31

 

Tomorrow he’ll be here.

Tully lay on his back in bed, hands behind his head.

And tomorrow night he’ll be gone. He can’t get out of town too soon for me.

Anne Marie lay with her back toward him. He could tell from her deep, regular breathing that she was fast asleep. Why not; he had reassured her that all was well and that everything was taken care of.

It could be true.

The trap was set. If all went as planned, by morning the perp would be in custody, Rasmussen would be alive and well, and security would get back to its single-eyed purpose of protecting the pope. He could say whatever the hell he wanted and then split.

It was not Tully’s practice to be distractedly concerned with world population or overpopulation. He was obsessed with homicide within the corporate limits of the city of Detroit.

The title of an old film came to mind. Death Takes a Holiday. That surely was not true in Detroit. Just because the pope was coming to town didn’t mean all that hatred and vengeance was going to turn into brotherly love. Matter of fact, possibly because he was coming, the homicide rate might well increase as word got around to those who couldn’t read that the cops would be busier protecting the pope than sweeping the ’hoods.

Tully regretted—he sincerely regretted—that he was not part of the surveillance at the archbishop’s mansion. But he wanted his detectives to know that he had confidence in them. For he had.

Nonetheless, he wished he were there.

For certain sure he would get no sleep tonight. How could he?

Had they figured this correctly? Was the setup foolproof? There had been so little time. Had they thought of everything? Was there anything even at this late hour that should be done? That could be done?

It was no use; he was going to lie here and torture himself with nagging doubts, second-guessing himself totally unnecessarily, all night, without sleep.

He might as well give up on sleep. That way he wouldn’t miss it as much.

Tomorrow he’ll be here.

Father Koesler was trying to read himself to sleep. It wasn’t working any which way. He found himself rereading sentences, paragraphs, over and over. And sleep was nowhere near.

Now that he was away from the theologians and the police, Koesler could revert to the way he had traditionally regarded whoever happened to be the Holy Father, the heir to the throne of St. Peter, the vicar of Christ on earth. This traditional attitude of Catholics to the reigning pope was something Koesler could not simply shrug away.

People who held on to this belief were becoming an endangered species.

The line of demarcation seemed to be drawn at the point where Paul VI, ignoring his own study committee, published his Humanae Vitae. At which point, untold scores of Catholics changed course. Catholics who had grown up believing completely and without the slightest misgiving that the pope never erred whether speaking infallibly or not, suddenly were faced with a most uncomfortable conclusion: Their pope, the one who would lead them unswervingly to the truth (and, by extension, thus to Heaven) every single time, had made a mistake. A very big and radical mistake.

With the publication of that encyclical, Catholicism split. Some gloried in the pope’s fearless stand in the face of popular opposition. Some were discouraged but decided to hang in there with a crack left open to disagree with the pope if conscience so dictated. And some left without looking back

Somewhere in that middle ground was Koesler.

And he gave little thought to infallibility. Why should anyone get upset about a function that arguably had been used exactly once in a nonvital doctrine?

The rumored subject of the pope’s upcoming message was something else again. Koesler himself would be forced to reevaluate his priesthood. After forty years! How could he be forced to acquiesce to something his carefully formed conscience—his Church-formed conscience—judged to be incorrect?

Koesler’s only hope was that somehow this intensifying rumor was mistaken.

He was convinced the law enforcement agencies could protect the pope from violence. But could anyone protect the Church from the pope?

Tomorrow he’ll be here.

Walt Koznicki, giving up on the possibility of sleep, was sitting in front of the television in the den. A movie was showing, a Western, the sound barely audible. He paid it no mind.

It was bad enough that the Cardinal, as well as two other innocent people, had been killed by maniacs. Some kids intent on becoming “somebodies” by murdering prominent people. Far more dangerous, because he had not made any mistakes and gave no indication he would make any, was someone who was quite probably intent on killing the Holy Father.

