THE OTHER FACE OF GOD
(Circles of Destiny series)
C. Robert Lee
THE OTHER FACE OF GOD
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Published by Imajin Books at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by C. Robert Lee. All Rights Reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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FIRST EDITION ebook
Book 1 in Circles of Destiny series
Imajin Books - http://www.imajinbooks.com
October 2011
ISBN: 978-1-926997-15-5
Cover designed by Sapphire Designs:
http://designs.sapphiredreams.org
Praise for THE OTHER FACE OF GOD
"Haunted me to the point of tears...this writing achieves great power." —Norman Corwin, writer, producer, director
"Powerful...masterful...unique...a heart-breaker and a hope-maker." —Betty Dravis, career journalist, author, award-winning activist
"Superb, intensely meaningful and timely." —Dr. Allan Koenig, advisor to several orders of Catholic nuns, Dean of USC's School of Music and the Arts
"How a book can be so universal, and yet, so deeply personal at the same time defies description." —Iris Gabriel, teacher, journalist, actress
"Meaty, powerful...in places it reduced me to tears, and then it would raise me to places that allowed me to share in the ecstasy and the humor." —Tamara Comstock, poet, editor
"Entertaining, enriching...a remarkable achievement." —Father Anthony Thielen, Ph.D. in Philosophy and Theology, professor at 5 Catholic Universities
To: Ileana, a helpmate and a joy.
A loved and loving
wife and friend.
Acknowledgements
I'd like to thank Lilita Fraser Mellon and her family in Lima, Peru, for all the help they provided over the course of many months while I researched the material for this novel. Lili's best friend, the vice president's daughter, Tessie Gallo, taught me a lot about Peruvian politics and arranged a personally guided tour of the Presidential Palace. Lili's brother, Lucho Fraser, owned and operated a crop dusting company and was generous with his time and airplanes.
Father Tony Thielen was my first reader. Thanks, Tony, for reassuring me that I had tapped into the angst-driven minds of the catholic priests of the 60s and 70s and for all your advice and enthusiasm for the project.
Thank you, Norman Corwin, for reading the first chapter of this manuscript to your advanced writing class at USC Idyllwild and for your comments.
Thanks to Harold Robbins, Irving Stone, Irving Wallace, Aaron Spelling, Richard Newton, Evelyn Eaton, Tamara Comstock, Iris Gabriel, Iren Marik, Lajos Egri, Marguerite Taylor Courtney, and Gail and Rod Burnham for all the hours we spent in conversations about many important topics including this novel. All of you are dead now. It is my hope that we will meet in an afterlife so I may tell you how it all came out and if it was worth all the effort.
Patricia La Barbera is my new editor. She's tightened up my verbosity without bleeding the story line or changing any of the characters. Thank you, Patricia, for your sensitivity and respect.
Jennifer Johnson from Sapphire Designs is my cover designer. Thank you for recognizing the heart and soul of this book with your picture of the little boy who has died of starvation.
Thank you, Kelly Komm, my trailer designer. From what I know of your other trailers, The Other Face of God's trailer will be a knockout.
Thank you, Cheryl Kaye Tardif, for being a friend to Betty Dravis, who helped me refine my manuscript in 2001, and for accepting her word that it was a powerful, unique story that you chose to publish. The details of Betty's and my relationship can be had by clicking on this permalink. http://tinyurl.com/ycrra4d
CHAPTER ONE
Lima, Peru. 1968
The boy had been wandering about the streets of Lima for months. Or was it years? He no longer remembered where he came from or if he ever had a family. One fact he knew for certain—he was always hungry. He wanted to lie down and sleep forever, but some strange force kept him going. Today, in the dark just before dawn, he felt cold and stiff as he crawled from his tattered bed of newspapers and crumpled cardboard.
In his heart he knew this would be the luckiest day of his life.
Several days before, he had a dream about receiving a special prize. That same day he heard some lucky fellow got a norteamericano twenty-five-cent piece at the great cathedral in the heart of the city. Another street boy told him, "That's where God lives."
He'd been thinking a lot about God lately.
Despite the fact it would be a long and tiring walk, he decided that was where he'd find his special prize—in God's house.
He was a bother to most people. He knew this by the way they'd draw back and say, "Get out, you beggar." Sometimes, beautifully dressed ladies and gentlemen coming from a late movie or supper club would smile, toss him a few coins and walk away.
Once a woman said, "My God, what a mess. He smells like rotting garbage. It's a pity."
He kept his distance. If he angered them, they wouldn't throw him a coin. Then he'd have to forage through the dump or wait until Tuesday when the garbage was set out. For reasons he couldn't understand, his stomach pains had crept into his chest. Running caused a piercing flame to ignite within his chest and spread to his head and eyes.
His stomach was growing rounder, even though he was eating less. It amused him when he had to use a longer piece of twine to hold up his pants. He was proud to have his pants fit and he had taken to wearing his shirt open so that people might see.
He wanted to learn how to read signs and prices. He was old enough to be in the fourth grade and planned to be a soldier. He heard that soldiers always had food and were given fine uniforms to wear.
It was his first trip into the heart of the city. He was frightened, until an old man with a cane gave him three pennies and smiled at him in front of the Palace of Justice. His spirits soaring, the boy gazed at the Congress building. It was beautiful. Everything had new beauty now that he had three pennies.
He tried to whistle, but his dried lips were too cracked and sore to pucker.
He sat in front of a curio shop until a woman chased him away with a broom. Farther on, he rested in an alley and fell asleep.
Father Doug Ryan, a young priest from the Los Angeles Archdiocese, reread the newspaper clipping. He found it hard to believe that a priest would use mission funds to buy guns for communist guerrillas. If Padre Quispi ordered the killing of haciendados as claimed, would Ryan escape the mountains alive? In a few hours, his appointment with the Cardinal Archbishop of Lima would be the first step in a difficult and dangerous investigation for his friend, Bishop William O'Connell.
He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.
If the story were true, he was in over his head.
