Chapter 22: The Truth Shall Set You Free
John 8:23
[From the Willow manuscript, Part 7.]
The last time I saw Argo was when we docked at the Marina where I had left my car before our aborted vacation. I grabbed my bags and was happy to get off of that boat and be away from him. There were no good-byes just the feeling, on my part at least, of good riddance. I had been unsure what to make of Argo’s veiled threats; they were maniacal and frightening. I knew our relationship had ended, and in truth I was relieved. I also hated him for the way he said it was over.
Then there was the assassination, and Argo had been hospitalized. I tried to get through to the hospital, but they would give out no information. Like everyone else in the world, I sat glued to the television for days watching the Pope’s funeral. I learned about Argo’s progress from the frequent reports, that he would survive, and that he was not suspected. The few people who addressed the possibility agreed that he could not have been involved and dismissed the bloggers who thought he had been. They were wild conspiracy theorists delighted in blaming the victim.
Of course, even conspiracy theorists can be right, after all; and given what he had told me just a few weeks before, I knew they were. The TV talking heads insisted that it would have been impossible to carry the strychnine into the dining room and leave no trace of it either on himself or in the room. The lack of any physical evidence along with the fact that Argo was a cardinal and distinguished defender of the Pope both within the church and in public gave little credence to the notion of his guilt. Even the Pope’s inner circle said that Argo could have been in no way involved. One columnist suggested suicide was as likely as murder committed by this cardinal.
Even as I was expecting some shoe to drop, something to point to him, an accomplice, perhaps, whose guilt weighed too heavily; crazily I was happy that he has managed to defeat the best crime detectors in the world. If anyone could, it was Argo. He was built for it. He grew up under the tutelage of criminals, and when he was a teenager I saw him coldly punch a boy to the ground because Argo thought that was the way to stop him from bullying my sister. He sent a bigger boy to the hospital out of revenge, and he continued to befriend a mafia don, even to the extent of accepting a boat as a thank you present. He was a priest at ease with breaking his vow of chastity and managed to keep it secret for years. It was not too difficult to understand how he could commit murder if he thought it had to be done. A man so strong in his own beliefs coming from his background was bound to react violently to something that threatened something most dear to him. Argo was a Legionary of the Church, and, in his mind at any rate, he took the kind of action the name suggests.
But I was torn. Having dedicated my professional life to the law, I could not accept that the man I truly loved held himself above it. The difference between the civilized world and the jungle is the code of law established to govern all people, even those who find it inconvenient. If a belief in a superior being justifies illegal action, then radical Islam is not culpable when their bombs blow up innocent citizens and terrorize us all. How an otherwise sane and brilliant mind, better than my own, could think otherwise was beyond me.
I suppose were I a psychologist, I could see some arcane Oedipal force driving him to kill the father he hated, but I am not and I don’t. Argo was not driven; he was a driver. He answered not to some hidden Freudian impulse but only to his God. His intellect was enormous, his talents remarkable, and they were from his God to be used in his service. I do not know what a superman is or supposed to be, but even Superman had a weakness. For Argo it was pride that led him to believe he was answerable only to God. The laws of man and his religion were for him relevant only when they coincided with his beliefs.
And, of course, I was angry. No matter how noble he may have believed his cause, no matter how important, Argo had sacrificed us, and I could not forgive him. But now, having written this, I see more clearly than I had after his rejection clouded my view that blustery day months ago when I stepped off his boat. I see now, having in some way relived our relationship, that my intention to make public what only I know about Argo was designed to avenge the hurt. The truth, sad as it may be, is that I want more than anything to have Argo back in my life, hold me in his arms, and tell me that he still loves me. After everything, I know that I am not whole without him, and I pray, though I am unsure to whom, that Argo will come back to me as he always has.
As I write this, I have learned from Joe Machiarolla that Argo sailed The Sanctum to Bermuda three weeks ago and has not spoken to him since. Before leaving, Argo gave him his crucifix telling him that it was the only thing of value he owned. I have no idea what giving up his cross means, but it gives me hope.
I will print this manuscript such as it is, seal it in an envelope, and have his friend give it to Argo when he returns. If he does.
