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The Fifth Gospel(158)

By:Ian Caldwell


            “We’re not allowed inside the apartments.”

            “Tell me the truth.”

            He hesitates. “Once,” he says.

            The emotion feels like a fist against my throat.

            “Is he okay?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Let me inside.”

            “You should go home now.”

            I feel his hand on me again. I shake it off. The other Swiss Guard, seeing this, calls into his radio for backup.

            “Father,” Loris says, “go. Now.”

            I back away. At the top of my lungs I shout at the windows on the second floor, “Cardinal Boia!”

            Two more Swiss Guards come running from the direction of the Secretariat.

            I take another step back and shout, “Your Eminence, I want to see my brother!”

            Their hands are on me. They begin forcing me toward the exit of the courtyard.

            “Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you!” I shout. “Just let me see my brother!”

            I fight to get my arms free, but they drag me across the cobblestones.

            “Please,” I beg them. “I have to see him.”

            But when we reach the perimeter of the courtyard, the two Swiss posted there close a metal gate.

            “Leave, Father,” Loris says, pointing down the path that leads back out of the palace complex. “While you still can.”

            I stagger back, numb on my own legs.

            Your brother has not told you the whole truth.

            I stare through the bars of the iron gate, feeling myself crumple. And there, across the courtyard, I see something. Up in a second-floor window, the curtains have parted. Between them, just for an instant, is Cardinal Boia.



            I MOVE NUMBLY AWAY. When I reach the outer palace gate, Mignatto is waiting. Seeing the look in my eyes, he loops an arm through mine and tells the guards, “I’ll take him from here.”

            We walk in silence back to the tribunal. I don’t know if he heard me shouting. I don’t care.

            Beside the courtroom is an office. Mignatto carries out an errand without a word to me. An archival aide hands him a folder of papers to sign. More new evidence. More new witnesses.

            “Still no surveillance footage?” he asks her.

            She shakes her head.

            I wonder how he can keep this up. How he can pretend this isn’t a travesty.

            “These are the ones I requested?” he asks, pointing to a series of photos.

            She flips through the pictures, trying to confirm. I see images of familiar evidence bags. The items from Ugo’s car. Mignatto dressed me down for breaking into the impound lot, yet now he has requested the evidence I discovered there. I glare at him. He still says nothing to me.

            “That’s correct, Monsignor,” the aide says.

            “Thank you, signora.”

            His hand is at my back again, leading me out. Finally he turns.

            “Have dinner with me, Father.”

            Afternoon has peaked and waned. He holds up a hand as a visor.