13

Robert sped into Chicago and headed for South Shore, where Detective Reynolds owned a condominium. Forty-five minutes past noon, most of the city’s faithful went about their daily routine with systematic ease. City street crews directed traffic around pylons, while they repaired chuckholes in the asphalt, and scheduled maintenance before a hard winter took its toll. Hustlers hawked their wares, some legit, most illegal, all under the occasional watchful eyes of Chicago’s patrolling finest.

Detective Reynolds, a twenty year police veteran, was somewhat of a legend on the streets of Chicago. Tales of his exploits were many, however, one story stood out as Robert’s favorite.

Late one Friday night, back when the detective was still a uniform patrolman, he and his partner were cruising through one of the seedier sections of the city’s South Side, when an explosion in a house the next street over rocked the neighborhood. Reynolds and his partner were the first to arrive on the scene and found an old, beaten down house quickly being gobbled up in flames.

“My babies, my babies!” a distraught mother in a nightgown bellowed, running up to the car. “My son and daughter are up there! Help them, please!”

“How old are they?” Reynolds asked, calm and controlled.

“Six and eight,” she screamed.

“What are their names?”

“Carl and Kendra,” the mother told him, collapsing to the ground.

Detective Reynolds’ partner called for backup and the Fire Department. Reynolds looked up at the flames filling the second floor, and without hesitation, rushed inside and bolted up the stairs, fire crackling all around, screaming the children’s names. He found both kids unconscious on the floor in their bedroom, the exit blocked by the raging inferno. Witnesses outside said they heard a loud crash, looked up, and saw Detective Reynolds falling toward them with Carl and Kendra under each arm. He landed hard on the grassless lawn, breaking his right leg in two places, but saving the children, who suffered a few bruises and were treated for smoke inhalation, but otherwise were okay.

When Detective Reynolds returned to work he received the highest honors the police department and the City of Chicago could bestow, not to mention, street credibility any officer would dream of, and the nickname of a comic book superhero with the persona of a bat.

As with many women, Thorne kept the intimate details of her love life guarded, but in all the years Robert had known her, no man could ever boast the impact Detective Reynolds had on her. Where most of Thorne’s relationships lasted six, nine months at the most, the detective had managed to survive close to three years, and Robert wasn’t surprised when she accepted the detective’s proposal of marriage. Thorne was the happiest Robert had ever seen her, and he was glad she found someone to share her life with.

However, a month before they all flew to Martha’s Vineyard for a small ceremony, the whole thing was suddenly called off. Thorne spent a week at Robert’s place moping. He didn’t press her, and she never said a word about why the wedding was canceled. Thorne eventually shook it off and remained close friends with Detective Reynolds. They even took trips together on occasion, but the subject of marriage never came up again.

Robert drove into the underground garage of the detective’s complex and parked. Shadowy and dark, the drab concrete felt more like a tomb, adding to Robert’s already foreboding sense of dread. He strode out of the elevator on the tenth floor and knocked on the white and gold trim door, numbered ten-twelve. Thorne snatched open the door, all smiles, and gave Robert a long, tight hug, as though she knew it was just the medicine he needed.

Detective Reynolds, six-three, muscle plastered, with flawless, midnight black skin, emerged from the kitchen hand extended, and offered Robert his sympathy concerning Samuel. Words Robert found comforting.

Robert plopped down on the sofa and filled them in on his encounters with Samuel’s friends at school, his conversation with Donavon, and his clash with Glenn Thompson and the CIA.

“What the hell does Thompson and the CIA want with Samuel?” asked Thorne, forehead wrinkled, eyes tight.

“Exactly,” exclaimed Robert. “The whole thing smells. Evelyn is looking into Samuel’s history; as far back as she can go.”

“Maybe they’re just watching out for one of their own. A former

‘Company’ man,” said Detective Reynolds.

