The Fifth Gospel(60)

            “What?” I shout. “What’s wrong?”

            There’s a noise. I don’t understand what it is.

            “He’s here!” Peter screams. “He’s here!”

            I pull him to my chest for protection. I fling my other arm into the murk.

            “Where?”

            “I saw his face! I saw it!”

            The sound is coming from beyond the door. From the outer room.

            “Shhh,” I whisper, drawing Peter to my shoulder.

            The shutters are still locked. The door is still closed.

            “Father!” comes the voice. “What’s happening in there?”

            “It’s okay,” I whisper. “Nightmare, Peter. Nightmare. Nobody’s here.”

            But he shakes. The fear is so strong, his body is stiff.

            “I’ll show you,” I say, turning on the bedside lamp.

            The room is untouched. Agent Fontana beats on the main door again.

            “Father! Open up!”

            I stagger out to the door, Peter clinging to me. When I open it, Fontana makes a fluid movement: his hand, moving away from the holster at his hip.

            “Nightmare,” I say. “Just a nightmare.”

            But Fontana isn’t looking at me. He’s looking over my shoulder. He goes first to the bedroom, then checks his way back out. Only when the examination is done does he say something for Peter’s benefit.

            “Everything looks safe, Father. Very safe.”

            I kiss Peter on the forehead. When we close the door again, though, I hear Fontana say into the radio, “Send someone to double-check the courtyard.”

            It’s half an hour before Peter gets back to sleep. He leans against me while I stroke his head. We keep the lights on. At home, there’s a book we read to ward off nightmares. It’s about a turtle who survives a thunderstorm. But the turtle isn’t here, so I gently knead the bridge of his nose and sing him a song. As I do, I wonder if Michael Black was right.

            “Maybe,” I think out loud, “we should take a vacation.”

            He nods. “America,” he says dreamily.

            “How about Anzio?”

            A beach town thirty miles south of Rome. I’ve saved enough money that two or three days won’t break us. I’ve been considering a special trip anyway. My boy will be leaving for primary school soon.

            “I want to go home,” Peter says.

            A flashlight down in the courtyard sends a beam strafing across the shutters. There’s the faintest hiss of a gendarme radio.

            “I know, Pete,” I whisper. “I know.”





CHAPTER 12





MY OWN DREAMS are uneasy. They’re all of Ugo.

            For a time, after the night he and I spent down in the Vatican Library, we worked together so closely that I mistook our acquaintance for friendship. The morning after our adventure in the library vault, we went together to explain his discovery to Uncle Lucio. The Cardinal Librarian was the man we should’ve told, but His Eminence would never have let Ugo keep his job, let alone keep his hands on the manuscript. All lay workers have to sign ninety-five moral conditions of employment, and librarians tend to be sticklers for the ones about papal property. Lucio, though, had a moneymaking exhibit on the line and could be counted on to protect the golden goose. What I hadn’t predicted was what else he would do.