The Sacrifice Page 26

  Zoo went on to bring Zack up to date: the intercepted telephone call wherein Harkins gloated over how he was going to kill Zack. The race to apprehend Harkins before he caught up with Zachary and made good his threat. Finally, the gun—rendered useless because Harkins had forgotten to unlock the trigger.

  In the face of Zoo’s unbroken narration, Zachary was forced to agree that he was one lucky man—although he preferred to term it Divine Providence.

  “I don’t know what it is with you guys,” Zoo said. “You seem to have somebody the rest of us can’t see watching over you. That your guardian angel?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Yesterday you and Wheatley would have been blown away—literally. But a mysterious phone call saved both of you. Today, you would’ve been killed if an inquisitive neighbor hadn’t kept you past your time at the jail.”

  “What about the gun with the locked trigger?” Zachary protested. “He couldn’t have killed me with that gun.”

  Zoo smiled sardonically. “Once Harkins knew what was wrong with his gun—and he knew it the instant he tried to pull the trigger—it would’ve taken him no more than a few seconds to unlock it. With me, he didn’t have that extra time; I got him before he got me. It’s as simple as that. You were unarmed. You would’ve been killed.”

  Zack Tully’s health was sound. He was not yet old enough to take death seriously. For the first time in his life he had been brushed by mortality. He was surprised now to find himself alarmed by the inevitability of it. He tried to keep his face—and his voice—expressionless. “I’m glad he didn’t get either of us.” But the offhandedness of his statement was belied by the almost imperceptible tremor in the hand that held the wineglass.

  Zoo gazed at his brother with a variety of emotions: relief, compassion—and yes, he silently admitted—love. Aloud he said only, “The next time you see Father What’s-His-Name from …”

  “St. Mary’s,” Zack supplied.

  “St. Mary’s … well, the next time you see him, thank him for all of us.”

  “Unfortunately,” Zoo said to Mangiapane, “we did not bag two birds with one stone.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Harkins was not the bomber. We were looking to the guy who was harassing Zack as being the same guy who set the bomb.” Zoo looked almost disgusted. “But his wife … his widow—she claims the two of ’em were watching TV yesterday—eating, or snoozing, or watching TV.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Mangiapane commiserated. “The guys found an arsenal in his basement … but no bomb fixings. Plus a pile of magazines and newspapers he cut up for the letters he sent your brother.”

  The two men looked at each other, silently sharing the identical thought: Whoever had set off that bomb was still out there.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Stan Rybicki turned off his radio. He had a lot of news to digest.

  What was that man’s name? Leon Harkins. Yeah, that was it.

  Stan wondered had he ever met this Harkins guy. At a political or religious rally, maybe? Maybe. He certainly wasn’t one who came to mind at mention of his name. Stan would have to wait till Harkins’s photo was shown on TV. Or until a fuller account of the incident appeared in the newspaper.

  Whoever he was, this Harkins guy had balls. Imagine taking on the brother of a cop!

  On top of which, he’d gone after the wrong guy. Of course this Tully priest had been making a shambles of the divine service what with his guitar Masses and encouraging extreme Liturgies discouraged by the Pope and the whole Vatican hierarchy. While that was certainly bad enough, at least he wasn’t destroying the core of the things that the Church had always taught.

  But this Wheatley guy! He was the one who was going to give vestments and altar breads and chalices to females and pretend that they could do the most sacred thing in all of Catholicism!

  And as if that wasn’t more than enough, this guy Wheatley, this—oh, there were no words for it!—he was going to trot headlong into the rectory, where he would live right out in the open with his wife and kids.

  As the Church has always taught, the law doesn’t demand that men remain single. Only those who want to be priests: They have to be celibate.

  So there’s nothing to the argument that the Church forces priests to live single lives. The Church doesn’t force anybody not to marry. But if you want to be a priest, the rules are the rules.

