The Fifth Gospel(227)
“THE CHARGE IS DISMISSED,” Archbishop Nowak says to the assembled group in the library. “We have heard a confession.”
All around there are looks of shock. I watch the incredulity spread.
But Simon rises.
Every eye turns to look. He is a Mosaic presence, ten ells tall. His black shape pulls electricity from the air like a lightning rod. Nowak pauses, taken aback by his forcefulness. And in that pause, my brother says: “He lies.”
Mignatto and Lucio turn against him, objecting. The promoter of justice watches in disbelief.
“He lies,” Simon repeats. “And I can prove it. Ask him what he did with the gun.”
“He has produced the gun case,” Archbishop Nowak explains.
Simon blinks. He cannot imagine the lies I’ve woven.
But he has one last hope. Turning to me, he says, “Then open it for them.”
Nowak looks as if he’s about to cut Simon off. But John Paul rakes his hand through the air, allowing it.
Everyone in the room stares, waiting.
“I don’t know the combination,” I repeat to Nowak. “Ugo never shared it.”
Simon peers down at me. And there is such heart-splitting love in that look. Such astonishment. As if I should have known it was impossible for me to succeed at this, but he is amazed, shattered, that I would have tried anyway.
His voice is slow and broken. “Holy Father, you won’t find the gun inside that case. I buried it in one of the flower beds in the gardens, where I buried Ugo’s wallet, watch, and hotel key. I can show the gendarmes the spot.”
I’m frozen. Before I can say anything, Falcone enters the room. He is carrying the case. And the clamshell is open.
“Your Holiness,” he murmurs in a concerned tone.
When he shows John Paul the contents, I feel Mignatto’s eyes on me. Yet I can’t take my own eyes off the case.
Simon is right. Where the weapon should be, there is only that cursed, rotted thing. Deathless. Invincible. Its gnarled leather umbilical cord no longer binds the manuscript tight. The stitches that attach the cover flaps together, making the Diatessaron almost waterproof, are open. Had it fallen into a puddle of rainwater that night at Castel Gandolfo, the way it once fell into the Nile, it might’ve been soaked through. But the gun case has served impeccably. Tucked inside it like a bookmark is a white sheet of paper on which I can see Ugo’s handwriting. The notes for his presentation to the Orthodox.
Archbishop Nowak carefully lifts out the manuscript. But it is John Paul who raises his good hand and motions toward the notes. Nowak hands them to him. And for a moment the room is silent as he reads.
Piece by piece, the mask of his face crumbles. He is in anguish. Nowak slowly pries the sheet away. But instead of reading it, he turns to me and says, “What is the meaning of this?”
Simon intervenes. “My brother didn’t know the book was in there. His confession was a lie.”
Falcone reaches into his back pocket for his handkerchief. He spreads it over his palm and gently lifts the gun case from the Holy Father’s hands.
I scramble for words, trying to cobble together anything that would change this. That would mitigate Simon’s guilt. But my brother’s expression as he stares at the gun case is so horrified that my thoughts go to pieces. He shrinks from the cold appraisal in Falcone’s eyes. He can’t even look at me.
The police chief shuts the clamshell. But he does not move it from Simon’s eyes. The sight is agony for Simon, and Falcone knows it.