Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  Danny yanked the end of the chain back hard, spinning Parker three hundred sixty degrees and dumping him down on the ground. He looked down at his mark, lying there limp and semiconscious, and resumed spinning the censer in wide, easy circles.

  “If you do see Jesus on the other side, do us a favor and tell him he can—”

  “Shut your mouth, devil.”

  Father Michael stood in the doorway, gun drawn.

  “Oh, good,” Danny sang. “More friends. I suppose you heard this poor man’s prayers.”

  “I heard the gunshot.”

  “Listen, this is not what it looks like. I’m actually—”

  “No,” Michael said. “You listen. That dead man in the aisle was one of my best friends. I know you killed him, Detective, and I’ll admit that I want nothing more than to put a bullet between your eyes. But some of us don’t give in to our every carnal desire. So you get this one chance: drop the thurible, step away from Parker, and put your hands on your head.”

  Danny scoffed. He was still spinning the censer lazily. “You think you have—”

  “Last chance. Drop it.”

  “Fine,” Danny said. He released the chain on an upswing, sending the globe rocketing forward. It passed through the light bulb, shattering it, then collided with the ceiling and crashed open, ejecting a curtain of thick black dust onto the priest. Danny exploded from out of the swirling ash, blasting into Father Michael. The gun disappeared into the choir seats, and the two men careened out onto the chancel.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  PARKER COULD HEAR THE TWO MEN FIGHTING FROM HIS SPOT on the floor of the dark room, but his interest was waning. What he wanted to do was pull some of the vestments up over him like a blanket and drift off to sleep. Instead he began the process of once again drawing himself to his knees. This proved more difficult than ever, as Parker’s left arm now ached like fury and refused to bear any weight. But Xavier’s gun was in here somewhere. And if he could, he would find it.

  Thank you, Lord, for sending Michael. I needed an archangel. Now I pray you give me the strength to help him.

  He waded through the fabric on hands and knees, squinting through what dim candlelight managed to find its way in from the sanctuary, not remembering that he still had a flashlight in his pocket. He felt his way blindly through fold after fold, realizing with the gradual return of oxygen to his brain that this was a hopeless search. As he drew near the door on hands and knees, he decided to check in on his would-be rescuer. Perhaps there was a more pressing need than the gun at this moment.

  Head spinning, he slowly rose to his feet in the doorway and took in the scene. What he saw would have seemed beyond surreal on any other day. The two men were locked in intense combat, more or less evenly matched—Danny possessing more strength, but Michael more speed and skill, having been trained by the best.

  They traded blows, grappled, evaded. The priest moved smoothly, in combinations, getting inside his opponent’s reach and landing flurries of blows with the heels of his palms, his fists, his knees—but these barely seemed to faze Danny, who occasionally struck Father Michael with such force as to knock him back several yards. Parker watched the action unfold, standing slack-jawed in the doorway, as if he were watching it on a screen.

  It slowly dawned on him that Michael’s handgun was also unaccounted for, having been lost in the melee, and must be somewhere nearby. Through the fog and the ash, he thought he had seen it fly off into the distance when the two men collided. Lighting was sparse out here, but sparse was better than the blackness of the vestry. He moved along the wall as stealthily as he could, trying to mentally re-create the trajectory and bounce of the gun. It would probably be in the choir stalls, he decided.

  Feeling far from sure-footed, Parker propelled himself from the wall and staggered the four steps into the stalls, bracing himself against the ornately carved partition. He willed his eyes to adjust to the blackness around his feet, without success.

  The flashlight came to his mind and out of his pocket. It was low on juice, but still made a world of difference, its dull glow revealing folders full of music, water bottles, boxes of Kleenex. But no gun, at least not in the slight circle of light directly beneath him.

  He glanced up toward the sanctuary and saw Father Michael upside down, his feet swinging through the air in an arc. Danny threw him hard onto the altar, smacking his back against the stone surface, upsetting the chalice and candles. The priest grunted in pain, spun on his back, and frantically pushed his adversary away with both feet.