  Bottom line: Harkins went after the wrong guy. And that blunder had been a total foul-up: He’d failed to off the guy. And even if he had shot and killed Father Tully he most likely would’ve gotten killed himself. It didn’t take an atomic scientist to figure that the cop would surround his own brother with protection.

  The radio said that the cop—Lieutenant Tully—actually was the one who killed Harkins.

  So what has the poor schlemiel got to show for his efforts? One guy—the guy he should’ve gotten—not even injured. And that poor innocent priest … what had he ever done to deserve being blown half to bits? Rybicki shook his head. So then he goes after the other guy—the wrong guy—-who walks away without even a bruise.

  Rybicki rocked back and forth in his easy chair until he got enough momentum to swing his large body up into a standing position. He walked to the kitchen and got a beer from the fridge. He twisted the bottle cap off.

  Still, he reasoned, Harkins ought not to be ridiculed. At least he’d had the gumption to do something. And something certainly needed to be done. Mainly, the right thing needed to be done. Somebody had to turn this stuff around and take effective steps to make people know what was going on. The common people were going to let all this happen and it’d be over—an accomplished fact before they even knew what had happened to their dear religion.

  Rybicki thought of all those noble men who had ridden his elevator, doing their jobs way back when. The good old days.

  Most of those guys were gone now. But they’d be spinning in their graves if they could see women up there on the altar! If they could know that some priest was fooling with his wife before getting up to say Mass!

  He could see the religious hippies who’d barged onto his elevator and tried to get off on the sacrosanct second floor to confront the archbishop. No—no way! Rybicki tossed his head. They never got past him, by God!

  They’d argue that St. Peter was married ’cause it said in the Bible that Jesus cured Peter’s mother-in-law. But they never considered that once Peter got serious about following the Lord, the Bible never mentioned her again—and certainly never mentioned any wife. Peter just got called to celibacy a little late.

  Well, you big lug, Rybicki reasoned with himself, what are you going to do about it?

  He didn’t want to die. He liked living. Of course, life wasn’t perfect. And, of course, he did want to go to heaven. And getting rid of Wheatley was certainly a ticket to heaven.

  But not just yet.

  Maybe there was a way of doing this without a personally fatal confrontation. There had to be some way of getting rid of Wheatley without risking his own life.

  Movement—that was the ticket.

  Wheatley was scheduled to hold a news conference in the Gabriel Richard Building. According to the paper, that was set for tomorrow morning. There had to be a way of parlaying his intimate knowledge of the chancery and the Gabriel Richard Building into a plan that would get rid of Wheatley once and for all.

  Movement … something involving movement.

  “You never told me about this!”

  “There was never any need … until now.”

  Alonzo Tully and his wife, Anne Marie, sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Each had a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Anne Marie and her coffee were steaming. “For the kind of thing you did today, they should have given you a commendation, a medal … something!”

  “They did. They gave me some days off.”

  “They’re not days off!”

  “Restricted duty. It’s just a term … another name for time off.”


  “You could’ve been killed!”

  That stopped Zoo. He’d been making a conscious effort to forget what had happened just hours ago. Yes, he could have been killed. And he would have been had Harkins remembered to release the safety. That mistake was all that had stood between a live Lieutenant Tully and his body on a slab in the morgue. “Honey, we’ve been over this. You know there’s danger in my work. I carry a lethal weapon. So do the bad guys.”

  “I know. And I know we’ve talked about it. But it never was for real until now. And it scares me.”

  “To be honest, it scares me, too. It didn’t when it was going down. Then, the adrenaline was pumping. Now, it’s time to cool down. That’s what I’m doing here at home with you.”

  Anne Marie wiped tears away with the back of her hand. “Tell me again, sweetheart, what you have to do now. Can’t they give you a break and overlook some of the red tape?”

  Zoo shook his head. “Honey, you gotta remember this procedure has been built up over years of trial and error. And besides, I already got one break.”

