The Sacrifice Read online

  “Outside of the obvious, dear, is there something particularly bothering you?”

  George laid his pipe in an ashtray and slipped a bookmark into the book he was reading. “Just that I worry about Father Tully. I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

  “Nothing will, darling. He made it through today’s threat. And considering what happened, I think you’d have to call him a survivor.”

  “Easy enough to say. But from what we know, providence—or luck, if you prefer—saw him through it.”

  “But, George, you must remember: The dead man wasn’t the bomber, just someone with a grudge against Father Tully.”

  “Oh, I know Mr. Harkins was not the bomber. His widow could testify to that. But that’s just the thing: There isn’t any doubt in my mind—nor yours, I’ll wager—that I was the prime target on Sunday. Whoever did that wanted to kill me badly enough to risk killing one or more others to get to me.

  “No, dear, the bomber isn’t the sort to go after Father Tully as a lone target. I doubt that Mr. Harkins would have even thought of attacking Zachary if not for what happened Sunday. Oh, Harkins would be frustrated and complain about his pastor and the ‘new’ Church in general. But I’ll bet that’s as far as he would have gone if it hadn’t been for the example in St. Joe’s church. I fear it may be open season on Church functionaries.” He closed his eyes, under a brow that appeared knitted in pain. “I fear it.”

  “And I do not,” Nan stated firmly. “I am convinced that once we get you through this, it’ll be over and done with. In fact, I feel that it’s behind us even now. I don’t think our mad bomber will attempt to strike again.”

  “You think so?” George was ready to grasp at any straw.

  “I do, indeed. In fact Mr. Harkins may just be the scarecrow in this.”

  George looked puzzled.

  “Don’t you see,” Nan explained, “now that the police are aware of this possible threat, they are a deterrent force. What happened to Mr. Harkins could happen to anyone who tries to harm you—or anybody else—in similar circumstances …” Her voice trailed off, and she fell silent.

  George retrieved his pipe from the ashtray. He dumped the dottle, tapping the bowl; then cleaned the inside of the bowl, shook in a fresh plug of tobacco, tamped it, lit it, and sucked in. Smoke paused for a moment over his head, then spread to the room’s four corners.

  Nan appreciated the aromatic odor. She did not appreciate what it was doing to her husband’s lungs. “There’s something more, isn’t there?” she prodded.

  George affected to be occupied in coaxing the tobacco to ignite. Actually the pipe was doing quite well.

  “I know there’s something more,” she pressed. “It’ll do you good to get it out.”

  He puffed more vigorously. By now the smoke was wafting throughout the room. The heat made his mouth uncomfortable.

  “Well … yes,” he admitted at length. “But it’s just useless speculation … nothing anyone can do anything about.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s troubling you. Won’t you tell me?”

  “Hmmm. It’s just that this whole thing has grown like Topsy. It seems to have taken on a life of its own.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The process of leaving the Episcopal Church was worse than I had imagined …” He paused momentarily. “But the call seemed so clear. I did not much care for abandoning Anglicanism. I did not appreciate having to go back to school and ‘learn’ from people who knew less than I did. I certainly hated the idea that I would not be allowed to have a pastoral ministry. ‘Special services’ like the chancery, jail ministry, even the seminary, are what’s being demanded of me.” He paused again. “I suppose I should be grateful they’re letting me keep the radio program and the column. In short, this whole business has proved very depressing.” He sighed.

  “But I knew this was coming. No matter how discouraging, the call … Christ’s call for me to make this difficult move … was stronger than the impositions I’ve had to undergo.”

  In all their years together, Nan had never heard her husband mention a specific “calling.” Not to the priesthood. Not to the newspaper. Not to the radio program.

  This gave her more reason to believe that George felt he had experienced some sort of divine intervention in his life.

  “To be perfectly open, Nan, everything I’ve mentioned: the reaction of both Roman and Anglican conservatives, the demeaning process I’ve been put through—none of this has been more oppressive than the deep-seated opposition of Alice and Ron.

  “I knew they would be terribly upset. But I thought that would be only their initial reaction. I was certain they would get over it.”

  “They may yet, dear. They may simply need more time.”

  “Do you think so? It seems so discouraging. I didn’t want to hurt them, God knows that. But it would be the last straw … if they were to turn away from me forever. The last straw.”

  “You’ll see, dear. In the end, they’ll stand with you. Just give them time.”

  “I don’t know.” His eyes welled with tears. He wiped them away before they could escape down his cheeks. “Maybe I was wrong about having some sort of call. Why would the Lord single me out of all the people who could better accomplish this task? What if I’m wrong? It’s not too late …” The pipe, still hot from the smoldering tobacco, rested, forgotten, in his hand. “Darling, what do you think? Should I back out? I’ve just been ordained for the diaconate in the Roman Church. I haven’t been ordained to the priesthood yet. There’s still time to get off the track. You are closer to me than anyone on earth: Should I call it quits and salvage what I can?”

  Yes, you should, Nan thought.