  Parker turned his attention back to the floor, hunching his way down the choir stalls, searching with his fast-dying beam of light. Still nothing. A hollow thud and a cry of pain from Michael resounded through the perfect acoustics of the church.

  “Get out of here, Parker!” Michael barked, pulling himself again to his feet. His eye was seeping heavily, and his breathing was labored. Parker could see that he was slowing, tiring. And that Danny was not. The priest rushed full bore back up to the chancel, teeth clenched, intent on knocking the demons right out of his opponent.

  With a single blow to his center of mass, Danny sent Father Michael sprawling down the steps, onto his back. The priest slid ten feet along the stone floor of the aisle like a hockey puck, only coming to a stop when he collided with Xavier’s body. The tide of the fight was turning—slowly but inevitably—in Danny’s favor.

  Then Parker spotted the pistol amid a pile of spilled cough drops. He rushed over to it, leaning heavily on the rail. His hands were in worse shape than the last time he’d tried to fire a gun, and he knew his nonexistent marksmanship would be handicapped further by the semidarkness and his own mental fog. He needed to get the gun to Michael, who could actually use it.

  Praying he wouldn’t fall flat, Parker wobbled as swiftly as he could back to the wall and down the stairs on the epistle side of the church. Father Michael hadn’t moved from the aisle, where he lay more or less on top of his deceased friend. Was he even conscious? Parker ducked low and pushed ahead between two pews, drawing nearer to his friend. Before he knew it he was ten feet away, close enough to slide the gun to Michael.

  Danny suddenly filled his field of vision, blocking his path.

  “We’ll take that,” he sneered, wrenching the pistol from Parker’s throbbing hands and shoving him down onto the pew. He took aim. “Good-bye, Saint.”

  The sound of three shots filled the church.

  Danny lurched forward, landing on Parker with some force. He wheezed long and loud, then began to convulse. Parker slithered out from beneath him, letting the detective’s body fall to the floor. Grouped closely in the center of Danny’s back were three bullet wounds.

  A shrill whistling sound, like a thousand shrieks all wrapped together, threatened to burst Parker’s eardrums. The holes in the detective’s shirt were bubbling and billowing as his body quivered.

  Parker could feel the dark spirits coming out of his enemy, looking for a place to go, and he thanked God for providential timing. Earlier that day he’d been swept clean and in order, a perfect home for Ketcham’s demons. But not now.

  A moment later, Ketcham’s body was still and the church perfectly quiet.

  Parker shuffled over to Michael, still sitting on the floor next to Father Xavier, whose pant leg was bunched up to the knee, revealing a small, empty ankle holster.

  “So that’s the unauthorized exorcism,” Parker managed to say, his jaw tight and sore.

  “I told you it was messy,” Michael said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll live, I guess. I think I need an ambulance, though.”

  “On its way. I called 911 before I burst in on you two.” He tipped his head back against a pew and closed his eyes. “We shouldn’t have split up. I came by to pick up Father Xavier. Waited in the car fifteen minutes before I came in to check on him. He could still be alive if it weren’t for me.”

  “How could you know? Besides, if you two had stayed together, I’d probably
be the one lying dead on the church floor. He gave his life to save mine.”

  “Right,” Michael replied. He opened his eyes and straightened his clerical collar. “I suppose I should call Ignatius and tell him to hold off on that report.”

  Parker nodded. “I guess you finally got a win.”

  Michael shook his head slowly. “We didn’t win here, Parker. Look at this.” He gestured at the bodies on the floor. “It’s a draw at best. But this is only one battle. The war against darkness goes on, and I think even Father Ignatius would agree, you’re more than ready to wage it.”

  Parker looked at Xavier’s still form. “I’m not so sure we didn’t win,” he said. “We stopped a madman from killing again. And yes, we both lost friends, but we gained something too, didn’t we?”

  Michael was unconvinced. “What did you gain, Parker?”

