Michael Palmer - The fifth vial

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord…

Bit by bit, life came back into focus. Ben's first major reconnection to the world was that he was on a bed — clean linens, a pillow, no, two of them. The aroma of brewing coffee helped nudge his consciousness along.

"So," a man's voice said in English, "my American patient awaketh."

"How do you know?" Ben asked.

"You have been somewhat delirious for nearly half an hour. What you said made absolutely no sense, but being from Brooklyn, I know American when I hear it. Frank Nunes — Father Frank if you wish, Padre Francisco if you want to sound more exotic. You took some water — two glasses — just a little while ago. Would you like some more? Coffee?"

Ben's awareness returned with force. He pushed himself up and swung his feet over the bed, mindless of the cannon blasts between his eyes.

"Listen, please, Father. I just came from Natalie Reyes, she said she — "

"Ah, the missing vagabond. I helped her to a campsite, and then when I went to look in on her the next morning, she was gone."

"She's at the hospital," Ben said breathlessly. "There's trouble there. Big trouble. I need your help."

"My help?"

"There's a woman who's been flown in. I was on the plane. If we don't get down there with a car, she will die — no, not just die, she will be murdered. I've got to get a car and I've got to get down there right away."

"Is Senhorita Reyes all right?"

"I don't know, Father, she — listen, I really don't have time to explain. This is an emergency. Natalie is in danger, so are some people from the village here. Luis — "

"Luis Fernandes?"

"I never knew his last name, but he's trying to help us."

"Us?"

"Natalie Reyes and — please, you must believe me. People are going to die there. Maybe many people. If you can just get us a car, I can explain on the way. Maybe you can intervene. Maybe you can do something to — "

He glanced over at the kitchen table across the room and noticed a set of car keys lying there. Father Frank followed his gaze.

"My car is not very dependable," he said.

Ben was beginning to feel exasperated.

"Let's at least try it," he begged. "Or…maybe one of the other ones in the village. Surely you — "

"I'm sorry."

Ben stood up.

"Okay, if you can't help me, I'll find someone who can."

"Sit down," Frank said sharply.

"No! I need your car."

Ben reached for his revolver, but his pocket was empty.

"That little thirty-eight was dangerous," the priest said. "The barrel was filthy. No way to know for sure which way the bullet was going to go. Now a Glock is a different story altogether." He withdrew a glistening pistol from beneath his robe and flicked the barrel in Ben's general direction. "I polish this forty-five every Sunday, right after Mass. Parts of the rain forest can be quite wild and dangerous. There are times, even for a priest, when the shield of God may not be enough protection."

"You're no priest!" Ben snapped.

Furious and desperate enough to be mindless of the consequences of his action, he dove at the man. Father Frank parried his attack with little effort, throwing Ben back onto the bed.

"Easy," the priest said. "I have no desire to hurt you as I am, in fact, a man of the cloth — less pious than some, I would grant you, but far more pious than others. I just happen to believe that there is no great dignity or holiness in being poor. It is one of the few beliefs I do not hold in common with the good book. The people who run that hospital see to it that our church remains solvent and that I remain as dignified as possible."

"And all you have to do is keep these people in line."

"That and to let the powers at the hospital know when nosy strangers driving cars that aren't theirs come wandering into town with pristine boots, pretending to be hiking the rain forest."

"It was you who wrecked the car, wasn't it?"

"I do what I am told. Mercedes don't hold up that well here in the rain forest anyhow."

"So, here we have a priest who carries a gun, vandalizes cars, preaches to people he considers too poor for dignity, and supports himself and his church by taking money from murderers. Aren't you something. Makes me really proud I'm a Catholic."

"Xavier Santoro is no murderer. Nor, for that matter, are any of the others associated with the hospital. Mr. Callahan, so-called illicit organ traffic takes place all over the world. Money changes hands and kidneys and other organs change bodies. What can be wrong with that? One person benefits in one fashion, the other benefits in another. In fact, in my opinion, there is no reason for such exchanges to be illegal or to consider them immoral."

Stunned, Ben stared at the priest, trying to see whether or not the man believed what he had just said. Then he remembered saying almost the same thing to Alice not that long ago.

"Frank," he asked, regaining some composure, "do you know who that woman Natalie is or why she's here?"

"Aside from the fact that she's searching for a relative, and posing to be someone she is not, no. I know nothing about her."

"Put the gun down, Father. I'm not going to try and leave…Thank you. Now, I have just one more question for you, and then I'll do whatever you say, and tell you anything you wish to know."

"And what is that question, Mr. Callahan?"

"Padre Francisco, do you know what really goes on at that hospital?"

The dining room was like a MASH unit. Rosa and Natalie had moved the tables and chairs to one side, and had dragged their captives to the area of the lounge where a makeshift enclosure of sofas, easy chairs, and dining tables turned on edge kept them all in view. For the time being, the jet crew had been left by the swimming pool, but the rest of the hospital workers and what remained of the security staff were all present and accounted for.

Luis, though badly wounded, had been able to direct Natalie to the virtual reality laboratory at the end of the hall, where she found Xavier Santoro and a guard from the plane. Dapper, urbane Santoro had been violently ill, and now was cringing in one corner, swatting at the products of his hallucinations. Still, he was managing periods of lucidity, during which he kept telling Natalie that she was making a terrible mistake.

Not far away from the surgeon was a strapping young man with his gun in his hand, too disoriented even to function. Natalie relieved him of the pistol without a struggle and then helped him shuffle down the corridor to Rosa, before bringing a wheelchair back to transport Santoro. Chuck's surly girlfriend, who initially seemed to be the only one unaffected by the stew, had suddenly gotten sick and begun also to show other signs of toxicity. Luis and his medicine woman had done their jobs well.

In spite of their triumph, Natalie and Rosa were grim. Luis, stretched out on one of the sofas, was in trouble. Natalie had tended to his wounds as best she could and had begun an IV infusion of saline to keep his sagging blood pressure from dropping to critical levels, but there was no question he was bleeding internally — possibly from a laceration to his liver.

The mission now was to stabilize him as quickly as possible, wake Sandy, and get the two of them off to a hospital, stopping along the way for Ben. Natalie had seen two cars — sub-compacts — parked by the rear of the hospital. They might need them both to transport the five of them, and they would need them quickly. Somewhere out there, people were on their way — at the very least, nurses from Rio, one or more surgeons, and a patient in need of Sandy's heart.