  “And that is?”

  “The procedure is, I was supposed to be taken immediately to headquarters. That’s so nobody—mainly the media—could throw any questions at me, or ask for a statement. My guys gave me a couple of minutes with Zack.”

  “Then what?”

  “They took my gun. It’s part of the investigation. They’ll test it and identify it as the weapon that killed Harkins. Then they gave me the Garrity Warning—”

  “That something like the Miranda Warning?”

  “It’s sort of the Miranda Warning for cops. I have to make out a PCR—that’s the Preliminary Complaint Report. Nothing said in that can be used against me—because I am ordered to make the report.

  “The rest of it is pretty routine. The Board of Review investigates, and the department psychiatrist examines me. I even get to be interviewed by a department chaplain—” He noted her lifted eyebrow. “No, I didn’t request it; it’s compulsory in these situations.

  “Then I get to confer with our union representative, and our lawyer.

  “Bottom line: Once I get clearance from the Board of Review and the psychiatrist, I can resume normal duties.”

  “And until then?”

  “Tomorrow, I stay home. The next day, I’ll go on desk duty. But it’ll probably be three or four days before I’m allowed back out on the street.” He paused momentarily. “Honey … see, odds are strong—very strong—that there’ll be litigation. There almost always is …”

  “But what can anybody sue you—or the department—for? What you did seems like a classic case of self-defense.”

  “They’ll argue that Harkins’s weapon was locked … so that, in effect, I killed an unarmed man.”

  “But you couldn’t know the gun was locked!”

  “Baby, I said they’d sue … I didn’t say they’d win.”

  Both had been sipping their coffee. What remained in the cups was cooling. Anne Marie hotted up their cups.

  “All this is by the book,” Zoo said, “so it doesn’t trouble me.”

  “Then what is troubling you?”

  “I’m going to be off the streets just when I most need to be on active duty.”

  “How come?”

  “Harkins wasn’t involved in the church bombing. That we know. That means the bomber is still out there. He’s frustrated: Not only did he fail but the guy who followed in his steps also failed. This can get to be like a shark’s feeding frenzy.

  “Today’s surveillance was mostly a personal favor to me. Realistically, we can’t afford that kind of bodyguarding indefinitely.

  “I could do it. With a few people from my squad we could give Zack and Wheatley pretty good protection. But not only am I off the street, I am not allowed to participate in any investigation of this case. And that prohibition is the strongest of all: I’m off this case … period!”

  Anne Marie reflected on this. “I can understand why the department is cautious about the possibility—”

  “Probability,” Zoo corrected.

  “All right, probability of a lawsuit. And I can see why the department is supercautious about protecting you … and itself. But giving you desk duty and keeping you from this case? That sounds as if you’re being punished. And I don’t think it’s fair.”

  “Experience,” Zoo said firmly. “The school of hard knocks. The department wants to be supercertain there are no loopholes. We want to be prepared for the worst. But”—he smiled—“here you’ve got me defending the department. You’re clever: You’re supposed to be on the department’s side: keeping me out of action … and out of danger.”

  “I do feel that way, hon. It’s just that I know how this tears you up. I do want Father Wheatley to come out of this alive. And especially I want Zack to be safe. It’s just that I know that you’re the best officer to bring them through this alive and well. I guess … I’m just torn …”

  “So am I. But I know me. I’m going to be a bear for a few days. I just hope I don’t make life miserable for you …”

  “You won’t. I’m on your team. I guess,” she concluded, “the only thing we can do is pray.”

  “That’s your department, babe.” He grinned. “I’ll just count on your prayers.” He stood. “Why don’t you finish making supper while I watch some TV? Maybe I can find some mindless violence on the tube. Nothing I want more now than watching some TV cops blowing away an infinite number of bad guys.”

  She patted his hand, and turned to her task. She put a prepared dinner in the oven. Ordinarily, she would’ve put together a superior meal. But tonight she neither had the time, nor was she in the mood.

