Of course it was possible he was a sightseer. Maybe he was looking for a miracle for himself. Cancer, whatever. But Brother Paul doubted it. Maybe it was a premonition, but it was strong. He had a feeling.
A powerful feeling that this priest could spell the beginning of the end.
Well, if so, okay. He could handle it. But, dammit, why now!
Maybe he was rushing things. Now that he thought about it, it did seem a bit contrived. Why would the Church send an investigator just now—the day after he’d killed that meddlesome reporter? As far as he knew, she was the only one who intended to write about an investigation and thus, perhaps, push the Church into doing something about it. But she was undoubtedly on a slab in the morgue. He’d been so busy this morning, he hadn’t had an opportunity to see or hear the news of her death. But he was certain that her murder— or accident, whatever they called it—would be the major local story, not the suggestion that the little Congregation of St. Stephen deserved an ecclesiastical investigation. In fact, he hoped her death had been labeled what it actually was—murder. Murder would get far more media attention than just a fatal accident.
So, why worry? The reporter was taken care of. And this priest might just be an innocent bystander. And even if he were an investigator, at least Brother Paul would not be hounded by what’s-her-name—Lennon—snapping at his heels.
Father Koesler continued to watch the progress of the Mass with far more attention to detail than he would out of mere professional curiosity. He had to admit he enjoyed the Latin, although Father Robert did mispronounce a few words. One should not demand perfection, however, especially from one who was so obviously ill. Besides, Robert more than made up for the few technical gaffes by his reverence. It was so easy over the years to let things slip. The repetition of the same words, the same actions day after day, could blunt one’s devotion. Familiarity bred carelessness. As he watched Robert pray, Koesler promised that he would try to freshen his own approach to Mass.
Koesler would mention in his report Father Robert’s reverence. While he doubted this observation would be relevant to the investigation, at this point he was more concerned with quantity than quality.
Mass was almost concluded when Brother Paul saw her. Back against the rear wall, standing on something. She had to be standing on something, otherwise he would never have been able to see her.
Stunned, he stared in utter disbelief. It couldn’t be! She was dead. In the unlikely possibility he had not killed her, she had to have been all but dead. At best, she’d be in some hospital more dead than alive.
He tried to call back the event, to remember, to visualize it, experience it all once again. He felt the satisfying thud when the car swept into her. He saw her being catapulted off the ground, her body disappearing over the windshield, helpless and disjointed like a rag doll. He could recall the assuring bump when he ran over her body-twice. It was no dream. He’d carefully, if hurriedly, planned it and executed it.
There also was no doubt that she was here, now standing back against the wall.
Whatinhell had happened?
Ohhh . . . now that he thought of it, he had never gotten a close look at her from the time she left the News until he left her ground into the pavement at her apartment . . .
That damned hood! He’d never seen her face. But, damn, she was the right size. And, from all reports, wearing the right raincoat. And the clincher, she drove the car that belonged to Lennon. She worked at the News. She . . .
The whole thing was crazy.
But he wasn’t. He’d hit somebody. And because God had a peculiar sense of humor, the woman he’d hit was not Lennon.
It was her car. It had to be a friend of hers.
And now, she had to know something had happened to her friend. That somebody had killed her friend.
One thing seemed certain, to this moment, anyway: Lennon did not know he had done it. Otherwise, he’d be under arrest by now.
So, he had some time. How much, he didn’t know. But he had a little time. The question was how to use it.
Then he remembered that yesterday, he’d promised Lennon an interview with Father Robert today. Well, that was out. The right question, the wrong answer from the old fool, and it would be the end of the game.
Unfortunately, the Mass was ending; there was little time to formulate any sort of foolproof plan. He would have to wing it. And his recent improvisations were not proving too successful.
With Father Robert, in Latin, telling the congregation to “Go in peace,” the Mass concluded. However, it appeared that nobody was going anywhere. This, they anticipated, is when the show would begin. There was the expected push toward the altar. All except Pat Lennon and her escort. They moved in the opposite direction.
And that was duly noted by Brother Paul. God is good! Can she be leaving? That would settle a good part of the problem. Wait, there’s somebody with her. He had no idea who the guy was. But . . . they weren’t leaving; they were headed toward the priest—who had not moved from his spot against the wall.
Brother Paul had no idea what was going on. But one thing: He had just bought a little more time. He didn’t know how he might have handled it had the priest and Lennon descended on Father Robert simultaneously. With this development, that was not going to happen.
Okay, one thing at a time. For now, stick close to Robert and make sure the idiot doesn’t try for another miracle.
Koesler quickly decided that remaining exactly where he was gave him the best vantage. To move with the crowd would be to get lost in the crowd. Staying put, he would not be able to hear what was going on—a problem he would have had in any case—but he would be able to see whatever action there might be.
And, speaking of action, there were a couple of people making their way toward him. He slipped his mind into fast rewind and tried to place them. In his priestly career he had met so many people it was impossible to remember each and every one.
A couple. He’d probably witnessed their wedding. It was as good a guess as any. Where? What parish? It might help if he could place them in the correct parochial setting. But nothing was falling into place.
