William Kienzle - Shadow of Death

He turned and ran back through the narrow and now all-but-lightless corridor. He reached the entrance, but it was closed—locked. He rattled the door several times. He was about to call for help when he heard a voice behind him.

“Don’t turn!” the voice ordered in an amused but mirthless tone. “We go.”

Toussaint felt something hard and round pressed into the small of his back. It had to be a gun barrel. He felt the panic of a man trapped and, perhaps, doomed.

Before leaving the Chamber of Horrors, the gunman’s companion affixed an image of a black hand to the floor just inside the exit door.

5.

It was so senseless. That’s what bothered him most.

Long ago, Boyle had come to grips with the inevitability of his own death. But he found himself thinking about it again as he vested with deliberation for the ecumenical prayer service in Westminster Abbey.

It was, as a friend had once observed, that everybody wanted to go to heaven but no one wanted to die. Boyle certainly was not eager to die but, at the same time, he did not inordinately fear death.

And, indeed, he was no stranger to the danger of death. As another of his friends had once remarked, if you stick your head up out of a crowd, someone is likely to want to use it as a golf ball.

Well, when the cause demanded it, he had been unafraid to stick his head up and take a public position on any number of controversial issues. And there had been no dearth of antagonists who had taken at least figurative swings at him. He had been picketed, jeered at, and even, as far as his annual arch-diocesan collection was concerned, boycotted.

There was always the possibility that some of his adversaries might escalate their verbal or economic assaults into physical attack. And he was on public exhibition so often. If it was not services at the cathedral, it was innumerable services at the various parishes; confirmation ceremonies, chairing or attending public meetings . . . or just his frequent walks up and down Washington Boulevard. Anyone who wanted to attack him physically did not lack for opportunity. Indeed, there were countless opportunities.

From time to time, he would become conscious of this possibility at some public function, especially when, as not infrequently happened, tempers became intemperate.

But, usually, in such a situation, he would console himself with the conviction that should he have to suffer some physical abuse, even death, at least it would very probably be for a cause in which he believed.

Such was not the case now. Since being named a Cardinal, he had been attacked twice. The first time, as Inspector Koznicki had assured him, it was only a deranged man intent solely on gaining notoriety; the second time, as part of a bizarre plot to eliminate the more prominent papabili. In either instance, Boyle would have considered his death a waste.

And that was the reason he had consented to participate—no, insisted on participating—in tonight’s service. All the principal participants, including Cardinal Whealan and the Most Reverend and Right Honorable Arthur Bell, Archbishop of Canterbury—who was not considered to be in any danger—had been frankly warned, then thoroughly briefed by the authorities at Scotland Yard. All agreed the ceremony should go on.

As far as Cardinal Boyle was concerned, he wanted only to get it over with. He agreed entirely with Inspector Koznicki’s assessment of the situation. The police could and would smoke out the conspirators, this splinter branch of the Rastafarians. But the task would get done far more quickly if the perpetrators were caught in the act than if they were run to earth only after a long, drawn-out investigation.

Why, only a few minutes ago, Inspector Koznicki had informed Boyle that the Italian police had apprehended what they believed to be the entire group of Rome Rastafarians suspected of involvement in this conspiracy. And the Toronto police had had similar success.

Even though Boyle and Whealan would be given the maximum possible security during the service, there was always the possibility that even the maximum might prove insufficient. Boyle was trying to get his thoughts in order for that possibility. He was preparing his mind and soul for death. His body, in an excellent state of health, all things considered, was not prepared for death.

But it was so senseless. That’s what bothered him most.

“How do you get into one of these? Any idea?” Assistant Commissioner Henry Beauchamp asked as he struggled with a long, white alb.

“I would try to advise you, but first I must find one that fits.” Inspector Koznicki was searching through the press for a vestment large enough for him. In trying several, he had ripped the stitching of a couple while trying to pull them over his head and shoulders.

“‘ere, ‘enry,” said Detective Chief Superintendent Charles Somerset, who had slid into his alb easily, one might even say professionally, “you pull it over yer ‘ead. Did you never see yer wife pull over ‘er bloomin’ petticoat?”

“Oh, that’s the way, then.” Enlightened by Somerset’s metaphor, Beauchamp managed to tug the vestment over his head and slide it down till it fell just short of his shoe tops. “I wonder how those unmarried, celibate chaps learn how to do it?”

“That’s why they got their seminaries, ‘enry. So they can learn important things like this.”

“Oh, that’s why, then,” Beauchamp replied. “There must be better ways to learn, wouldn’t you think, Charlie?”

“Oh, I quite agree, ‘enry. And I allow as how we’ve found all of the better ways.”

Koznicki finally found an alb that fit. He wondered which gorilla it might have been made for.

“Should not the Reverend Toussaint be here by now?” Koznicki asked Father Koesler, whose familiarity with the vestments had helped him finish vesting several minutes earlier.

“He certainly should. We were supposed to meet in the chapter house at 7:30, and here it is ten to eight. It’s not like Ramon to be late.”

“You say the last place he was seen was at Madame Tussaud’s?” Koznicki slipped the alb on and fastened it tightly at the neck. Only the top portion of his white shirt collar showed.

“Yes; Irene Casey saw him enter the musuem, but she lost track of him inside. And when it was time to leave, he wasn’t on the bus, and the guide couldn’t locate him.”

Koznicki shook his head. “He may join us during the ceremony. I have instructed the sacristan to keep an eye out for him. If and when he arrives he will be shown to his place in the sanctuary.”

Koesler noticed the two British detectives bunching up their albs under the cincture to cover the pistols attached to their belts. For the first time, he became conscious of the fact that Inspector Koznicki was not carrying a gun.

Any number of times in Detroit, Koesler had seen his friend in shirtsleeves with his revolver in a shoulder holster. Now that the priest became conscious of it, he wondered that he had not sooner been aware that Koznicki had been without a gun during this trip.

“Inspector,” said Koesler, “what happened to your gun? I don’t think I’ve seen you wearing it on this trip.”

Koznicki smiled. “It is against the law. Father.”

“But you are the law.”

“Not here. It is against the law in both England and Ireland for anyone but a very few authorized police officers of these countries to carry firearms, except as they are issued in extreme situations.”

“Even you?”

“Even I.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel . . . different? I mean, back in Detroit you wear your gun, well, practically . . .”

“. . . in the shower. Yes, it does feel odd, when one is accustomed to the weight and cumbersomeness and significance of a weapon almost constantly, to be without it. But, after a while, one gets used to it. I, in fact, enjoy being without it.”