John 8:23
[From the Willow manuscript, Part 7.]
The last time I saw Argo was when we docked at the Marina where I had left my car before our aborted vacation. I grabbed my bags and was happy to get off of that boat and be away from him. There were no good-byes just the feeling, on my part at least, of good riddance. I had been unsure what to make of Argo’s veiled threats; they were maniacal and frightening. I knew our relationship had ended, and in truth I was relieved. I also hated him for the way he said it was over.
Then there was the assassination, and Argo had been hospitalized. I tried to get through to the hospital, but they would give out no information. Like everyone else in the world, I sat glued to the television for days watching the Pope’s funeral. I learned about Argo’s progress from the frequent reports, that he would survive, and that he was not suspected. The few people who addressed the possibility agreed that he could not have been involved and dismissed the bloggers who thought he had been. They were wild conspiracy theorists delighted in blaming the victim.
Of course, even conspiracy theorists can be right, after all; and given what he had told me just a few weeks before, I knew they were. The TV talking heads insisted that it would have been impossible to carry the strychnine into the dining room and leave no trace of it either on himself or in the room. The lack of any physical evidence along with the fact that Argo was a cardinal and distinguished defender of the Pope both within the church and in public gave little credence to the notion of his guilt. Even the Pope’s inner circle said that Argo could have been in no way involved. One columnist suggested suicide was as likely as murder committed by this cardinal.
Even as I was expecting some shoe to drop, something to point to him, an accomplice, perhaps, whose guilt weighed too heavily; crazily I was happy that he has managed to defeat the best crime detectors in the world. If anyone could, it was Argo. He was built for it. He grew up under the tutelage of criminals, and when he was a teenager I saw him coldly punch a boy to the ground because Argo thought that was the way to stop him from bullying my sister. He sent a bigger boy to the hospital out of revenge, and he continued to befriend a mafia don, even to the extent of accepting a boat as a thank you present. He was a priest at ease with breaking his vow of chastity and managed to keep it secret for years. It was not too difficult to understand how he could commit murder if he thought it had to be done. A man so strong in his own beliefs coming from his background was bound to react violently to something that threatened something most dear to him. Argo was a Legionary of the Church, and, in his mind at any rate, he took the kind of action the name suggests.
But I was torn. Having dedicated my professional life to the law, I could not accept that the man I truly loved held himself above it. The difference between the civilized world and the jungle is the code of law established to govern all people, even those who find it inconvenient. If a belief in a superior being justifies illegal action, then radical Islam is not culpable when their bombs blow up innocent citizens and terrorize us all. How an otherwise sane and brilliant mind, better than my own, could think otherwise was beyond me.
I suppose were I a psychologist, I could see some arcane Oedipal force driving him to kill the father he hated, but I am not and I don’t. Argo was not driven; he was a driver. He answered not to some hidden Freudian impulse but only to his God. His intellect was enormous, his talents remarkable, and they were from his God to be used in his service. I do not know what a superman is or supposed to be, but even Superman had a weakness. For Argo it was pride that led him to believe he was answerable only to God. The laws of man and his religion were for him relevant only when they coincided with his beliefs.
And, of course, I was angry. No matter how noble he may have believed his cause, no matter how important, Argo had sacrificed us, and I could not forgive him. But now, having written this, I see more clearly than I had after his rejection clouded my view that blustery day months ago when I stepped off his boat. I see now, having in some way relived our relationship, that my intention to make public what only I know about Argo was designed to avenge the hurt. The truth, sad as it may be, is that I want more than anything to have Argo back in my life, hold me in his arms, and tell me that he still loves me. After everything, I know that I am not whole without him, and I pray, though I am unsure to whom, that Argo will come back to me as he always has.
As I write this, I have learned from Joe Machiarolla that Argo sailed The Sanctum to Bermuda three weeks ago and has not spoken to him since. Before leaving, Argo gave him his crucifix telling him that it was the only thing of value he owned. I have no idea what giving up his cross means, but it gives me hope.
I will print this manuscript such as it is, seal it in an envelope, and have his friend give it to Argo when he returns. If he does.
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