The Sacrifice (29 page)

Meanwhile, in the basement, Leon had made his well-considered selection. Having so many from which to choose, he'd had to measure what this particular weapon would be asked to accomplish.

The single and double-action Taurus fit his hand like the proverbial glove. It came with a key that activated the trigger lock.

And what was all this complaining about gun safety laws? If all handguns were as safety-conscious as this one, any of the complaints made by these knee-jerk liberals would be seen as just plain silly.

Leon had spent hours this Sunday evening cleaning and oiling the weapon and its leather holster. He practiced repeatedly, drawing the revolver from the holster below his left arm.

Of course this was not going to be a shootout at the O.K. Corral. The concept here was simple.

Over the months that he had been communicating with Father Tully about the goings-on at that dear old parish, St. Joe's, Leon, himself such a creature of routine, had become familiar with Tully's routine.

Tomorrow, Monday, would be the ideal moment to strike.

Tully began the morning with Mass at eight-thirty and finished the Liturgy at about nine-fifteen. Leon would not make his move during or immediately after Mass. Some things must remain sacred.

Then the housekeeper would serve the priest breakfast.

Not then. There'd be a witness.

After breakfast, about ten-thirty, Tully would sort out the Sunday collection, then deliver it to the bank. This could be an ideal time to strike—except that often Tully was accompanied on this mission. Tony, the janitor and general handyman, found this a convenient time to do his own banking. And, on occasions when the collection had been generous, money bags could be heavy; Tully could use the help.

Banking completed, after dropping Tony back at the rectory, Tully would stop off at the women's holding cells in Police Headquarters. This had proved an extremely fruitful time to visit with some ladies who were extraordinarily sorry. Admittedly, their sorrow, more often than not, sprang from having been caught and arrested, rather than from having sinned. But any sort of sorrow, Tully had learned, was a good place to start and perhaps build upon.

After all that had been accomplished, Tully would return to the rectory for lunch.

That was the time.

According to Leon's surveillance, Tully was never accompanied by anyone when he returned for lunch.

That may not have been the optimal time, but as far as Leon's investigation revealed, it was good enough.

The revolver had never looked better. Not even when it was brand new. Leon passed it back and forth from hand to hand. It began to feel more natural in his grip.

Carefully he loaded each chamber with a .357 round, then secured the weapon. It was ready.

It would be extremely effective at moderately close range. It would do a lot of damage.

He had fired the weapon previously, but always at an inanimate target. Tomorrow he would hunt big game. He would teach all so-called priests a lesson: not to fool with the sacred Liturgy.

Leon had planned most carefully. He'd first considered doing something like this when he'd become convinced that he was getting the royal runaround from the chancery as well as from the parish.

But it was the incident this afternoon that opened the door for him. Somebody had been brave enough to cry halt with the aid of a bomb. Okay, so it hadn't done its job. Someone else had to pick up the torch. And that someone was Leon Harkins.

His cry was that of the crusaders: “God Wills It!”

E
IGHTEEN

Monday morning.

A dismally gray day in Detroit. Meteorologists reported scattered clouds and some sunshine in the far northern suburbs. But the sun was having nothing to do with the city, nor with Metropolitan Airport, the base for many of the forecasts.

Washington Boulevard, once the stylish center of downtown, made its quiet prediction that it never would return to its elegant past.

In the same general area, on the eastern outskirts of downtown, stood historic St. Joseph's parish, whose sanctuary had been severely damaged in yesterday's bombing. In the basement of the rectory, Father Tully was consecrating bread and wine for holy Communion.

It was 8:55
A
.
M
.

Two men in clerical attire were walking across Washington Boulevard from a car park toward the chancery.

On the ground floor of a building across from the chancery and slightly north of the Church administration headquarters was a bar and grill called Jim's Place. Jim was cleaning his place of the modest trash his few Sunday customers had left behind. He would never get rid of the stale odor, but he could sweep, mop, and polish. The cleaning woman never quite got it all.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two black-clad men walking away from him toward the chancery. He had no idea who they might be. They were, he noted, the only people on the boulevard at this hour.

Jim Davis was about to redevote his entire attention to cleaning when one of the men, the shorter of the two, turned to check for traffic. There was none. But Jim caught sight of the man's profile. He was sure he recognized the man. But from where? It was someplace recent. Where, where …?

It came to him: this morning's paper. One of the two clergymen who'd been the alleged targets in yesterday's bombing.

The whole bizarre conversation with that nut came back. On a hunch, Davis looked up and down the boulevard. There was one car, standing at the curb near the north end of the street, pointed toward the south and the chancery. Could it be the nut's car? Smoke was coming from the exhaust, so its motor must be running.

Davis turned away from the bow window. Getting too involved could mean unwanted trouble. He resumed his cleaning. It would be a while before the bar was open for business.

“It was good of you to come with me, Bob,” Father George Wheatley said.

“I've been with you through this whole process,” Father Robert Koesler responded. “I'm going to be with you to the conclusion. Besides, I'd be surprised if you got much sleep last night after all you went through yesterday. I thought you might appreciate having a friend around.”

