Hounds of Rome

  Bishop Rhinehart hung up the phone and leaned back in his swivel chair. He fingered his crucifix. The Passion Brothers, he mused. Strange bunch. Strongly focused on the crucified Christ. Perhaps too focused on the Crucified Christ. Not much was known about the place far out in the Arizona desert run by the Passion Brothers. They had a reputation for being contemplative, ascetic, hard on themselves as well as the priests assigned there—somewhat on the outer fringe of the mainstream church. But he had to admit they perform an important service for the church. They take in the derelicts—the unreformed alcoholics, the pedophile priests, the embezzlers, the end-of-the-line cases, the three-time losers. He wondered what really happened to one of the priests the archdiocese had sent there two years before. The monastery reported the death as an accident. But who really knew? There was no next of kin, no one to claim the body, so the monks had buried him there at the monastery. It was similar to the ancient practice of burying paupers in ‘potters fields’. No paperwork was forthcoming and it wasn’t even clear that a coroner had gone out to that distant desert outpost.

  Considering their task, Bishop Rhinehart knew the monks had to be tough. He did not like the fact that they exercised a strong degree of independence from the mainstream church. It went against the grain with him. It reminded him of the Jesuits, although the Passion Brothers seemed to be immensely more independent. But he had to admit that he admired the way this group of monks had gone out into the desert many years before and rebuilt an abandoned mission with attached monastery. He had heard stories, of course. There had even been a few hints of brutality, but to his way of thinking the motivation and usefulness exhibited by the monks under Brother Berard justified their purportedly unorthodox ways of serving God.

  Bishop Rhinehart, now vested with the powers of the cardinal’s office, called in his secretary to make the travel arrangements for Murphy. He dictated a transfer letter addressed to Reverend Stephen Murphy in care of the Dominican House, Michigan Avenue, NE Washington, DC. The letter offered no explanation for the abrupt transfer and did not use the word temporary. Two other letters were addressed to the university departments where Murphy had been assigned. The letters expressed the bishop’s confidence that the university would be able to find a suitable substitute to take over Murphy’s classes.

  Satisfied that these actions would rid him of Stephen Murphy, the bishop next turned to pressing matters affecting the Roman Catholic Church in the Archdiocese of Washington.

  8

  Steve Murphy was sitting on the sofa in Janet’s small apartment. He fidgeted, unable to relax. After serving him a cup of coffee, she sat in a chair across from him as she read the letter. “It says here you’re being transferred to Arizona. It doesn’t say for how long. How long will it be?”

  “Beats me,” Steve replied. “I can’t figure it out. The only conclusion I can draw is that Bishop Rhinehart is after me again. He seems determined to get me out of the way. This time, far out of the way.”

  “What happens to your classes?”

  “Somebody else’s problem now.”

  “What’s in Tucson?” she asked puzzled.

  “Well, I’ve heard that the church has a monastery attached to a mission in the desert outside of Tucson. Far out of Tucson. Although I don’t know exactly where it is. It’s a place the church sends priests who are repeat offenders.”

  “Repeat offenders of what?”

  “Things like pedophilia, alcoholism, gross disobedience... transgressions along those lines.”

  “You’re not a repeat offender, are you?”

  “Not even a first time offender, as far as I know.”

  Janet walked over and sat on the sofa next to him. ”What about priests who break the vow of chastity?” she asked as she took his hand.

  “Those too, I suppose, if it’s repetitive, and especially if there are complaints. From the little I know, the place we’re talking about is intended for priests who have persisted in their sins. The ones the church has not been able to reform in the confessional or by retreats or by conventional psychotherapy. I’m embarrassed even to admit to you that I’m being sent there. And speaking of the vow of chastity, I haven’t broken the vow, except perhaps in my dreams,” Steve added with a sly grin as he searched her eyes wondering if she was tempting him. And with a fleeting thought, hoping she was tempting him.

  “I wonder if the bishop knows about us,” she said tentatively. “Maybe he thinks we’ve been having an affair. Maybe he’s trying to separate us. You know I think an awful lot of you Steve, but I’ve put on restraints.”