  From the very beginning she had not been sold on this momentous project. Of course, the move would bring great hardship for her. But she had proved that she was able to make the necessary sacrifices. No, it was George she worried about, much more than herself. Yet even she could not have foreseen the events of the past two days. The whole thing had gotten out of control.

  Who could have guessed that one man—a priest, an innocent bystander—would be killed, and another man, bent on murder, would be shot down? And what was yet to come?

  But this was not the word George was seeking from his wife. She knew her husband well. At this point, he wanted—he needed—the support and the encouragement that only Nan could provide. A negative response would only further grieve him.

  In the end, she gave him what she knew he needed.

  “Things have always been demanding for those who strive to do God’s will. Starting with Jesus Himself. Just let your imagination wander through the ages. Think of those who have sacrificed themselves for a noble goal. History is full of examples. I’m sure the Lord is pleased that you have answered His call.

  “Besides, dear, we haven’t far to go. In less than a week we will be launched on another ministry. I think it’s going to be thrilling. A challenge that will be a joy to meet. And in the very near future, our children will be around us again.

  “It’ll work. You’ll see. Now, no more doubts. We will stay the course.”

  A smile was trying to break through his countenance. “Nan, darling, what did I ever do to have you share my life?”

  “We must have been pretty good to have found each other. I cannot imagine life without you.”

  “Nor I without you in this life and the next.”

  Nan left her chair and walked across the room. She perched on the arm of George’s chair. He laid aside his pipe. It smoldered in the ashtray. She slid her arm across his shoulders and rested her head on his.

  “God’s in His heaven,” George said. “We are together. All’s right with the world.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Tuesday morning. The weather was typical for a Lenten day on the verge of spring. It wasn’t so much raining as misting. Not quite demanding an umbrella so much as a rain hat. A damp chill hung in the air. The perfect climate to encourage a late winter cold.
/>   Radio, television, and print newspeople were filing into the Gabriel Richard Building on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Washington Boulevard.

  The weather was cheerless. But it could not compete with Jim Davis’s wretchedness. As the longtime proprietor of a downtown bar and grill, Davis should have long since gotten used to the reek of stale tobacco and alcohol. This morning, however, the only thing that kept him from being sick to his stomach was that he wasn’t pregnant.

  It had begun yesterday.

  Before he left home for work, his wife had given him one important but simple task: Mail the mortgage payment. It was the final, day to send it in without incurring a penalty.

  But yesterday afternoon an old classmate had dropped in at Jim’s Place to chew the fat. The friend stayed and stayed. Old football games were replayed. Old teachers were fondly or bitterly recalled. Perhaps once every two years Davis had a drink. Yesterday was that biennial day.

  The result: He had forgotten to mail the house payment. And because the mortgage company had been swallowed by an out-of-state concern, he couldn’t even hand-deliver the payment—not unless he wanted to drive to Minnesota.

  His wife was furious. And he had the world’s foremost hangover.

  He had hated having to get up and go to work this morning. However, given the choice of staying around the house listening to a nonstop sermon on adult responsibility, or heading for the relative peace and quiet of Jim’s Place—well, it was a no-brainer.

  All in all, a doubly dreary day.

  Customers would trickle in later. For now, Davis elected to sit by the window looking out on Washington Boulevard and give the sickening pounding behind his eyes a chance to die down.

  As usual at this time of day and in this weather there were few cabs and even fewer pedestrians. Nearly everybody who worked downtown was already at work. Those who had no work huddled in doorways or under overhangs, trying to keep dry.

  Davis’s bleary gaze steadied on a car that was idling a short distance up the street. Wasn’t that the same car he’d seen yesterday at just about the same spot? Again not parked, just idling.

  Yesterday he’d thought the driver might have been Sunday evening’s oddball patron. Davis’s face contorted as he tried to focus. As far as he could tell, the man just sitting in his car now was the same guy who’d been sitting there yesterday morning. Yeah … the guy who’d gone on and on about that church bombing.

  Davis tried to recall the patron’s name. But it was simply too much effort. His brain seemed the organ slowest to recover. What was that guy doing hanging around a near-deserted corner in downtown Detroit anyway?

  It’s probably nothing, he decided. He lurched to his feet. Time to ready Jim’s Place for the faithful few.

  At least he had mailed the goddam house payment—along with the fee for tardiness.

  Stan Rybicki’s fingers drummed the steering wheel.

  He was quite certain what he wanted to do. He had to depend on fate to have a chance at doing it.

  Yesterday he had almost succeeded. For a brief few moments he’d had the Wheatley man in his sights. But another priest was with him. That wouldn’t do at all.

  Rybicki had circled the block periodically, trying not to attract undue attention. But the two priests had stayed in the coffee shop—and stayed and stayed. And, after all that, when they did finally emerge, it turned out that Wheatley had parked in a lot adjacent to the shop.

  He’d had no real chance.

  Today, however, held more promise.

  According to news reports, a press conference concerning Wheatley’s future was to be held in the Gabriel Richard Building.

  The boss—that would be Cardinal Boyle—would probably want to confer with Wheatley beforehand … possibly even accompany him to the press conference. Rybicki waited. Fate would be his guide. If God gave an opening, Rybicki would strike. If not … He shrugged. God’s will be done.

