The Discovery, A Novel (19 page)

At least his hair looked nice.

Father Flanagan smiled at his reflection in the mirror as he stood in the foyer of the rectory. He’d just taken off his hat and coat. He didn’t really even need the coat, it was such a nice day. He’d just come from a walk to the barbershop downtown, about a half mile away.

His soul had been troubled the whole way home.

It wasn’t the conversation at the barbershop—for the most part, anyway. Chatting with Joe and the customers was a pleasant experience. He’d been going there once a month since he’d come to Florida, and went out of his way to disarm the tension that always accompanied his black attire and white collar. Now they greeted him cheerfully when he came in, and except for the considerable effort expended to restrain their profanity, the conversations were mostly light and cheery.

What had troubled him was the content in a
Life
magazine he’d read while awaiting his turn in the barber chair. It was a two-page article in the July issue. The banner headline read: THE EIGHT SABOTEURS SHOULD BE PUT TO DEATH. It talked about how the FBI had captured the “eight Nazi terrorists.” The whole tone of the article centered on the outrage people felt toward these evil men the Nazis had sent to our shores. The last sentence said something about how much these men deserved to die, and that nothing short of death would satisfy patriotic Americans.

Joe and some of the men at the shop had seen what he’d been reading, and a conversation started about it. It was clear and unanimous: everyone at Joe’s Barber Shop felt the same way.

One of the men pointed out that a military tribunal had convened a month after the article was written. All eight men were found guilty, but only six were executed. The men at the shop expressed outrage that two of the “stinking Nazis—pardon the expression, Father” had been spared. They’d been given long prison sentences instead.

The point was . . . Ben had been right, and Aidan had been wrong.

He had urged Ben to turn himself in to the authorities, to tell them what he knew about the other saboteurs and let them handle it. Ben had said they wouldn’t listen. They’d arrest him and probably execute him. Now he had to agree; Ben was right.

As he stood there in the foyer, one of his favorite psalms floated through his mind, a comforting verse in Psalm 131: “O Lord, my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.”

Lord
, he prayed,
this situation with Ben is much too great for me. Help him, Lord. And help me know how I might help him . . . if there is anything I—

The doorbell interrupted his prayer.

Hammond waited a few moments, then a few moments more. He was just about to ring the rectory doorbell again when it opened. He already had his FBI badge in hand.

A priest answered. “Good afternoon, how can I—” The priest took one look at Hammond and froze.

“Hello, Father, I’m Victor Hammond, special agent with the FBI.” He held out his ID. “I wonder if we could talk. Are you the parish priest or the one in charge?” Hammond had a hard time discerning the look on the priest’s face. Almost seemed like fear. But that didn’t make any sense.

“Why, no . . . do you need to speak with Father Murphy?”

“Possibly, but maybe you can help me. I’ve been told by one of your parishioners that a young man may have come here for . . . some advice.” Why mention the word
confession
so soon? he thought.

“Do you know the young man’s name? Oh, pardon me, where are my manners. Would you like to come in?”

“I could, but this will only take a few minutes.”

“As you wish.”

“The man’s name? It’s Coleman, Ben Coleman.” There was that look again in the priest’s eyes. A strong reaction to Coleman’s name.

“I . . . I remember that name. I’ve talked with him. But it wasn’t for advice exactly. I spoke with him in the confessional.”

“I see. But from what I understand, Coleman is a Lutheran, correct?”

“I think he may have said that.”

“Isn’t that somewhat . . . irregular?”

“Yes, I suppose it is. But we don’t have a Lutheran church in town, so I suppose that’s why he came here. But I’m sure you know, Agent Hammond, what a parishioner shares in the confessional is privileged information.”

“But he’s not really a parishioner, Father. You’ve just said it. He’s not even a Catholic.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“I think it might.”

“I suppose we’ll have to disagree on that point.”

“I mean no offense, Father, but we’re concerned about this young man and need to know his whereabouts, and his plans. Can you at least tell me if you’ve spoken to him recently?”

“Yes, I guess I can answer that. I spoke with him earlier today.”

“Today? Do you know where he is now?”

“No, I don’t. May I ask what this is about?”

“Well, guess we have the same problem, Father. I can’t share that with you . . . privileged information.”

“You can’t tell me anything?”

“I really can’t. It’s a national security matter. I can say that much but nothing more.” Hammond waited a moment. It wasn’t what the Father said next that intrigued him, but what he didn’t say.

“I see.”

He knows something. He definitely knows something
. Both Miss Jane and Mrs. Arthur had instantly risen to Coleman’s defense when Hammond even hinted that he might be in some kind of trouble. But all the Father said was “I see”? “Father, if you know something about Coleman, you need to tell me.”

“But I can’t tell you, sir. You know that I can’t.”