Actually, there was no demonstrable reason why there should be a link between the murder of a priest, Father Dan Hanson, and the pope. The connection was based on what the police would admit was an educated guess. There seemed to be rampant antipathy to His Holiness. There was reason, more than sufficient reason, to suspect that someone might want to kill the pope. There was no discernable motive for the murder of Hanson.

One opinion had it that whoever had killed Hanson wanted the protective loop around His Holiness to be enlarged to include all those who might be attacked—thereby weakening the ring of protection around the presumed main target. Hypothesis had it that perhaps another murder would have this effect.

Who might be the next victim? Would there be another victim? There was no way of telling. Looking now for a connection not with the pope, but with another participant in connection with the papal visit, the finger pointed at Rasmussen as a liberal theologian of the same stripe as the previous victim, Hanson.

On top of all that was Wanda’s fear of what effect the Holy Father’s statement would have on one of their own sons.

Wanda had not expressed her deepest feelings. Koznicki knew her well enough to understand that she was holding back He did not have to search for her reason: She was ashamed to admit to her most Catholic husband that she wished the Holy Father dead.

Probably she was ashamed to admit such a wish even to herself. Probably she considered it a mortal sin. Thoughts could be sins as well as deeds, he knew.

As the movie droned on, he innocently drifted into a world of makebelieve.

How is this for a scenario? Supposing the Holy Father was walking down the aisle of Cobo Arena …

In his mind’s eye, Koznicki could see it clearly. He was replaying a similar procession in Pontiac’s Silverdome some years back. There is the panoply of vestments. A sea of black and white, highlighted by magenta, deep reds and purples, and the incomparable crimson of the Cardinals. Thousands in the stands are roaring a welcome. The choir and orchestra are making faintly heard music.

In Koznicki’s fancy, he is walking in step with His Holiness. Now Koznicki sees a hand come level with someone’s shoulder. The hand is pointing a gun. Koznicki moves toward the gun. The crack of the weapon can be heard even above the roar of the crowd.

Koznicki looks back to see a red stain spreading over the Holy Father’s white robe. Resigned anguish suffuses the pope’s face as he slowly sinks to the floor.

Koznicki jerked back to reality. Though the house was cold, he was perspiring. It was a fantasy; of all the people in the world, outside of his wife or children, the Holy Father would be the first for whom Koznicki would take a bullet.

Then why did the gunman hit his target?

Did Koznicki move too slowly? Deliberately? So that his wife would no longer anguish over the possible effect a papal pronouncement would have on her son?

A fantasy. It could not happen.

But he could not erase the vision.

Tomorrow he’ll be here.

In some perverse way, Dave Wallace saw himself as a knight about to embark on a noble but perilous crusade. In spite of Sally’s fervent urging to spend a second consecutive night with her, he decided he needed this night at home, by himself. He needed to purify himself. He needed to rededicate himself.

There was no use kidding himself: The responsibility for preventing the pope from causing unending damage was pointing at him.

The late news reported that a gang of mindless young people had been arrested for several murders, including that of Cardinal Schinder. Their killing spree was supposed to have culminated in the assassination of the pope when he landed in a helicopter at Sacred Heart Seminary.

Damn! That would have preceded his planned attack, thus rendering his own action unnecessary.

It appeared that the gang’s motive was mere notoriety. What the hell difference did it make? Their motive could have been literally anything. What counted was that they would have prevented the pope from elevating that ugly doctrine to the rank and protection of infallibility.

Wallace had hoped, but had never realistically believed, that anyone but himself would carry out this mission. The kids’ action was a surprise not only to him but to everyone.

Wallace could hope, he could pray—but he would have to be prepared. His soul was in turmoil. But there was nothing he could do but wait. He knew what he had to do and how to do it. He found it difficult to pray; how does one pray for the courage to commit murder? To kill a pope?

Tomorrow he’ll be here.

Father John Selner felt just awful. He had agreed to a scholarly debate, nothing more. He respected Dave Hanson. He had excitedly looked forward to doing battle with this wrongheaded but likable liberal.