  “Janet my dear, this business of the transfers started before I met you. It began with the sudden transfer from my parish, although our friendship may have added fuel to the bishop’s case against me, whatever it is. And I suppose people saw us having lunch together a lot, and some may have seen me visiting your apartment. In the eyes of the church it gives cause for scandal and it’s an occasion of sin. Even if nothing really happened, the church doesn’t favor that kind of conduct. But I’m convinced Bishop Rhinehart has something bigger on his mind than our relationship.”

  He looked into her eyes and managed a smile. “There’s some truth to rumors that may be floating around,” he continued, “because I do care for you very much. I suppose I’m really in love with you, although you’ve done a masterful job of keeping me at arm’s length.”

  “You know the reasons.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “I love you, Steve, although I try to keep telling myself I only love you as a friend. I could easily fall head over heels in love with you, but I’ve struggled hard to keep from doing so. And even if my husband and I can’t get an annulment and wind up getting divorced, you wouldn’t be in the picture because you’re a priest and I will not get between you and your God...our God. Frankly, I’m carrying enough Catholic guilt without having that added on top.”

  “If I quit the priesthood?”

  “Maybe a long time after that, but I don’t see you ever leaving the priesthood. There’s one thing I realized when we got to know each other: you have always been a priest. Yes, even as a boy serving on the altar I’m sure you had a mindset about the priesthood, and you still do. It’s your whole life.”

  “The tricky part,” Steve said, “is that it’s not a decision process. We learn that we are called to the priesthood. We do not choose, we are chosen. We answer the call.”

  “I don’t understand. It sounds as if you’re denying free will. I thought you were a great believer in free will.”

  “If it will help, let me cite an example. You’ve heard of the Dalai Lama— the spiritual leader of the Tibetans. As a very young boy, he is told that he is the reincarnation of Buddha and as such, he must forgo a normal childhood and grow spiritually in order to care for the souls of his people. The boy can refuse, of course, just as a boy can who is called to the priesthood, but they rarely do. Anyway, let’s leave it at that,” Steve said finally as he walked over to the dinette counter to leave his coffee cup. He glanced at his watch. Almost time to go.

  He walked back and sat close to Janet on the sofa. She smiled at him while she almost imperceptibly leaned away. This, the point of leaving, she knew, could be a dangerous moment.

  He noticed her concerned look and realizing she needed more space, shifted away from her. “Janet, speaking as a friend, there are a couple of things I’d like you to do for me while I’m away.”

  “Anything, anything at all.”

  “I can’t take my car and don’t have time to sell it. I left it out front. Will you take care of it until I get back? I know you don’t have a car so feel free to use mine. The papers are in the glove compartment. And, since I’m only allowed to take one suitcase, can I leave some things here with you? They’re in the car trunk.”

  “I’ll store them in the spare closet.”

  “You may object, but I added your name to one of my credit cards. Keep this card. Use it for maintenance on the car or for repairs. Us
e it to keep the tags and insurance in force. It has a big limit so if you need anything at all, feel free to use the card.”

  “You sound as if I’m becoming a member of your family.”

  “There’s no one else.”

  “What about your brother in Wayland?”

  “I don’t want him involved in any of my affairs. I have my reasons. One other thing—I’ve added your name to my bank account. You have to have a way to payoff credit card charges. It has a one-hundred-thousand dollar limit so you won’t have to worry about it going over the limit.”

  “Steve, are you sure you want to handle things this way? Good grief. Where did the money come from?”

  “No, I’m not an embezzler in case that crossed your mind,” he said with a laugh. “Remember, we Murphy’s of Wayland are ‘old money.’”

  “Is there any way I can get in touch with you?”

  “My guess is no. And I don’t know when I’ll get back. I may be able to get in touch with you. I’ll try to write. Here’s the address of my brother Jonathon in Wayland. Somewhere down the road if you don’t hear from me you might get in touch with him. If I’m gone a long time you may get tired of taking care of my stuff.”

  “How can you say that? When I leave the university, wherever I go, your things will go with me,” she said, fighting a sudden strong temptation to wrap her arms around him and press her body against his. But she knew that if she did, they would cross a threshold that would forever change their lives. A brief happiness bought at a price—guilt, confusion, perhaps the loss of mutual respect, and ultimately, unhappiness.

