The Fifth Gospel(204)

            “I sure as hell did not.”

            Suddenly, though, it clicks. It seems so clear. Why Simon has refused to say a word about what happened. Why Michael came looking for Simon as soon as he got back from Castel Gandolfo.

            I say, “My brother saw you there, didn’t he?”

            Michael pinches the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t at Castel Gandolfo.”

            “You were inside Ugo’s car. Trying to get his gun.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “I found a sliver of your hotel key in his car. It broke off when you tried to open his gun case.”

            “It must’ve been Nogara’s. I wasn’t even there.”

            “You came to our apartment because you realized he saw you.”

            He leaps up and shouts, “Whatever he said to you, he lied!” He digs his fists into his temples. I step back.

            Immediately Leo enters the holding cell. Michael backs away and turns to stand in the corner, facing the wall. He runs his hands through his hair again and again.

            “You let Ugo stay in your room,” I say, “so you could follow him to Castel Gandolfo.”

            Michael says nothing.

            “What did you think you were going to do?” I say.

            He turns and shouts, “You think I planned to kill him? Go to hell, Alex!”

            Leo steps toward him, but I motion him back.

            “Why is Simon protecting you?” I say. “Because it was an accident?”

            Michael’s face is the color of liver. He grabs the metal frame of the bed and grips it. He turns to Leo and chokes out, “I didn’t kill anyone. His brother killed Nogara. I wasn’t even there.”

            “We’re done,” Leo says, opening the door.

            But Michael lifts a hand in the air. “Please. Give me one more minute with him. Alone.”

            Leo shakes his head. But I ask him to wait outside.

            Michael stays in his corner. He presses his back against the wall. His eyes look around the room, one place at a time, as he tries to collect himself. This was the best man my father could find for an assistant. It must’ve been obvious, to anyone who wasn’t a child, how troubled he was. How desperate my father must’ve been if this was the best he could do. Maybe Simon was old enough to see those things. But I was still a boy.

            “You know what they’re saying I’ll be charged with?” he says in a voice that rattles with emotion.

            “What are you talking about?”

            “For what happened tonight. They say I’ll be charged with an attack on the Holy Father.” His eyes are swimming. His voice tries to sound angry but can’t disguise that he’s frightened. “You know what I could get for a charge like that?”

            I do. Here, at last, is justice. The punishment for attacking a pope is automatic excommunication and possible dismissal from the priesthood.

            “I was fair to Simon in my testimony,” he says. “All I’m asking is for your uncle to put in a good word for me.”

            He says it so earnestly that I wonder what he can possibly be thinking, except that he can no longer count on Cardinal Boia for help.

            “Explain something to me,” I say.