“Father, lives could be in danger. We just had an explosion in a shipyard this morning near Savannah. If we don’t find Ben Coleman soon, more—”

“Are you implying Ben had anything to do with that?”

“No, I’m not. But we don’t know that for certain, do we?”

“Yes, we do. I’ve just told you, I saw Ben today. Ben wasn’t anywhere near Savannah this morning. It takes the better part of the day just to drive—”

“I’m not saying Ben had anything to do with the explosion personally, but he may know the men who did. He may be in cahoots with the men who did.” He regretted saying that. He was supposed to be getting this priest to spill the beans, and here he was saying way too much himself. But then . . . Father Flanagan’s silence just now seemed to be speaking volumes. Hammond waited a moment more, allowed an uneasy tension to build.

There, there was that reaction again in the priest’s eyes.

“I believe there’s nothing more to be said, Agent Hammond.”

Hammond was certain now: Ben Coleman was his man. He was the partner to that Nazi corpse they had just uncovered at the beach. Coleman was a Nazi saboteur. And here Hammond was, on the verge of breaking the entire case open, all by himself. This was just the thing needed to solidify the Bureau’s confidence, after giving him his promotion. “I suppose we’re done for now, Father. Again, I had no intention of upsetting you. But when lives are at stake . . .”

The priest began closing the door, then stopped. “I will tell you this, sir. Ben Coleman is no threat to this country. He loves it here. I believe he is prepared to give his life for it.”

“What are you saying, Father? Is he planning to do something? You must tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Agent Hammond. I don’t know Ben’s plans, not anything specific. I’m just telling you, he is one of the finest young men I’ve ever met. I may not be able to tell you anything Ben confessed to me, but Ben is not the way you’re making him out to be, not in the least. He would never harm a citizen of this country.”

This wasn’t going anywhere else. Hammond had gotten all he was going to get from this conversation. But he’d gotten plenty. “Here’s my card, Father. If you think of anything else.”

The priest took the card. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he said. “I hope you don’t find Ben. But if you do find him, remember what I said. Please . . .” Hammond saw moisture in the old priest’s eyes. “Please don’t hurt him. He’s not our enemy.”

He closed the door.

As Hammond walked away, he thought,
I’m sorry, Father. I beg to differ
.

Claire had cried so hard and for so long, she was near exhaustion.

First at the riverfront park, after Ben left. Then on the way home. Then at home, she’d cried for another thirty minutes. She was glad her mother wasn’t there. If asked to explain herself, she wouldn’t have been able to put two sentences together. She lifted her head off the pillow when she heard the back door open and close downstairs.

“Claire? Claire, are you home? Are you all right, dear?”

She heard her mother’s voice through the closed bedroom door. Then footsteps up the stairs. How could she know Claire was upset?

A knock on the door. “Claire, are you in there? Can I come in?”

Slowly, Claire pulled herself up from the bed. “I’m in here.”

The door opened. “I found your sweater on the living room floor. What’s the matter? Is anything wrong?”

Claire burst into tears. “Oh, Mother. Everything is wrong.” She fell back on the bed, facedown.

“Oh, my.”

She felt the other side of the bed drop slightly as her mother sat down and began gently rubbing her back. “What is it, honey? Did you and Ben have a fight?”

Claire didn’t know what to say.

“Your father and I had this big fight once, before we were married. It doesn’t mean it’s the end, sweetheart. What’s this?”

Claire waited, her face still turned toward the wall.

“Is this a ring, Claire?”

Claire looked up. She’d forgotten; she’d put the ring Ben had given her—still in the box—on the bed beside her. She heard her mother lift the lid.

“Claire, it’s beautiful. And it looks so expensive. Did Ben propose?”

“Oh, Mother . . . yes . . . no . . . I don’t know.”

“Come here,” her mother said, holding out her arms. “I don’t understand, but you don’t have to explain right now.” Claire slid forward into her arms and cried into her shoulder.

She sat there a few minutes. Then felt a slight calmness come over her. “Ben met me after work,” she said.

“To propose?”

“No.” Claire sighed deeply and pulled back enough to see her mother’s face. “I don’t know how to tell you what happened.” Her mother’s face showed equal parts care and confusion. “When will Dad get home?”

“It won’t be long. I had a planning meeting with some of the women at church and we went a little long. I called him at work, and he said not to worry. When he gets home, he’s going to take us out to dinner.”

“I can’t go out.”

“No?” she said gently.

“I can’t even think about food. I can’t even think.”

“What’s the matter, Claire? Let me see if I can help.”

Claire looked at her. Her mother wouldn’t understand. This wasn’t something she could fix. “I know I need to tell you, but I think I want to wait till Dad gets home. I don’t think I can bear to explain it twice.”

Forty minutes later, Claire sat across from her parents in the den. Her mother had made meatloaf sandwiches from leftovers. Claire felt bad that her mother didn’t get to go out for dinner. She always worked so hard.

