Punish the Sinners

by John Saul

  “If you act like a baby, you get treated like one,” the orderly pointed out. Judy stuck her tongue out at him, but he ignored it. The two of them started walking toward the building. Suddenly Judy turned back.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said. Then, just before she disappeared into the hospital, she spoke again. “Killing yourself is really kind of neat You should try it sometime.” And then Judy Nelson began to laugh—a laugh that lingered in Marilyn’s ears long after Judy disappeared into the shadows of the building.

  Marilyn Crane sat alone for a long time, staring at nothing and trying to figure out the meaning of everything Judy had said. Then, she didn’t know how much later, she finally left the bench and went back to her bike.

  Before she mounted the bike and rode away from the hospital, Marilyn reached into the carryall. Her hand closed on a small object She took it from the carryall and stared at it

  A small packet of razor blades.

  Marilyn had no memory of having purchased them.

  No memory of putting them in the carryall.

  Yet there they were. She stared at them mutely, part of her mind wondering where they had come from, part of her mind accepting the fact of them. Carefully, she replaced them in her bag.

  From a window on the second floor of the hospital, Judy Nelson watched Marilyn. There was a small smile on Judy’s face as Marilyn pedaled away toward town. Judy watched until Marilyn disappeared, then got back into bed. She picked up the telephone, dialed, and waited while it rang.

  “Penny? Marilyn just left.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Who knows? Who even cares? But I’ll tell you one thing. Something’s going to happen to that girl!”

  16

  The Bishop glanced once more at the calendar on his desk, and noted the neatly inked appointment for five o’clock. “Golf,” it read, “Joe Flynn.” He had been looking forward to it all week until an hour ago, when his secretary had come in and calmly penciled in another appointment above the golf date: “Peter Balsam.” His raised eyebrows had only produced a shrug and the explanation, “Fellow says it’s urgent.” So now he was going to be late for his golf date, and while he knew Joe Flynn would forgive him, he wasn’t certain he would forgive this Peter Balsam for delaying him. Golf, after all, was important. The Bishop glared up at the clock on the wall, hoping the man would be late, even if only by a minute. During that minute he would have a legitimate excuse for slipping out the door behind his desk. He was counting the last fifteen seconds when the buzzer on his intercom sounded.

  Muttering to himself, he pressed the switch. “Yes?” he barked as loudly and testily as he could, hoping to intimidate the unwanted visitor.

  In the secretary’s office, Father Duncan winked up at a nervous Peter Balsam and held a finger to his lips. Then he spoke into the intercom.

  “Mr. Balsam is here to see you, Your Eminence. Shall I bring him in?”

  “What’re the chances of his going away if I say no?” the Bishop’s voice growled from the box. Balsam felt himself turning red and wanted to flee. Father Duncan just grinned at him.

  “None whatever,” the priest said severely. “And I already called Joe Flynn and explained, so you can stop worrying about being late.”

  “Oh, very well then, show him in. But I wish you’d explain things to me the way you do to Joe Flynn. After all, you’re my secretary.”

  Father Duncan stood up and beckoned Peter Balsam to follow him. “He always plays golf on Wednesday, so don’t be surprised if he’s a bit grumpy. And try to keep the meeting short. The later he is, the grumpier he gets. But his bark is much worse than his bite.” Then, before Peter could reply, he pushed the door open and stood aside so that Peter could precede him into the Bishop’s office.

  Bishop O’Malley did not get up when Balsam entered his office, which surprised Balsam just a little. He heard the secretary make the introductions as he crossed the room to kneel in front of the Bishop. But he didn’t make it.

  ‘Must we?” the Bishop said, anticipating Peter. “Why don’t you just sit down so we can get this over with as fast as possible, all right?”

  An abashed Peter Balsam sank into the visitor’s chair on the near side of the desk, and the Bishop smiled to himself. Threw him off with that one, he thought; score one for me. While Balsam recovered from the assault, the Bishop tried to decide which demeanor would prove most effective in getting this young man out of his office. He settled on a stern-superior image, and frowned across the desk.

