The Sacrifice Page 29

  Jephthah counted as much on God for victory as on his troops. He promised God that should He grant victory, Jephthah would offer up as a sacrifice the first person who came to meet him when he returned in victory. His vow was a pretty safe one; after all, he had but one child, and certainly no way would she be the first person he would set eyes on after the battle.

  Wouldn’t you know it: When Jephthah returned to his house in a victory parade, it was his daughter who came forth, playing the tambourines and dancing. At sight of her, he rent his garments and cried, “Alas, daughter, you have struck me down and brought calamity upon me. For I have made a vow to the Lord, and I cannot retract.’”

  Nor does he. After a two-month interval, during which the daughter puts her life in order, her father fulfills his vow and sacrifices his only child.

  Obviously the stories that Koesler had summoned up bore certain similarities to the tragedy that had struck George Wheatley. Still, none of them came close to being a perfect match.

  In the biblical narratives that Koesler could bring to mind, the father is always the principal figure. But it is the daughter, the sons, who are the victims, or near-victims.

  In the real-life drama, as far as George Wheatley was concerned, the scenario was upside down: George himself was first the near-victim, then the actual victim.

  So what did Koesler have for his pains? A complete washout …

  He was ready to give up and call it a night. He half rose from his chair to do just that when another thought struck: If the Bible stories were upside down, what would happen if they were turned around? Koesler sat back down.

  He went back over the five examples, turning them around, upside down, backward, and forward from their original biblical messages.

  Then it hit.

  One story did have everything. Oh, it wasn’t a perfect match by any means … but the essentials were there.

  Most of all, it satisfied Koesler’s absorption with the mysteriously timely phone call that had caused a delay sufficient to save Wheatley’s life, as well as that of Tully—and who knew how many others.

  It wasn’t a flawless blueprint, Koesler admitted to himself. But it was a solid hypothesis. A hypothesis that needed to be tested.

  Who better? Koesler dialed the number for Walter Koznicki.

  From the tone of Koznicki’s voice, it seemed that the inspector had been waiting for, indeed expecting Koesler’s call.

  The priest explained his rationale for the conclusion he had reached.

  Koznicki agreed totally. Koesler’s conclusion might be no more than a theory. But it was a sounder theory than anyone else had come up with. It needed one more hearing; one more brain to run it through.

  It was too late tonight, and even tomorrow might be too early for George Wheatley to be of any help. Nonetheless, the retired priest and the retired Homicide detective made a date to meet at the Intensive Care Unit of Receiving Hospital at eight A.M. tomorrow, and then go from there.

  Neither Koesler nor Koznicki slept well that night.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Promptly at eight A.M., Father Koesler exited the elevator and stepped into the corridor leading to the ICU waiting room. He was amazed at the sight that met his eyes. An overflow crowd spilled out of the waiting area into the corridor. Members of the media mingled with relatives and friends of the injured man.

  Koesler’s clerical collar afforded him a grudging path through the crowd. Still, it was slow going as he made his way toward the waiting room. When he reached the door, once more it was his collar that gained him entree.

  With Koesler’s height, he had a fair chance of getting a glimpse of most of those present. Specifically, he was looking for Inspector Koznicki and/or any of the immediate Wheatley family. He located the inspector with little trouble; his height also made him easy to spot. Koesler did not spy any of the family. They must, he assumed, be seated somewhere in the far corner of the room.

  The ICU door was opened by a young woman in nursing uniform. Instantly the crowd surged forward a step or two. There was no room to advance further.

  “Is there a Father Koesler here?” the nurse asked.

  “Yes.” Koesler waved a hand in the air.

  “Please follow me.”

  There was a commotion on the part of the media mostly. Of course they wanted access. Of course none would be granted them. But now that something was going on, they felt impelled to act.

  Koesler followed the nurse through the door. “How is he?”