“No … you're right; I didn't.” Wheatley wished devoutly he had had a more restful night.

They entered the outer doors of the chancery and walked toward the elevator along the corridor that the chancery shared with the Catholic Bookstore and the offices of St. Aloysius parish.

“Second floor, please,” Koesler directed the operator.

“Your names, please?” the very large, very black man challenged. Koesler knew that on the best day of his life he would never physically take on this gentleman.

He gave the operator their names. Wordlessly the man checked them against the list affixed to the control panel—the list of those who would be allowed to exit on the second floor.

The second floor comprised a reception area, the offices of the Cardinal Archbishop and his secretaries. The entire floor was quiet. Even the lighting was indirect and soft.

They waited only briefly before one of the secretaries said, “The Cardinal will see you now.”

As they entered his office, Cardinal Boyle stood to greet them. After they shook hands, he motioned toward the chairs at a low, round table.

Wheatley had not met with the Cardinal often. On each previous visit the priest had marveled at how frail the prelate appeared. His hair was wispy white, and his frame was so fragile one felt that he would break if hugged. His very existence seemed linked with that of the Pope. Both had been influential at the Second Vatican Council—but in opposite directions.

They had proceeded on divergent paths. As an instance: Boyle had founded the Call to Action, a liberal organization that championed the laity's role in the Church. The Pope endorsed those who condemned and opposed the CTA.

When Wheatley, Koesler, and Boyle were seated, the Cardinal asked if either of his visitors would like coffee. Neither did. They got down to business. Which definitely was the Cardinal's style.

“Terrible thing, yesterday,” Boyle said. “Tragic … poor Father Farmer.”

“It was indeed a terrible thing, Eminence,” Wheatley replied.

“I've been briefed on what happened,” Boyle said. “But not by anyone who was actually present.” It was an invitation to these two priests, who not only had been eyewitnesses, but who, each from his own vantage, could put most of the events together like a jigsaw puzzle.

Koesler and Wheatley took turns describing what had happened, trying to keep events in chronological order.

Throughout their painstaking recap of what took place, Boyle sat in profound concentration. The lines in his face deepened.

They climaxed their description with the explosion. At that moment, Wheatley had been ready for the procession up the aisle. The head of that cortege had just begun to move. Koesler had been hurrying to take his place in line.

Immediately after the explosion occurred, Koesler turned and dashed up the aisle, along with Lieutenant Tully. They were among the few who actually saw what the bomb had done to Father Farmer.

Meanwhile, Wheatley had been hustled back to the vesting area, where he would be as protected and safe as anyone could assume possible. After all, an incident of extreme violence had just occurred. No one knew then, and no one knew yet, exactly who had done what—or why.

The two priests concluded their co-narration. The Cardinal sat almost motionless, his only movement the fingering of a cuff link. He always wore French cuffs when in clerical garb.

“It would seem,” Boyle said in his scholarly fashion, his soft voice overlaid with a tantalizing hint of his Irish ancestry, “the most intriguing element of this entire tragic event is the phone call you received, Father Wheatley.”

“Yes, Eminence,” Wheatley replied. “As I said, the voice was muffled—deliberately, I'm sure.”

Koesler, whose mind was frequently apt to wander, wondered about that. Why would anyone bother to muffle a voice unless it was someone Wheatley knew? Or could it be because the caller's normal voice was distinctive enough to be identified? Or had the caller wished to disguise his voice just on general principles?

“Strange,” Boyle commented. “Strange that you should honor this request for confession …”

“I just didn't see it that way, Eminence. The caller seemed desperate. And I thought: What's so important about a procession that it can't wait a few minutes to help a desperate soul?”

Boyle's face creased with smile lines. “I would hope you would feel that way.”

“Besides”—Wheatley relaxed in the warmth of Boyle's understanding—”if I had not waited for the man, I would not now be here talking with you.”

Nothing was said for several moments. Wheatley's statement was a consideration to be meditated upon.

“Well,” Boyle said finally, “that brings us to what we intend to do about this.”

Koesler and Wheatley looked at each other. The Cardinal's statement lent itself to many interpretations.

“You mean,” Koesler asked, “are we going to go ahead with Father Wheatley's, uh, reception into the Roman Catholic priesthood?” Koesler could not bring himself to call this procedure an ordination. As much as anything else, Koesler had built a friendship with as well as an admiration for Wheatley. Thus the noun “reception.”

Boyle nodded. “Yes. That would be the basic question. Yesterday's attack, among other things, indicates that there is physical danger accompanying this ordination …” Obviously the Cardinal did not have a problem with the term. “… at least here in Detroit.”

“Excuse me, Eminence,” Wheatley interrupted, “you're limiting this ‘danger' to Detroit?”

A hint of a smile crossed Boyle's face. “We have a reputation—which, parenthetically, I do not feel we deserve—of being a hotbed of liberal what-have-you's, from radical liturgists to liberal theologians … literally liberation theology.”