The Sacrifice (37 page)

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 question. 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.

“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.”

T
WENTY-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.