The Sacrifice (41 page)

“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.

T
WENTY-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.”

Zoo took up the story at that point. “Father told me about his talk with Wheatley. The Bible story gave the good Father”—he inclined his head in Koesler's direction—”the clue he needed to arrive at the truth. Which, of course, was useless to us as hard evidence. However, Wheatley's admission that he thought the phone call was made by his son, Ron, did give us enough to go for a warrant.”

He smiled. “Fortunately it was an ideal time of day to find a judge who would issue it.

“When we got to Ron Wheatley's home, we found one wretchedly miserable, really sorry man, and a packing wife. We had to Mirandize the priest … he was that eager to confess. In the basement we found the leftovers of the bomb: powder, pipe, parts of the timepiece—the whole thing. That and the priest's confession wrapped up the case against him.

“But the wife was something else. She wouldn't say a word without her lawyer.

“We didn't have a case against her. Even if we believed she was as guilty as her husband, none of the evidence pointed to her.” He shook his head. “Of course one word from her husband and we could've slapped the cuffs on her in a minute.

“We didn't think she had any part in actually constructing the bomb. But we were convinced she'd put plenty of pressure on her husband to plot murder.” He winked at his wife. “A real Lady Macbeth.

“Anyway, that's why she was packing: She couldn't be sure Wheatley wouldn't implicate her—so she was outta there.

“But he refused to say a word against her. No matter how hard we pressed him, he wouldn't budge. We had a principal but couldn't nail her.”

“‘Principal'?” Koesler had never heard that term used in this context.

“Some places,” Zoo explained, “call it ‘accessory before the fact.' We call it ‘principal.'”

“Ron Wheatley's lawyer informed him,” Tully continued, “that spousal immunity would protect him from having to testify against his wife. And we just couldn't shake him. So—the beautiful lady skates.”

“Where is she now?” Wanda asked.

“Getting a divorce. It'll be easy. Her husband is cooperating completely … probably part of the self-punishment he's heaping on himself,” Tully said. “It worked for him once; maybe it'll work again.”

Wanda looked puzzled. “What do you mean, ‘It worked for him'?”

“It worked in the final analysis,” Tully explained. “He started out being booked for Murder One. There wouldn't have been any question about the sentence. It would've been life, without parole. But they plea-bargained it down to Murder Two. That's a sentence of twelve-to-twenty years.

“That's when the self-punishment—repentance—call it any way you want—comes in. He started helping the other guys in the lockup. Praying for them, praying with them, counseling them.

“Anyway, what with that and one thing and another, the judge said she was convinced that his remorse was, as she put it, ‘genuine, substantial, and compelling.' So she reduced the sentence to ten-to-fifteen. With the truth-in-sentencing on the books, we know he'll serve at least ten years.”

Wanda still looked puzzled. “Didn't it make any difference that poor Father Farmer was not the intended victim? I mean, Father Wheatley didn't want to kill Father Farmer …”

“It makes no difference, love,” Walt said. “It is called ‘transferred intent.' It is the same as killing the intended victim.”

Wanda, looking thoughtful, nodded understanding. —“I forgot to ask you, Zoo,” Father Tully said, “what about that vestment that Father Morgan said he left in the sanctuary? That never turned up, did it?”

Lieutenant Tully shook his head. “Easy to see how it could have been destroyed in the blast—or disappeared in the ruckus afterward. Anyway, whatever your Father Morgan was doing in the sanctuary, he isn't our bomber. We've got our bomber.

“We've got the bomber
and
the caller,” Zoo continued. “Ron Wheatley admitted planting the bomb. He claims that once he got started on this project, he couldn't call a halt to it. Personally, I think he just couldn't stop the wheels from turning because his wife wouldn't let him. But on that count, he clams up.”

Zoo fell silent for a moment, going over these events in his mind. “Ron Wheatley was taking a chance on getting away with planting the bomb,” he said at length. “He wore denims, carried a large floral piece, and walked out as soon as he'd deposited it—and the bomb—at the altar. He figured that the one or two people who might know him—Fathers Koesler and Tully, who had met him only once or twice—wouldn't recognize or even notice him in that guise. And if by some fluke he
was
recognized, at that point he could easily abort the plan.

“He figured his father wouldn't be in the church proper that early before the ceremony.

“Then he changed from his denims to his clericals in a public rest room at the Milander Center—just a few blocks from St. Joe's.

“And another precaution: He called his father from a pay phone.”

Silence followed, as all present went over these events in their own minds. Most of their questions had been answered, the events explained.

“Remember,” Lieutenant Tully added, inclining his head toward Walt and Wanda, “at the party at your house? Young Richard Wheatley was talking about how neither of his parents could fix anything; they both were total klutzes when it came to working with their hands. And then he said that he and his two siblings—all of them—could fix anything. Each and every one of them could put anything together.