In the dining room of the Barone Hotel, Ryan enjoyed a hearty breakfast, despite feelings of loneliness. Even though he was fluent in Spanish and loved Latin people, he felt lost in a strange land. On his flight from Los Angeles, he had realized that his priesthood was burning out from under him. Through his cardinal's eyes, he was just another disobedient worker headed for the trash heap of the church's historic traitors.
Had he really made a pact with the devil when he obeyed his cardinal's orders that he not report to the police the sexual abuse of a young boy by a pedophile priest? His sense of decency and commitment to truth was closing the gateway to his soul. Now he was poisoned by angst-driven guilt that assaulted his spirit without mercy.
Walking in the direction of the cathedral, Ryan stopped in the shade of centuries-old ceiba trees and breathed in the fragrance of a rose garden. Short-legged Indian servant maids wandered about, their baskets filled with fruits and bright flowers. Some of the misti women were long legged and dressed well enough to pass for fashion models. Mistis lived in urban areas, while Indians dwelled in the rural parts.
Ryan walked up the gaudy Jiron de la Union. Its shops were a tourist's delight, with superb quality and low prices. Jewelry of exquisite beauty fashioned from silver inlaid in copper crowded the windows. Ryan admired the many examples of Indian weaving and furry artificial llamas. He planned to return to buy small llamas for his nieces and nephews.
He looked at his guidebook, then headed for the Plaza de San Martin.
Startled by a honking horn and a truck's massive tires only inches from his spindly legs, the boy continued his journey, a bit stronger after his rest in the sunlight.
Someone mentioned lunch. He'd once heard an older boy say that the best time to beg was before and during lunchtime when people came to the great cathedral to talk to God. Excited that he would get to talk to God, he walked faster. His heart thumped in his chest.
When he saw the twin towers of the great cathedral, his head swam, though he tried to ignore this. He would rest at the cathedral.
Facing the awesome, ancient structure of the Plaza de Armas, he experienced a feeling of accomplishment. It filled him as he feasted his eyes on its sun-drenched beauty. He was now in the presence of God. Something wonderful was going to happen to him.
He crossed the street into the plaza. The policeman directing traffic smiled at him as though he really belonged.
This will surely be the luckiest day of my life.
The plaza was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. He looked up through trees and rubbed his callused feet over soft grass. The wonderful smell of cooking meat reached him from a nearby food vendor's cart.
Approaching, he sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. His mouth watered and saliva dripped from his chin onto his chest. He reached into his pocket. Withdrawing his three pennies, he held them up in his palm for the vendor to see. The man shook his head and held up ten fingers.
The boy's smile disappeared. Disappointed, he was about to turn away when the vendor handed him a skewer with three small cubes of charbroiled beef heart. The man took one penny in payment.
The boy had never tasted food so delicious. This was truly his special day.
He stopped at a circular pool, kept full by an endless stream gushing from the mouth of a bronze dog. Cupping his hands, he brought the cool liquid to his cracked lips and sipped. Then he rinsed off his sweaty face.
Refreshed, he walked to the stone steps of the great cathedral. His special prize was close at hand.
His heart thumped in his chest. A terrible pain shot through his arm. Climbing the shallow steps suddenly seemed more than he could manage. He was dizzy. And he was hot, then cold. Hot…cold…
Reaching the broad stone steps, he stumbled into a wall next to a door. He slumped to the ground and tried to sit up. The massive twenty-foot-high doors, studded with half spheres of rusty iron, opened and closed numerous times as people passed him without taking a second glance at his outstretched hand.
He wanted to go inside and talk to God. He wanted to ask Him for the special prize he was expecting. But he did not have the strength to get up.
When the boy saw a limousine turn the corner and stop in front of the cathedral, his hopes soared—until he saw a truck full of soldiers following with two machine guns mounted on the roof.
Are the soldiers coming to get me?
Lightheaded, the boy struggled to stand.
The soldiers dismounted and formed a circle. When they saw no irregularities, Master Sergeant Salvador Vargas, a medium-sized bull of a man, gave the all-clear sign. Then Colonel Victor Lopez moved up the steps inside his circle of bodyguards, like a yolk within an egg.
Vargas saw the boy stagger at the top of the steps. "Halt and ready!"
He lunged up the steps with his machine gun pointed at the boy, who was swaying and breathing in convulsive gasps, his face ashen.
"Que haces aqui?" Vargas demanded. What are you doing here?
The boy leaned against the wall, gasping for air.
Vargas, alert for a decoy to throw Colonel Lopez off guard, kept the machine gun at the ready. The other six guards, expecting an assassination attempt, pointed their Uzi machine pistols away from the colonel in all directions.
"Pido comida," the boy whispered. "Mareado. Mi premio especial." He fell at the sergeant's feet.
"We have no food or special prize." Vargas kicked the boy in the ribs. "Levantate y vete!" Get up and leave!
There was no movement from the boy, save the desperate sucking of air. Soldiers searched him, but found nothing suspicious. Vargas pointed to the boy's tightly clutched fist. A soldier pried it open. Two pennies rolled onto the rough tiles.
"He's faking just to get a handout," Vargas shouted to a gathering crowd. "Move on and mind your own business."
They dragged the boy by the feet to the corner of the building, his head bumping over the uneven tiles. They left him on the ground, out of sight, and continued into the cathedral where many people were praying.
"No one is to leave or enter until the colonel has finished his business," Vargas told the soldiers.
He stepped outside and gave the all-clear sign.
Surrounded by soldiers, Colonel Lopez was escorted into the cathedral. Iron-plated jackboots clacked on the worn tiles and echoed in the air. At the arched openings facing an inner courtyard, they turned into the sunlight and passed the fountain of St. Francis. Birds of many songs and colors deserted the cool waters.
Father Tito Prieta waited for the norteamericano priest, Father Doug Ryan. When he heard the insistent rapping on his door, he expected to find the young priest, not Colonel Lopez.
"I must talk with Cardinal Tavarez," Lopez said.
Father Prieta stared at the colonel's finely-tailored, white-linen uniform with gold buttons and gold epaulettes. What a pompous peacock.
"His Eminence has an appointment with a norteamericano priest and his schedule is full for the next two weeks."
"What does the priest want with the cardinal?"