  She shook her head. “His condition has deteriorated somewhat. The doctors don’t want to do anything invasive at present. It’s now that we count mainly on his will to live. He asked to see you. That’s a good sign. But he’s aware how critical his condition is. Don’t stay too long. And”—she turned a steady gaze on him—”try not to excite him.”

  She ushered Koesler into a fairly good-sized room that appeared smaller than it actually was. This, Koesler thought, was due to the life-support system and monitors that encompassed the patient.

  There was no sound save the whisper of oxygen and the soft ping of the heart monitor.

  Koesler had been in many a hospital room over the years. He was no stranger to ICU facilities. The fact that George Wheatley was hooked up to a near cobweb of tubes and wires was not surprising. Nor did any of this equipment speak to a healthy person. George Wheatley was badly injured. He looked and acted it.

  The nurse left the room. The whistles, beeps, and pings would keep her well informed of the patient’s condition.

  “George …” Koesler spoke a bare decibel above a whisper.

  Wheatley opened his eyes and focused on Koesler. A quarter of a smile was all he could muster. “A … a little while ago, one … one of my … Anglican buddies … gave me … the Ministration to the Sick. I … I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not …

  “George, are you sure you want to talk? Maybe it would be better if you just rested. You did get bounced around quite a bit.”

  Wheatley rotated his head slightly to the right, then to the left. Quite obviously he wanted to communicate something. No matter if it cost him dearly. “That phone call …” He spoke haltingly, effort-fully, his words barely audible.

  “Maybe we’d better get into that later.” Koesler, of course, knew to what phone call Wheatley referred. But as eager as he was to test his theory, he was reluctant to cause Wheatley more grief.

  “Now.” George sounded like an angry man who had run out of patience. Actually, he was just trying to conserve his energy so he could continue to communicate.

  “Okay. You were called to the phone just as the ceremony was about to begin. It turns out you are notorious for not being able to ignore a ringing phone. We assumed that whoever called probably knew that. We also assumed that it was the caller’s purpose to detain you long enough so that you would not be injured by the explosion.

  “Since no one showed up to go to confession to you, we connected the bomber to the caller. But whoever he was, the caller did not consider the possibility of an inquisitive Father Farmer.

  “You have said all along that you did not recognize the voice on the phone … that it was muffled and not distinguishable. It was clear enough to be understood, but not to be identified—”

  Wheatley appeared agitated. He broke into Koesler’s narrative. “I … couldn’t … be … sure.”

  “But you had a suspicion?”

  George nodded slowly, painfully. “How … did … you … know?”

  “Everytime I was with you and the question of the caller’s identity came up, you seemed to grow ill at ease.”

  Again a bare smile. “Yes.”

  “I’ll save you the trouble. Did you think it might have been Ron?”

  “Might.” George emphasized that he couldn’t be certain of the caller’s identity, though, of course, there was a possibility. “But … why?”

  “That has puzzled all of us,” Koesler said, choosing his words carefu
lly. “The question of who made the call began to become more important than who planted the bomb … if they were indeed not one and the same person.”

  “If … Ron … why?”

  Koesler, careful not to dislodge any of the tubes or wires, moved his chair closer to the bed. “Last night, on a hunch, I tried to match what happened to you with some biblical event. Almost everyone who is either related to you, associated with you, or is an actual suspect in this case has some familiarity with the Bible, to a greater or lesser degree.”

  Wheatley nodded as vigorously as he was able. Koesler took this to mean that George himself had already been down this path. Unsuccessfully.

  “I won’t bother you with all the dead ends I ran into. But think for a moment of Abraham and Isaac.”

  George was, of course, quite conversant with the famous story. But even after several moments’ thought, his expression indicated that he saw no connection.

  “Turn it around,” Koesler said. He allowed several moments for George to do this. “Now, pretend that the son was on a divine mission to sacrifice his father. Assume that instead of Abraham being told by the voice of God to kill and offer Isaac as a burnt offering, Isaac is told to sacrifice Abraham.