Selner had been disappointed in Cardinal Schinder, the number two man in the Vatican—and a dedicated conservative, as was Selner. He was embarrassed and distressed by Schinder’s interference in the symposium.

Now both these men were dead.

There would be no threat or meddling on Schinder’s part. Perhaps more tragically there would be no debate with Hanson.

How many times had the two of them engaged in verbal battle in the past! Yet neither had budged the other in the slightest. Nonetheless, they had remained good friends, even though, by this time, each had abandoned all hope of scoring a single uncontested point in debate—even in simple conversation.

Still they were able to laugh, pray, drink, and prize each other’s priesthood.

Gone!

The Church had lost a charismatic figure in Dietrich Cardinal Schinder. The Church had lost a brilliant scholar and Selner had lost a good and dear friend in Dave Hanson.

In his charity, Selner would now pray for both deceased priests. And then he would sleep and be ready to greet His Holiness late tomorrow.

Tomorrow he’ll be here.

But it won’t be just the usual cosmetic visit where he rides around in the popemobile waving at and blessing people. It won’t be a run-of-the-mill trip where he makes bromide statements like war is bad, peace is good, women belong either in the bedroom or the delivery room, or birth control is a no-no. Tomorrow the pope will be greeted by a crowd that is at least partially hostile.

And all of this the result of Joe Cox’s ability to stir things up! He had pretty well been in the catbird seat from the very beginning. And—a tribute to his experience and ability—it had been easy.

Of course, in the spirit of fair play, he had to tip his hat to this Monsignor Martin who had set up the symposium. It was Martin who had stacked dynamite and fire in every one of those panels. All Cox had to do was make an intelligent selection and then goad the participants and there was sure to be an explosion.

And Cox had made a good choice in igniting the discussion on morals. The pope had a habit of utilizing almost every possible occasion to condemn birth control. And the “faithful” answered him every time with a resounding, “You’re nuts!”

The only other comparable panel that Cox might have torched was the one on dogma. But how was he to know that one of the panelists would deny infallibility?

He was equally pleased with himself for having lightly romanced that EMS gal, Emily. Although he’d had to allow for luck; after all, the driver might’ve been a guy. But when you’re on a roll … It hadn’t taken long to recruit Emily. Some tenderness, feigning a genuine interest in her job, promising to investigate some of her gripes …. She’d asked Cox to do some pieces on something like police harassment or breach of contract. He had promised her he would try—knowing full well that Nellie Kane would never go for it. Promises, promises, promises.

Emily probably would have handed him his scoop under most any condition. But that her wagon had been the one responding to the attack on Father Hanson! How lucky can you get!

Luck was running a little thin now, Cox had to admit. Emily and her whole crew had been suspended pending the continuing investigation of the leak. Damn cops! They’ve cleared their own people so they’ll keep the pressure on till they find the source—Emily.

Then there was his exclusive interview with Cardinal Schinder. It had printed up better than it had actually been. So, okay, Schinder didn’t quite say what Cox had quoted him as saying. Schinder was no longer around to object or set the record straight.

What was the harm?

Just put a spin on a few of Schinder’s statements and the Cardinal becomes a bit of a prophet. So he could foresee the threat to his own life! Probably advance his cause for canonization some day. Cox had done Schinder a favor in giving him larger-than-life quotes. And Schinder had returned the favor by giving Cox an exclusive that would be page one in the Freep —and, undoubtedly, in lots of other papers.

But no way could Cox get around Lennon’s coverage of Schinder’s murder. She had scored big on that. And after coming late into the story!

No doubt about it, Lennon was good. Damn good. A smile spread on Cox’s face-as-he-recalled-and-savored-all-the-many-ways-in-which Lennon was good.

Every time his memory traveled this well-worn path, Cox would begin to get a craving for Lennon. It just happened.

The phone rang.

“Tomorrow he’ll be here, you know” Lennon didn’t bother to identify herself.

“I know that.” ESP at its best! Here he had just finished composing the image of Pat Lennon’s body. All it needed was a voice. And here it was.

“I’m worried about you, Joe.”