  About prayer? She loved her husband. She loved everything about him. With him she felt protected and loved in return.

  If there was one thing she could add to their lives it would be faith—faith enough for both of them. Faith in God, and communication with Him through prayer.

  She would continue to work at that for as long as either of them lived.

  Zoo was too good a person not to know Love Himself.

  Nan Wheatley sat quietly in the comfortable living room. She, like her husband, was grateful to the Episcopal Church for giving them leave to remain in their old rectory until … until what? Until the Wheatleys would move into St. Joseph’s rectory, leaving behind—but no, she mustn’t dwell on that.

  Uppermost in Nan’s mind were thoughts of her children. Alice, having been questioned at length, was finally free to return to Dallas. However, she had decided to stay in Detroit until this affair had run its course.

  Richard, for the duration, was staying with one of George’s relatives in Windsor, just across the Detroit River, in Canada.

  Ron was carrying on his ministry as well as possible, though in a distracted fashion. Part of that distraction was due to Gwen.

  Nan had never really liked Gwen. Her reservations sprang from Gwen’s ambitions to climb socially, and the pressure she inflicted on her husband to do likewise. But beyond that, Gwen’s ambitions for her husband’s advancement were fixed on nothing less than his becoming a bishop. An office not easily attained, particularly if actively pursued. Knowing Gwen’s background of extreme poverty infused with very fundamental Christianity, Nan could understand her daughter-in-law’s ambitions. She could understand them, but she could not ignore what those ambitions were doing to Ron.

  Ron and Gwen and Richard had also been questioned about the bombing.

  As a result of the investigation thus far, Lieutenant Tully had been able to ascertain that not Alice, Ronald, Gwen, nor Richard had an established alibi for the time immediately preceding the explosion.

  Actually, Richard seemed to need no explanation for his whereabouts during that period. If anything, he was merely bemused over all this commotion surrounding a switch in Church affiliation. Outside of his concern over this threat to his father, Richard seemed a carefree teenager.

  Ronald and Alice were another que
stion. They were bitter over what they saw as George’s defection from the Episcopal faith. As, by extension, was Gwen.

  Presumably, each of them could have a viable motive. Even if those motives might possibly differ one from another. And, given the comparative ease of assembling a timed pipe bomb, in Lieutenant Tully’s eyes, any of them could have had the means—although there might be some question about Gwen’s competency in that realm. To Zoo, it was all conceivable; to Nan Wheatley, it was unthinkable.

  Of course one had to keep in mind that the majority of conservatives—particularly the inculcated ones—were just plain angry—some few to the point of fanaticism.

  Angry that their Roman Catholic Church would welcome an Anglican priest and his family, and that this priest from a “heretical” sect openly espoused female priests. It was almost too much for a Catholic of the “old school” to bear.

  Episcopal traditionalists were similarly affected. Father Wheatley was abandoning the Church, as well as the countless faithful he had counseled, comforted, and instructed over a great many years. He was, to some, a traitor.

  Then there was Father Morgan, whose reportedly returned vestments still had not turned up. Nobody had seen him around the altar before the explosion—but then, who had really been paying attention? Who knew who had been anyplace around the altar?

  Nan stood above all this. She remained the adhesive that held her fragmented family together. Her first love was directed to her husband. Very closely following this was her concern for her children.

  Neither George nor Nan had had much of an appetite at dinner. Both had done little more than pick at their food.

  Things were beginning to settle down now. Though they still reacted with anxiety and concern over the danger and excitement of Sunday’s bombing.

  After all these years together, Nan could tell that her husband was presently a bundle of nerves, though he gave no outward indication of this. For one thing, he had been puffing on his ancient pipe. George had given up smoking years ago. But he had not gotten rid of his various pipes. They were like old friends, even if they were deadly. That he was smoking one now confirmed Nan’s suspicion that inwardly George was seething.