  “In Abraham’s case, God was testing Abraham’s faith. In your case, you were about to betray your faith. Driven by the voice of God—and perhaps one other person … but we’ll get to that later—Ron prepared to make of you a sacrifice.

  “Once Abraham passed the test—proving beyond all doubt that his faith was strong enough to actually kill his own son, an angel stopped the proceedings, and Isaac was saved.

  “Ron had one test for you. A test that would convince him that you didn’t really believe in this heretical Roman Church. If you passed this test, you would be spared. Just as, if Abraham passed his test, Isaac would be spared.

  “Your test came down to your identity as an Episcopal priest.

  “Ron planted the bomb—something I’m sure he will regret all the rest of his days. Then he placed a call for you, timed for just as the ceremony was about to begin. Ron well knew how you couldn’t resist answering a ringing phone. He tried to mask his voice so that you couldn’t be certain to identify him.

  “He told you he was desperate. Actually …” Koesler stopped to think for a moment, then nodded as if to himself. “Yes,” he continued, “when it comes down to that, he was desperate. Anyway, he told you this was a life-or-death request. He had to go to confession to you. And he had to do so now.

  “And here is where your test of faith occurred.

  “He and you were ordained Episcopal priests. In becoming a Roman Catholic you were forced to renounce that ordination. You were about to be ordained a priest for—as far as the Roman Church was concerned—the first time. If that was what you really believed, it would not be possible for you to comply with the caller’s request; you did not have the power to absolve. You were not yet a priest. You were minutes away from being ordained a priest.

  “If this was your understanding of what was about to happen, you could not have absolved this stranger at that time; if you could not go through with his request at that time, you would ipso facto be admitting that your Anglican ordination was invalid and that you thus could not hear his confession then.

  “I think instinctively you agreed to grant his request. So what if the procession would be delayed slightly; the welfare of a human soul is clearly worth more than a brief postponement.

  “Once you agreed, Ron’s test was over. You passed. And in passing, and waiting in vain for a penitent to show up, you saved yourself. Just as in passing his test of obedience, Abraham was able to save Isaac.

  “In a way, there even is a similar conclusion to both stories—though no one could have foreseen that. Once Abraham passes his test, there is a sacrificial animal caught in nearby bushes. That animal becomes the victim. And once you passed your test, Father Farmer, as innocent as any sacrificial lamb, becomes the victim.”

  Wheatley nodded slowly in comprehension. As Koesler had expounded his theory, George could see the inevitable conclusion. And he agreed that Ron certainly had made the call and probably had also planted the bomb. Clearly, he had saved the designated victim. But, in either case, Ron had committed a crime.

  “Then … the car—?”

  Koesler shook his head. “No, it wasn’t Ron. The driver is in custody. He is a traditionalist—” Seeing the question in George’s eyes, he added, “No, not an Anglican. A Roman Catholic who seems to have some sort of pathological resentment against what he termed the ‘tainting’ of his Church by an Anglican ‘intruder.’”

  George, eyes now closed, nodded slowly. Then his eyes opened. “The other … person, you said … was in … on this …?”

  Koesler sighed inwardly. “I don’t know if that will ever be proven. But Gwen—” He stopped as a spasm of pain crossed Wheatley’s face. Koesler could not tell whether Wheatley’s pain was physical or emotional—or both. But as Wheatley gestured for him to continue, Koesler went on. “I don’t know, but I think that Gwen—maybe even more than Ron—was responsible for this whole thing. Remember, as we were leaving the coffee shop, you said, ‘Don’t exclude Gwen; she would like me out of the way.’ If Ron is involved in this, I think you can bet that Gwen had a hand in it as well.”

  George Wheatley was the embodiment of sorrow. “Will … Ron … and Gwen … be charged?”

  Koesler nodded. “The police are awfully good at this. What I will report as a result of our talk now will help them close the case more quickly than they might otherwise have.”