  He thought he knew what she was thinking as he stood up, gently pulled her to her feet, and stared into her eyes for a long time. He ran his fingers lightly through her tousled hair. She closed her eyes as he held her face softly in his hands and brushed each of her smooth white cheeks with a kiss.

  When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

  9

  As the jet circled for a landing at Tucson International Airport, Steve Murphy marveled at the sight of a modern city glistening on a broad flat plateau completely ringed by high snowcapped mountains. It was his first trip to the city which he had always imagined as a movie-land cowtown—complete with clapboard buildings, cattle pens and dusty streets. “So much for fantasy”, he said to himself.

  At the gate, the card simply read, “Murphy.” The young man holding it was an unlikely representative of a monastery. Long dirty blonde hair, scraggily blonde beard, T-shirt cut off at the shoulders, tattoo on each upper arm, blue jeans and loafers. He introduced himself as Jeremy, shook Steve Murphy’s hand and led him outside the terminal to a vehicle the likes of which Steve had never seen before. It must have been homemade, at least in part, Steve thought. The car was a topless modified Chevy convertible perched high off the ground on a chassis that held four huge tires.

  “Off-road capability. You need it where we’re going,” the young man said smiling as Steve stood beside the vehicle trying to figure out how the devil to climb into it.

  “How do I get up there?” Steve asked. “Got a rope ladder?”

  “Let me climb in first,” Jeremy said. “Then I’ll lower the body some so’s you can get in.”

  “You can lower the body?” Steve asked incredulously.

  “Yeah, watch this. It’s hydraulic. I rigged it up myself.”

  Jeremy started the engine with a roar and a blast of exhaust that startled Steve. Then yanking on a lever, the young man lurched in his seat as the body ground haltingly down with a squealing noise that sounded like a wounded animal and a solid thump on bottoming out. Steve found the climb to the seat difficult. His knees had stiffened up during the long flight to Arizona. He threw his suitcase into the back seat. “Seatbelts?” he asked.

  “Nope, you’d best just hang on,” Jeremy said as he roared out of the parking lot and swung onto the road leading to Interstate 10 West in the direction of Phoenix.

  “How long is the ride?” Steve shouted, his hair flying, right hand gripping a bar on the side, left hand groping unsuccessfully for a handhold.

  “About four and a half; maybe five hours.”

  The car flew up I-10 at what must have been 85 miles an hour as Steve asked in a shout, “Why so fast?”

  “Speed limit’s 75 miles an hour. Why not take advantage of it and let it all hang out? You scared or something?”

  After 45 minutes of weaving in and out of a line of cars, SUVs, RVs towing family cars, and tractor-trailers, Steve pointed to a peak that lay ahead. “What’s that strange peak up there that looks like a hand with a raised forefinger?” he shouted above the noise of the engine and the wind.

  “That’s Picacho Peak. Some priests I take out this way say it looks like a finger pointing up to heaven. I say it looks like a mountain giving God the finger.”

  “You’re not very religious are you?”

  “No. I think that crap is something people thought up because they’re scared shitless about dying and what comes after...if anything.”

  Passing reddish brown hills that lined the highway, Jeremy began slowing down. As they approached a turnoff, Steve noticed a sign beside the road that read ‘Picacho State Prison. Do not stop for hitchhikers’. “I stopped for a guy here once,” Jeremy shouted, “and he like to beat the shit out of me before I kicked him back out on the road. After that, I sure’n hell do what that sign says.”

  “Are we going to the prison?”

  “No, we’re heading south, southwest...in the opposite direction, but the place we’re going ain’t much better.”

  Jeremy turned the car left onto a side road. Steve relaxed as the going became slower. “What they sending you here for? You a drunk, or something?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Fall in love with an altar boy?” Jeremy asked with a sidelong glance at the priest.

  “No,” Steve said bristling at the accusation. But he held his tongue.

  “Well, you must’a done something pretty bad otherwise the church wouldn’t be sendin’ you to the monastery. That’s where they send the bad-asses.”

