Free The Road to Omaha by Robert Ludlum Page B

her head and he took her back to Rome, to the Vatican—”
    “
Hogan
! Get over the wood and hold back the bastards!… Come on, Sammy, you’re leavin’ through the kitchen, the front door you’d never make!”
    That innocent episode had brought on his acute depression, thought Devereaux, as he sped north on the less-traveled road to Weston. Couldn’t the unknowing “
world
” understand that the “
mystery
” was not unknown to one lovesick, adoring Sam-the-lawyer type, who had nurtured Anne-the-many-times-married-hooker from Detroit back into self-respect, only to have her slam the gates shut on their marriage to follow in the steps of crazy Zio?… Well, Uncle Zio hadn’t actually been crazy, he was only misguided where the life of Samuel-my-son-the-fine-attorney was concerned. He was also Pope Francesco I, the most beloved Pope of the twentieth century who had permitted his own kidnapping on Rome’s Via Appia Antica because he had been told he was dying, and it was better that his identical cousin, one Guido Frescobaldi from LaScala Minuscolo, be put on Saint Peter’s throne and take radio instructions from the true Pontiff somewhere in the Alps. It all had worked! For a while. Mac Hawkins and Zio for weeks on end would go up to the ramparts of Zermatt’s Château Machenfeld and over the shortwave radio explain to the less than bright, tone-deaf Frescobaldi what to do next in the cause of the Holy See.
    Then everything fell apart—with a thud that had to sonically rival the first creation of planet Earth. The Alpine air restored Uncle Zio—Pope Francesco, of course—to his former healthy self, and, conversely, Guido Frescobaldi accidentally fell on the private shortwave radio, his bulk smashing it to smithereens, and the Vatican went into an economic tailspin. The remedy was painful but obvious; however, far more painful to Sam Devereaux—far,
far
more painful—was the loss of his one true love, Anne theRehabilitated, who had listened to all that crap Uncle Zio kept spewing quietly into her ear as they played checkers every morning. Instead of marrying one Samuel Lansing Devereaux, she opted for “marrying” one Jesus Christ, whose credentials, Sam had to admit, were considerably more impressive than his own, although the more earthly perks somewhat less so—immensely less so when one took into account the life that the glorious Anne the Rehabilitated had chosen. My
God
, Boston at its worst was better than leper colonies! Well, certainly most of the time.
    Life marches on, Sam. It’s combat all the way, so don’t let yourself be boondoggled if you lose a skirmish or two. Get your ass up and charge ahead
!
    Words from the lowliest lowlife in the universe, the ultimate, incontestable argument for sexual abstinence or stringent birth control. General MacKenzie Hawkins, Madman Mac the Hawk, scourge of sanity and destroyer of all things good and decent. Those fatuous words, that clichéd military psychobabble, were all the slugworm could offer during Sam’s moments of desperate anguish.
    She’s leaving me, Mac. She’s actually going with him
!
    Zio’s a damn good man, son. He’s a fine commander of his legions, and we who know the loneliness of command respect one another
.
    But, Mac, he’s a priest, the big enchilada of priests, the Pope! They won’t be able to dance, or cuddle, or have kids or any of those things
!
    Well, you’re probably right about the last two, but Zio does a hell of a tarantella, or have you forgotten
?
    Nobody touches in tarantellas. They whirl around and kick up their legs, but they don’t come near each other
!
    Must be the garlic. Or maybe the legs
.
    You’re not listening to me. This is the mistake of her life—you should know that! For God’s sake, you were married to her, which hasn’t made me entirely comfortable these past weeks
.
    Pull back your caissons, boy. I was married to all the girls, and none of them came out the worse for it. Annie was the