Her father spoke first, leaning forward in his chair. “Are you up to talking about this now . . . whatever it is?” His face reflected a seriousness that fit the situation, but there was a tenderness in his eyes.

“I think so,” Claire said. There was a long pause. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Would it help if I asked questions?”

“No. I mean, you can. But I think I just need to try and say it. It’s about Ben.” She felt a wave of emotion rising. She had to make it stop.

“Did you two have a fight?”

“It’s so much bigger than that. I wish we had a fight. That would be easy compared to this.” Both of them looked thoroughly confused. “Okay, I’ll just start talking. Ben came here, to this country, I mean, in a . . .” She sighed involuntarily. “I can’t even believe I’m saying this. Ben came to this country back in August on a U-boat.”

“A what?”

“A U-boat, Dad. This is not a joke.”

“I can tell it’s not.”

“Ben’s a German. He was trained as a Nazi spy, trained to come here and—”

The look on their faces. Both of them were shaking their heads, unable to process her words.

“Ben?” her mother said. “
Our
Ben?”

In the next fifteen minutes, Claire did her best to tell them everything Ben had said that afternoon. As each phrase left her mouth, it sounded absurd, like she couldn’t possibly be explaining something real. She couldn’t be talking about Ben. She still hadn’t mentioned that Ben wasn’t even his real name.

The look on her mother’s face seemed a mixture of concern and fear. But the look on her father’s face began to frighten her.

She stopped talking.

“Claire, did he say the FBI was coming here, to this house?”

“No, he meant to this town, I think. Why, Dad, what’s wrong?”

Her father looked at her mother, then back at Claire. “This is very serious. I read about the spies that came here last summer. Most of them were executed.”

“That’s what Ben said.”

“And people who helped them were arrested,” he said.

“Oh, Hugh,” her mother said. “What are we going to do?”

“Lord, help us.” He looked down at the floor.

Claire felt her stomach turn. She’d counted on her dad to make some sense of this. He always knew what to do.

“We have to go to the authorities,” he said. “Tell them everything. Before they come to us.”

“But Dad,” Claire said. “They’ll kill Ben if they catch him.”

“I know, Claire. But we have no choice.” He stood up. “What am I saying?” He paced in front of the fireplace.

“Oh my,” her mother said. “This is terrible.”

Claire felt panic beginning to set in. Their reaction confirmed her worst fears: it really was as bad as it seemed. She had to calm down, get control of herself. “Dad, how can we be in trouble? We didn’t know anything, not until today.”

“And it’s not as if we helped Ben do anything,” her mother said. “We were just his friends.”

“But they don’t know that,” her father said. “I’ve heard things about the FBI, things they do to . . . always get their man.”

“Like what, Hugh?”

“I don’t know. Not exactly. Let’s just say, they don’t always play fair. If they think we’ve done anything to aide and abet a fugitive, especially a spy, they might haul us all off to prison.”

“But how can that be right, Dad? You’re talking as if we helped him do something wrong. Ben hasn’t even done anything wrong. The only thing he’s guilty of is being born German, to parents who dragged him back there a few years ago. Now they’re dead, because of Hitler. All Ben did was use whatever means he had to get away and come back here to this country.”

As Claire said these words, it suddenly dawned on her . . . she believed them. It was as if one part of her was talking to another part of her.

Truth talking to fear.

She loved Ben. She didn’t care about anything else.
God
, she prayed silently,
save Ben
.
Don’t let anything happen to him
.

“Claire,” her father said, “I know what you’re trying to say, sweetheart. But that’s not how the world works. Not now, anyway, not when we’re at war with the Nazis.”

“But Hugh,” her mother said, “even if they did think we were guilty of something at first, when they looked into what we’re saying, they’d have to know we’re telling the truth. We didn’t know anything about Ben till today, till an hour ago. And if they ask around, they’d see Ben hasn’t done anything sinister the whole time he’s been here.”

Claire took a deep breath. “Dad, you’ve even talked about some of the articles he’s written for the paper. Most of them have been very patriotic, supporting the war effort completely. We could show them that. They’d have to see Ben’s not trying to sabotage anything.”

Her father walked back to his chair and sat down. “Helen, Claire . . . I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t think you understand. Let’s say they arrested us, then after an investigation they let us go. We’d still be ruined. Completely ruined. I’d lose every military contract our company has—they’d cut us off completely. And right now, until this war’s over . . . that’s about 95 percent of our business.” He dropped his face in his hands, then looked up and massaged his temples with his fingers.

The doorbell rang.

“Who could that be?” Claire’s mother said.

“Maybe it’s Ben,” Claire said. “I’ll get it.” She ran to the door and opened it.

Standing there was a man in a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. A grim look on his face. “Hello, I’m Special Agent Victor Hammond with the FBI.”