The Sacrifice

by William Kienzle

  “Dear, don’t you think that we underestimated their reaction to your decision? We knew they’d be surprised and somewhat negative, at least in the beginning. But we never thought their resentment would be so deep or that it would last so long—how long now?—nearly a full year.

  “All this time and their bitterness is so deep … deeper than it was in the beginning …”

  Nan sighed. “I know … Do you think Richard is play-acting? I mean, this thing hasn’t seemed to bother him in the least.”

  George laughed softly. “Richard? With Richard you get what you see. I think he’s enjoying all that’s happened—with the exception, of course, of the bomb.

  “No, I’d be very surprised if Richard doesn’t come out of this smelling the roses.

  “I must confess,” he said after a moment, “I don’t grasp Alice’s problem. I know she’s taking a ribbing at school over this. Not only from some of the seminarians, but even from some of the faculty … which surprises and disappoints me.

  “But Alice should have the backbone to rise above that. It puzzles me. It’s almost as if there’s something else going on … something she wants kept secret. Something she’s afraid will come out with all this publicity.” He, too, sighed. “I trust in the Lord to reveal what’s troubling her … so we can do something to help her.”

  For the past year or so Nan had quietly shared George’s concern with regard to Alice. She hadn’t communicated her worry to him-. He had a heavy enough burden as he began the process of his submission to the Holy See. Nan was so intimately caught up in that journey that she had found no time or opportunity to take the matter up directly with Alice.

  “Last and by no means least,” Nan said, “is Ronnie. He has, from the beginning, had a most difficult time coping with your decision.”

  “Yes, I know. But he’s jockeying for bishop. We’ve talked about this before—you and I. I don’t approve of what he’s doing. But he’s my son … my firstborn. In a limited way, I’ve tried to advise him on this matter.”

  “You have?” Nan almost sat up. “I didn’t know that. You didn’t tell me.” Far more surprising to Nan than that George had advised Ron was the fact that her husband had not discussed it with her. The two prided themselves on their intercommunication, especially in such important matters as this.

  “I’m sorry, dear.” George had had no compelling reason for not talking it over with her. He had just considered his limited counsel as merely minor, if largely unaccepted, guidance in the face of Ron’s ambition. “I just told him,” George went on, “to be most careful that the powers that be did not become aware that he was running for the office of bishop. It would be the kiss of death. At least by the book, the office is supposed to seek the man or woman, not vice versa.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, long ago. Before he married Gwen.”

  “How did he take it—your advice, that is?”

  “You mean did he resent my meddling in his campaign? I think not. He may have perceived this even before I brought it to his attention. In any case he seemed surprised that I would attempt to help him. He knew I didn’t approve of what he was doing. I didn’t. And I don’t. But, he is my son. He’s my firstborn,” he said again. He hesitated. “We are close, Ron and I.”

  “I know.”

  “Not perhaps as close as Alice and I. But I never got the feeling that either Ron or Richard was jealous about that.”

  “They aren’t,” Nan assured him. “I think—I truly do—that you have been an excellent father to each and every one of them.”

  “That means a lot, coming from you. I mean, I know you would be frank with me on a matter like this.”

  Nan squeezed his hand. The gesture was an affirmation of what he had just said.

  “If I’m concerned about anyone in the family, frankly, it would be Gwen,” George said. “She has always seemed exclusively dedicated to achieving her goals in life. She thinks things over carefully, lays her plans, and from that point on, she’s a juggernaut.”

  “I agree with you completely,” Nan said. “I must admit I was astonished that a girl like her would choose to marry a priest.”

  George was smiling. “What do you mean, ‘a girl like her’?”

  “She’s gorgeous,” Nan declared. “Quite the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

  “I agree.”

  “Oh, you do?” It was Nan’s turn for frivolity.

  “In the sense of ‘Look, don’t touch,’” George explained somewhat feebly.

  “What I meant,” Nan went on, “is that she could get pretty nearly any man she set her cap for. If her prime concern was money, she could have married anyone: Donald Trump, Bill Gates, whomever.”

  “So, what’s a girl like Gwen doing married to a simple parish priest?”

  Nan shook her head in the dark. “I didn’t mean to be denigrating. There’s nothing wrong with marrying a priest … after all, I did.”

  “Not only did you marry a poor, humble priest, but you’ve just been describing yourself.”

  “What?”

  “One day,” George predicted, “Gwen will look just as you do now. When we were married, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever met.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, dear”—Nan was close to blushing—”I enjoy a compliment as much as the next girl. But even on my best day I couldn’t hold a candle to Gwen. You, my darling, have eyes that are blinded by love. And I thank God for that.

  “We are two lucky people who fell in love. And grew in love.”

  “You’re right about that, sweetheart. We married because we were in love. But I think Gwen married Ron because he was bishop material. Anyway, that’s my evaluation. And all that did was to increase the pressure on our boy to make good.”

  Now Nan did sit up. “You don’t mean you think Gwen could be involved in some sort of plot to kill you!”

