Read Online The Omega Scroll by Adrian D'Hagé - Free Book Online
Authors: Adrian D'Hagé
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Pope John Paul I was murdered, possibly by the addition of digitalis to a regular medicine he took for low blood pressure.’
‘Do we know if he was in good health?’
‘He was examined by Dr Giuseppe Da Ros only a few days before his death and Dr Da Ros said, “ Non sta bene ma benone – he is not well but very well,” and his personal doctor in Venice says Albino Luciani was a very good mountain climber with absolutely no history of heart problems.’
‘Tom, thank you for joining us tonight. That was Tom Schweiker reporting from the Vatican on the suspected murder of Pope John Paul I. In news just to hand the Vatican has announced that the conclave for the election of his successor will be held on 14 October, the earliest possible date that such an election can be called. Now to the news from the White House. President Carter today expressed confidence for peace in the Middle East after the signing last week of the Camp David Accords between Egypt’s President Anwar Sadat and the Prime Minister of Israel …’
Later that night in his hotel room Tom Schweiker tossed in his sleep, haunted by the day’s coverage of the Vatican. The nightmares had been with him ever since his boyhood days, spent on a dirt-poor potato farm in Idaho; nightmares that continually motivated Tom’s search for peace, taking him back to 1960 when he was twelve, missing a father who had died six years earlier. A time when a new priest, Father Rory Courtney, had arrived in their little parish out on Snake River Plain.
The big car pulled up outside the house, scattering the chickens. There was a knock on the old wooden fly-screen door.
‘I’ll get it,’ Tom called to his mother, taking the wooden stairs two at a time.
‘Father! Please come in,’ Tom said, getting used to seeing their priest at the door. Rory Courtney was a big man in his mid-twenties but his reddish hair had started to thin and he was putting on weight. A deep scar ran almost the length of his left cheek, the result of a whisky-induced brawl in his earlier days as a young mining geologist.
‘Thank you, Tom. Is your mother at home?’
‘Who is it, Tom?’ his mother called from the kitchen.
‘It’s Father Courtney, Mom.’
Tom’s mother came hurrying into the front room, wiping flour from her hands as she untied her apron.
‘Oh Father, excuse the mess. Please, have a seat.’ Eleanor Schweiker hastily cleared her sewing from the old couch, somewhat dismayed that their priest should find her in anything but her one good dress that she kept for Sundays.
‘Not at all, Eleanor, not at all. I won’t stay long. I’m just doing my rounds, checking on my flock.’ Rory Courtney had an easy manner and Tom had begun to look forward to his visits. Father Courtney always managed to find time to throw a football around the back paddock with him. It went some way to easing the pain of missing his dad.
‘Would you like coffee, Father?’
‘Perhaps next time, Eleanor. I was wondering, if Tom is not doing anything next Sunday afternoon we could take a drive down to the river. I’ve found a great little place where we can pan for gold.’
‘I don’t know how to, Father,’ Tom said awkwardly.
‘Ah, but I do and I’ll teach you. Just bring your rubber boots and I’ll bring the rest of the things we’ll need.’
‘Oh, Father, that would be so kind,’ Eleanor Schweiker responded gratefully. Tom had lacked a father figure for too long. ‘I’ll pack you both a picnic lunch.’
‘Thank you, Eleanor. I’ll call by after Mass in the morning,’ he said, getting up to leave.
‘Bye, Father.’ Tom and his mother waved from the front porch. Father Courtney’s big old Buick left a trail of dust as he headed down the hill.
The winter sun had reached the zenith of a low arc above the thickly wooded mountains. The Buick rocked gently as Father Courtney drove across the clearing bringing the car to a halt near the bank of the swiftly flowing river. The cold clear
‘Do we know if he was in good health?’
‘He was examined by Dr Giuseppe Da Ros only a few days before his death and Dr Da Ros said, “ Non sta bene ma benone – he is not well but very well,” and his personal doctor in Venice says Albino Luciani was a very good mountain climber with absolutely no history of heart problems.’
‘Tom, thank you for joining us tonight. That was Tom Schweiker reporting from the Vatican on the suspected murder of Pope John Paul I. In news just to hand the Vatican has announced that the conclave for the election of his successor will be held on 14 October, the earliest possible date that such an election can be called. Now to the news from the White House. President Carter today expressed confidence for peace in the Middle East after the signing last week of the Camp David Accords between Egypt’s President Anwar Sadat and the Prime Minister of Israel …’
Later that night in his hotel room Tom Schweiker tossed in his sleep, haunted by the day’s coverage of the Vatican. The nightmares had been with him ever since his boyhood days, spent on a dirt-poor potato farm in Idaho; nightmares that continually motivated Tom’s search for peace, taking him back to 1960 when he was twelve, missing a father who had died six years earlier. A time when a new priest, Father Rory Courtney, had arrived in their little parish out on Snake River Plain.
The big car pulled up outside the house, scattering the chickens. There was a knock on the old wooden fly-screen door.
‘I’ll get it,’ Tom called to his mother, taking the wooden stairs two at a time.
‘Father! Please come in,’ Tom said, getting used to seeing their priest at the door. Rory Courtney was a big man in his mid-twenties but his reddish hair had started to thin and he was putting on weight. A deep scar ran almost the length of his left cheek, the result of a whisky-induced brawl in his earlier days as a young mining geologist.
‘Thank you, Tom. Is your mother at home?’
‘Who is it, Tom?’ his mother called from the kitchen.
‘It’s Father Courtney, Mom.’
Tom’s mother came hurrying into the front room, wiping flour from her hands as she untied her apron.
‘Oh Father, excuse the mess. Please, have a seat.’ Eleanor Schweiker hastily cleared her sewing from the old couch, somewhat dismayed that their priest should find her in anything but her one good dress that she kept for Sundays.
‘Not at all, Eleanor, not at all. I won’t stay long. I’m just doing my rounds, checking on my flock.’ Rory Courtney had an easy manner and Tom had begun to look forward to his visits. Father Courtney always managed to find time to throw a football around the back paddock with him. It went some way to easing the pain of missing his dad.
‘Would you like coffee, Father?’
‘Perhaps next time, Eleanor. I was wondering, if Tom is not doing anything next Sunday afternoon we could take a drive down to the river. I’ve found a great little place where we can pan for gold.’
‘I don’t know how to, Father,’ Tom said awkwardly.
‘Ah, but I do and I’ll teach you. Just bring your rubber boots and I’ll bring the rest of the things we’ll need.’
‘Oh, Father, that would be so kind,’ Eleanor Schweiker responded gratefully. Tom had lacked a father figure for too long. ‘I’ll pack you both a picnic lunch.’
‘Thank you, Eleanor. I’ll call by after Mass in the morning,’ he said, getting up to leave.
‘Bye, Father.’ Tom and his mother waved from the front porch. Father Courtney’s big old Buick left a trail of dust as he headed down the hill.
The winter sun had reached the zenith of a low arc above the thickly wooded mountains. The Buick rocked gently as Father Courtney drove across the clearing bringing the car to a halt near the bank of the swiftly flowing river. The cold clear
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