  “I don’t know why they’re sending me and I don’t think I’ve done anything bad.”

  “Yeah,” the young man replied, “all you priests bein’ sent here say the same thing. Ever been in this part of the country before?”

  “No,” Steve replied, growing increasingly angry at the young man. But his attitude softened as he said to himself what difference does it make what this kid thinks? He decided to change the subject. “Tell me,” he asked, “have you lived here a long time?”

  “All my life. In Tucson, oldest city in Arizona, after Tombstone, that is.”

  “How did you get a job at the monastery?”

  “I don’t work for the monastery. I work for an outfit in Tucson. I’m hired to pick you guys up and get you out there. Once in awhile I get calls to take one of the priests back to civilization. O’course, on the way back from the monastery, I guess they ain’t priests anymore.”

  “Just where is out there?” Steve asked as the young man turned the car off the paved road onto a winding dirt road and began careening around potholes and rocks. “Is there a town near the monastery?”

  “Nope, nothin’ but an old mission church that was abandoned years ago and rebuilt by the brothers, plus the monastery. It’s on the other side of those mountains.” Slowing down, Jeremy pointed to a line of jagged peaks on the horizon.

  “How far on the other side?”

  “Couple hours. That’s if I step on it.”

  “Do any tourists visit the mission? Any visitors?”

  “Nope. That place has fallen off the map. It ain’t rundown, you understand, but it’s off limits to visitors. Only a few delivery people and someone like me can get on the property. They got it walled like some kinda jail or something. Weird bunch out there.” He resumed whipping the steering wheel to left and right to avoid potholes that could have swallowed a small elephant. “Ever been in these parts? G
uess I asked you that before. Have you?”

  “Can’t say that I have. The countryside is beautiful.”

  “This ain’t countryside you’re looking at. It’s desert. Bet you thought deserts were just hot sand, hot sun and no water—like the Sahara. This is a different kind of desert. We’re in the Sonora Desert. Runs all through southern Arizona and down aways into Mexico. Gotta watch where you walk here. Shitcan fulla life. Diamond back rattlesnakes—some up to six feet long, scorpions, giant desert centipedes, lizards, black bears, some mountain lions, bobcats and Gila monsters, to name a few. Gila monster get his teeth into your ass, he’ll never let go. They’re not like snakes. When a snake bites, the venom comes out automatically, so he right away lets go. But with the Gila monster, he has to grind his jaws while he’s got you in his grip so’s the venom can mix with the saliva and wind up in your leg or your ass, case may be. I knew a guy had one stuck to his face. Damn thing didn’t let go ‘til the sun went down.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Steve commented sarcastically. “Where is all this teeming life. I don’t see it.”

  “Oh, it’s there all right, but it’s almost all nocturnal because of the heat. In summer this place can get up to 120 degrees, then, turn around and you freeze your ass off at night.”

  “All those green telephone poles on the hillside are cactus, right?”

  “That’s saguaro cactus. Takes forever to grow. It takes a hundred years for it to get up to twelve, maybe fifteen feet high. No one can figure out why every one is different—some have one arm poking out here, some have an arm poking there. Some have two arms, some have a dozen. Some of the arms are twisted like a corkscrew. Beats figuring.”

  “I notice a lot of them have holes,” Steve said.

  “Saguaro is like an apartment house. The Gila woodpeckers make the holes and build nests inside, then they shove off and in come screech owls, purple martins and other birds. They move right into ready-made apartments. Despite all those heads peeking out, the holes don’t seem to hurt the cactus. See those fuzzy clumps by the side of the road? That’s Teddy-Bear cholla. Looks soft and furry to the touch but watch out, the spines can jump right into your skin. People goin’ in the hills around Tucson carry a pair of pliers when they walk their dogs because that’s the only way to pull some of them spines out when the dog gets nailed. I heard of a male dog once, lifted his leg on a cholla and got a spine in his prick. Howled something awful. Woman that owned him grabbed his dong with one hand, pliers in the other, and yanked with all her might. She got it out, but you can bet that dog didn’t do no fucking for a long time.”