The Sacrifice (32 page)

The manager was agog. “Oh, dear. In my bank! Oh, my—there
is
somebody I haven't seen before … over there … in that corner. Do you think he could be a policeman?” Secretly, Warren did not discard the possibility that the stranger just might possibly be the assassin.

“Well,” Tully said, “I guess we'll see you next week.”

Warren said nothing. His gaze was riveted on the unidentified man who might bring excitement and intrigue into the banker's otherwise dull life.

Tully gathered Tony, who had finished his own transaction.

Tully was pleased with himself for having brought some adventure into a banker's experience.

He was running a bit late. Nothing serious, but he would have to hurry along to catch up with his scheduled routine.

It was eleven A.M.

According to Leon Harkins's research, the bogus priest Tully was just returning to the rectory, where he would let Tony out of the car. Then he would go into the rectory to check the morning mail. Unless something in the mail demanded immediate attention, he would leave it until the afternoon or evening.

Most important, he had to get to the jail for his eleven-fifteen visit. The inmates, or nearly all of them, had been treated shabbily, usually by men, throughout their lives. The basic service he provided the women was a reliable masculine presence. He could counsel, he could absolve, he could just listen. But most of all he had to be on time. It was amazing how important punctuality was to the inmates.

So at eleven-fifteen A.M., Leon Harkins could envision Tully arriving to talk to the incarcerated women.

Harkins was off only by a minute. The women prisoners would forgive Father Tully. They had ways of learning what had gone down while they were off the streets. In the case of the St. Joe's bombing, they might even have heard the muffled roar of the explosion—the church was that close to police headquarters.

One minute usually doesn't make much difference in the affairs of mankind. But considering the tight schedule Harkins was on, it could be crucial.

Grace Harkins was concerned.

Normally, by this hour, her husband would be up and around and underfoot. She'd talked to other wives whose husbands had retired; many of them had this same experience. The men, at least in the Harkins's neighborhood, were at loose ends after retirement. They hadn't planned anything that would occupy them. They missed their jobs, even if they claimed to be glad to get away from them.

But this morning Leon had stayed in bed much later than usual.

Grace had begun her day at the regular time, about six A.M. She said her Lenten prayers and began tidying up the house, dusting and straightening up as needed.

Periodically she would call up to Leon. Each time, the only response was a barely audible grumble.

This day would be climactic for him. He was through being pushed around. The worm had turned. Leon was about to take matters into his own hands. He was going to kill a priest.

It sounded strange when he said that simple sentence to himself.
I am going to kill a priest.

Weird.

Little Leon had been an altar boy. He remembered how painstakingly he had learned the Latin responses to the Mass. He never understood what he was saying. But he knew this: His Latin was as good or better than that of the priests who mumbled their way through the Liturgy.

Some of the priests he'd known while he was growing up were hardly edifying. But whenever he expressed reservations, his parents had been quick to remind him of how difficult a life the priests—and nuns, for that matter—lived.

He envisioned himself in his youth. His hands and face, neck and ears, scrubbed to pass inspection by his mother. Dressed now in a black cassock and a carefully laundered surplice. His hands pressed together in a prayerful manner. His Latin, quite precise and articulate. His mother kneeling out there in the congregation. Beyond his knowledge, his mother praying that her one and only son would become a priest.

Actually, he himself hoped for this. But his teachers discouraged his trying for the seminary: His marks were not promising. He was not dumb. Just slow.

But he loved the Church and admired its priests. That is, until that damnable Council and the new breed of renegade priests it spawned.

Now he was about to do something about it. He was not offering himself as a sacrificial lamb. His plans called for him to escape capture. But he had to face the possibility of being arrested. Maybe even killed.

Never mind. He was going to strike a blow for the betrayed Church … Christ's Church.

He practiced drawing his gun out of the holster some more. He was getting quite good at it.

He studied the framed motto hanging on the bedroom wall. It was something President Carter had said that radically influenced Leon. So much so that he'd had his wife cross-stitch it.
“I have one life and one chance to make it count for something.”

Leon Harkins's one chance was only about an hour away.

T
WENTY

The coffee shop was beginning to fill up.

Still, there were no other clerically attired customers. A few patrons, on entering, did a double take when they spotted not one but two clergymen. Those more familiar with downtown just assumed that the priests had business either in the Gabriel Richard Building or the chancery.

In any event, the two priests were left to converse undisturbed. In days of yore they might have been interrupted with requests ranging from “Would you bless my rosary?” to “Would you pray for my uncle?”

If either of the two was likely to be recognized it would be George Wheatley; his photo ran with his column in the paper.

If any of the patrons did identify him, none approached. For which both priests were grateful.

“You mentioned the opposition you expect from at least some of the clergy and laity of the Roman Church,” Father Koesler said. “And you mentioned that you were used to walking a tightrope. Is that the way you intend to handle the opposition—by walking that tightrope?”

Wheatley nodded. “At least partly.”