  There he was.

  Parking in the same lot as yesterday. Rybicki could not mistake the dumpy figure, swathed in a misshapen black raincoat. Even with the black hat pulled firmly down over his brow to ward off the misting rain and sharp wind whipping in from the Detroit River.

  The fly in this ointment came in the person of another black-clad man—probably another priest, but not one familiar to Rybicki—who pulled up and parked next to Wheatley’s car. Now he walked alongside Wheatley across Washington Boulevard toward the chancery. No way of knowing whether the unknown priest would be accompanying Wheatley to the news conference, or whether he had just happened along coincidentally.

  There was only one more chance. If it failed, Wheatley’s fate would have to be at the very least postponed.

  Rybicki watched the two clerically clad men disappear into the chancery building.

  Sometime—sometime soon—Wheatley would have to go from the chancery over to the Gabriel Richard Building, where the conference was scheduled. To get there, he’d have to cross both Washington Boulevard and Michigan Avenue.

  If, in doing this, he would have company … well, it would be God’s will.

  Right now, Wheatley was undoubtedly conferring with the Cardinal. It would not be a long meeting; the conference was due to begin in a few minutes. The newspeople must already be assembled; no last-minute arrivals were scrambling in.

  In a short while, Wheatley would ride down in the elevator. The elevator that Rybicki himself had operated and watchdogged all those years.

  He waited. For the moment, there was nothing else he could do.

  But pray.

  It was a brief meeting. Almost pro forma. Cardinal Boyle was not feeling well. The violent events of the past few days had done him no good. He said very little. Nor, for that matter, did Father Wheatley. The director of the Department of Communications did all the talking. All Father Wheatley need bother with was (a) complete ignorance with regard to who was responsible for the bombing or why it had occurred; the matter was in the capable hands of Detroit’s Homicide detectives. And (b) Wheatley’s ordination ceremony would take place this coming Sunday in Blessed Sacrament Cathedral; admission would be by ticket only.

  And that was it.

  A pretty meager briefing, Wheatley thought. But it didn’t trouble him; he’d dealt with the media in the past. He and they would get along all right.

  The director then excused himself from attending the news conference. He had several calls to return, a couple of which might prove important. Wheatley remained unperturbed; he did not need anyone to lead him to 305 Michigan Avenue.

  On the ride down on the elevator, Wheatley considered how the conference would go without the director’s hands-on presence. The main thing that had to be emphasized was that no one without an invitation was going to be admitted to the ordination ceremony.

  Even so, Wheatley reflected, security would not be airtight. They simply did not know who was responsible for the first attempt on Wheatley’s—or, perhaps, Tully’s—life. It could have been a relative, a friend, or even another—though ideologically opposed—priest. Or—who could tell?—a professional assassin. A ticket might well be given to a murderer and withheld from an innocent person who just wanted to witness history in the making.

  Wheatley’s ride aboard the chancery’s elevator was over. He walked through the empty vestibule and let himself out the door to Washington Boulevard. He paused, pulled his coat collar up around his neck, and his hat brim as far down as possible.

  It was still raining. Perhaps a little harder than when he’d entered the chancery. He stepped out onto the boulevard and headed for Michigan Avenue.

  Stan Rybicki jerked upright in the driver’s seat.

  He tapped his foot against the accelerator. The engine was running.

  The heretic was walking alone right into harm’s way.

  Perfect.

  God had provided the sacrifice.

  It was God’s will!

  Wheatley arrived at the corner. He glanced briefly down Michigan. He barely t
urned his head; he didn’t want to get his glasses wet. There was no vehicle turning from Michigan onto Washington Boulevard. He headed across the boulevard toward the median. He crossed the median, then, as he was about to continue into the street, he glanced up, this time to his right. No traffic. Just a parked car. He stepped forward.

  The car’s engine roared. Not unusual in itself; maybe there was a stalling problem … had to rev the engine to get it going.

  Rybicki released the brake and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  The car shot forward.

  Wheatley knew instantly something was terribly wrong. He had no time to think of anything beyond that. The car struck even as he started to turn his head.

  His body seemed to float gracefully through the air. Something like an acrobat in a circus. It turned a complete somersault before crunching into the wet pavement.

  And there he lay.

  The car was a block down Michigan Avenue before Rybicki slowed and turned off the main thoroughfare. Although he had fixated on his target, he was quite sure there had been no witness.

  It would take a while for his pounding pulse to slow to normal. But he had done it: He had stopped his Church from betraying Herself.

  Rybicki was wrong about there being no witness.

  Jim Davis was sweeping near the front window when he heard the snarl of the motor and the squeal of the tires. He looked up, saw the car strike the victim, and witnessed the body make its artful turn in the air.

  Davis, and probably he alone, knew exactly what had happened.

  His first inclination was to detach himself from this mess. People rarely got into trouble keeping quiet.

  But there was something particularly heinous about this. In Davis’s catalog of evil, vehicular homicide, or the attempt thereat, ranked high.