the Third Secret

SEVENTY

11:30 P.M.

Valendrea stared at the pills lying on the desk. For decades he’d dreamed of the papacy, and he’d devoted his entire adult life to achieving that goal. Now he was pope. He should have reigned twenty or more years, becoming the hope of the future by reclaiming the past. Only yesterday he’d spent an hour going over the details of his coronation, the ceremony a scant two weeks away. He’d toured the Vatican museum, personally inspected adornments his predecessors had relegated to exhibits, and ordered their preparation for the event. He wanted the moment the spiritual leader of a billion people assumed the reins of power to be a spectacle every Catholic could watch with pride.

He’d already thought about his homily. It would have been a call for tradition. A rejection of innovation—a retreat to a sacred past. The Church could and would be a weapon for change. No more impotent denunciations that world leaders ignored. Instead religious fervor would have been used to forge a new international policy. One emanating from him as the Vicar of Christ. The pope.

He slowly counted the capsules on the desk.

Twenty-eight.

If he swallowed them, he’d be remembered as the pope who reigned for four days. He’d be regarded as a fallen leader, taken by the Lord far too quickly. There was something to be said for dying suddenly. John Paul I had been an insignificant cardinal. Now he was venerated simply because he died thirty-three days after the conclave. A handful had reigned shorter, many more longer, but none had ever been forced into the position in which he now found himself.

He thought about Ambrosi’s betrayal. He wouldn’t have thought Paolo so disloyal. They’d been together many years. Maybe Ngovi and Michener had underestimated his old friend. Perhaps Ambrosi would be his legacy, the man who would ensure that the world never forgot Peter II. He hoped he was right in believing Ngovi might one day regret letting Paolo Ambrosi roam free.

He eyes returned to the pills. At least there’d be no pain. And Ngovi would make sure there was no autopsy. The African was still camerlengo. He could envision the bastard standing over him, gently tapping his forehead with a silver hammer and asking three times if he was dead.

He believed that if he was alive tomorrow, Ngovi would bring charges. Though there was no precedent for removing a pope, once he was implicated in murder he would never be allowed to remain in office.

Which raised his greatest concern.

Doing what Ngovi and Michener asked would mean he’d be soon answering for his sins. What would he say?

Proof that God existed meant there was also an immeasurable force of evil that misled the human spirit. Life seemed a perpetual tug between those two extremes. How would he explain his sins? Would there be forgiveness or only punishment? He still believed, even in the face of all he knew, that priests should be men. God’s Church was started by men and, over two millennia, male blood had been spilled to preserve that institution. The interjection of women into something so decidedly male seemed sacrilegious. Spouses and children were nothing but distractions. And to slaughter an unborn child seemed unthinkable. A woman’s duty was to bring forth life, no matter how it was conceived, whether wanted or unwanted. How could God have gotten everything so wrong?

He shifted the pills on the desk.

The Church was going to change. Nothing would ever be the same. Ngovi would make sure extremism prevailed. And that thought turned his stomach.

He knew what awaited him. There’d be an accounting, but he was not going to shrink from the challenge. He’d face the Lord and tell Him that he’d done what he believed was right. If he be damned to hell, then there would be some pretty austere company. He was not the first pope to defy heaven.

He reached out and arranged the capsules in groups of seven. He scooped up one set and balanced them in the palm of his hand.

A certain perspective truly did come in the final moments of life.

His legacy among men was safe. He was Peter II, pope of the Roman Catholic Church, and no one could ever take that from him. Even Ngovi and Michener would have to publicly venerate his memory.

And that prospect gave him solace.

Along with a burst of courage.

He tossed the pills into his mouth and reached for the tumbler of water. He grabbed up another seven and swallowed them. While his fortitude was there, he gathered the remaining pills and let the remaining water send them to his stomach.

I’m hoping you don’t have the guts to do what Clement did.

Screw you, Michener.

He stepped across the room to a gilded prie-dieu facing a portrait of Christ. He knelt, crossed himself, and asked the Lord to forgive him. He stayed on his knees for ten minutes, until his head started spinning. It should add to his legacy that he was called to God during prayer.

The drowsiness became seductive and for a while he fought the urge to surrender. A part of him was relieved he would not be associated with a Church that was contrary to everything he believed. Perhaps it was better to rest beneath the basilica as the last pope of the way things used to be. He imagined Romans flooding into the piazza tomorrow, distraught over the loss of the their beloved Santissimo Padre. Millions would watch his funeral and the world press would write about him with respect. Eventually books about him would appear. He hoped traditionalists used him as a rallying point for their opposition to Ngovi. And there was always Ambrosi. Dear, sweet Paolo. He was still out there. And that thought pleased him.

His muscles craved sleep and he could no longer fight the urge, so he surrendered to the inevitable and collapsed to the floor.

He stared at the ceiling and finally let the pills take hold. The room winked in and out. He no longer fought the descent.

Instead he allowed his mind to drift away, hoping that God was indeed merciful.