Reginald Cook - The Hammer of God

Robert fidgeted. Fact is, we don’t know. He cleared his throat. “We can’t be one hundred percent, but I doubt this has anything to do with any of our cases.”

Everyone in the room soaked in uncomfortable silence. Only Alison’s snorting and crying were audible. Robert took her by both arms and stared into her eyes. “Thorne and I intend to do whatever we can to get Samuel back safely. You have my promise.”

“I don’t want your fucking promise,” Alison snapped, snatching out of his grasp. “I want you out of here now!” Robert opened his mouth to speak. “Robert, if you care about Samuel you’ll leave us alone!” Alison screamed, collapsing on the couch in a frantic heap.

Donavon, in tears, sat down next to his wife and stroked her hair.

Robert searched for the words, but none came.

“Just go,” said Donavon, never looking Robert’s way. “I’ll call you later.

Robert’s eyes filled with tears, his heart with anger, not at Alison, she was doing what any distraught mother would do. He boiled over at the men who’d put them in such a horrible situation. A hand on his shoulder gave him a start, and Thorne pulled him from the room.

Outside, Robert wiped the moisture from his eyes and pounded his fist on the hood of Thorne’s rental, a black Monte Carlo, and kicked a deep dent in the front bumper.

“Get in the car and let’s get out of here,” Thorne ordered, ignoring the damage. Robert leaned back against the hood, grinding his teeth, arms folded tight across his chest. “Okay, you let me know when you’re ready,” she said. She slid in on the passenger side and dialed her cell phone.

Robert fumed at the thought of not joining the search for Samuel, a boy he loved as his own. He considered Alison’s tirade, searching his memory for a name or face, any case that could’ve spilled over and resulted in an attack on an innocent ten year old boy, but nothing came to mind. The Monte Carlo’s horn intruded his thoughts. Thorne motioned, l et’s go!

“So, where shall we start?” she asked, as he slid inside.

“Start?” he asked.

“Yes,” she continued. “You don’t really believe I think we’re going to leave, do you? Alison’s just upset. So am I, but I’m a hunter, she’s not.

And fuck the FBI.”

Robert eyed his partner and friend since the age of thirteen, and took a deep cleansing breath. “The church, they had to start trailing us from the church. So let’s start at the Assumption of Our Lady.”

M onday morning, Chicago traffic nauseated its drivers like most in the fraternity of nationwide commuters, but Thorne managed the labyrinth, exercising more patience than usual. No cursing, middle fingers, or threats. Robert appreciated the ninety minutes of silence, and rested back against the seat, eyes closed.

Thorne parked a block away from the church, which was in full swing as Monday morning mass let out, and nuns and parishioners went on their way. Robert and Thorne approached two of the nuns, asked for directions to Father Tolbert, and were guided to a small office building at the far end of a large courtyard, in the center of the church grounds.

Inside the building, up two flights, they searched the sparsely lit corridor for office 2B, and found Father Charles Tolbert’s name stenciled on the opaque glass panel of the office door. A droopy, round-faced woman, wearing a faded blue dress, greeted them. Her thick, black-rimmed glasses made her looked more owl than human.

Robert asked to speak with Father Tolbert, and after a five second phone call, the owl asked if he and Thorne would have a seat. An hour and five apologies later, Thorne looked close to cursing, and Robert wasn’t far behind. When the owl, Miss Culbreath, told them that someone would be with them in just a few minutes, Robert looked to see if Thorne was reaching for her gun. A door in back of the office opened.

“Mr. Veil, Miss Thorne. I’m Father Pearson. Please follow me.” They followed the six foot priest through the door and down a hall more brightly lit than the rest of the building. Both sides of the walls were adorned with what looked like every Pope since the beginning of the church, culminating with an impressive oil painting of the apostle Peter. Father Pearson opened the door to a very large, but modestly appointed office, where the distinguished looking cleric, Cardinal Polletto, whom Robert had met the day before, rose, and extended his hand.

“It’s nice meeting you again, Mr. Veil, and a pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss Thorne. I’m Cardinal Giafranco Polletto,” he continued, waving Father Pearson out of the room. He offered them seats and sat down behind the desk.

“We want to speak with Father Tolbert,” said Robert, more abruptly than he intended. “Will he be joining us?”

“My apologies, but Father Tolbert is indisposed at the moment. Is there something I can help you with?”

Robert bit his tongue. They’d waited over an hour. “I’m sure the Church is aware of what happened to Samuel Napier yesterday after service.”

“Yes, the kidnapping, a tragedy. We’re on round the clock prayer,” said the cardinal, his face etched with concern. “Is there anything else we can do to help?”

“That’s why we waited for over an hour,” said Thorne. “Since Samuel was an altar boy here, we figured whoever snatched him knew it, and were waiting after church. Maybe somebody here saw or heard something?”

The cardinal stroked his chin. “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard anything.

But I’ll make further inquiries, and let the authorities know if we come up with anything useful. We’ve already questioned our people once.”

“We’d appreciate it if you gave us a call if you find anything,” said Robert, scribbling down his cell phone number, handing it to Cardinal Polletto.

The cardinal leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk.

“Forgive me, but what authority do you have? That is, other than concern for the boy.”

“Samuel’s my godson, and…”

“That hardly qualifies you as law enforcement.”

“We’re more than qualified,” shot Thorne, her eyes burning red. “In fact, we’ve successfully tracked down several kidnapped victims, and more than our share of kidnappers. We used to work for the government, and we’ve been successful on our own for quite some time.”

“Excellent,” said the cardinal. “Then I’m sure you’re working with the FBI, and have the Napier’s blessing.”

“We have a long standing relationship with the FBI, and I’ve known Donavon Napier for over two decades,” shot Robert.

Cardinal Polletto’s eyes shifted from Robert to Thorne, and back.

“You’ll forgive my trepidation. The Church has strict rules when it comes to these matters. I hope you understand.” This is bullshit, thought Robert. That’s what I understand. “Thank you, Cardinal. We understand just fine.” Robert forced a smile, his best facade. “Is there a time available for us to come back and interview Father Tolbert? He worked directly with Samuel most of the time, so if anybody has seen anything, it would be him.”

“I agree,” said Cardinal Polletto. “He was the first person I spoke to about it.”

“Is there a chance we can talk to him? We don’t doubt you, Cardinal, we just want to be thorough.”

“I’d love nothing short of that, but you see it’s impossible at this time.”

“Impossible?” asked Robert.

“Yes. Father Tolbert was reassigned yesterday, and has left Chicago on special assignment.”

Robert exploded out of his chair. Thorne grabbed his arm. “You could’ve told us that at the beginning,” he growled.

Cardinal Polletto looked taken aback. “I’m sorry, but the affairs of the Church are not always public business. I didn’t think it necessary until now.”