  “You said yourself that I might rediscover the most precious lost treasure of the Christian church. And I think I did.”

  As it turned out, Parker’s ambulance ride would have to wait. The medics stabilized him, bandaged him, and applied a splint to his arm and two fingers, but the police would not delay their questioning. They needed an explanation as to how one of their own had come to be burned up and shot in the back, in a church of all places—along with two other bodies, both priests.

  Damien—also splinted and temporarily taped up by paramedics—had already told them where to find Brynn Carter, bringing the night’s body count to four. The one-time suspect had been hand-delivered to police headquarters an hour earlier, but found himself unable to convince the arresting officers of the night’s events. At Parker’s insistence, Corrinne had brought him to the church as well after some initial questioning, so all three survivors could give a statement together, which she emphasized she was only doing out of “professional courtesy.”

  They gathered in the library of the church to be debriefed, first by Troy and Corrinne—both trying to hide their shock at learning Ketcham’s secret—and then by Homeland Security when Father Michael’s diplomatic status came to light.

  A man in a black suit, exuding authority, breezed in shortly after midnight and took the seat next to Damien at the head of the conference table. He identified himself merely as Agent Jones and rehashed the same line of questioning to which they had already been subjected, challenging every statement that each of them made.

  After several hours of interrogation, it had become more than clear, even to Agent Jones, that the evidence squared with their individual statements and their collective story. A series of phone calls went up the chain—how high Parker never knew—until a decision was made. The federal agent tersely explained that charges would not be leveled against any of them, provided they agree to the official version of the evening’s events.

  In order to avoid an international incident, the involvement of the Jesuits Militant would be redacted from the official story and a field officer from an unnamed state agency would be credited with taking down the Blackjack Killer. Damien and Parker were free to go, he explained—presumably to the hospital, and then home—but Michael would have to leave the country, never to return.

  A smirk bit at the priest’s lips. “I understand,” he said, “and I can assure you that Michael John Faber will never set foot in the United States again.”

  Before the questioning wrapped, Parker brought up the issue of Damien’s drug charges, which were clearly fabricated in light of recent developments. A call from the feds to the prosecutor’s home at 3:40 a.m. confirmed that all pending charges would be dropped.

  That settled, the meeting was adjourned. As papers were gathered and briefcases clasped shut, Parker felt as if a business deal had just been closed. Except that nine people were dead, some of whom had been strangers, some his friends, and others his enemies. With those who had survived, Parker wasn’t quite sure where he stood.

  “Your name’s not really Michael Faber, is it?” Parker asked the young priest, as the agents arranged his trip to the airport and, from there, back to Vatican City.

  Michael just winked. “Can’t tell you, buddy,” he said. “I took an oath.”

  Parker’s mouth fell involuntarily open.

  “Different oath,” he chuckled. “I’m glad I met you, Parker. You’ve got my number if you ever need anything.” He gingerly embraced his new friend, both men grimacing at the pain, and then disappeared out the door amid a sea of gray suits.

  Damien was on his way out as well. Having declined the feds’ offer of a ride, he’d called some friends to drive him to Butterworth Hospital. He paused just inside the door and gave Parker a sheepish grin.

  “Sorry about the cat,” he said.

  “I forgive you.”

  “And thanks for not leaving me taped to the chair back there. That was decent of you.”

  “You’re welcome. How’s the arm?”

  “The bad news is I’m not in shock anymore. The good news is they gave me some really funky pain-killers. Paramedic said it will probably need surgery.” His eyes betrayed a good deal of apprehension at the prospect.

  “What would you say if I offered to pray for you?”

  “I wouldn’t say anything.”

  “Well, I guess that’s progress.”

  They shook hands simply and parted ways.

  EPILOGUE

  PARKER WAS ADMITTED TO THE HOSPITAL WITH A FRACTURED skull, a concussion, two broken bones in his hand, and a stress fracture in his right ulna. All this in addition to his three missing teeth, which rendered his perfect white smile—for which he had given up so much—a goofy, hillbilly grin. After two days he was sent home with a cast, a stack of prescriptions, and orders for a week of bed rest.

