The Bergamese Sect (2 page)

‘
Indeed, my lord. But we are not concerned with the saved – with those whose salvation is already granted.’

‘
But you should be, Gaetano. You can’t ignore the state to which you aspire.’

A glimmer of doubt reflected in the Italian’s eyes. ‘We are concerned with the preservation of doctrine and faith. We wish to prevent decay of belief. We do not believe the Holy Office achieves these aims.’

Alfonso sensed the struggle in Gaetano’s words. His Spanish was good, but lacked expression. He reached out, took the young man’s elbow and turned him away from the busy street. They looked down at the bank of the stream, its dirty waters lapping below the church walls.

‘
I’m an old man, Gaetano,’ said the inquisitor, ‘and in all my years, I have never witnessed the Holy Office preserve faith. The tribunals on which I preside offer salvation to the individual, not devotion to the masses.’

Gaetano stared uncomfortably across the river, began playing with the loose cuff of his habit. ‘Perhaps we have misrepresented the aims of the Inquisitor,’ he went on. ‘We are learned men merely concerned that faith is eroding. We foresee the onslaught of contrary ideas.’

Alfonso folded his arms. Another hint of sarcasm tainted his expression. ‘Contrary ideas?’ he said. ‘Is then a new Messiah arisen?’

Again, the irony was lost on the stern-faced Gaetano. ‘No, my lord. We fear the scourge of unrevealed wisdom. Already conflicts arise.’

Alfonso was confused. He frowned, followed the monk’s glare across the flowing brown water. The smell of decay rising from the stream was almost overpowering.

‘
Ah,’ Alfonso said, ‘you mean the scourge of natural philosophy? Don’t worry about that, Gaetano. Does the Holy See not follow the doctrine of the greatest of ancient naturalists, the infallible Aristotle? These new ideas offer no danger to the Church. They are merely a different voice declaring the glory of creation. Man’s powers of thought cannot create designs greater than those the Lord provides.’

The monk remained unmoved by the reassurance. ‘We are not convinced. Abrazzo envisages times of great conflict ahead and wishes to prepare. This is why we contemplate our new order of devotion.’

‘
Are you asking me to advise on the form of this devotion?’ asked the inquisitor.

Gaetano nodded. ‘We have great respect for your work under Torquemada. One who has served the Holy Office so well will give us great wisdom in our decisions. Abrazzo asks if you will come to Bergamo to sit in council next spring.’

Alfonso didn’t answer. He stared at the monk for a moment, a distant look in his eye. The young man had come many miles to ask for help but offered little except the promise of a stimulating debate. Such diversions were commonly had and Alfonso was doubtful whether the arduous journey to Italy would suit him in his old age. But he felt a warm glimmer of curiosity in his mind. The Italian conveyed much more conviction than he probably realised.

‘
What will be the form of this new methodology, Gaetano?’ Alfonso asked.

‘
I can’t say. This is the purpose of our council. But we live by our conviction that fear of man does not generate faith. It is the fear of the Almighty, fear of the unknown that ensures adherence. May I report to Abrazzo that you will offer your advice?’

‘
I have many duties to perform here in Castile. I would find little benefit from such a journey.’

Gaetano’s expression dropped. A slow sigh escaped his lips. ‘I can only offer our grateful hospitality,’ he pleaded.

Alfonso’s eyes narrowed in thought. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘perhaps I’ll come, if providence permits. We shall see.’

The young monk immediately bowed to the inquisitor and offered his thanks.

Alfonso took him by the arm and led him away. ‘Come. Let us eat at
San Pablo
.’ They strode off toward the bridge that hid in the fog beyond the church.

High up on the buttress above them, the stork watched the noisy crowd with a single, lazy eye. Unimpressed, it clattered its beak again and shuffled down into its spiny perch.

Chapter 1

A solitary light was shining in the black night. It moved slowly and purposely, growing brighter, searching the ground before it. Gracefully, like fire flies in a mating dance, it split in two. The lights separated, still growing in brilliance, still searching a path through the dark land. To David Castro the lights seemed blurred and faintly menacing, stirring something at the edge of his memory. Their brightness dazzled him. Their pace quickened, heading directly toward him.

