Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
and do not rely on you own insight.
In all your ways acknowledge him,
and he will make straight your paths.
Be not wise in your own eyes;
fear the Lord, and turn away from evil.
It will be healing to your flesh
and refreshment to your bones.
Proverbs 3, 5-8
RSV, Second Catholic Edition
Chapter One
Albert Collozo lay dying and he didn’t expect a miracle. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to ask for one. His life of seventy-six years was longer than most and, in his mind, full beyond measure. Now that his time was ending, he would not ask God for a miracle that would return him to health. He asked only for enough time to tell Francis that he had seen his enemy and that the events predicted in the Moabite parchment had begun. Francis had been sent for, but Perugia was at least an hour away.
What if Francis came too late? He must know. The enemy is more powerful than we imagined and far more deadly. I have to tell him about those eyes. Hundreds, no thousands of them piercing and probing. Despair and terror raging in each one. He has to know. Francis has to know not to look into those eyes. They could steal his soul.
Albert slowly turned on his side and stretched for his journal. Why was the nightstand so far away? Who moved it? Was it always this far? His movements lifted the smell of the freshly laundered sheets, “We are poor, but we can be clean. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. Listen to your mother. I know these things.” What a silly thing to think of. Focus, I have to focus. Francis must know what I have seen.
He stretched toward the nightstand. His temples throbbed. Just a little more. His heart was beating faster. The bed seemed to move beneath him. I must reach it. There. With a final heave, he pulled the book from the nightstand, dropped it on his stomach, and then collapsed backwards into his mound of pillows and waited for the room to stop spinning. How could such a little book be so heavy?
He lay there trying to remember if he had felt the pen clipped inside the book. It was only lately that he’d convinced his friend and servant, Joseph, to allow him this bit of disorderly convenience. If the pen weren’t there, it would mean leaning over to the nightstand again. Just the thought of stretching back to the nightstand renewed the pounding in his temples and forced him to close his eyes. He would wait a little longer, and then he must write.
With his eyes still closed, he imagined his mother and Joseph standing over the bed looking like they were about to scold a wayward schoolboy. He could almost hear them say in unison. "Everything has its place. The pen goes in the drawer, not in the book where it might break the binding." So much alike, they’re so much alike. Stop wandering old man. You must write down what you have seen.
He closed his hand around the book, felt the bulge of the pen, and relaxed a little. The strong pulsing in his temples was lessening. He opened his eyes only part way at first, then fully as he realized the dizziness had passed.
He struggled to make his fingers obey as he opened the journal. Clumsy fool. Don’t drop the pen. You can do this. Concentrate. Only after five anxious minutes of awkwardness, was he able to grasp the pen tight enough to hold it upright.
He thought how ugly was his new penmanship. Always he had received compliments about the flowing style of his letters. He had admitted to this little form of pride and was sure God would forgive him. Now as the pen scratched against the page his worry was not about form, but rather, if he would be able to finish telling Francis about those damnable eyes.
April 17th – I have received reports from Africa. The predictions in the parchment are coming true. I fear for you dear Francis. I have had another dream. I have seen the face of your enemy. Francis, don’t look into…
PAIN – like strong fingers squeezing his heart. His body stiffened against the bed; the pen slipped from his hand. Dear God, Francis has to be told. Help him Lord. The book slid from the bed and slapped the marble floor like the tiniest thunderclap. Dear God forgive me. Another sharp pain stabbed from within and forced him to close his eyes and clinch his teeth. In the darkness the fiendish figure from his earlier dream glared back at him. Albert opened his eyes. The figure was gone, but the room was total blackness. He wanted to call out, but his voice had no strength. Suddenly he was cold. He tried to reach for his blankets, but his hands wouldn’t move. He shivered from another blast of cold. In the distant dark, they began to appear. By ones and twos, they materialized and began to move closer. Soon the eyes from his nightmare were inches from his face. Thousands of bulging, piercing eyes became mirrors of his soul’s past. Every sin, every failure, and every person he had hurt came rushing toward him. Were there that many sins? Was he that kind of sinner? Had he failed God so badly? Was there no hope? My God, help me. My God, help Fran… Another sharp spike of pain. The eyes were gone.
Carelli’s knock was more of an announcement than an asking permission to enter. If Albert was as close to the end as he thought, friendship and duty demanded his presence. He entered the room and tried to move quietly as not to awaken the sleeping patient. Then he saw the pained contorted look on Albert’s face, the hands clutching his chest, and the book on the floor. He called out. “Doctor, come quickly.”
The doctor entered followed by two other men who had been keeping a vigil just outside the apartment. While watching the doctor complete his examination, Carelli was thinking of what he’d have to do next. Days before he had prepared for this moment by slipping the red leather bag into the back of the nightstand drawer while Albert slept.
The doctor crossed himself then looked up and shook his head. “I’m sorry. He’s gone.”
Carelli reached into the drawer and retrieved the red leather bag. He removed the silver mallet and tapped Albert's forehead three times, while calling out, “Albert Collozo, are you dead?” Receiving no answer, he announced to the two other cardinals that had come in with the doctor, “Pope John XXIV is truly dead.”