The Dead Saint
Other Books by Marilyn Brown Oden
FICTION
Crested Butte: A Novel
NON-FICTION
Hospitality of the Heart
AbunDance
Joyful Living in Christ
Manger and Mystery
An Advent Adventure
Through the East Window
Prayers and Promises for Living with Loss
Wilderness Wanderings
A Lenten Pilgrimage
Land of Sickles and Crosses
The United Methodist Initiative in the C.I.S.
The Courage to Care
Beyond Feminism
The Woman of Faith in Action
The Minister's Wife
Person or Position
MULTI-AUTHORED BOOKS
Compassion
Thoughts on Cultivating a Good Heart
365 Meditations for Grandmothers
365 Meditations for Women
At Home with God
Family Devotions for the School Year
The Dead Saint
A Bishop Lynn Peterson Novel
Marilyn Brown Oden
Nashville
The Dead Saint
Copyright © 2011 by Marilyn Brown Oden
ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-0867-1
Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202
www.abingdonpress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form,
stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website,
or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital,
electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without
written permission from the publisher, except for brief
quotations in printed reviews and articles.
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction
are the creations of the author, and any resemblance
to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Anderson Design Group, Nashville, TN
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Oden, Marilyn Brown.
The dead saint : a Bishop Lynn Peterson novel / Marilyn Brown Oden.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4267-0867-1 (pbk.: alk. paper)
1. Women bishops—Fiction. 2. Assassination—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3615.D46D43 2011
813'.6—dc22
2010054454
Scripture quotations are taken from the New Revised Standard
Version of the Bible, copyright 1989, 1993. Division of Christian
Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the
United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 16 15 14 13 12 11
In memory of
my father,
who gave me wings
Contents
PART I
The Sniper
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
PART II
The Rancher
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
PART III
The Tragedy
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
PART IV
The Funeral
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
EPILOGUE
Author 's Note and Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
PART I
The Sniper
Wednesday, 10:17 A.M.
Everything begins in mysticism
and ends in politics.
—Charles Peguy
1
At 10:17 on Wednesday morning, three minutes before a bullet whizzed through the French Quarter and severed her sheltered yesterdays from her sinister tomorrows, Bishop Lynn Peterson sat at her favorite outdoor table at Café du Monde. She was incognito behind sunglasses and dressed like a tourist in a teal knit shirt that matched her eyes, khaki walking shorts and sandals, with her black hair swooped up under a straw hat. She'd escaped her office to read over her lecture for the conference in Vienna. No phone calls. No "emergency" appointments. No interruptions. She smiled.
Lynn sipped café au lait, resisted the third beignet and listened to the calliope's happy tune
drifting from a paddleboat on the river. Nearby a wannabe king of jazz improvised on soprano sax, playing the music like it should've been written. Feet tapped to the beat. She loved to sit here. Loved New Orleans. The city suited her.
She heard Bubba Broussard's laughter resound like a bass solo from half a block away. The six-five, 250-pound ProBowl linebacker for the New Orleans Saints ambled down Decatur Street, green polo shirt stretched over his biceps. Elias Darwish sauntered along beside him, the never-miss place kicker who hailed from Sarajevo and helped turn the "Aints" into the Saints. The two, built of rock-hard muscles and soft-touch hearts, often helped Lynn with benefits for kids in the Projects. Their friendship deepened while working together during the aftermath of Katrina. The Saints had also helped clean up after the BP oil spill. Elie and Bubba were heroes on and off the football field. Hurricane heroes abounded, but hoodlums stole the headlines. The renovated Superdome rose like a vivid symbol of hope: the Big Easy refused to become the Big Empty. The Saints had more at stake than winning now. They played for a city's soul. Katrina still spins in the shadows of our minds, thought Lynn, then we remember to forget.
Determined to remain incognito, she didn't go greet her friends. She felt secretive and didn't like the feeling. Another point for her lecture. She grabbed a napkin J. K. Rowling–style and scribbled quickly: Secrets make us sick. They do indeed, she thought, giving in to the third beignet.
Lynn scanned the buildings that told stories from another era. Ferns and ivy draped the fancy ironwork on their second-story galleries. Sunlight bounced off the triple steeples of St. Louis Cathedral. Banana trees guarded the gates to Jackson Park. A clown twisted bright balloons into animal shapes. Strangers from all parts of the world meandered along in a friendly fashion. No one worried. No one hurried. Only the red-wigged mime stood still, a human sculpture standing on a box, backed by the iron fence around the park.
Two little boys tap-danced on the slate sidewalk, the soles of their sneakers rigged with metal. A tourist eating a praline slowed to watch. His black leather fanny pack protruded from his paunch and pecan bits dropped on the camera that dangled around his neck. A teenager hustled him. "Betcha a dollar I can tell where you got them shoes." The tourist swerved to avoid him and stepped in front of a blue surrey. The bored mule cocked his head, tilting the red and yellow flowers in his straw hat.
A red light stopped traffic. One taxi raced through it. The second squealed to a halt. People strolled across Decatur, confetti in motion. Bubba and Elie crossed with the crowd. Bubba's laugh resounded like a bass fiddle with a melody solo. Lynn smiled, enjoying his joy.