Father Prieta shrugged. "That is not for me to say."
Lopez glared at him. "It is in your best interest to tell me."
After a few minutes of verbal intimidation, Father Prieta gave in. "Father Ryan is representing a Los Angeles bishop, the financial power behind Padre Quispi."
Colonel Lopez considered the benefits of having Father Ryan arrested and held for questioning. When he tried to step through the doorway, Father Prieta blocked his way.
"El Presidente sent me," Lopez snapped. "Announce me. Or I announce myself."
"But I—"
"If you value your Indian tongue, Prieta, be kind to it and don't overwork it."
Their eyes met in mutual hatred just as Cardinal Archbishop Tavarez appeared, obviously summoned by sounds of anger.
"Come in, my son. Please have your men wait in the courtyard." The cardinal forced a smile. "Father Prieta, please ask Father Ryan to wait."
After the priest had left, the cardinal gestured for Lopez to sit and offered his massive emerald ring for a kiss. Lopez chose to stand and ignored the ring.
Visibly annoyed, the cardinal settled his fleshy body in a chair. "Something of importance, my son?"
"El Presidente is concerned that you have not acknowledged his invitation to attend the ceremonies next week."
"Oh, dear me, I almost forgot. How unkind of me, but I don't see how I can. Will you please convey my deep regrets?"
"No, I will not. My counterrevolutionary forces expect the blessing from you."
"I've been meaning to discuss this matter of blessing troops with El Presidente."
The colonel had expected resistance. In a subtly mocking tone, he lied. "El Presidente suggested that I ask about the health of your brother and his family. Your fifteen nieces and nephews, I believe. Fine Catholics, every one."
"Yes, they are well, thank you."
"But I wonder for how long? You see, we've had word that the communists are agitating the Indians near your brother's fundo. The rebellion is spreading out from Ayacucho. Just yesterday, they murdered fifteen children in Sachabamba, some with their throats slit and their ears cut off. That Indian priest of yours, Quispi, has joined the communist guerrillas and is using mission funds to help them buy guns."
"I've heard that story."
"What about all those Indian communists Quispi encouraged to squat on the de la Cruz's Hacienda Pavine?"
"Regrettably, that is true."
"Your priest is responsible for many killings."
The cardinal sighed. "I've relieved Quispi of his duties. He won't respond to my orders."
"It's a good thing that my men do not obey like yours, or we'd all be dead by now. Quispi can't hide in those mountains forever. One of these days, I'll have the time and manpower to go after him."
Cardinal Tavarez turned away from the colonel's piercing brown eyes. "I see."
The fountain with its cascading water and joyous singing birds had always given him a feeling of peace, but now all he could see was a soldier's back and a submachine gun.
The burning stare of the colonel compelled him to face the man.
The air between them was heavy with intimidation, an art at which both were well practiced, but for different reasons.
Just the day before, the cardinal had fought with Bishop Zavala of Cuzco over Padre Quispi. He came away from the meeting believing that Zavala was more of a communist than Quispi. He learned that Bishop Zavala had sold Church lands to the Indians at a fraction of their true market value. And he had approved Quispi's latest blunder of suggesting the Indians farm part of the land that belonged to the de la Cruzes. The cardinal recalled Bishop Zavala's claim that the de la Cruz land had been leased to the Church for a hundred years and was legally his to sublease.
But so what? Why are the large landowners jumping on me? Why do they always have to put me in the middle? Lease or no lease, they're determined to drive the Indians off.
Ignoring the impatient sound of Colonel Lopez's tapping foot, the cardinal wondered if he should share any of the details of his meeting with Bishop Zavala and with Colonel Lopez. He ran the details through his mind.
Padre Quispi had not denied telling the Indians to kill the haciendados. Zavala said it was because the haciendados were having the Indians' milk goats killed and babies were dying. The cardinal believed that Quispi would lie and Zavala would swear to it. After all, they were both Indians. Maybe he should get rid of Zavala too. He should never have let the Indians get so deep into the Church.
If godless atheistic communists didn't agitate the people, things would be peaceful.
Impatient for the cardinal's response, Lopez stomped his iron-plated boots on the tiles and moved to the door. Wait till we put the electric cattle prod to his balls next week. He'll bless the troops then.
Lopez turned and noticed the cardinal's blank stare.
With a startled look, Cardinal Tavarez said, "One moment, Colonel Lopez. Tell El Presidente that I will call and explain my position."
"No."
"What?"
"El Presidente said to tell you that he would be out of the city until just before the ceremonies next week." A conciliatory tone crept into Lopez's voice. "If you do not bless my counterrevolutionary forces, it is hard to say what they might do if there is a communist uprising. Won't you help us try to keep the Church alive?"
Mocking humility sugared the colonel's next words. "Look what happened to the Church in Mexico. Where is the Church in Cuba? How about Russia and China? Surely you do not wish that for Peru?"
He studied the room with its antique furniture, Persian rugs, exquisitely detailed tapestries and handwritten leather-bound books from other centuries.
"I see you are a man of culture and taste. If the communists take over, all of this will go. And you with it."
The cardinal released a hopeless sigh. "I will do my best to adjust my schedule."
"Incidentally, Your Eminence, Father Prieta tells me there is a norteamericano priest in town to see you. Do you know what he's doing here?"
"His Bishop is the financial support behind Padre Quispi. Father Ryan wants to pay his respects and ask me some questions."
"You don't support Quispi and his mission?"
"No. If it were not for this Bishop O'Connell of Los Angeles, there would be no mission up there in the wilderness."
"Why didn't you stop it?"
"I tried. Quispi is just a peasant Indian that some old Italian monk picked up out of the gutter. He got Quispi out of jail, more or less adopted him and encouraged him to become a priest. When I tried to block Quispi, the monk finagled a letter from Rome, ordering me to approve the establishment of the mission."
"So that's what's really going on." Lopez paused to absorb this new information. "Thank you, Your Eminence, for your candor. Would it be asking too much of you to let me know what this priest wants after you talk with him?"
"Not at all, my son."
Lopez put his lips to the cardinal's emerald ring, while mustering an expression of false sympathy as he engaged the cardinal's worried eyes.