  “No. No. Not that. Nothing to do with murder. It’s … it’s just that I think she’s high-pressuring Ron to get in there and fight. Get to be a bishop.

  “You know, all Gwen’s early life was spent associating religion with poverty. Her father was a preacher … and dirt poor. I think she wants to put together a combination more to her liking. She is determined to link religion with power and prestige. She’s not going to be the daughter of a Raggedy Andy preacherman; she’s going to be the wife of a bishop. And not just the bishop of Timbuktu … more like New York or L.A.”

  “You think she’s planning that far ahead?”

  “If I had a last buck, I’d put it on that. She’s got a plan; and she needs to move it along on schedule. My going over to the Roman Church she probably sees as a glitch that can be repaired.”

  Nan slid back down in the bed.

  The two were silent, but still not close to sleep.

  “Well,” Nan said finally, “there was a bomb.”

  “That surely is true. There was a bomb.”

  “And it was intended for you.”

  “Granted again.”

  “Any ideas on who might be responsible?”

  “Putting together all we know, I’d have to say it was someone very—or at least quite—familiar with Liturgy. He—or she—had things timed pretty tightly.

  “The person would have to be intimately involved in at least some facet of religion. It’s pretty clear someone does not want me to be a Roman Catholic priest—for whatever reason.

  “I don’t want to believe that it could be an Episcopal or Roman priest. That, I think, would just break my heart.

  “Yours, too, I’ll wager,” he added, after a moment.

  “I can’t bring myself to think it’s a priest either,” Nan said. “It’s got to be a fanatic of the right or left. I’m just praying that the police get whoever it is soon. Very, very soon.”

  “Amen to that!” George affirmed. “Right now, for all we know, this thing might be over.”

  “Do you think so? Nan grasped at the tenuous hope. “Do you rea
lly think so?”

  “Sure. Why not? He took his chance. It failed. He probably put a lot into this plan. I wouldn’t be surprised that he’s given up after the first try. Now that he’s seen the effect of his efforts.”

  “That’s a happy thought.” She hugged herself. “I’m just going to hold on to it.” She turned onto her side. “Let’s try to get some sleep.”

  “A splendid idea.” But he didn’t turn to his side. There were other things to ponder.

  “And,” Nan added, before what was to be a fitful sleep, “let’s not forget the person who made that phone call and saved all those lives. Whoever he was, we are beholden.”

  Yes, George thought, that just might be the trickiest mystery of the day.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Leon,” Grace Harkins called from the top of the basement steps, “come on up. It’s time to go to bed.”

  “You go ahead, Gracie. I’ll be up soon.”

  Grace Harkins wasn’t worried. She was concerned.

  Her husband was a creature of routine. Their life together conformed to a staggering series of routines. Before she was married she’d always been spontaneous. After marriage, initially there was a struggle. Her spontaneity, and many other similar traits, slowly fell by the wayside. And, inevitably, routine won out.

  That’s why she was concerned now. Normally, Sundays were packed with one established routine after another.

  First there was Mass. Then a substantial breakfast. The many sectioned newspaper was casually read. It was too large and too multifaceted to be absorbed from first to last page.

  Usually, Leon just scanned headlines and glanced at the captions under the pictures. Sports was the only section in which he invested a measure of thoroughness.

  That was followed by a nap.

  After the nap there had to be at least one, if not several, televised sporting events. Commercial television’s great gift to weekends was to fill them with sports coverage. And the sports reciprocated by shamelessly overlapping each other.

  Once upon a time sports events sharply demarcated the seasons. Fall was football, winter was hockey, spring was basketball, and baseball was summer. Sports such as golf and tennis were more in search of a climate than a season.

  That was then. Now, sports fell all over each other in search of network gold that trickled down from commercial investment. The end result was that people like Leon Harkins need never be without televised sports no matter what time of year it was.

  Late Sunday afternoon dinner would be a lesser meal due to the filling brunch. Not infrequently, football widows were still challenged to schedule dinner for half-time break. To pull this off with perfect timing was just that: a challenge; from the so-called two-minute warning to the actual halftime, a good twenty minutes to a half hour could elapse, courtesy of all those commercials.

  Sunday evening’s TV offerings routinely led to a reasonable bedtime.

  Which was why Grace Harkins was now concerned. Instead of sporadically napping in front of the TV set throughout the evening as was his wont, Leon had descended to the basement. He had been down there for hours now. He had broken his Sunday evening routine all to hell and gone.

  And then, in response to his wife’s summons, Leon had done nothing more than put her on the back burner.

  It had all started with that graphic film of the bombing of St. Joe’s church. Yes, Grace nodded to herself, that was definitely it. There were, she felt, many ways one could have reacted to that story—none of which would be to spend the entire evening in the basement.

  Written-in-stone routine had filled this Sunday until that ominous event on TV.

  Grace was concerned, not so much that Leon had spent the evening in the basement, but that he’d fractured his routine. This would trouble her, thus interfering with her own routine of falling asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  But … Leon was the boss: Leon giveth routine and Leon taketh routine away.

  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!”

  EIGHTEEN

  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.”