Elie lurched. Grabbed his chest. Dropped to the street.
Bubba looked down. A growl of agony ripped from his throat. A woman screamed, and the crowd panicked.
Lynn ran toward them. Bubba knelt beside his friend. "Someone call 911!" Lynn put her hand on his shoulder and turned on her cell phone.
The Saints kicker lay still and silent. A circle of blood widened on his white T-shirt.
2
A machete had sliced through time, severing it into the before and the after. As still as death Elias Darwish slept, his soccer foot splayed on the gritty, oil-slick street, his face distorted, his body twisted. Numb, Lynn stood beside Bubba with her hand still on his shoulder. He kept a soft running monologue near Elie's ear. If Elie could hear, he'd know Bubba's voice. If he opened his eyes, he'd see his face.
For an instant Bubba drew a few inches away and shook his head slowly. "I don't understand." Pain filled his James Earl Jones voice. He looked at Elie's broken neck chain. It hung loose, split by the bullet. He scanned the dirty street around them, and his big hand closed over something small and shiny. He clutched it in his fist.
The French Quarter police arrived on foot in minutes. The somber crowd stared silent and subdued, the carnival now a wake. A hundred onlookers had witnessed the crime. But no one knew what had happened. An image tugged at the edges of Lynn's mind—the red-wigged mime had disappeared.
It took a long time for the ambulance to make its way through the crowded, narrow streets. Too long. The paramedics bent over Elie. They glanced at each other, then put him on a stretcher and lifted him into the ambulance. Bubba stooped to climb through the rear doors.
"Sorry, mister." A paramedic slammed one door shut. "It's against the rules."
The linebacker glared at him and jerked it back open. The force jarred the ambulance.
"Careful, Bubba," called the driver. "You can ride up front with me." She thumbed toward the paramedic. "He's a Yankee. He doesn't understand that rules in New Orleans depend right much on the situation."
Bubba jumped in beside her. The siren blared and the ambulance pulled away.
A police officer shook his head. "They don't need the siren. That Saint is dead."
3
The denizen of chaos sat in his DC office at a mahogany desk, its black leather inset clutter-free. He wore a custom suit and shirt, initialed Tiffany cufflinks, a conservative silk tie, and gleaming Italian shoes. Two centuries of presidential memorabilia dominated the décor, a silent testament to his patriotism. The secure green phone rang. Green for go. Stop was not in his vocabulary. He clutched it in his long, El Greco fingers. The familiar voice spoke two words. "Problem solved."
"Good work, as expected." He punched End. Elias Darwish was dead. Tragic but necessary. He frowned and moved thoughtfully to the window. The sunless sky cloaked the city in gray. It matched his mood, for he preferred to avoid fatalities. Darwish would still be alive if he had not woven his own noose by connecting too many threads. An attempt to identify the Patriot was suicide. Not murder.
The Patriot. He smiled, fond of the self-dubbed sobriquet. It fits me, he thought. No American loves this country more than I do. No one stands straighter to salute Old Glory. Or mourns more deeply when her honor is spattered. Patriot. The word evoked an image of discipline and power—essentials in his highly complex modus operandi. Justice drove him. It had since his sixteenth birthday when his father was killed. It would always drive him. Words from Deuteronomy echoed in his ears: Justice and only justice, you shall pursue. One definition said it all: the quality of being righteous. He stood proud, a man of justice, a man of righteousness, a man of power.
He watched the people below scurry about importantly. Locals used cell phones and tourists aimed cameras. His charming public persona connected him to both groups. How stunned people would be to find that his persona masked the unrelenting fire of the Patriot's native forcefulness, a fierce desire to win at all costs, and the capacity to bring harm when needed—traits that served him well as a covert arms dealer, unidentified and unidentifiable. He thrilled at the challenge of this game of masks.
A rain cloud blew slowly across the sky, further darkening the view. He thought of chaos theory, recalling how a butterfly on one continent could flap its tiny wings at the right moment and create a disturbance that influenced the winds on another continent. Perhaps a butterfly in Brazil had caused this drifting cloud. He too could manipulate small disturbances that rippled into large ones. At first he had done this for the poor or, in another meaning of the word in Hebrew, for the little people of the earth, the ones discounted and overlooked. In time God rewarded him with a means to wealth: disturbances create a market for arms, and the destruction creates a market for new infrastructure. The more money he made, the greater his generosity and thus the wider his influence. His beneficence evoked trust and frequently bought respect and privilege from the politicos on both sides of the aisle. Feeding their egos and campaign funds gained him power for his righteous pursuit of justice.
He glanced down at the noontime traffic, then shifted his gaze to the Pentagon in the distance. He still seethed when he thought about Osama bin Laden's attack on the financial and military symbols of U.S. superiority. He had destroyed more than precious lives and prestigious buildings. He'd shattered the country's fearless self-image. Manifest destiny had been struck down. The Promis
ed Land had lost its promise, at least temporarily. The country roamed through the wilderness of fear and suspicion, and he longed to be the new Moses. He hated bin Laden, but he had learned from him. Repugnant but necessary.
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