Father Prieta paced the hallway until Colonel Lopez reappeared. After he showed the colonel out, he listened by an open window.
"After the norteamericano priest, Father Ryan, meets with the cardinal," Lopez said to Vargas, "arrest the priest and take him to our secret headquarters. He's bringing in money for Padre Quispi to buy guns for communist guerrillas."
"What if he doesn't answer our questions?"
"A few cattle-prod zaps to his celibate balls should shock the truth out of him. Don't hesitate to shoot him if it is necessary. We'll make him another useful casualty of the communists against the Church."
Father Prieta held back a gasp.
CHAPTER TWO
At the Plaza de Armas, Ryan paused at the Presidential Palace to watch the changing of the guards. He crossed the avenue and took a moment to admire the fountain of the bronze dog, the reflecting pool and the colorful flowers. With ten minutes to spare, he climbed the cathedral steps.
A female voice said, "Father, please come here."
Ryan turned from the cathedral door and saw the crumpled body of the boy. A woman in her forties hovered over him.
"Come quickly, Father," she pleaded. "This young boy needs your help."
When he saw the ashen-faced boy with his washboard-chest resting in the shadow of his bloated stomach, Ryan was shocked. The urge to run was strong, but it was countered by waves of pity and anger.
Ryan, ear to the boy's nose, felt a whisper of air still entering his lungs. "Get a doctor!" he shouted to the gathering crowd. He winced at the smell of rotting garbage that enveloped the boy. His jaw muscles tightened into hard knots.
"I'm Mrs. Serge," the woman said, watching Ryan's every move. "I found him like this."
Someone brought the sacristan and the man handed Ryan a vial of holy oil.
Ryan stroked the boy's cracked lips with the oil and marked a cross on his forehead. He stared at the vagrant's filthy feet and couldn't touch them. Glancing up, he saw repugnance in Mrs. Serge's eyes and realized, with shock, his own revulsion in touching the boy's flesh.
He recalled images from his own love-filled childhood. They contrasted with another image he carried with him from Tijuana, Mexico, where he had seen the catlike curl of a child's body asleep in a nest of yellowing newspapers. The image burned in his mind.
He stared at the boy, imagining how he was forced to live, sleeping and eating in trash heaps, sewers or cemeteries. Was this the challenge Bishop O'Connell had talked of—to see the other face of God in the hopeless child?
"I should never have become a priest," he mumbled. "Why am I unable to touch this boy's feet?" Why couldn't he gather that wasted body into his arms and walk the streets, shouting like a madman for someone to help them?
A traffic policeman arrived instead of a doctor. "Does he have a health card, Padre?"
"How would I know? Look in his pockets."
"You look, Padre."
Ryan searched the boy's pockets and found nothing.
"Without a health card, he can receive no assistance," the policeman said coldly. "He will die in a few more minutes anyway, just like the other 'hormigas.'" Ants.
"What's the matter with you? We can't just leave him to die."
The policeman's face twisted in disgust. "'Hormigas.' They're crawling all over the city. They don't care anything about birth control. Take him into your fancy cathedral." He walked away, calling over his shoulder, "What difference does it make if he dies?"
Mrs. Serge's eyes glistened. "Father, my doctor's office is near—" She caught herself. "No, I'm sorry. He's a gynecologist. He would never…we'd better take him to the public health clinic at Saint Veronica's."
Ryan looked at his watch. 12:10.
"Are you expected somewhere, Father?"
"Well, yes. The cardinal is expecting me. I'm already late and it's a matter of great importance that I see him today."
"Oh, the cardinal. I've never had that great privilege. How nice for you, a foreigner and all."
"Will you please take the boy to the clinic? I'll pay for a cab and his medical bill."
"Please forgive me, Father. I work for charitable causes, but I can't be seen…uh…I…"
Ryan sensed that she had already gone way beyond her comfort zone. When she wrote down the address of Saint Veronica's and handed it to him, her eyes misted, pleading for forgiveness. She handed him a one hundred-soles note.
Filled with resentment at the uncaring crowd, Ryan gathered the boy in his arms and nearly gagged on the putrid smell as he flagged down a cab.
"I'm truly sorry, Father," Mrs. Serge called out.
"Indeed. Aren't we both?"
The driver, a wild gleam in his eyes, ran red lights, jabbed the horn and missed pedestrians by inches.
"Slow down," Ryan shouted, "or we'll all be dead before we get there."
The driver gazed at Ryan as though he were a savior of lost souls, a look of adoration in his world-weary eyes. The crowd around the boy hadn't looked at him that way.
His anger at the crowd continued to build. Would the pompous Cardinal Simmons, with his arrogant attitude toward women, take personal responsibility for this wasted little boy? Would he still insist that women turn babies out like cookies?
Screeching to a halt in front of the emergency clinic of the hospital, the driver raced around the cab, opened the door and told Ryan to skip the fare. Surprised, Ryan thanked him and carried the boy inside to the admittance desk.
"What is your name, sir," a young clerk asked, "and the name of your boy?" The boy's stench caused the clerk to twitch her nose in disgust.
"Skip all that," Ryan said, shifting, so she could see him more clearly.
"Please excuse me, Padre. I didn't see your collar at first. Now, if you will just—"
He tried to control his frustration. "Please get a doctor." He looked around for a gurney or a medical treatment room, so he could lay the boy down.
"I need a health card before I will call a doctor."
"He doesn't have a health card," he snapped.
"Too bad. No card, no pay, no medicine."
"Listen, you stupid woman," Ryan lowered his voice, "if you don't get on the phone or the intercom and get a doctor here right now, I'm going to make a scene you won't forget." He snarled like a cornered mother bear with cubs.
Eyes wide with fear, the nurse called a doctor over the intercom. Four young orderlies came down the hallway on their way to lunch. The nurse pointed a finger at Ryan. "He threatened me. Hold him, while I call the police."
The orderlies balked at the sight of the clerical collar.
"You lousy gringo," the nurse yelled. "You'll see who is stupid when the police get here."
