table, and the newspaper article gone. Fine with me, I was tired of looking at it anyway. He stood, stretched, massaged his thighs, and lumbered over to the chipped gray chair and let his body fall hard down on the aged wood. He sat there and stared at his food for five minutes. A tuna fish sandwich on his mother’s favorite, a croissant, a bowl of mixed fruit, and a welcome can of cola.
Samuel bit into the sandwich, barely able to taste it, and then washed down the mass, now stuck in his throat, with a swallow of cola, the caffeine and sugar giving him a jolt strong enough to slowly entice him out of his funk. With each bite and swig, his thoughts became more lucid, and by the end of the meal he felt more like himself. When Father Clancy came in to retrieve the tray, Samuel asked and received another can of soda. This time he sipped it slowly, savoring the refreshing burn in his throat, relishing the speck of the familiar.
Samuel looked around the room, which seemed to be closing in on him a little more each day. He went over to the window, leaned out, and sucked in air. The small square, his only entree to the outside world, had lost its soothing effect, and the expansive green lawn of water only teased and prodded his desire to escape. He often imagined himself on a boat floating away, sailing all the way back to Chicago, where everyone would applaud his return. Even his father would be there, alive, the whole episode of his death a cruel joke.
I have to get them to let me outside. As soon as that thought hit, Samuel knew his past escape attempts would make it near impossible, but he had to try or lose his mind. He knocked on the door for several minutes. Nobody answered. He knocked again, this time harder.
Father Clancy snatched the door open. “Yes.”
“I’d like to speak with Sister Bravo, please,” said Samuel, mustering his best sad, broken expression.
“What do you want? I’ll tell her.”
Samuel looked up, his eyes pleading. “It would be best if I spoke with her directly,” he continued, careful not to sound defiant or insulting.
Father Clancy’s eyes narrowed. He glared at Samuel sideways, then slammed the door. For thirty minutes, Samuel dangled outside and gazed at his small portrait of the sea, then abruptly turned back inside when he heard approaching steps. A set of hard soled shoes stopped at the door.
Sister Bravo stepped inside.
“You wanted to see me. Well, I’m here. What is it?” she asked.
Samuel ambled over, head down, and stopped just short of the nun.
“I, I’m, I need some air,” he mumbled, not looking up.
“So, look out the window.”
“I have been, but I need to get out and walk around.”
“Not a chance,” said Sister Bravo, laughing. “You’ll just try and run away again.”
Although escape was the first thing on Samuel’s mind, tired and claustrophobic, he also wanted out of the damp, depressing cell, to walk around with the sun on his face. “I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “It won’t happen again, I promise. I just want to go outside, that’s all. Please, I feel like I’m going crazy.”
Sister Bravo smirked. “Well, go crazy then. I don’t care.” She turned to leave.
Samuel dove at her feet and held on tight. “Please, I’m sorry! I promise I’ll do what you say! My father’s dead! I’m all alone! Don’t leave me!”
Sister Bravo shook him off. Samuel slid back into a corner, hugging himself, shaking. Sister Bravo just stared, suspicious and scowling.
Samuel dropped his head and cried. He heard the door close and looked up. She was gone. He continued to snivel and cry for a half hour then laid down on the cot, not sure his act was having the desired effect. The door opened, and Sister Bravo entered with Father Clancy in tow.
Samuel sat up. The nun and priest glared.
“One hour a day, two on Sundays,” Sister Bravo finally said. “But this time, you run, you die. I swear it.” Samuel crawled off the bed, ran over and hugged Sister Bravo, clinging to her like a cub, eyes squeezed together tight. “I won’t run,” he lied, sniffling, knowing he was going to give it one last try.
36
R obert, Thorne and Sister Isabella observed Torre Astura castle from a heavily wooded area two hundred and fifty yards away. Late in the evening, a light mist eased across the water around the castle, and a crisp breeze rattled the trees and brush.
Robert, on his stomach between the two women, adjusted his binoculars and closely examined the castle structure and the area around it. Torre Astura was a much smaller version of the medieval edifices Robert toured in other European cities and towns, including the magnificent German castles along the Rhine. Although the sandstone building he now scanned up and down, was no less an unapproachable fortress. A tall tower, about five stories high, stood like a giant in the middle of the castle, with no windows facing the woods.
Robert counted five small windows along the front of the castle, which was two and a half stories high, with one large wooden door at the entrance. A large courtyard, about fifty square yards, sat in front of the building, all separated by a narrow stone bridge about fifteen hundred feet long.
In front of the courtyard, a much smaller two story stone building sat in between the woods and the castle, fifty yards away. A dirt road, the only entrance and exit by land, ran along the woods and curved toward the castle. On the left side of the road was a small reef of jagged rocks and open water; on the other side high grass and brush.
“We know several of The Order’s people are holed up inside,” whispered Sister Isabella. “But there’s been no sign of Samuel at all.”
“They’re keeping him deep undercover,” said Robert. “But it’s so secluded out here, you’d think they’d at least let him out for air.”
“Or maybe he’s not here at all,” said Thorne.
