“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.”
14
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.
The plane suddenly shook and rocked violently. Samuel looked around the cabin. Sister Bravo and the others were asleep, and except for Father Murphy, who slightly lifted his head then let it fall back in his chair, nobody moved. With nothing to do and nowhere to go, Samuel fell back down in his chair and let his heavy lids fall, drifting off into a deep sleep.
“Samuel, wake up, it’s time.”
Samuel opened his eyes, sleep blurring his vision. The soft purr of the plane’s jet engines ceased. Samuel reached out and gave his mother, Alison Napier, a hug.
“We’ve missed you so much,” she said, stroking his hair.
“I’ve missed you too,” he told her, eyes wet.
Samuel tried to express how much he missed her, but the words didn’t come. He hugged her tighter, determined not to let go. He looked up at his mother’s face through blurry eyes, water streaming down his cheeks. His vision cleared. The purr of the engines returned. Samuel awakened.
“We’re landing,” Sister Bravo told him, looking down. “It’s time to get back in the box.”
Samuel, confused, looked up, searching for his mother’s face.
Sister Bravo shook him firmly. “I said get back in the box.” Clarity rushed in, dousing Samuel like ice water. His senses returned.
I can’t get back in the crate. I’ll never get away. His hands quivered. He stared at the crate, watching Father Sin open one side and holding it for him to crawl inside.
“It’ll only be for a short time,” Sister Bravo told him, reading his thoughts.
“I promise I’ll do everything you say,” said Samuel, jumping to his feet. “Please, don’t make me get back in the box. I’ll be good, I swear.” Sister Bravo smiled, her eyes suspicious. “Why should we trust you?
Only hours ago, you were defiant and cursing.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. It won’t happen again.”
“Nein,” snapped Father Sin, his German accent thick, commanding.
“Get back in the box.”
“Yes,” added Father Murphy. “It’s the safest way.” Samuel looked back and forth between both priests and took a step toward the box. Urine, a small blot spreading into a large one, soaked his trousers, and a quiver that started with his hands, turned into an all-out, all-over quake.
“Wait,” said Sister Bravo. She walked in front of Samuel. “Okay,” she said, her face still not fully convinced. “You’ll walk through customs with Fathers Sin and Murphy, but if you so much as cough wrong, we’ll kill you. Understood?”