A horn sounded and the eighteen-wheeler sped past, showering the windshield with brown water. It shook Castro free of his daze. He gripped the wheel firmly, glanced in the rear view mirror at the truck’s receding taillights and squeezed the fatigue from his aching eyes.

He was speeding along a lonely highway, spraying the recent rains over the red desert. It was late. It was always late. To Castro, night and day were a single entity. Hours ticked by, eating up the miles of straight, monotonous road. He felt utterly alone – the way he liked it.

He checked his speed, wound down the window to let the cool, damp breeze refresh his face, and flicked on the radio. Emmylou Harris crooned a silky ballad at him. He crooned back in sarcastic imitation.

He’d almost dozed off there for a second. Lucky. David Castro hadn’t got time for sleep. Sleep was a hazard he was learning to do without. He was vulnerable when asleep. Vulnerable to things he’d rather forget. Those vulnerabilities he liked to keep hidden, at least until he could confront them. And confront them he would, if he ever reached the end of this damn road.

Behind him lay a shattered life. That small Arizona town hadn’t been up to his honesty. He’d been pushed out. His business, a small law firm, was history. Those sanctimonious bastards had driven him to bankruptcy, taking their business fifty miles out of their way. And just because he’d had the balls to tell the truth. He blamed the evangelists. Out there in that festering desert they had replaced God, not proclaimed Him. He was glad to be rid of that shit-hole.

Without customers, the business had crumbled. Then his wife had left and taken the kids with her, leaving a hurriedly written note propped up on the kitchen table. She’d had enough of what she’d called his ‘obsession’. He’d pleaded with her, eventually begged her. But it was no use. She was tired of trying to understand, couldn’t accept what he’d become. He didn’t blame her though. It was clear she couldn’t help him win back his sanity.

The sky-watchers hadn’t helped either. All they did was watch videos of weather balloons and hope they’d be the next. And their respectable peers? They wasted their time interviewing redneck whackos and threatening the military with legal suits. And for what? Denials, scraps of irrelevant reports, misinformation on headed paper. And those countless blacked-out paragraphs replaced with ‘deleted for reasons of national security’. It was hopeless. The only salvation would be the one Castro made for himself. His mission was a selfish one. He wanted the truth not because he had a right to it. He just wanted his life back; he just wanted to sleep.

Ahead, a dim glow appeared in the blackness. Castro leant forward above the light of the dashboard and squinted. The glimmer slowly resolved into the lights of a distant town. He urged the Dodge pickup on, but his foot wouldn’t go down any further. He needed gas and coffee. And the cool night air swishing through his hair.

The town was quite small. It hugged a mile or two of highway, just a strip of cheap motels, fast-food restaurants and timber apartments. He stopped at the first gas station with a diner attached. A spotty teenager crawled out of a hut, rubbing his eyes as he approached the car.

‘
Fill it up and check the water,’ Castro demanded as he leapt out and headed for the empty restaurant. He got a plastic cup, full of black, tasteless water and came straight back out.

The young attendant finished his task and slammed the hood down carelessly. ‘Forty bucks, mister,’ he said.

Castro threw him the money, jumped back in the Dodge, and sped off again. Five minutes later the town was just another glow in his rear view mirror, another forgettable stop on his quest for truth.

The radio crooned again. Castro changed stations, but they all played the same whining songs. Country. He hated country music and flicked it off. He couldn’t wait to cross over to civilisation, to escape the saguaros and Navajo pedlars. Out in that desert there was nothing but Tex-Mex and that goddamn music. It made him cringe.

―
§ ―

It was almost five-thirty when Castro reached the Campbells’ place. Pulling the Dodge up by an old, rusty tractor, he switched the engine off and rubbed his face and ears vigorously. It did nothing to relieve his tired stupor. His weariness was now months old. He grabbed his shoulder bag and stepped out. The scent of alpines was strong in the cold air.

The sun had appeared over the distant clouds and its early orange glow bathed the whitewashed farm buildings warmly. They were bigger, and in better repair, than the house the old man and his wife occupied. It wasn’t much more than a beaten up shack. Farm vehicles had worn away the red ground of the yard but around the verges, the Campbell’s had planted a few flowering plants. Deeply rutted tracks led off into the countryside. It was a remote farmstead, well-kept but strangely morose.

