Reginald Cook - The Hammer of God

Outside, the sun had all but vanished, leaving the airport bathed in the light dust of evening, that moment between sunset and night. The airport was much smaller than Chicago O’Hare, or any of the airports Samuel remembered. He spotted several planes with names he recognized; American Airlines, United, Continental, the sight of which made him long for home even more.

The car abruptly stopped at a small terminal and Samuel heard the trunk pop. Father Murphy and the driver gathered the bags, while Father Sin and Samuel stood by the car. The evening air was crisp, but not too cold, and Samuel welcomed it as it lightly caressed his face.

“Remember,” Father Sin hissed, “I’ll do the talking.” Samuel nodded his consent and followed the priest inside the terminal, which looked more like the lobby of his father’s country club than an airport terminal. Thick tan carpet cushioned their feet, and artwork like he’d seen during field trips to the Chicago Art Museum lined the walls. An emotionless uniformed man stood behind a wooden counter, another waited at a table just a few feet away. A sign hung over each station that read Customs. Another sign over the counter read Welcome to Italy.

Father Sin led the way to the front counter, greeted the customs agent, and handed over three passports. Father Murphy stood next to him with the bags. The agent eyed them carefully, thumbed through the passports, occasionally looking up to scan the three of them. The agent said something to Father Sin, who managed to somehow transform himself into a model of patience and piety, an image that made him even more frightening. He smiled, pointed to Samuel, and said something to the agent that caused him to respond, “I see, I see,” in a thick, Italian accent. The agent smiled at Samuel, handed the passports back to Father Sin, and pointed them in the direction of the customs agent waiting a few feet away.

“Anything to declare?” asked the customs agent, in much better English.

“No, nothing,” answered Father Sin, with a broad smile.

Father Murphy placed their bags on the table.

“No, Father, that won’t be necessary,” the agent told him, waving them through.

“Grazie, grazie,” gushed Father Sin, grabbing Samuel’s hand, pulling him toward the exit.

Samuel considered making his stand right there at customs, but feared he might not be able to get the agent to understand. He had to wait until he had a greater advantage.

Outside, the black Mercedes was waiting at the curb. Father Murphy tossed the bags in the trunk and resumed his seat up front with the driver.

Father Sin pushed Samuel in the back seat and the car sped away. The Mercedes pulled out of the airport area past a sign that read Roma Ciampino Airport onto Via Appia Nuova Road. Samuel watched rural Italy pass by, most of it green flat land and rolling hills. The longer Samuel watched unfamiliar landmarks zip by, he realized just how far he was from home, and the sickness in his stomach bubbled. You’ll never see your mother and father ever again, he heard Sister Bravo’s voice sneer. Samuel gritted his teeth. No, I won’t accept that! Never!

“Sit back and relax,” Father Sin told him, with icy stillness. “It won’t take long for us to reach our destination.”

“Where are we going?” asked Samuel, trying to sound more curious than nosey.

“Never you mind,” snapped the priest. “Just mind yourself and stay quiet.”

Samuel continued to gaze out the window, wondering how anyone would figure out he was halfway around the world. He tried to think of a reason a nun and priests would want to take him from home, but couldn’t. The deeper his confusion, the angrier he felt. An odd, unfamiliar sensation came over him. A feeling of control and momentary strength he couldn’t explain. He shook it off, and twenty minutes later, they passed a city sign Samuel could read. We’re in Rome!

The streets of Rome reminded him of any other city, but much more.

There was an air about it that felt different, but Samuel couldn’t put a finger on why. It looked modern, but also looked and felt older, like the Rome he had studied in history class back at school.

They drove around a big circle crowded with cars, which Samuel guessed to be the middle of the city. His eyes took in as much as possible, not that it did him any good. As fast as he memorized landmarks and street signs, the images faded from his memory.

The car pulled out of the circle, down a dimly lit street, drove three blocks, and stopped in a busy section of the city, lined with small restaurants and cafes. Samuel thought he heard jazz music. Boring sounds his father and Uncle Robert loved to listen to for hours. The music came from a cafe a few feet from the car. Samuel memorized its name, Galaassia. He repeated the name in his head and looked for an address, but saw none.

A large bus pulled in front of them and stopped. Samuel’s heart pumped hard as he watched a load of Americans exit the bus and spread out along the street, laughing and pointing, snapping pictures and joking around. Samuel slowly looked over at Father Sin, who paid little attention to the American tourists. The priest talked to the driver and Father Murphy in Italian, then pulled out a cell phone and dialed. A few grunts later, he hung up.

“Sister Bravo is on her way,” stated Father Murphy.

The bus drove away, the Americans, parceled out amongst the eateries and coffee houses, were nowhere to be found, although seeing them seemed to renew Samuel’s sense of hope. He looked down at the door handle then back up at Father Sin.

“Any chance we’ll get something to eat soon?” he asked.

“You ate enough for two on the plane,” said Father Sin, not looking at him, scanning the area.

“I know, but I’m still hungry.”

Father Murphy and the driver laughed. Father Sin continued to ignore him. Samuel looked down at the door handle again, certain that it was locked. He wanted to check it to make sure, but couldn’t find an opening. He looked around the street then leaned back and closed his eyes. If Father Sin or one of the others looked down at him, he wanted to appear still under their control. Samuel opened his eyes. Father Sin looked over momentarily then turned his attention back to the crowded street. Samuel peeked at the lock again, slid his hand to it, and fingered the handle.

Another black Mercedes swooped in front of them and parked.

“It’s Sister Bravo,” said Father Sin, now looking at Samuel. “Slide over to the middle and make room.”

Samuel braced himself and leaned toward the middle of the seat. The driver hit the locks. Samuel grabbed the handle and slammed his shoulder hard against the door. It crashed open and he fell to the ground.

A car screeched to a halt a foot from his head.

“Get him! Get him!” Father Sin screamed.

Samuel jumped to his feet and ran into the crowd on the opposite side of the street. He heard Father Sin’s voice fade the farther he ran. The crowd parted, making a way for him, some cursing in Italian, others in broken English. Samuel didn’t care, he was free.

D ead asleep, Father Tolbert lay caught up in a dream he’d have to confess as soon as he reached the Vatican. A boy, close to Samuel’s age, sat on his knee staring up at him, sad and confused. The boy looked oddly familiar, but the priest couldn’t place him.

“Who are you?” Father Tolbert asked the boy, who was now close to tears.

“I’m you,” the boy stammered.

“Me, what nonsense is this? What’s your name?”

“What’s your name?”

“I won’t ask you again! What is your name?”

“Charles,” cried the boy. “Charles Tolbert!” Father Tolbert knocked the boy off his leg and jumped back, horrified. The longer he stared at the child, the more frightened he became. The boy just stared at him, an evil scowl on his face.