  “Father Duncan tells me you arranged this meeting yourself,” he said severely, though the secretary had told him nothing of the sort “Ordinarily, you would need the intervention of Monsignor Vernon in order to get this far.” He watched Balsam squirm, and added another point to his side.

  Tm sorry, Your Eminence,” Balsam said. “But “I’m afraid I couldn’t go through Monsignor—”

  “Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?” the Bishop broke in. “There’s a difference, you know.”

  “I do know,” Balsam said, more sharply than he meant to. “I’m a psychologist” The Bishop mentally erased the two points he had scored for himself, and chalked up one for Balsam. Then he decided to give up keeping score—it just wasn’t going to be his day. He smiled at Balsam.

  “Sony,” he said. “Father Duncan didn’t tell me that” Balsam took the statement as the sign of truce it was. He relaxed again.

  “I couldn’t go through Monsignor Vernon, sir, because I would have had to tell him what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Bishop O’Malley picked up a pencil from the desktop and leaned back in his chair. He tapped his front teeth with the pencil for a moment, surveying the man across from him. “I gather you want to talk to me about Monsignor?” he inquired mildly.

  Balsam nodded. “I don’t know who else to talk to, or I wouldn’t have bothered you. And I’m not sure it’s really Monsignor Vernon I want to talk about. It’s his society.”

  “His society?” the Bishop repeated. “I’m not following you.” He glanced surreptitiously at the clock. Yes, he was going to be late.

  “The Society of St. Peter Martyr,” Balsam said, wondering if he was going to have to explain the whole thing to the Bishop.

  “Oh, that bunch,” the Bishop said nonchalantly. Suddenly he felt much better: this could be disposed of in a couple of minutes, and he could be on his way to the country club.

  “Then you know about them?” Balsam asked eagerly.

  “Well, they aren’t any secret, are they? Seven old priests who get together every now and then to talk about ‘the good old days.’ “ He looked at Balsam curiously. “You really came all the way over here to talk about the Society of St Peter Martyr? I think you wasted your time.” He stood up, ready to end the meeting. But Peter Balsam didn’t move.

  “I think there’s more to it than that” he said softly. The Bishop stared at him for a moment, then sank back into the chair behind the desk. He was going to be late after all.

  “More to it? What makes you think so?”

  “Have you ever been to one of their meetings?” Balsam countered.

  When the Bishop shook his head, Balsam began to describe the two meetings of the Society he had attended. The Bishop heard him out in silence, but throughout the entire recital the pendi drummed on the edge of the desk.

  “Is that all?” he said when Balsam eventually fell silent

  “More or less,” Balsam said equivocally. He’d left out the last part of the story, unable to bring himself to tell the Bishop about the strange marks on his back.

  “It sounds like more,” the Bishop commented dryly. “It sounds like you don’t really remember too much about the meetings, and you’re reading a lot into the Society that simply isn’t there. Frankly, it doesn’t seem to me to be in the least remarkable that seven old priests with not much to do have decided to entertain themselves by forming a discussion group,”

  “You keep saying seven,” Balsam put in. “T
here are only six.”

  The Bishop smiled easily. “There used to be seven. Until Father George Carver died last year. Now it looks like they’re trying to recruit you to round the number out again. Are you thinking of joining them?”

  “According to them, I already have,” Peter said hesitantly. The Bishop noted the hesitation in his voice, and picked up on it.

  “Is there something you haven’t told me?”

  Balsam shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wondering whether he should tell the Bishop about the marks on his back. He decided against it.

  “I really came here more to ask some questions than to tell you about the Society. I’d hoped you knew more about it than I do.”

  “I see. On the assumption that the Bishop is the source of all knowledge in the diocese. Well, I’m afraid that’s a myth. If I tried to keep up with everything all my priests are doing, I’d never have time for the important things.”

  Like golf? Balsam wanted to ask, but didn’t.

