Reginald Cook - The Hammer of God

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“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?”

Samuel nodded his head, calm and relieved.

“Get his papers,” she told Father Murphy, walking to a small suitcase, removing a fresh pair of blue jeans. “Go to the bathroom and put these on,” she continued. “And hurry up, we’ll be landing soon.” Samuel scurried off to the bathroom. Once inside, his shaking stopped. He looked down at the piss-stained trousers, smiled, then looked in the mirror. The two cans of orange soda showed up just in time, a crowning touch to his begging. He changed quickly, took several deep breaths and braced himself. He exited the bathroom with a false submissive gratefulness on his face.

Just one chance. Just one.

15

S amuel fidgeted in his aisle seat, wishing he were next to a window as the plane angled downward. Sister Bravo and the two priests broke off their whisper filled conversation they were holding on the far side of the cabin and buckled up in their seats. Samuel took a couple of deep, imperceptible breathes to relax, trying not to look too calm. He scanned the cabin. Father Sin’s glare bored a hole right through Samuel’s forehead. It made him uncomfortable, and he avoided direct eye contact.

Father Murphy stared out of the window, humming a choppy tune Samuel didn’t recognize, and Sister Bravo thumbed through a thick manila folder, reading a file, her dark silky hair back up in her habit.

Samuel heard the plane’s landing gear unfold and lock into place. He remembered a similar sound on the much larger jets he flew in when he went on trips with his parents. Joyous moments that meant Disneyland or Six Flags were just around the corner, or that a long, boring flight to some place his mother thought would be educational had just started, or mercifully come to an end. This time though, a large stone, the size of a pit from a just eaten peach, was imbedded in the bottom of his stomach like a small boulder.

Twenty minutes later, the plane touched down, and not long after, glided to a stop. Everybody unbuckled and stood. Samuel stayed in front of his seat and watched the others scramble around the cabin, gathering their things in organized chaos. Sister Bravo shoved a purple backpack in Samuel’s face.

“It’s filled with extra clothing,” she told him. “You need to know in case customs check. Here’s your passport.” Samuel opened it, and immediately recognized the photo he took the year before at St. Paul Elementary, during the annual picture day held at most schools. He remembered that his mother chose Package A, which provided enough wallet photos for half of Chicago. Sister Bravo took back the passport.

“Your name is Samuel Peterson,” she told him. Samuel repeated the name. “You’re an orphan,” she continued. “That’s all you need to know.

Fathers Sin and Murphy will walk you inside and answer any other questions. I’ll be along later.” She handed the passport to Father Sin and abruptly disappeared through the door that led to the front of the plane.

Samuel looked over at Father Sin.

“Let’s go,” the priest grumbled. “And remember your place.” Father Sin’s face softened as much as Samuel imagined it probably could, and he extended his massive hand to the ten year old, whose tiny fingers disappeared in the giant’s grip. They walked to the far rear of the plane, Father Murphy right behind them. The back door opened, and a short flight of stairs rolled into place. Father Sin led the way down into a large airplane hanger, where they were greeted by two men in matching dark-brown shirts and pants, with patches of a jet similar to the one they flew in on pasted on the right side of their chests, with the words Ciampino Aero Jet above the patch.

Fathers Sin and Murphy kissed the men on both sides of their cheeks and greeted them in a language Samuel still couldn’t place. Samuel looked back at the plane for any sign of Sister Bravo, who was nowhere in sight. He did notice a large symbol on the tail of the plane. A gold crown with two majestic keys crossed under it, all laid on top of a deep orange shield. Samuel recalled seeing the symbol before at church in Father Tolbert’s office, but couldn’t remember what it meant.

Fathers Sin and Murphy and the two airport workers laughed and talked in a language Samuel now guessed to be Italian or French. They ended the brief conversation, and the airport workers moved the stairs from the back door to the front, as a shiny black Mercedes Benz eased inside the hanger and stopped in front of them. The driver popped the trunk, and the two airport workers loaded the bags. Father Murphy sat up front with the driver. Samuel slid in back with Father Sin. He made a mental note of the time from a digital clock with bright green numbers on the dashboard… 7:00 p.m. The driver pulled out of the hanger, past a group of planes similar to the one they flew in on, minus the symbol on the tail Samuel still couldn’t place.

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