Wait! The woman pulled a notepad from her bag. Aha! A reporter. Now he remembered. Pat Lennon from the News. And, if that be true, then Joe Cox from the Free Press.
“Father Koesler.”
He nodded and smiled. “Ms. Lennon and Mr. Cox, I presume.” Odd, he thought, she was going to take notes, but he was not.
“Pardon me, Father,” said Lennon, “but are you investigating this shindig?”
Koesler chuckled. “You don’t waste a minute or a breath, do you?”
“No time. Did you read my story in this morning’s edition?”
“Now it’s my turn. No time.”
“Okay.” She was all business. “I did a piece on miracles, fairly recent ones in different parts of the world and how they are usually followed by formal Church investigations—at least when the Catholic Church is involved. Then the piece mentioned the alleged miracles here at the Congregation of St. Stephen. The conclusion was that it was likely that such an investigation probably would be conducted very soon here.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because I heard the priest, Father Robert, tell the miracle lady yesterday to forget about doctors and rely on him—and God, I suppose. That’s in the story, too.”
Koesler, recalling his conversation with the Cardinal earlier today, wondered if this young woman realized her news story had launched the investigation. “Well, you’re right,” he said. “I am here to begin an inquiry.” He knew that the Archdiocesan Information Office probably would try to put some sort of lid on the story. But he never had agreed with that approach. Particularly, as now, when dealing with topflight reporters, it was a far better policy to be as open and cooperative as possible. Sooner or later a really good reporter would get the facts, and if the reporter had been led up the garden path, there’d be the devil to pay.
Pat began to take notes. She remembered that while his name was pronounced K-E-S-S-L-E-R, it wasn’t spelled that way. “Okay, for openers, I think our readers would like to know how this thing works. So, how does it work? What are you going to do?”
“I wish I knew.”
“You don’t know?” Cox broke in, not being able to control his professional inquisitiveness.
“You don’t know?” Pat echoed. “Now, that’s interesting. What do they do, just throw you into this with no preparation or training?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time. Actually, it happens frequently. Priests become pastors without any extensive or express training. They supervise the building of churches and rectories, run fundraisers, just about anything and everything. It’s known as ex officio.”
“But this is so . . . special,” Lennon protested.
“Well,” Koesler said, “you’ll be pleased to know that my role in this is not what you’d call vital.”
“Oh?”
“In a way, they’re starting with the second string. I’m just going to sort of get acquainted, ask a few questions, make a report. Then, if it looks like it would be a good idea at that point, the first string-—in the person of someone from the Tribunal—comes in.”
“Sounds sort of strange.”
“Church Law is frequently strange. But there’re a couple of things you might include in your story. I’d appreciate it.”
Pat waited, pen poised.
“These monks are here in this archdiocese quite legitimately. They observed all the laws they needed to. So, we’re not talking about some people who sneaked in here overnight, gypsies, or anything like that.
“And secondly, the purpose of this investigation is not to prosecute or persecute them. As far as we know, these men have done good work. People have been helped. A couple of people have been helped significantly. The purpose of this inquiry is, as far as I can see, for the guidance of the people. They want to know if these . . . unusual events . . . are real, honest-to-God miracles. And this inquiry, at least as conducted by the Tribunal, is going to try to make a responsible statement on that.”
As Lennon continued to ask questions and take notes from Koesler’s answers, Brother Paul attempted to keep the priest and the reporter in sight. Let them talk. Not much of a problem could come from that.
While Koesler spoke with Lennon, he glanced as often as possible at the paraliturgical rite that continued near the altar. From what he could see, he was able to establish the routine. Father Robert would listen to the person who sat or knelt near him. Quite obviously the large monk was also listening. For it was the Brother who selected the relic to be used while he handed the priest a card presumably containing information on the relic. Koesler was beginning to wonder who was running this show.
Literally, the ritual could have continued the rest of the day. But, finally, Brother Paul called a halt. His announcement would have been met with considerable hostility had it not been for Paul’s no-nonsense authoritative tone.
Brother Paul shepherded Father Robert backstage, as it were, then went directly to Lennon and Koesler. As he neared them, he heard Lennon’s question: “When do you suppose the Tribunal’s going to get in on this?”
“My guess would be tomorrow,” Koesler replied.
“That soon!” Lennon sounded excited. Her story was moving right along.
“I think so. There seemed to be some urgency. They want my report today. I assume they’ll send the first string right in after me.”
“Excuse me . . .” Brother Paul managed to keep what little light came through the painted windows behind him. Once again, his features were hidden in the shadow of the cowl as well as the back lighting. “May I be of some help to you, Father? I’m Brother Paul.”
“Yes, Brother. I’m Father Koesler. I’m here on behalf of Cardinal Boyle. He asked me to look in on your group and talk with you about the, uh . . . unusual events you’ve been experiencing.”
“Excuse me, Father, but do you have . . . documentation? Credentials? One never knows . . .”
“Certainly.” Koesler presented the papers Monsignor Iming had given him.
