C old and scared, Samuel sat, knees to chest, rocking back and forth in a musty wooden crate. Despite the darkness, he pressed his eyes shut tight, and struggled to conjure up the faces of his parents and godfather.
But as quickly as they came, the mental photographs in his head dissipated like a rising vapor.
A sudden series of bumps jarred Samuel from his daydream nightmare. He was sure the wooden box that housed him was on an airplane in the sky. He had felt the takeoff and heard the engines roar. He guessed they’d been in the air for almost an hour, maybe longer.
More turbulence, and this time Samuel pitched forward against the crate, head first, bumping his chin. He heard chatter in the cabin, and counted four voices, three males, one female. None of them spoke English, and he couldn’t place the language. It sounded French, but he wasn’t sure. Time edged along, as did the mental torture. Samuel whimpered, then cried. The chatter outside turned to whispers.
Moments later, the crate cracked open and light stampeded inside, needling his eyes, leaving him momentarily blind. The cold nudge of what he knew to be a gun under his chin, and the firm bark of a language foreign, entreated him to stifle his breakdown and choke back his sniffles.
Samuel’s vision cleared, but his eyes ached. He crawled out of the crate and looked around. He was definitely inside an airplane, but not like the planes he and his parents flew in while on vacation.
This plane looked more like one of the cool private jets he’d watched on MTV
Cribs, and could’ve belonged to P-Diddy or Jay-Z.
“Over here,” called a soft, female voice. Samuel, awestruck by his surroundings, focused on the four individuals in the cabin for the first time, and was stunned. “You’ll be more comfortable on the couch,” the woman told him. “And there are a few rules you need to obey.” Samuel, trying to make sense of the scene before him, was unable to move. “Its okay, Samuel,” the woman continued, “please have a seat.” Samuel, his feet feeling about twenty pounds each, lumbered over and practically fell down in the deep, cushioned tan-green leather chair.
“Here, drink this.” The woman handed him a mug with a mountain of whipped cream on top. “This will warm you up, and make you feel more comfortable. I have to attend to a matter in the forward cabin.
When I return, you and I will have our little talk.” Samuel held the cup. It took everything he could muster to keep from dropping it on the deep tan carpet. Confused, he looked up at the smiling angelic face, but couldn’t make sense of it. His captures were three priests and a nun.
“My name is Sister Maria Bravo. Drink your cocoa, I’ll be back in a moment.”
Father Tolbert rested back, eyes closed, as the Vatican’s Gulfstream G550 cruised to, then leveled off at forty thousand feet. Two Kettle One martinis into his flight to Rome, and the torment that had been a part of his life since high school, seemed to temporarily evaporate.
“Excuse me, Father, is there anything else I can get for you?” Father Tolbert lifted his eyelids. Sister Maria Bravo, one of Cardinal Polletto’s assistants, a broad smile on her angelic face, leaned over and covered him with an extra dark crimson wool blanket.
“No thank you, Sister, everything is fine.”
“Good. Dinner will be served in a few hours. Until then, there are appetizers on the counter in the galley, and of course, the bar is fully stocked. If you need anything else, press the button on your chair and I’ll be happy to serve you.”
Father Tolbert said thank you, and watched the always gracious nun disappear through a door of the cabin. No doubt to get some much deserved rest herself.
He closed his eyes. The vodka took over. Father Tolbert thought of Samuel, and drifted off to a place somewhere in the clouds.