“That’s nice. I’ve been thinking about you too.”

She disregarded the personal intimation. “Look, Joe, you and I have been on a load of stories over the years. We’ve covered a bunch of them together, even if it was for competing papers. But …” She paused. He waited. Finally she plunged in. “Joe, I’ve never seen you develop a story like you did this one.”

Cox scrunched down in his easy chair. He wasn’t sure where this conversation was going. He didn’t really care; he was just enjoying her voice, the only part of her he had not composed earlier. “What do you mean, lover?”

Again she would overlook the endearing term. “You know what I’m talking about. We touched on it earlier. You’re managing this story, Joe.”

“Jealous?”

“Come on!”

It was definitely the wrong thing to say. He knew it as the word escaped his mouth. Lennon didn’t have a jealous bone in her well-crafted body. “Sorry,” he said. “But where do you get off accusing me of that?”

“You don’t expect me to believe all those quotes in your interview with Schinder ….”

“Why not? What makes you think Schinder didn’t say what I wrote he said?”

“He’s Nostradamus? He came here to prepare the way for the pope. What made him think his own life could be in danger, for instance? There was controversy here, okay. But not murder. Hanson hadn’t even been killed yet. And there’s a whole bunch of other quotes in there that are pretty good stuff, but strictly off the wall.”

“What are you getting so worked up about, Pat? It’s not like nobody ever juiced up an interview before.”

“It’s the whole damn thing, Joe. You goaded those guys into a fight at the rehearsal. And how in hell did you get the story on Hanson—and the method of murder? It was like you were there!”

“The lady who told me about it was there.”

Lennon wanted very much to believe that last statement. In her heart she harbored a doubt. Would … could Joe Cox actually kill somebody just to create a sensational story? She didn’t want to believe that. She wanted to believe what Cox had just told her. “I know what you’re trying to do, Joe,” she said at length. “But manipulating this story is not a real great way to regain your status here.”

“Let me worry about that. Hey, gal, when this is over—when the pope goes home—what say we get together? Not like before,” he added hurriedly before she could turn him down out of hand. “Just, say, a date. A legitimate date.”

A long pause.

“Maybe. We’ll see how tomorrow goes.”

Tomorrow he’ll be here.

When the pope gets here, he won’t have us to worry about, thought Ronnie Albright.

It was all Rick Vanderwehl’s fault.

No. Check that.

Ronnie had made a resolution some hours before. He couldn’t guarantee he would never break his resolution. But he would try to keep it.

It was, simply, to take responsibility for what he did.

He hadn’t been aware of it till today. Rick habitually blamed everyone but himself. The woman had to be killed. It was her fault. She shouldn’t have recognized Ronnie. The grocer had to be killed. It was his fault. He didn’t move fast enough for Rick.

To top it off, Rick came by it honestly. Ronnie had just spent a considerable time listening to Rick’s parents blame everybody else for what their son had done. And what had all that gotten everyone? The Golds were on the ninth floor of police headquarters, locked up. With the exception of Harpo—who apparently learned to sing before he learned to talk—the Golds were going to be away from civilization for a very long time. Rick and himself? Maybe forever.

Ronnie could and did deeply regret he had ever thrown in with the Golds and Rick Vanderwehl. If he could change anything in his life, it would be that decision.

Now he would have to live with that—and maybe die for it.

Lieutenant Tully glanced at his illuminated digital wristwatch. Just past midnight.

The day had come. Today the pope would arrive in Detroit.

According to the original plans, Tully was not supposed to have had any participation in the papal visit. He was supposed to have anchored Homicide particularly from just before the pope’s arrival until his departure.

But oddly, it was Homicide investigations—one closed, the other still perhaps involving a threat to the pope—that now drew him to the core of the pope’s visit.

The phone rang. Tully lifted it from the cradle before the first ring ended. “What?” he snapped.

“We got another murder, Zoo.”

“Who?”

“Palmer, Father William Palmer—the guy who was supposed to be on that panel with Rasmussen.”

“Damn!” Tully had never felt lower.