  “Like golf,” the Bishop grinned, reading his mind. “As for the Society of St. Peter Martyr, I’m afraid I know very little about it. As far as I knew it was simply seven old priests—”

  “Monsignor Vernon isn’t exactly old,” Balsam broke in.

  The Bishop peered at him over his glasses; this Balsam was showing a lot more spunk than he liked. On the other hand, he was finding it refreshing, in an odd way.

  “Not in years, perhaps, but his thinking is a bit old-fashioned. As for the rest of them, well, their years match their thinking, for the most part.”

  “What do you mean?” Balsam asked. He thought he knew, but wanted the Bishop to spell it out for him.

  “How can I put it?” the Bishop mused aloud. Then he put the pencil down and leaned forward in his chair.

  “The Church is in a constant state of paradox,” he began. “On the one hand we tell our flock, and each other, that we hold the keys to the absolute truth. But on the other hand we realize that there is no absolute truth. Truth changes along with the times. The trick to being comfortable within the Church is to balance tradition with change, and try to change tradition to keep up with the times. Unfortunately, all too many of us find it easier to cling to the traditions than move with the changes. All too many of us fail to see that keeping up with the times isn’t destroying the Faith. And that, as I see it, is the basis of the Society of St. Peter Martyr. They’re old-fashioned in their thinking, and they don’t get much support from the Church, at least not in my diocese. They want to Believe. They need to lean on each other for support.

  “They’re terribly dogmatic, of course, and quite frankly I don’t spend much time with them. I don’t mean as the Society of St. Peter Martyr; I don’t spend any time with the Society at all—I mean as individuals. I’m afraid I just can’t be quite as—what’s the word? religious?—as they’d like me to be. And, though I know I shouldn’t say it, Monsignor Vernon’s the worst of them.”

  The Bishop smiled wryly, then went on. “Young man, every time I talk to Vernon I thank my lucky stars I’m getting older. By the time that man gets to be my age, he’s going to be absolutely impossible. In fact, I have to keep reminding myself that he’s your age, not mine. He seems old already.”

  “I know.” Balsam felt himself warming to the Bishop. “I went to school with him. He was just Pete Vernon then, and you wouldn’t have recognized him.”

  “Wouldn’t I? Don’t forget, I’ve been watching him in Neilsville for twelve years now. I remember the young man who came out here from Philadelphia. He’s a lot different now. Neilsville, I suppose. Towns like that do things to people. Too small. Inbred. I suppose it’s inevitable that the clergy gets caught up in it too. I’ve often wondered if I’d have stayed with the Church if they’d sent me to a place like Neilsville.” Then he brightened a bit. “Who knows? Maybe if I’d wound up in Neilsville, I’d have started a Society of St. Peter Martyr myself. Just between us, being stuck in Neilsville is certainly my idea of martyrdom.”

  “I know what you mean,” Balsam replied. Then he picked up on something else. “Did Monsignor start the Society of St. Peter Martyr?”

  “You mean you didn’t know?”

  Balsam shook his head. “I know he’s their leader, but I’d assumed the Society had been going on for years.”

  “Not at all. Vernon started it about five years ago, at about the time he became Monsignor. I suppose it was his way of proving to himself that he’d ‘made it.’ “

  “Seems a strange thing,” Balsam commented.

  “Petty conceit, I’d call it,” the Bishop snapped.

  “Conceit?”

  Now the Bishop regarded him quizzically. “You mean you haven’t figured it out?”

  “You’ve lost me again,” Balsam admitted.

  “The names, man, the names,” the Bishop cried. ‘Monsignor Vernon named the Society after himself!”

  Balsam stared at the Bishop blankly. “Named it after himself?”

  “You mean you didn’t know?” The Bishop chuckled. “St Peter Martyr’s name was Piero da Verona. Now if you were to translate that into English, what would you come up with?”

  “Peter Vernon,” Balsam said slowly. “Or something close enough to that so it wouldn’t make any difference. Is that what you mean?”

  The Bishop nodded. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Then: “What an unpleasant person he must have been.”

  “Who?”