“Not a chance,” said Thorne, beating Robert to it. “These guys don’t take a shit unless there’s something in it for them.” Robert agreed, shaking his head. “I wish the assholes who snatched Samuel would make contact, send a note, or something. At least we’d know he’s alive. Maybe even pick up their trail.” Thorne and Detective Reynolds looked at each other, then at Robert.

“There is a note,” the detective finally said. “The FBI received it this morning.”

Robert’s heart pounded. “But I talked to Donovan earlier, he didn’t mention a thing.”

Thorne slid down next to Robert. “He knows, Donovan was there when it arrived Federal Express from a dead end address in Kansas City.

The Feds read it, and then asked everyone to leave.”

“Yes,” added Reynolds. “And when they let us back inside, everyone acted as if the note didn’t exist. I have an FBI contact, who says Donovan and his wife were briefed, but everyone else is being kept out of the loop. When I asked about the Fed Ex package, they said, and I quote, what Fed Ex package? ” Robert collapsed back into the deep blue leather couch.

Thorne put a hand on his knee. “Partner, I’m afraid it gets worse,” she said.

Robert snapped up, eyes on the two of them. Worse! How? No one spoke. Detective Reynolds shifted his eyes away from Robert’s. Thorne stood firm, her gaze never leaving his. Robert stood. “Well, is somebody going to tell me, or do I have to read your minds?” Thorne took a deep breath. “It concerns Father Tolbert.”

“Yes,” said Detective Reynolds. “We’ve been getting complaints for the last six months, accusations that he’s been molesting children in the Church. A few have mentioned Samuel as a possible victim, but nothing’s been confirmed.”

The pressure started in the back of Robert’s head and stabbed at his brain. It moved just behind his eyes, pulsating in his sinuses. “Are you saying Samuel was being molested?”

“It’s a possibility,” said Thorne, as gently as possible. “Nothing has been confirmed, they’re only suspicions.” Robert sat back down and rocked back and forth. “I don’t believe it,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Not Samuel.” Thorne massaged the back of his neck. “Easy partner, it’s just something in the wind. Let’s not bust a vessel right now.” Detective Reynolds went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of cold water. Robert drained it and shook off any notion of Samuel being molested.

“We should have another conversation with Cardinal Polletto,” said Thorne. “If rumors are floating around about molested children, he already knows about it.”

“It doesn’t mean he knows anything about Samuel,” said Detective Reynolds. “And remember, they’ll do anything to protect the Church.

You know how these guys operate.”

“You’re right,” said Thorne. “But on the off chance Father Tolbert has hurt Samuel, he may have noticed something strange or out of place, something that may lead us to the kidnappers.” Robert pounded his fist in the palm of his hand. “Let’s go see the cardinal right now. It’s all we have until we find out what the note says.” Thorne and the detective agreed. She disappeared to a back room and returned with her jacket. Detective Reynolds gave her an extended hug.

“You coming with us?” Thorne asked Reynolds.

“No,” answered the detective. “I have to hit the office and clean up a few reports.”

Thorne laid a long deep kiss on Detective Reynolds. “Be here when I get back.”

The detective smiled. “You’ve got the key. It’s your house.” In the hallway Robert asked if wedding bells were again a possibility.

“We’ve agreed that I’ll be the one to propose this time,” she said, a slight smile etched on her face. “Right now, I’m just not ready.” Robert wanted to ask more questions, but Thorne’s eyes said, save it for another time.

In the parking deck, five feet from Robert’s vehicle, six masked figures, two with shotguns, surrounded them. Robert reached for his 9mm.

“Please don’t do that, Mr. Veil, we’re only here to speak with you.

We mean you no harm,” said one of the men.

Robert recognized the voice. It’s the group who tried to save Samuel.

“Where’s Samuel?”

“Unfortunately, we haven’t a clue at the moment,” said the man.

“Then who the hell are you?” asked Thorne, tickling the shaft of the Mosberg pistol grip shotgun dangling from her shoulder.

“You mean, who in heaven,” said the man, removing his ski mask.

“My name is Cardinal James Francis Maximilian, and we are Il Martello di Dio, The Hammer of God.”