The Fifth Gospel(208)

            A single coil dangles down from the opening where the ceiling tile was. A loop of black wire.

            When the judge asked Falcone how the murder weapon disappeared right under his nose, Falcone had no answer. Because no gendarme would dare to look under a priest’s cassock.

            I thought the bruise around Simon’s thigh was from wearing a cilice. I realize now my brother tied the gun case around his thigh.

            I slump down the wall. Taking the phone from my pocket, I dial Leo. He answers almost immediately.

            “You told me,” I mumble, “you arrested Michael earlier this week. A fight over a parking ticket.”

            “That’s right.”

            “Tell me what happened.”

            “I don’t know. That’s just what Colonel Huber told me.”

            I wasn’t even there, Michael insisted.

            “I need you to find out,” I say.

            He shuffles papers and returns to the phone. “It says Black got into a fight with two officers because we booted his car. Not sure why we did it, but the report says he got violent about it.”

            I can guess why. To keep him from leaving the Vatican. To keep him away from the Orthodox meeting at Castel Gandolfo.

            “Saturday afternoon?” I say.

            “How did you know?”

            Saturday is the day Ugo was killed.

            “After you arrested him, what time was he released?”

            “Just after six, it says here.”

            By then, Ugo was dead. I was on my way to Castel Gandolfo. And the only thing on Michael’s mind was to get even with Simon.

            That’s why he came to our apartment.



            I REACH BACK INTO the ceiling. My hand follows the black chain to its source in the darkness. At the end I feel the rubberized surface of the gun case. I can’t bear to look at it. But its weight tells me the gun is still inside.

            You can’t have done this. There’s nothing more evil in the world.

            I sit on the floor with my head pressed against my knees. My body tightens until my hands are white on my cassock, balled in fists. The knuckles dig into my cheeks.

            Ugo was a good man. An innocent man. You can’t have killed a lamb.

            I push back against the racking shudder in my chest. My teeth are clenched so hard that my eye sockets hurt when the tears come out.

            I try to pray. But the prayer slips away like smoke, dissipating into nothingness. When I stare down the hallway, I see the coffee table where Ugo and I reviewed his gospel work. In my ears is the sound of his voice on the telephone, calling me at all hours with questions. The traces of him press in around me—the letter in my cassock; the work diary I took from his apartment; the stacks of homily paper in my bedroom, black with verses he wrote and crossed out and insisted I correct—as if the hours and days of life contained in them have condensed into something heavy and accusing. I lift myself into the bathroom doorway. It’s the only thing I can think to do. The only place on earth I feel I can go for help.

            Standing on the countertop, I reopen the ceiling and put the cassock and gun case back. I clean the glass dust off the floor. Then I head for the door.





CHAPTER 39





DON DIEGO ANSWERS the door to Lucio’s apartment. He explains that Lucio’s gone. Meeting with Mignatto. I push inside and tell him I’ll wait.

            The waiting, though, is endless. Diego watches me pace the apartments. Finally he says, “Your uncle told me what happened at the trial today. Is that why you’re here?”