  “Of course … you … must tell.” He fell silent. Koesler allowed him this peace.

  Then: “My … family?”

  “They’re in the waiting room. At least I assume they are. I didn’t see them. But then, I’d only just arrived when the nurse told me you wanted to see me. Would you like me to call them?”

  George, eyes again closed, nodded.

  Koesler summoned the nurse and passed on George’s request.

  One by one, the family entered. Koesler backed away, giving them space to gather around the bed. Alice clutched George’s right hand, and rested her head on his arm. Richard fingered George’s toes beneath the sheet as a mute statement that he was there. Nan glided between the tubes and wires to hold her husband in her arms. It was the Pietà in human flesh.

  Mary’s Jesus had just been taken from the cross and was dead. George was still living. But, Koesler feared, not for long.

  George rested his head against Nan’s shoulder. “Where’s Ron … and … Gwen?”

  “We couldn’t reach them,” Nan said. “Rest, darling; you’ll need all your strength to fight this.”

  Everyone was in tears. Including Koesler. Through blurred vision, he thought he saw George turn his head toward the wall.

  George Wheatley had already received the Anglican version of the Roman Sacrament of Anointing, which the Roman Church gives in cases of illness or impending death. There was no longer any reason for Koesler to stay. His presence would merely intrude on the family’s attempts to show their love for their husband and father. He quietly departed.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Easter had come and gone.

  This year’s celebration of the glorious Feast of the Resurrection was somewhat altered for Father Koesler. He was mindful of George Wheatley’s Anglican attitude of ranking Christmas above Easter. Behind this was the belief that it was more important that Jesus came than that He died.

  Koesler would never be convinced of that. But he had to admit that the body of Christmas music—sacred and pop—was far, far greater than “Easter Parade” and interminable alleluias.

  Koesler had thought about George Wheatley and his family countless times since the priest’s death. Not the least because Koesler would never be certain whether Wheatley’s death had come as a result of the injuries suffered in the hit-and-run, or from the assaults on his spirit inflicted by his own flesh and flood—his own seed
, to wax biblical. Had George, his heart broken, just given up and handed himself over to a loving God?

  In any case, tonight Koesler would recall and go over the sad details one more time, if only because Walt Koznicki and his wife had not been present for the events that followed Wheatley’s death and burial.

  The inspector and Wanda had left the day after Wheatley died. They had scheduled visits with their various offspring, most of whom had settled along the Western seaboard.

  Tonight’s dinner was being hosted by Father Tully at St. Joseph’s rectory. Tully remained both the pastor of Old St. Joe’s and the sole inhabitant of its rectory.

  The assemblage consisted of Koesler, Walt and Wanda Koznicki, and Zoo and Anne Marie Tully.

  Father Tully led the Koznickis on a tour of the refurbished sanctuary. Work had been completed only a week ago. The Koznickis were the only guests who needed such a tour; the others had watched the work in progress.

  Now all were seated in the spacious old living room, which, in times past would have been referred to as the parlor, or the drawing room, depending on one’s socioeconomic status.

  Anne Marie, as the host’s sister-in-law, assumed the duties of hostess and passed around crudités and dip.

  “We had to pack and begin our trip just a few hours after poor Father Wheatley died,” Wanda said. “Of course we tried to keep up with the story as we traveled. The national media did report on events surrounding his death. But there were little or no specific details. So”—she turned to Koesler—”would you bring us up to date, Father?”

  Father Koesler began the narration, leading off with his going to the Bible for inspiration and finally coming up with an analogy between the story of Abraham and Isaac and the actions of George and Ron Wheatley, only in reverse. Then putting that together with George’s suspicion that the voice on the phone was, indeed, that of his son.

  “Of course,” Koesler said, “there was no question about our conversation falling under the seal of confession. We were just talking and comparing notes and hypotheses.” He fell silent for a moment. “Watching George’s family gather about him was one of the saddest experiences of my life.”