Brother Paul examined the papers for a few moments. He had no idea what he was looking for nor what sort of credentials were appropriate. But these looked official enough. And the final page bore the embossed seal of the Archdiocese of Detroit.
He returned the papers to Koesler. “Welcome to the Congregation of St. Stephen, Father. Did you happen to notice the doorway just behind the altar, where Father Robert just went?”
Koesler looked in that direction and nodded.
“If you would be so kind,” Paul continued, “would you wait there for me? I have just a couple of things to do, then I’ll join you and we can get started.”
As he and Koesler turned to leave, Pat Lennon called out, “Wait!”
They turned back.
“Wait a minute.” She was addressing Brother Paul. “Yesterday you promised me an interview with Father Robert today.”
“Why don’t you go back there, Father,” Brother Paul said to Koesler. “I’ll handle this.”
Koesler left.
There was a biting edge to Brother Paul’s voice. “What’s the matter with you!” he said to Lennon. “Can’t you see that Father Robert is not well? Do you see any other media people making a fuss because they can’t interview Father? Why can’t you be reasonable?”
“Hey,” Cox intervened, “cool down. She just wants an interview. It’s her job. And you promised her.”
Paul turned his anger on Cox. “I don’t care what I promised her!” Subconsciously he was furious that she was alive. Consciously, he was incensed that she, apparently, had triggered this investigation. At every turn she was blocking his plans.
“Wait a minute, buddy . . .” Cox was willing to give conciliation a try.
“No!” Again that tone that brooked no challenge. “On top of everything else, we have this investigation to deal with now.” He returned his attention to Pat. “We have no time. That’s all there is to it!”
Pat was reluctantly convinced that she had no chance of interviewing Father Robert. Not short of crashing into what they probably considered their “cloister.” And that, even if it were possible, wouldn’t get her the sort of interview she wanted.
Besides, she had an interview with Koesler. To all appearances, she was the only reporter, print or broadcast, to have tumbled to Koesler’s role in this. She was still way out front. The only thing that didn’t fit was Brother Paul’s anger. Why was he so teed off at her?
At this moment, she had two problems and they were working at cross-purposes. Brother Paul, for whatever reason, was angry as all hell with her. On the other side, Joe Cox was rapidly becoming steamed at Brother Paul. She would have to try to deactivate both fuses. At this moment, she wished she had a better prayer life.
“Joe,” she said, “go get the car.”
“But what about—”
“It’s okay. I can finish up here. There’s still a lot of traffic. Go get the car . . . okay?”
“It’s your story.”
“Fine.”
Cox left. Now there was no one—at least in that corner of the chapel—but Pat and Brother Paul.
“If you are finally convinced,” Paul said, “that you’re not going to get an interview here today, why don’t you just run back to your high-rise and let us conduct our business in peace.”
With his arms folded within his ample sleeves and the gray monk’s habit covering all but his toes, Pat had no way of assessing his mood except from the tone of his voice. However, he did sound more relaxed—as if he’d won, or thought he had.
“How about you?” she asked.
“Me?”
“Like yesterday. When I couldn’t get to talk to Father Robert, you gave me an interview.”
“That was yesterday.”
“And now?”
“Now, as you very well can see, we have a visitor.” He wa
nted to add, “Thanks to you,” but he thought better of it. “I am going to be very busy. The investigator is waiting for me. I must go.”
She quickly added up the score. With her exclusive interview with Koesler, she was well ahead of the game. In fact, she would probably get a follow-up interview with Koesler on his assessment of today’s inquiry before the rest of the media caught on to his role as investigator. But even without an additional interview she was sitting pretty. “How about tomorrow?” she said.
If Brother Paul had any intention of being here tomorrow, he might have fudged any commitment. But by the time this woman would be here tomorrow, he had every intention of being long gone. “Tomorrow may be quite hectic,” he said, “but I owe you one for today. So you have my solemn promise that you will have your interview tomorrow.”
She thanked him and left, reflecting that his solemn promise and about sixty cents would get her a cup of coffee.
Brother Paul joined Father Koesler, who had been obediently waiting at the doorway to the inner sanctum.
“Before I take you in to see the others,” Paul said, “perhaps you’d like a short tour of this place. I think it will give you some idea of the kind of life we lead.”
“That would be nice,” Koesler agreed.
Austere, was Koesler’s first impression of the monks’ living conditions. He quickly revised his initial assessment to primitive. The last time he had seen such spartan furnishings was in a Trappist monastery. What he was viewing now was almost a duplicate of that earlier monastic setting.
The sleeping quarters were a series of rectangular cells of back-to-back plasterboard. Each cell was identical. Each contained a straight-back chair, a tiny desk with shadeless lamp, and a small metal bed with a lumpy straw mattress. Hanging from a hook on the wall were nightclothes and a spare habit. Draped over the hook was a ritualistic scourge, consisting of a handle and three or four leather straps, called a “discipline.”
A number of religious orders, at various times, had as a rule of life for their members the daily self-inflicted use of the discipline. It was intended not as a serious punishment but more as a reminder of the need for penance and self-denial. Few orders continue its use today.
Eminence Page 26