A man in a white coat rushed towards them. Shorter than Ryan, the doctor had a bull-like chest, a bushy white mane of hair, a craggy sun-and-wind-swept face and deep-set brown eyes.
"What the hell is going on here?" the doctor said to the orderlies. "Can't you see that boy needs help? Go on, get out of here. I'll take care of it."
"That lousy gringo threatened me and called me names," the nurse said.
The doctor turned to Ryan. "I'm Dr. Tomas Odicio, executive director of St. Veronica's Hospital."
"Father Doug Ryan."
"Is this true, Padre, what she is saying?"
The nurse glowered at the two men. "I'm calling the police."
"Regrettably, yes," Ryan said, "but will you please get someone to help this boy. He's dying."
Dr. Odicio quickly assessed the boy's condition and pointed a finger at the nurse. "You! Shut up and put that phone down if you want to continue working here." Turning to Ryan, he said, "Please follow me, Padre."
The boy was placed on a gurney and wheeled into a treatment room.
After a few minutes of prodding examination, Dr. Odicio said, "I'm sorry, but the boy is dead."
Ryan did not respond. His eyes were locked on the boy's face. The hairs on the back of Ryan's neck rose and chills rippled through him.
Dr. Odicio turned his gaze back to the boy and was stunned to see the dead boy's eyes flicker with a strange rose-colored light. A sweet fragrance emanated from his skin and filled the room. Slowly, two images of Christ on the cross formed in the hollow caverns of the boy's eyes. The images faded after a few seconds, while the eyes remained open in death. The sweet scent intensified and lingered in the air.
Ryan started to shake. "Doctor, did you see that?"
"I think so. Images of Christ on the cross in his eyes? The fragrance of lilies?"
"Yes."
"What does it mean, Padre?"
"I don't know."
Ryan's body shook uncontrollably. He clamped down his jaw and blinked back tears. He watched as the body of the boy was wheeled from the room. He had prayed many times for the newly dead, but never under such mind-bending circumstances. The odor of the child's wasted body settled over him once more, overpowering the fragrance of lilies. He searched his jacket for some source of the smell, but there were no stains.
Alone in the room with Dr. Odicio, silent screams rose again in Ryan's mind. His hands formed into fists. "Oh God, what kind of bloody, stinking country is this when a dying boy can't get decent medical care just because he doesn't carry around some stupid piece of paper? He's with You now, and again we've failed and lost another tiny piece of You. God is dead, all right. We're killing You piece by piece." He let out a hoarse sob. "I'm the worst offender because I know better and do nothing."
Ryan ripped his clerical collar off and hurled it to the floor. "I'm unworthy to wear that. I never want to see it again." He slumped to the floor and wept.
Deep in his soul, Tomas was moved by Ryan's uncontrolled remorse for the street urchin. Tears welled up in his eyes. Father Ryan reminded him of his brother-in-law, Daniel Barcea. How much alike they seemed. With the tears, came more memories of those heart-ripping, soul-crippling first experiences he endured as a young doctor working for the public health service. Children—the victims of adults—were the most devastating. One day, during his first year, he was ready to quit after a nine-year-old boy was brought in, screaming his lungs out and bleeding profusely.
"His mother's lover castrated him with a butcher knife," a neighbor explained. "All because the boy innocently interrupted their lovemaking."
This experience had followed one a week earlier that was equally unnerving. A mother had brought in her infant daughter. The father had sliced off the baby's tongue with a razor blade because she cried too much.
Tomas's father had consoled and wept with his son when he heard the stories. "A healer must be above tears, even above pain," his father had said. "You must go back, son. The world has too many salesmen, preachers, farmers, technocrats, politicians, soldiers. Too many of everybody, except healers. You must go back. You are needed."
His father's words echoed in his head, bringing to life a new capacity for feeling that he had hardened himself against. Early on, he had gone into private practice with an older doctor. Money flowed in until his first wife left him for a younger man and he turned to the bottle for comfort. That was twenty years ago. He had been clean and dry since marrying his second wife, Anne Marie. The greatest sorrow of their lives was that the gift of children had been denied them. Now it was too late.
Ryan was now silent and Tomas could sense the aching of the other man's soul.
"Thank you, Padre," Tomas said, "for helping me to see how hardened I'd become to the plight of these street orphans." Father Ryan looked up, eyes glazed as if hypnotized, and Tomas continued. "The bureaucratic nonsense has become unbearable. I had decided to resign and return to private practice, but you have wounded me, amigo."
"How so, Dr. Odicio?"
"When you said God is dead and that we're killing Him piece by piece, it slammed into my brain like a bullet. You are right."
"I wish I were wrong."
Ryan stood and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. "Doctor, may I use your phone? I've missed my appointment with the cardinal and I was told he wouldn't be able to see me for two weeks if I was late."
"Certainly, Padre Ryan." The doctor picked up Ryan's battered clerical collar from the floor and handed it to him. "Try not to be so hard on yourself."
Ryan nodded and followed Dr. Odicio to his office.
The cardinal's line was busy.
While they waited, Ryan told the doctor of his assignment. "Have you heard or read anything about Padre Quispi using his mission funds to buy guns for communist guerrillas?"
"Nothing different from what you already know."
Ryan dialed the cardinal's number several times. "Still busy. I'm feeling lousy. I'll try again at the hotel."
Dr. Odicio clasped Ryan's hand in his. "May I help you find out more about this Padre Quispi?"
"Great. I don't know where to start."
"Give me some time to think about this. I think I know a few people who are in a better position to guide you than I am."
Ryan tried to smile. "I feel like I've been through a storm and you've rescued me. I'm honored that you were there with me when I completely lost it. You brought me back by being calm."
The doctor nodded. "Where are you staying?"
"The Barone."
"It's possible a friend of my wife's can get you in to see the cardinal. This lady donates a lot of money to the Church and I'm sure you're aware of how money works magic."
"Indeed I am. How much do I owe you for the boy?" Ryan withdrew the one hundred soles from his pocket. "A lady at the cathedral gave me this for the boy."
"No charge, Padre. But I'll start an orphans' fund with it. Maybe it will bring us luck."
