William Kienzle - Shadow of Death

As the doctor proceeded through his medical litany, Koesler first flinched, then felt his stomach turn. He feared he was going to be physically ill. His companions were taking notes very professionally.

“. . . right femur . . . that’s the thigh; and tibia . . . that’s the lower leg; both patellae . . . that’s the kneecaps, several metatarsi in each foot. Then dislocations: one hip and one shoulder.”

“That it?” asked Somerset.

“That’s all we have found so far.” He stopped, suddenly aware of Koesler’s wanness, and looked at the priest with professional concern. “Are you all right, Father?”

Koesler half-nodded in a peremptory manner, while his right hand made an impatient I’m-all-right-please-go-on gesture.

The doctor looked at him doubtfully, but resumed. “The good side of it is that, as far as we can tell, incredibly—miraculously—there’s been no internal bleeding, and no collapsed lung. With all those fractured ribs, you fear a thing like that.”

“Well, then,” said Beauchamp, “it’s a professional job, no doubt of that. But tell us: What is the prognosis?”

“Too soon to say, actually. I’d guess his age to be in the late forties, early fifties—”

“He’s fifty-six,” Koesler said quietly.

“Really! He does appear younger. But even at fifty-six . . . now that’s a fairly young age when one speaks of recovery from a thing like this. And, outside of the massive multiple injuries, he seems in excellent physical condition. All in all, I would guess there to be something like a 40 percent chance of survival.”

“That’s all?” Koesler, newfound hope ebbing, seemed stunned.

“Father,” the doctor replied, “let me assure you: for the severity of the beating your friend received, he is very, very fortunate merely to be alive. From the extent of his injuries, I do not believe his assailant or assailants meant for him to survive. And now, we are faced with, in effect, trying to put Humpty Dumpty together again.

“And even if he survives, we cannot be sure he will suffer no permanent physical or neurological after-effects.”

Koesler fought waves of nausea. “Then I’ll stay here.”

“What? Here at the hospital?” asked the doctor.

“No, here in London.”

“You’re on holiday then?”

“A charter,” said Koznicki. “We were scheduled to leave tomorrow for Ireland.”

“Then, by all means, go. Believe me. Father,” said the doctor earnestly, “your staying in London can serve no useful purpose whatever. There is nothing you can do for Mr. Toussaint. He will, believe me, not be at all conscious of your presence . . . or your absence. I do not even expect that he will regain consciousness for several days—if at all. And when and if he does, we will then have to ascertain to what extent, if any, he has sustained brain damage. Although, it is odd . . .” His brow furrowed and his voice trailed off in puzzlement.

“What is odd?” pressed Koznicki.

“Oh, only that with what seems to have been a brutally methodical shattering of most of the bones in this man’s body, there is no damage to the cranial bones—as if whoever did this deliberately left that part of his skull uninjured.

“Well, in any event,” he looked again at Koesler, “after we get done patching him as best we can now, he’ll be in an intensive care unit, with virtually all visitors barred. After that—IF he survives to that point—it will be a long period of bed rest while we hope and pray no blood clots form.

“So, truly, Father, there is absolutely nothing you can accomplish for your friend by remaining in London.”

“But—”

“The doctor is correct, Father,” said Koznicki. “You should go on with us. Don’t forget: We still have Cardinal Boyle to protect. If there is any dramatic change in Reverend Toussaint’s condition—for better or worse—we’ll be only an hour away by plane in Ireland.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Koesler, without a great deal of conviction.

“Meanwhile, we’ll notify Mrs. Toussaint, and make arrangements for her to come and be with her husband,” Koznicki added.

“That very thought was just crossing my mind.” Koesler sounded slightly heartened.

“Oh, and by the by, doctor,” said Somerset, “the blackguards who did this aren’t likely to be delighted when they discover he’s still alive. So we’ll be keepin’ security on him around the clock.”

The doctor nodded.

Koznicki smiled. “That is very good of you, Superintendent.”

“Not at all. That’s perfectly all right, Inspector. And not to worry: we’ll get ’em. We’ll get ’em as have done this to your friend. And you can put your bottom dollar on that!”

10.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Kamego. Welcome aboard for this little hop over the Irish Sea. Our flying time will be approximately fifty minutes. I’m afraid our altitude will not be sufficient to climb out of these clouds. So, while it was raining in London as we departed, it will be raining in Dublin when we arrive. But, as they say in Ireland, it is a soft day. If you’ve never experienced it, take my word, you’re in for a treat. I just want to assure you, there is a sun up above these clouds. Take it on faith.”

“And you must take what I am saying on faith also, your Eminence,” said Inspector Koznicki. “You still need every bit as much protection and security as you have needed since we uncovered this plot.”

Boyle loosened his safety belt and turned partly toward Koznicki. “You don’t believe the danger is over . . . or at least diminished?”

“No, I know it is not, your Eminence. With all due reverence, you are still alive.”

Boyle thoughtfully ran an index finger across his lips.

“Their plan is to do away with you,” Koznicki continued. “They have attempted twice to do just that. They failed the first time and tried again. They failed the second time. We have every reason to believe they will try again.”

“I suppose you are correct.”

“I know these precautions we urge on you are irritating and that they restrict your movements on what was planned as your vacation, but you must understand their necessity.”

Boyle gestured broadly, indicating his numerous relatives aboard the chartered plane. “Neither are they amused.”

For Boyle’s brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, and cousins, this trip had been planned as an unalloyed vacation. The reality of being involved in a murder plot, even superficially, had dampened their enthusiasm appreciably.

“It cannot be helped,” said Koznicki. “We can be sure that for Reverend Toussaint there is also little amusement.”

“Poor man.” Boyle shook his head slowly. “That poor, poor man! When I heard what happened to him, as you know, I would have canceled the tour at that point if you had not convinced me that we must continue on as scheduled.”

“As I said last night, Eminence, this is turning out to be like an unpleasant but unfortunately necessary operation. We will expose those who are responsible for this plot by luring them to the surface and flushing them out, as was done in Rome and is being done in London.”

“And I am the bait.”

“Unfortunately, Eminence. But we are closing in; we’re getting to the root of it.

“And now, if you will excuse me, I must go speak with Father Koesler.”

As Koznicki rose and left him, Boyle picked up his breviary. Many priests, particularly the younger ones, had discarded this collection of daily prayers which was, technically, obligatory. And though most of those who read it did so from an English translation, Boyle continued to read it in Latin. He turned to his favorite psalm and prayed it: “Etsi incedam in valle tenebrosa, non timebo mala, quia tu mecum es. Virga tua et baculus tuus: haec me consolantur.”