The Sacrifice (38 page)

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 turned 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.

He had heard about, even in a few instances seen people being killed. It wasn't that he was particularly squeamish about murder per se. But it was one thing to kill expeditiously—a gun, a knife—and another to inflict a slow, painful death. Running someone down with a car was so deliberate, so premeditated. And odds were that the victim would not be dispatched quickly. More likely there would be much suffering before the victim's lingering departure.

All this and more impelled Davis to immediately call 911. After which he pulled on an old raincoat and a rubber fireman-style rain hat and dashed down the boulevard toward the inert figure.

Before he reached the victim, a blue-and-white, siren wailing, sped past him and screeched to a halt alongside the inert form.