"Do you know what luck means as an acronym?"
"No, but I think you're about to tell me."
"It means Living Under Christ the King." Ryan smiled. "I've been thinking that you and I have to make an unbreakable pledge to each other."
"The images of Christ in the eyes."
"Precisely. Are we one hundred percent sure that's what we saw?"
"I am. How about you? Who else could it be?"
"I think we should consider the experience as a secret holy gift from God that binds us together in brotherhood. We tell not even the one closest to us until such time as He shows us His purpose. I've learned that God always has something up His sleeve."
"I can certainly testify to that," Dr. Odicio said. "I once had a wise professor who cautioned his students: 'When you think you've got God in a box, beware. The magician is on stage and the illusions have already begun.'"
"I've learned recently that God won't stay in the box." Ryan paused. "So, are we in agreement, Doctor?"
"Absolutely. Please call me Tomas, Padre."
"I'm Doug. I'm quitting the church, so you can drop the padre."
Tomas raised an eyebrow as he shook Ryan's hand. "Thanks, Doug, for waking me up."
"Anytime."
"I'd drive you back to your hotel, except I have a heavy schedule of appointments. I've thought of people who can help you. May I pick you up at eight-thirty tonight? We're going to a dinner party, family only, to honor my brother-in-law who finished the autobiography he's been working on for twenty-five years. I remember Daniel mentioning that he had met Padre Quispi."
Doug stared into the older man's eyes and what passed silently between them was beyond words. It was as if the spirit of the dead street urchin hovered invisibly above them, drawing them into an unbreakable bond. Or had the street urchin's spirit entered their hearts as if the three of them now lived within the other?
Outside, Ryan was surprised to see the cab driver.
"How's the little boy?" the man asked.
Ryan shook his head. "I regret to say he didn't make it."
"That's too bad. Most street kids have something serious wrong with them." He opened the door for Ryan. "Please get in, Father. Where you going?"
"The Barone."
On the way, Ryan exchanged names with the driver. Ernesto Velez told him that it was unusual to see a street kid near the cathedral because the police could get pretty rough when vagrants left their own areas.
"Can you show me these areas?" Ryan asked.
"Sure."
Ryan took Ernesto's business card. "I'll call." He handed him some notes, but Ernesto waved the payment off and drove away before Ryan could argue.
Maybe there were still some caring people in the world.
After Colonel Lopez left the cathedral, Father Prieta was conflicted about warning Father Ryan that guards were waiting to arrest him. When Ryan didn't arrive after a half hour had passed, he went into a private chapel and prayed about it, realizing that he had neglected to ask Father Ryan the name of his hotel. His intuition kept saying, "Warn him."
To avoid the guards, Prieta made his way into the main cathedral by way of the cardinal's study as the cardinal had left to attend a luncheon. Seeing the sacristan replacing candles, he headed for him. "Have you seen a norteamericano priest?"
He was directed to Mrs. Serge, who was still praying.
"Yes," the woman said, relaying the story of the ill boy. "There was nothing I could do. You understand, don't you, Father? My doctor is a gynecologist."
"Tell me more about the priest."
"He was tall and redheaded and handsome with the most beautiful green eyes. He took the boy to Saint Veronica's hospital. I wanted to help him, but I couldn't. You do understand, don't you, Father?"
"Yes, of course. Thank you, madam."
Father Prieta rushed down a dark corridor that led to a private phone. "I did not believe the story about Father Quispi using mission funds to buy guns for communist guerrillas. What if I'm wrong? What if I help this norteamericano priest? If he is bringing in money to buy guns, then I-I'm—no, a man who would disregard an audience with a cardinal archbishop to try to save the life of a street urchin would not buy guns to kill other people."
Or would he?
Prieta asked God for help and decided to go with his intuition. Both the cardinal and Colonel Lopez were wrong about Padre Quispi and Father Ryan.
After several phone calls, Prieta finally connected with Dr. Tomas Odicio. After introductions were made, he said, "Colonel Lopez is going to arrest the norteamericano priest who brought in the sick street orphan. Lopez thinks he's bringing in money to buy guns for guerrillas. Can you warn him to go into hiding? Is he there, Doctor?"
Tomas hesitated. What if this guy is not who he says he is? Was he one of Lopez's men trying to track down Doug?
"No," he said finally. "The padre has gone and I don't know where.
"Soldiers with submachine guns are waiting here to arrest him," Father Prieta said, sounding frantic. "Four more are about to arrive at your hospital. I forgot to ask him where he was staying when he made his appointment with the cardinal." His voice trembled. "Do you understand that this could be a matter of life or death, Doctor?"
"Yes, I do."
"Are you in a position to help him?"
"I don't know anything about him. He brought the kid in, dumped the little bugger in our laps and left."
"How is the little street orphan?"
"He was dead by the time Father Ryan got him here."
"I'm sorry. You have a fine reputation, Doctor. I think I understand what you're doing. Please remember, just a phone call could mean the difference between life or death."
"I wish I could help you, but as you know, this is a large city, and the priest didn't confide in me where he was going."
"I understand. Just do what you can, please. Meanwhile I'll call the downtown hotels—just in case."
Ryan phoned the cardinal's office from the lobby several times, but the line was still busy. In his room, he tried again. Busy. Frustrated, he stretched out on the bed. The reek of the unwashed street urchin clung to his clothing.
I have to get rid of this smell.
He stood, undressed and threw his clothes in a heap next to the bed. In the shower, he scrubbed away the stench of death and planned his next move. The cardinal's phone was probably out of order, so he would just walk back to the cathedral, offer his apologies and try to make another appointment.
He thought of the dead boy and he offered silent prayers for his soul. His prayer habits were seldom formal out of church. As a young boy, he had talked to God as if He were a friend standing next to him. During seminary training, he had asked, "If God is our creator, our redeemer, our lover, our friend, why do we have to be so mealy-mouthed?" He never received an answer that was acceptable.
Hot water drummed on his head and down his back. The rich lather of the shampoo smelled clean and he washed the rotting scent of the boy from his body, but not from his heart or mind.
Had the boy ever had a bath?
