Reginald Cook - The Hammer of God

“Is there something you’d like to say, Paul?” Ms. Salomon finally asked. “Don’t be afraid, Mr. Veil is here to help.” Paul looked at Carla, who quickly turned her eyes away. Robert took a slow imperceptible breath, and leaned back.

“I guess Samuel’s pretty close to you guys. He writes to me all the time, and almost always mentions your names,” said Robert.

“We’re best friends,” said Paul, sitting up straight.

“Yes,” added Carla, “we’re the three musketeers.” Robert smiled. “Do musketeers share secrets?”

“Sure,” said Paul. “Musketeers always trust each other.”

“Did Samuel share anything with you that might help us find out where he is, or who took him?”

Paul’s eyes immediately fell to the floor. “He…there…is something.”

“We promised we wouldn’t say anything,” shot Carla. “Samuel made us promise.”

A surge bolted through Robert’s chest. He wanted to grab and shake it out of them. He took another deep breath. “I’m sure he’d want you to tell me,” he said, now leaning forward. “What is it?” Paul and Carla stared at each other.

Ms. Salomon moved to the edge of her seat. “It’s okay. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Carla bit her bottom lip. Tears rolled down Paul’s cheeks. He wiped his shirtsleeve across his face. Carla dropped her head into her hands, crying. “He told us not to tell. We promised,” she whispered.

Ms. Salomon’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. The door to the office sprang opened. Father Gakowski entered with two large security guards behind him, growling scowls on their faces.

“I’ve just gotten off the phone with the Archdiocese, and I’ve alerted the police. Mr. Veil, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave immediately,” demanded Father Gakowski.

Robert jumped to his feet. “But the kids, they know something! We need to find out what they know!”

The two security guards snatched out their batons and stepped forward.

“Ms. Salomon, take Carla and Paul out of the room,” ordered the priest.

The teacher gathered both children, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry we couldn’t help you, Mr. Veil,” she said.

“Us too,” said Carla, struggling to look strong.

“Yeah,” added Paul. “We hope you find Samuel okay.” Paul burst into tears and ran out of the room. Carla and Ms. Salomon followed right behind him, tears running down their cheeks too. When the door closed, Father Gakowski moved face-to-face with Robert.

“You lied, Mr. Veil. You’re not with the FBI, or any other agency.

Cardinal Polletto’s people said you were there this morning, and were told all we know.”

“Those children know more,” Robert fumed. “You heard them.”

“I’ll inform the proper authorities,” said Father Gakowski, opening the door. “Gentlemen, walk Mr. Veil to his car.” Robert felt the handle of his nine-millimeter press against his stomach. He relaxed, pushed past the guards, and stormed out of the building. Teeth grinding, he rumbled back down Interstate 94, blind with rage. Five miles down the highway, he abruptly snatched the wheel to the right, swerved off the freeway and skidded to a stop on the side of the road, car horns honking, and middle fingers up in his direction.

Paul and Carla wanted to tell me something. Something Samuel didn’t want anybody else to know.

Robert considered going to the Feds to get a court order, but knew his hunch wasn’t enough to get a judge to do battle with the Archdiocese, who obviously had something to hide. Besides, Robert was sure Cardinal Polletto, or whoever was pulling the strings, would see to it that neither child would be available for questioning after today. It was a long shot, but he’d run it by Thorne and Detective Reynolds anyway.

The cobalt blue numbers on the dashboard clock beamed 10:00 a.m.

A few more hours and Samuel would be gone for over forty-eight hours.

A near death sentence, unless the kidnappers made contact soon. Robert eased back onto the highway and headed for the Napier’s to have a talk with Donovan, and find out if the kidnappers had sent any word.

Head throbbing, heart pounding, Robert lowered the windows and let cool air blow through. Hold on Samuel, I’m coming.

C ardinal Polletto stepped out of his black Cadillac onto busy Superior Avenue, in front of the eight-story building that housed the Archdiocese of Chicago. As expected, he’d been summoned to account for the sudden reassignment of Father Tolbert, and use of the Vatican’s private jet. As Archbishop, it was well within his right to make use of church resources and transfer personnel, but even he was required to go through channels.

Cardinal Maximilian, in Chicago on special assignment from the Holy See, to evaluate and audit the diocese, asked if he would come in and explain the urgent need to usurp protocol. Justifying his decisions irritated Cardinal Polletto, unless it came directly from the Vatican. “I assure you it did,” Cardinal Maximilian had told him, smug and self-assured.

Cardinal Polletto strode through the brightly lit lobby, pious, chin high, nodding to visitors, well-wishers and staff, who bowed and greeted him as though he were the Holy Father himself. A ritual he thoroughly enjoyed.

“Good Morning, Your Eminence,” said Father Solomon Fox, Cardinal Maximilian’s assistant, appearing at the cardinal’s side, as though out of thin air.

Cardinal Polletto greeted the stone-faced New Yorker with a broad smile and a pat on the back. “I trust the Lord is treating you well this morning, Father,” he said.

“Indeed he is, sir. Thank you.” Father Fox chiseled an uncomfortable smile on his cold, rocky countenance. “Cardinal Maximilian is waiting for you on the fifth floor. He sent me to ride up with you.” Aggravated, Cardinal Polletto shot the priest a quick glare out the corner of his eye. “How thoughtful, Cardinal Maximilian is always quite the gentleman.”

The elevator door opened on the fifth floor. An instant wave of simultaneous adulation and greeting rang out in chorus. Cardinal Polletto met each salutation with a humble nod and wave.

Father Fox led him to the large conference room and opened the door. Inside, sitting at the head of a long, ebony Gabon conference table with a black Italian marble top was Cardinal James Francis Maximilian.

Cardinal Maximilian, the first African-American to ascend so high in the Roman Catholic Church, stood, draped from head to toe in blood red.

Shoulders back, head held high, he almost seemed to glide over to Cardinal Polletto, hand extended. When Cardinal Polletto took his hand, Cardinal Maximilian bowed his head in a submissive pose, a move Cardinal Polletto knew to be more show than substance.

“Thank you for coming down on such short notice,” said Cardinal Maximilian. “I know your schedule is a hectic one.”

“That it is,” answered Cardinal Polletto, taking a seat. “But one must always understand accountability.”

Cardinal Maximilian smiled. After a few minutes of feigned pleasantries and light gossip, Cardinal Maximilian cleared his throat. “I understand Father Tolbert has been reassigned.”

“Correct. He’s going to intern at the Vatican Archives, a rare opportunity with a short shelf life, as you are aware. Someone was needed immediately, and he was given an immediate clearance at my request.”

Cardinal Maximilian sat unmoved. Cardinal Polletto, prepared for the question, had his operatives at the Vatican Archives and Swiss Guard ready to confirm his cover story.

“Why Father Tolbert?” asked Cardinal Maximilian. “What basis did you use to select him?”

“Father Tolbert has shown intense interest in church history and artifacts over the years. He’s approached me several times, inquiring about a chance to serve there, and has made several applications to do so.