A dim light was burning in one of the windows of the shack. Castro approached the wire-frame screen door and gave a light tap on the wood. Net curtains twitched and inside a shuffle grew louder. The door opened and an old lady stood crookedly in the early light. She seemed surprised but not alarmed to see someone on her porch.

‘
Yes?’ she said, slowly, her eyes wide.

‘
Mrs Campbell? My name’s David Castro. I’ve come to talk to you and your husband.’

‘
Oh?’ the lady replied.

She was at least seventy. A length of grey, shiny hair covered her wrinkled head and her stoop was quite pronounced. She angled herself sideways to look up at her visitor.

‘
Your husband?’ Castro said, but before he could continue his question, the woman raised a bony hand and pointed to the barn, coughing lightly.

Campbell had seen Castro arrive. He was striding purposefully toward them. Castro stepped off the porch to meet him, holding out his hand and introducing himself. But the old farmer ignored the greeting, walked right by him and up onto the porch.

‘
Whaddya want here?’ he demanded, urging his wife back into the house. She disappeared inside.

‘
I’d just like to ask you a few questions,’ said Castro.

‘
You FBI?’ the old man enquired.

Castro had to contain a smile at the irony of the question. ‘No, Mr Campbell, I’m not with the FBI, nor the CIA.’

‘
I told them everything.’ A frown descended over the farmer’s face and his limbs became taught. He eyed Castro suspiciously. ‘Press?’ he said, accusingly.

‘
No, I’m not press. I’m not with any branch of the government, nor any newspaper. I’m just someone interested in your story.’

‘
I got nothing more to say,’ Campbell said and began moving into the house.

Castro felt his chance slipping away. He jumped up onto the porch. ‘The same thing happened to me, Mr Campbell.’

The farmer stopped and looked at him quizzically, still barring his entrance with the screen door. ‘Whaddya say?’

‘
I said… the same thing happened to me.’

Campbell went silent and eyed his unwelcome intruder. He looked slightly older than his wife. Grey hair flopped unkempt over his eyes. The folds of loose skin around the man’s neck showed his great age. His complexion was typical of the Southwestern farmer – rough and deep-tanned. But his eyes conveyed nothing if not strength and determination. He wore denim jeans and jacket over a loose wool shirt of bright squares.

Campbell held the edge of the screen door and continued to stare. ‘D’ya know what they called us?’ he said at last.

‘
Who?’ Castro asked.

The farmer ignored the question. ‘Crazee rednecks,’ he said angrily. ‘They say we’re only after the money. They say we made the whole thing up ‘coz we got nuthin’ better to do up here.’

Castro tried to look sympathetic. The farmer had a right to be angry. His distrust was perfectly reasonable. ‘Mr Campbell, I’m not here to judge you, I give you my word. I believe your story totally. I just want to ask you a few things about what happened.’

Campbell remained immobile, clinging to the door. A dilemma was creasing his face. Castro almost spoke again, trying to convince the farmer of his honesty, but something told him more words would hamper his case.

‘
Okay,’ the farmer said eventually, ‘you got five minutes.’ He stood aside and swung the door open for Castro to enter.

Inside, the Campbells’ house was surprisingly spacious. Castro was led into the living room. Standing in the middle were a large sofa and matching chairs, threadbare and stained. An ancient TV set with a V-shaped aerial and huge tuning knob stood on an open bureau. Some shelving held a few battered paperbacks and old family photographs. It was a simple home but a warm and comfortable one.

‘
We’re jus’ havin’ breakfast,’ Campbell said as Castro put his bag down. ‘Want some?’

The thought of food was warming. Castro nodded and was led through a short passage to the kitchen. A warm and sugary smell filled his nostrils. Mrs Campbell was busy over the stove but turned and nodded a smile at the visitor. She offered them both a chair.

‘
Jus’ waffles and syrup,’ the farmer said, sitting at the table that almost filled the kitchen. Castro took a seat next to Campbell while his wife laid plates and cutlery. She brought a pot of steaming coffee and placed it before them.