Ryan knew he took too much for granted. "Dear Lord, I'm beginning to realize how difficult You are to follow. I know You have said, 'He who does it for the least among you does it also for Me.' I didn't know the little boy's name, yet he died in my arms." He pictured the dead boy's face. "Was that really You who appeared in his eyes? What does that mean? Please give me some answers? Are You dead? Are we killing You piece by piece?"
He thought of Uncle Will.
Bishop William O'Connell, friend of Ryan's parents, had baptized Ryan as a baby and through the years had influenced him to become a priest. All the Ryan children addressed the bishop as Uncle Will. Ryan, the youngest of ten brothers and sisters, had always accepted Uncle Will as his spiritual father, who from day one reminded him that we're all challenged to become the other face of God.
But what did that mean exactly?
Dr. Tomas Odicio dialed the Barone Hotel and asked for Ryan's room. The phone rang a dozen times.
The desk clerk came back on the line. "Father Ryan doesn't answer, sir. Would you like to leave a message?"
"Yes, please tell him to call D—" Tomas bit off his name. "Never mind. Gracias."
If he left a message and Lopez got to Doug before he did, it could implicate Tomas and then he'd be no help to either of them. Damn...what could he do? The padre needed a place to hide.
Suddenly, Tomas smiled. "Chabuca's bookstore."
He dialed the number of his favorite niece.
CHAPTER THREE
To the southeast of Lima in a private bullring shaded by towering eucalyptus trees, three men with swishing red capes worked a young bull. The bull snorted, charged into an empty cape and then dug in its hooves, sliding to a puzzled stop on the damp, hard sand.
Along the nearby dirt road, two weapons carriers transporting soldiers escorted an armored limousine. The vehicles stopped next to the bullring.
Colonel Victor Lopez lowered a window to watch Generals Angostini and Gonzales take their turns with the bull. They were coached by Rafael de la Cruz.
Seeing Lopez, de la Cruz strode to the fence. "Glad you could make it, Colonel. Go on to the office. We'll be there in a minute or two."
Lopez's motorcade made its way around the bullring. Then it drove along the side of a peach orchard that veered past a horse barn, moving toward the paved parking area.
"What the hell is going on?" Lopez muttered, alone in the back seat. "If de la Cruz has those two in his pocket, what does he want with me?"
He tapped his foot impatiently as he thought about the generals. General Gonzales was the Commander General of Tank Corps One, stationed on the outskirts of Lima. General Angostini, a Supreme Commander General of the counterrevolutionary forces, was Colonel Lopez's boss.
He surveyed the de la Cruz ranch, his eyes full of admiration slowly turning to envy.
Sprawled on the outskirts of Lima, the ranch was ten miles long by six miles wide, planted in a dozen various crops from peach orchards to cotton fields. Ten years earlier, at age twenty-seven, Rafael had inherited the ranch, plus twenty-four million tax-free dollars and stock in the family corporation, Pavine Inc.
Rafael was the oldest of three sons and in his father's eyes, the one most likely to preserve and increase the family fortune. He had a ruthless macho quality necessary for survival among the barracudas of the business world. Family members had elected Rafael their chief executive officer and had no reasons for regret. In a decade he had tripled the value of the family businesses. His shares of Pavine stock had made him one of Peru's wealthiest men.
Lucky bastard.
Lopez knew that Rafael considered himself to be a fountain of favors and made it a point to cause people to feel indebted to him. Pavine Inc. held substantial positions and control in everything from a fishing boat fleet to various silver, gold and zinc mines. Not to mention a media conglomerate. In addition to the 500,000 acres of land in the Yucay Valley, Pavine also owned 5,000,000 acres of land in other South American countries.
Early in his business career, Rafael recognized that being a polo player of international reputation opened many business doors, and his machismo sex life, now greatly enhanced by his membership in Club Glad, opened doors behind the doors. Against the wishes of his brothers, he bought into risky foreign investments on his own. His grueling pace used up executive assistants the way a racing car uses up tires.
But he shunned publicity, except that which travels by word of mouth, or word of wife—someone else's. To the woman who had everything and wanted more, he was often the target of the evening. The taut muscles of his polo-disciplined, bull-fighting body never failed the women who lusted for his flesh and his favors. Everyone knew that Rafael's manipulative mind always found ways to use the conquest of a woman's body to penetrate the heart of a profitable business deal.
Damn lucky bastard.
Lopez waited in his limousine by a gnarly stand of Brazilian pepper trees. Just beyond the tree line lay the lush green polo field. When he saw Rafael and the two generals walking along the shaded path next to the polo field, he got out to greet them.
"Welcome," Rafael said graciously. "You know General Gonzales and General Angostini."
Lopez gave the men a nod.
General Manuel Gonzales was a short, powerfully built man slowly turning to fat. His round cheerful face belied a brutal nature that could erupt without warning. General Romolo Angostini, with a slim, muscular body similar in size and build to Rafael's, was fastidious in his clothing, speech and diet. He frequently made it known that he was the direct descendent of an Italian Count who had married a niece of Queen Isabella of Spain and that his family had been in Peru for 300 years.
"Shall we eat lunch before we get down to business?" Rafael asked, leading them into the ranch house.
In Rafael's office, Lopez took in the décor, while trying to tamp down his envy.
The walls were crowded with photographs of Rafael—on his polo ponies and with movie stars and political personages from around the world. The photos were penned with greetings and signatures. Oil paintings and trophies blended in with the photographs. Everything in the room, from the expensive chrome and leather furniture to the museum-quality Inca masks made of gold, was designed to impress and intimidate visitors.
"Let's eat," Rafael said, motioning to the table.
An oval conference table was set for four. Cold gazpacho soup and mouthwatering prime rib were served along with a robust French Cabernet.
Lopez dove in greedily, all the while wondering what his host was plotting.
Prior to Colonel Lopez's arrival, Rafael and the generals had decided that Gonzales would start the meeting. They had carefully rehearsed how they would proceed.
After the servants had cleared the table and left the room, Rafael gave Gonzales a nod and the man took a bulky file folder from the table, pretended to read, frowned and jumped to his feet, all the while glaring at Lopez.