  “Piero da Verona. St. Peter Martyr.” Balsam’s brows arched in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve read the story, haven’t you? About how one of the so-called heretics was finally pushed too far by Verona’s persecutions, and killed him one night?”

  “ ‘So-called’ heretics?” Balsam wanted to smile. He didn’t

  The Bishop looked at him sharply, wondering if the young man was pulling his leg. “Oh, come on. I think we all have to admit that during the Inquisition the Dominicans were denouncing everyone who disagreed with them as heretics. But calling them heretics doesn’t make them heretics, does it?”

  “No,” Balsam agreed, “it doesn’t.” Then he changed the subject “What happened to the man who killed Verona?”

  “Ah,” said Bishop O’Malley, standing once more. “Now there’s a wonderful case of the mysterious ways of the Lord. The murderer is a saint tool”

  Balsam’s eyes widened in astonishment “Once more?”

  “Possibly.” Bishop O’Malley laughed. “I don’t know what the truth of the matter is, and I don’t suppose anybody else does either, but the story is that the man who killed Verona—his name escapes me if I ever knew it—repented, joined an order himself, and was eventually canonized. Not as fast as Verona, of course, who I think holds the record for quick canonization, but he eventually made it.”

  “As Saint who?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. There’s so many saints I can’t keep up with them.” He glanced at the clock, and was surprised to see how late it was. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to Balsam, “I’m going to be very late for my game.”

  Balsam leaped to his feet “Pm sorry for having taken so much of your time,” he apologized. The Bishop clapped him on the back, deciding he quite liked this young man.

  “None of that,” he said. “Any time. But next time, please go through proper channels. If you have to, lie to Vernon about it. Better that than having him find out you circumvented him entirely. Let him get wind of that, and you’ll really find out what the Inquisition was like.” Then a thought struck him. “You know, young man, maybe that’s what they’re up to. Maybe the Society of St. Peter Martyr is actually trying to resurrect the Inquisition. If they are, Neilsville would certainly be the place to start. It’s always struck me as the kind of town that would love to have an Inquisition. Or a witch-burning. Tell you what, why don’t you join up with the Society, and see if you can find out what they’re up to? Who knows? It might prove to be interesting.”

  Bishop O
’Malley opened the door to his office and walked with Peter Balsam from the rectory to the car that Balsam had borrowed from Margo Henderson. He waved to Balsam as the younger man drove away, and decided that he did, indeed, like the boy very much. Peeling quite good, Bishop O’Malley got in his own car and set out for his golf game.

  Had he known about the marks on Balsam’s back, he would not have felt nearly so good. He would have known that something was happening in Neilsville.

  Instead, he went happily to his golf game, where Toe Flynn beat him by three strokes. Which wasn’t too bad; Joe Flynn usually beat him by five.

  Peter Balsam entered his apartment and tossed the car keys to Margo Henderson.

  “Not a scratch on it,” he said. “You ready for the dinner I promised?”

  Margo nodded, relieved to see that he seemed to be in a good mood. “Shall I fix you a drink first?” she asked.

  “Sure. Then I’ll tell you all about the Bishop. Right now I’m going to change my clothes.”

  He walked quickly into the bedroom and stripped to his shorts. As he’d done this morning, he glanced in the mirror to check the welts on his back. This morning they had been as angry and red as ever.

  Now they were gone.

  He looked again, and tentatively touched the skin of his back.

  No trace. Not a scar. Not a mark. His back was as clear as it had ever been.

  When Peter Balsam returned to the living room a few seconds later and took the drink Margo offered, his mood had changed. The merriment was gone, and in its place was a certain thoughtfulness.

  By the time dinner was over Peter Balsam had made up his mind.

  He would join the Society of St. Peter Martyr.

  Margo wasn’t sure it was wise, but Peter insisted. Reluctantly, and only because the Bishop had suggested his joining the Society, Margo agreed. Despite her falling-out with the Church, she instinctively trusted the Bishop. And she was beginning to suspect she loved Peter Balsam.

  But she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all.