The Fifth Gospel(12)

            “We’re looking into that,” the gendarme says.

            “Were other apartments robbed?”

            “None that we know of.”

            I’ve never heard of a burglary in this building. Petty crime is almost nonexistent in our Vatican village.

            Peter nuzzles my neck and whispers, “I had to hide in the closet.”

            I stroke his back and ask Helena, “Did he look at all familiar?”

            The village is small. Sister Helena lives in a convent, but Peter and I know almost everyone who lives inside these walls.

            “I never got a look at him, Father,” she says. “He was beating on the door so loudly that I lifted Peter out of his chair and carried him in here.”

            I hesitate. “Beating on the door?”

            “And shouting, and shaking the knob. He got inside while I was still carrying Peter. It’s a miracle we got to the bedroom in time.”

            My heart is thudding. I turn to the gendarme. “So this wasn’t a burglary?”

            “We don’t know what it was, Father.”

            “Did he try to hurt you?” I ask Helena.

            “We locked the bedroom door and hid in the closet.”

            I look down and find my son gazing at the pale, mud-spattered figure of his uncle. Their faces are both deranged with shock.

            “Peter,” I say, stroking his stiff back, “it’s okay. You’re safe. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

            But he and Simon are locked in a frightening stare. Their blue eyes flash at each other. There’s an animal quality to my brother’s gaze, which Simon is trying but failing to master.

            “Sister Helena,” I repeat in a whisper, “did he try to hurt either of you?”

            “No. He ignored us. We heard him moving around out there.”

            “What was he doing?”

            “It sounded like he went to your room. He was calling your names.”

            I press Peter against me, shielding his face against my shoulder. “Whose names?”

            “Yours and Father Simon’s.”

            My skin crawls. I feel the gendarme staring at me, gauging my reaction.

            “Father,” he says, “can you shed any light on this?”

            “No. Of course not.” I turn to Simon. “Can you think of anything?”

            My brother’s stare is distant. All he says is, “What time did it happen?”

            There’s an unsettling note in his voice. It suggests something to me that seems irrational at first, but that spreads like ink through my thoughts. I wonder if this attack could be related to what happened to Ugo. If the person who killed Ugo might’ve come here next.

            “It happened only a few minutes after Father Alex left,” Helena says.

            Castel Gandolfo is twenty miles from here. A forty-five-minute drive. It would’ve been almost impossible for the same person to have committed both attacks. Nor can I think of a reason. The only thing connecting us to Ugo is the work we did on his exhibit.

            Simon gestures at the closet. “How long were you in there?”

            “Super long,” Peter says appreciatively. At last someone is focused on his suffering.