“Do you have a patent on that rope?” Koesler was smiling. “I can think of a lot of guys, including me, who'd love to get hold of it. You might make millions.”

Wheatley shook his head. “No patent. The formula is sitting out there waiting for anyone who wants it.”

“
I want it!”
Koesler said, in a rare show of emotion.

Wheatley chuckled. “Okay, okay. It's kind of a triple formula. I wouldn't be surprised if you were already familiar with it. I kind of stumbled into it and adopted it.”

“So?”

“So, it was attributed to Melanchthon by a gentleman named Bowles, who had the aphorism inscribed over the doorway of his house. And it reads …” Wheatley paused to refresh his memory. “‘
In necessariis, unitas.'”

“‘In necessary things, unity.'” Koesler translated the simple Latin.

“‘
In dubiis, libertas
,'” Wheatley continued.

“‘In doubtful things, liberty.'”

“And,” Wheatley concluded, “‘
In omnibus, caritas.'”

“‘In all things, charity—or love.' A simple formula, isn't it? But open to a lot of interpretation,” Koesler added.

“I agree it can be kicked around a lot. But among fair-minded people, it can be very helpful in situations when a strict consensus can't be reached.”

“And that happens a lot,” Koesler noted. “But how does this saying help a divided body like the Church?”

“Well, here we get back to the things that divide us. As far as Anglicans are concerned, there aren't that many things graven in stone. We might say, ‘Let's try this for a century or so and see what happens.'”

“I know where you're going with this one. The Roman Church will hang on to a dogma or moral teaching for dear life. Then if there's any change at all—which is rare—we introduce it with the catch-all, ‘As the Church has always taught …'”

Wheatley nodded. “The point of all this, Bob, is that there are precious few things the Anglicans hold to be necessary. By ‘necessary' I mean compulsory, or set in stone. The closest we come to that is our Catechism, in the Book of Common Prayer. And even those few ‘musts' are diluted when you include all that Bishop Spong and others of like mind have got going …”

“Whereas there is a large-sized catechism for Catholics—full of ‘necessary' things that are a sine qua non for unity,” Koesler interjected.

“Indeed,” Wheatley agreed. “So that leads us into the doubtful area where, according to our motto, there must be liberty—freedom. Freedom to inquire. Freedom to test. And freedom to change.”

“And this is what you hope to introduce into the Roman Church?”

“Part of what I intend to try to do, yes. The main difficulty, of course, will be in limiting as far as possible the ‘necessary' things. That can happen only gradually at best. Step by step, dogma by dogma, law by law.”

“I think I understand,” Koesler said. “The object is to move as much as possible from the ‘necessary' column to the ‘doubtful.' 'Cause then there'll be an increase in the freedom to explore.”

“Exactly! Some doubtful items will rise once again to necessary things, to which we owe unity. A lot of doubtful things will remain and be added to. These things we'll be free to explore. The job of exploring them will return to Roman theologians, who have been stifled by a hierarchy who simply will not let go of the reins.”

Neither Koesler nor Wheatley could drink another drop of coffee. But neither wanted this conversation to end.

Only two of the few tables in the shop were occupied. The priests sat at one. A well-dressed young man studying notes on a legal pad sat at another. The rest of the customers were carry-out trade.

Convinced that they were not inconveniencing any patrons who would prefer to occupy a table, the two priests continued their ecumenical discussion.

“I think I understand better now, George. But as your mission grows clearer, it begins to sound as if you're about to begin an episode of
Mission Impossible.”

“Really? How so?”

“Okay. The one that comes to mind is the Pope.”

“I'm not surprised. We want the Pope.”

Koesler's eyebrows raised. “You
do?
”

“Yes. As the first among equals.”

“The other equals are the bishops—Episcopal, Roman, Lutheran, and so forth?”

“That's it. The way it was in the ‘good old days.' When, right off the ground, in Antioch, Paul accused Peter of waffling in his approach to the Gentiles. Paul wasn't excommunicated, or suspended, or forbidden to teach. On the contrary, it was Peter who changed his methods.

“The Apostles and the early disciples recognized Peter as the chief of the Christian community. He was the leader. And, as Jesus carefully taught, to be the chief, the leader was to be the servant—”

“I know, I know,” Koesler cut in. “You're referring to the Last Supper.”

“Of course. Jesus set about washing the Apostles' feet. Peter objected, and Jesus said that if He did not wash Peter's feet, he, Peter, would have ‘no part' with the Lord. So Peter asked, in effect, to be washed completely—'also my hands and my head.' Then Jesus told the Apostles that they did well in calling Him ‘Master.' But if He, Master, acted the part of a servant, He was giving them an example. The Apostles were appointed to serve the new community. Peter was the first servant. Not much like the current successor to the throne of Peter.”

Koesler smiled. “That's just the point, isn't it?”

“Yes. Over the years—over the centuries—the Papacy has grown away from what it was in the beginning.”

“So how are
you
going to change it?”

“I don't know,” Wheatley confessed. “Maybe it won't happen in our lifetime.”

“Maybe it won't happen ever.”