"Is there a problem?" Lopez asked, his eyes widening.
Gonzales slammed the folder on the table in front of him. "You can say that, Colonel Lopez!"
"I don't understand," he said, without flicking an eyelash.
"It's what you've been doing without our approval."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Do you want me to read it to you?"
"Yes," the colonel said without hesitation.
Gonzales reached for the folder, slid it across the table to General Angostini, and said, "Please read it." He began to pace.
Angostini read, his cultured diction ringing out each syllable. "On the night of November 24, 1967, Major Victor Lopez was in Chorillos with his mistress, Rita Aguilar. She had a pet Shetland pony named Panchito that became lost. Major Lopez found witnesses who reported that they had seen the Alvarez brothers petting Panchito. The brothers admitted to petting the pony, but said they had gone home afterwards. The Alvarez brothers were found dead later that night, one bullet each to the back of the head."
Three pair of eyes turned on Lopez.
"Several days later," Angostini continued, "a farmer found Panchito grazing in his field, unharmed. The boys' father complained to the local police that Major Lopez had executed his sons because he thought they had stolen the pony. He demanded that justice be done. Major Lopez stated to local authorities, 'The Alvarez brothers were part of a communist plot to assassinate me and my mistress. The communist leaders executed them because they realized that I could make them talk and incriminate their leaders.'"
"The boys' father swore revenge. An informer told Lopez and the father was later found with his head split open behind the wheel of a stolen car that had crashed into a tree. The authorities concluded it was an accidental death, since the father reeked of whiskey and there were several empty whiskey bottles in the car."
Lopez barely twitched as Gonzales read from the file.
"Major Lopez stated, 'I was with my mistress the whole time. The communists were afraid that the father was going to give me the names of the people the sons had been associated with, thereby exposing their entire organization, and his sons' killers.' Rita Aguilar, Major Lopez's mistress stated, 'I was with Major Lopez all the time he was in Chorillos. My mother and sister were there too.'"
While General Angostini took a break and reached for a glass of water, Rafael looked for changes in Lopez's expression. The man is a stone, no emotion and he's a better liar than I am.
Gonzales continued pacing back and forth behind the colonel's chair.
Angostini cleared his throat. "And one week later Rita Aguilar and her mother were killed when their car was forced off the road by a truck. A motorist reported the accident, but the truck and its driver were never found. Rita Aguilar's sister was never found either, nor her body."
General Gonzales stopped pacing, stared at the stony-faced Lopez, then slammed his fist on the table. "We believe you killed the boys and their father," he snarled into Lopez's ear. "And you later had your mistress killed because she wanted more money from you. She saw you execute those boys, didn't she? And she threatened to tell."
A deathly silence fell within the room. Fiercely engaging each man's eyes in turn, Lopez responded without a trace of emotion. "If I were being charged with a crime, you wouldn't have invited me here. What's the big deal?"
General Gonzales said, "The big deal is that we've been watching you for some time now. Your secret Red Shirts organization bombs small select targets, kidnaps left-wing sympathizers and collects ransom for their safe return. Then your press releases blame the communists. We're exposing ourselves to make you a proposition that if you turn down we'll deny. We want you to know that we have enough on you to put your ass before a firing squad."
In one fluid motion, Colonel Lopez kicked back his chair and was on his feet with his .45 caliber revolver in hand. Raising his voice in command, he snapped, "You'll be dead before you make the call."
The blood drained from Rafael's face. "Colonel Lopez…"
"Tell him we're joking," General Angostini said, stammering.
Gonzales began to sweat.
"Dammit, Colonel," Rafael said, "This joke has gone far enough."
"This is no joke," Lopez said. "Kneel! Clasp your hands behind your heads." When the men didn't obey, he shouted, "Kneel, you bastards!"
Instantly, all three men dropped to their knees. Angostini began reciting Hail Marys, while Gonzales glared at Rafael.
"Okay, Colonel," Rafael said, struggling to find the right words to calm the man down. "Put the gun away. The joke's over. We were putting you on. We had no intention of mentioning your past. To anyone." At least not now.
Lopez let them sweat for sixty long seconds before he holstered his revolver. Then he laughed. "All right, you sorry thespians, get up. You be the judge, Señor de la Cruz. Who gets the Oscar for best performance?"
Unnerved, Rafael said, "You do by a very wide margin."
"Good, thank you. Now let's get back to the proposition."
When General Angostini spoke, the words came out in a stutter. "Y-you're obviously as…g-good as Rafael thinks you are. We w-want you to continue what you're doing, only we want to help coordinate your activities." He paused and took a deep breath. "With our help, you could be the next president of Peru."
"I could do that without your help."
Angostini shrugged. "Perhaps. But you'd have no one to protect your flanks and no business community to help you financially. Understood?"
"Sure. What's in it for me?"
"Raf will fill you in."
With a steady hand, Rafael served everyone coffee from a silver thermos. Between sips, he said, "The generals and a few of our friends and I feel you have the patriotism to stop our swing toward communism and especially land reform. Your cool courage under fire, combined with wit and resourcefulness to tell bold lies and make people believe you, has been honed to an art form. We are very impressed with your clever political savvy. Your success in orchestrating that sordid business down in Chorillos is a good example of your skill. And I'd bet there's probably a lot more we don't know."
"Beautiful planning, Colonel," Gonzales said, nodding.
"Yes," Angostini agreed, wiping his brow with a perfumed handkerchief.
"Work with us," Rafael said, smiling, "and you'll never want for money."
Just don't screw with us.
Lopez sipped his coffee and considered the offer. I never thought anyone would find out about that business in Chorillos.
Were they setting him up to take the fall for something he couldn't see? These were clever, well-connected men. Maybe they needed him, and maybe they didn't. But if they tried to charge him for the deaths in the Alvarez incident, they would have some rude surprises.
"Sounds good to me. Let me congratulate each of you on your acting ability."
"Isn't that what life is all about?" Rafael asked.
"And money," Gonzales said.
"And women," Angostini added.
Lopez couldn't agree more. "When we have power, all those things will fall into place."