  He disobeyed the doctor’s instructions, emerging from his bed on the third day to get a temporary dental bridge before performing Paige’s and Dr. Carlson’s funerals—both at Hope Presbyterian’s sanctuary in the Holy Ghost Tabernacle.

  For the next three weeks Parker rested, healed, and reassessed the direction of his life and ministry. To fill the slot on his weekly TV program, he featured some of his father’s old sermons from the early days of the television ministry. The response was positive enough that he decided to continue that for the rest of the season.

  As for Abundance Now Ministries, Parker simply dissolved it, donating its considerable assets to H.I.S. Youth Center on Division Avenue. He sent letters to everyone on the donors’ list, explaining his reasons for pulling back from the spotlight.

  To that end, despite a major national buzz surrounding the televangelist who helped track down a serial killer, Parker’s own media involvement was limited to Damien Bane’s newly rebranded Skeptic Humanist video podcast, record viewership to date: 242. They recounted their harrowing experience in the school and discussed philosophy and theology, even sharing a laugh or two. Within a week Damien had broken his record by more than half a million views.

  As soon as he felt able, Parker met with his editors at Charter House, intent on returning the advance for God Is Awesome (And So Are You). To his initial shock and annoyance, they were unwilling to let him out of his contract. They did, however, offer to roll the advance over to a new book instead—one about rediscovering the faith of his father through a series of grisly murders.

  One month to the day after he began his consultant work with the Grand Rapids Police, Parker hand-delivered his résumé to the elders of Hope Presbyterian Church. The next day he had an interview with the Pastoral Nominating Committee. A week later, all seventy-one active members showed up to unanimously vote him in as their new pastor.

  It was a Thursday—Parker’s fourth day on the job—when he finally called Joshua Holton. Parker had been meeting with Reverend T. Charles Watkins every morning for coffee and prayer in his office at Holy Ghost Tabernacle.

  That morning, after saying “amen,” Charles had looked Parker in the eye and said, “Listen to me, son, you won’t have peace until you forgive this man. And you need to forgive him man-to-man. U
nderstand?”

  “Did you premeditate that rhyme scheme, or did it just happen?”

  Charles laughed and waved him away. “I’ve got work to do.”

  Parker walked out of the office and a short distance down the hall to a door that read Reverend Brian Parker III. The office was small and full of dreadfully outdated furniture, but functional enough. Parker slid into the shabby desk chair and reviewed his to-do list for the day. First and foremost, he needed to finish preparing his Sunday message—his first at Hope in eight years.

  He knew word was out that he had landed another church, and he had no idea how many of his former fans to expect on Sunday morning. The only person who had promised to be there was Corrinne, even though it was neither Christmas nor Easter. She had checked on Parker by phone every day his first week out of the hospital, and at his invitation stopped by his house with dinner.

  The elders moved their service back an hour so they could use the new, larger auditorium if needed. No matter how many attended, though, anyone expecting to hear about Moments of Majesty and seizing his destiny would be surprised by the message of repentance and forgiveness of sins in Jesus’ name—a message of the cross, grace, and self-denial.

  At the top of Parker’s to-do list, he added Call J. Holton, then immediately crossed it out and picked up the phone, dialing the familiar number from memory. He was deposited directly into voice mail.

  “Josh, it’s me, Brian Park—er, Parker Saint. I just wanted to call to thank you for all the opportunities you’ve given me and the trust you placed in me. The time we spent together really made a significant impact on who I am. I mean that. If you ever want to talk, I’d be more than happy to. Or if you’re ever in town, I’d love to get together. Blessings on you and your ministry.”

  The door opened and Ruth, the volunteer secretary, walked in. Of the seventy-one members of Hope Presbyterian, six were named Ruth. “At least we’re not a Ruthless church,” went the joke that Parker had heard about thirty-five times now.