The Sacrifice (31 page)

“Be better if we had some idea of who we're chasing.”

“Yeah,” Tully agreed. “The best lead they've got going so far is that the bomb may have been behind one of the floral pieces.”

“We lookin' for a florist?”

“Could be. But which one? Flowers were ordered from two different shops. We checked both of 'em, and they both look clean. Nobody at either place seems to have even the slightest motive. But we'll keep pressing them.

“On top of that, quite a few parishioners brought in flowers and put them anywhere they wanted around the altar and the statues.”

“Ward interviewed a priest who claims that he returned some vestment that he'd borrowed,” Dietrich said. “So far nobody's come up with it. For his sake, somebody'd better find it—or its remains—pretty soon.”

Tully tried the coffee and decided it was too hot for mortal tongue. He set the cup on the corner of his desk. “I wish that bastard would make one of his crazy calls to my brother … or even send one of his pasted-up letters.”

“That'd have to be special delivery, no?”

“Yeah. I'm just on edge.” Tully found a somewhat clean spoon in one of his desk drawers and stuck it in the cup. Maybe that would cool the coffee to potability.

Father Wheatley returned to the booth with refills for both of them.

“I don't know how you feel about it,” Koesler said, “but it bugs me.”

“What's that?”

“Attitude! My Church's attitude about your priestly orders.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah,
that!
I look on you as every bit a priest as I am.”

“Thanks, Bob. I appreciate that … I really do.”

“If you're so aware of this attitude, how do you put up with it? I mean, so many Roman Catholic officials are treating you more as a seminarian than as a priest. It's demeaning.”

Wheatley shrugged. “A price, I guess, I just have to pay.

“I want into the Roman priesthood. It's supply and demand. Rome gives every indication that it is not so eager to accept converts from the Anglican priesthood into the Roman. In this entire big country of ours there is one Cardinal and one Chicago-based priest actively involved in this procedure. That's not nearly the investment of time, personnel, and money the Roman hierarchy is pouring into recruitment of standard seminarians.

“But”—he smiled at Koesler—”don't give it another thought, Bob. I want this. I'm willing to pay the price.”

Koesler blew lightly across his coffee to cool it. “There isn't that much separating us.”

“And yet,” Wheatley countered, “there is so much.”

“There's Leo XIII's letter …”

“
Apostolicae Curae,”
Wheatley supplied.

“The Pope insisted that Anglican orders were ‘absolutely null and utterly void.' But most everybody who's looked into the matter recently would deny, or at least question, his conclusion.”

“And I,” Wheatley said, “am among those who have studied and reached the same viewpoint: a repudiation of his conclusion. Are you aware of George Tavard's 1990 work:
A Review of Anglican Orders: The Problem and the Solution?”

Koesler thought for a moment. “I'm not sure I am.”

“He concluded that Leo's teaching was in error due to historical mistakes in research and, as Tavard expresses it, ‘by theological presuppositions that were inadequate yet hardly avoidable in the neoscholasticism of the late 19th century'”

Koesler was impressed that Wheatley could quote this off the top of his head.

Wheatley read his thoughts. “Impressed that I can quote verbatim? Just one indication of how serious I am about this step I'm taking.”

“I know how serious you are about what you're doing. But you shouldn't have to swim upstream to get there. It just seems so obvious from where we are now that there is at least a justified doubt about Leo's decision of over a century ago. Current theologians, using extremely diplomatic language, are claiming the Pope erred when he denied the validity of Anglican orders. And that this error was committed because he based his opinion on faulty research.”

Wheatley nodded. “I know all that. But you and I both know that the wheels of the Roman Church grind slowly. I may well be dead and buried a very long time before that Church acknowledges the validity of my present orders. And”—he smiled—”I don't think I can wait that long.”

“Well …” Koesler shifted his chair so he could face George directly “… that brings up once more the fundamental question in this whole matter: Why should you feel you must wait for
any
decision?

“I've heard you speak to this question before, George. To be frank, the reasons you give I've never found completely satisfying. You know beyond a doubt that you are a priest and that you don't need a Roman dispensation and ordination to prove it.

“Before you made this move toward Rome you had a very successful ministry as an Episcopal priest. Why muddy the water? Why go through this often demeaning procedure? Can you explain it all one more time for me?”

Wheatley smiled and nodded. “My friend, I don't know that I can make my decision crystal-clear to you … or to anyone. But it's clear in my heart.

“Maybe it's best explained by something Jimmy Carter once said. I was impressed by it … so impressed that it's become a sort of mantra for me. He said, ‘I have one life and one chance to make it count for something.'”

He smiled quizzically. “It's not much, is it?”

For a few moments, Koesler was deep in thought. “It doesn't have to be much … or lengthy. It says a lot.”

“It did for me.”

Koesler reflected briefly. “You don't feel your life was counting for enough in the Episcopal Church?”

Wheatley's head tilted. “Almost. Not quite.

“Try it this way: It wasn't that my life as an Anglican priest was not counting for enough. Rather, I felt that my life—or what's left of it—might count for more in the Roman Church.

“You see, movement is a sign of life. And my dear Episcopal Church has plenty of momentum. If things look as if they're slowing down toward a dead stop, there's always Bishop Spong to stir things up. And once he inevitably leaves the scene, there'll be someone else to take his place … challenging us to think, to pray more intensely, and act out our prayer.

“The Roman Church, on the other hand, was crawling slower than a turtle until that charismatic character, John XXIII, happened along. In a few years, John's aggiornamento blew in the fresh air for a century or more to come. The Roman Church was moving and living.”

“And then”—Koesler took over the narrative that was so familiar to those who lived in that time—”John's successor, Paul VI, took over and culminated the Council. But then he dug in his heels, and ever since, it's been a pitched battle between those who hold that the Council went way too far and those who see the Council as a preliminary for continuing change.”

“And,” Wheatley said, “I belong to that latter group. I believe in progress and in the Anglican Communion. I am used to it. In all due modesty, I have a popular column, as well as a thriving radio program. And I have been promised that I may continue with both of them.”

“Do you have it in writing?” Koesler was only partially joking.

“I know what you mean. I know that at least a couple of Detroit auxiliaries are not in the same ballpark as the Cardinal. But I know how to walk a tightrope. I can go forward.

“If I can make a dent in the armor of the naysayers in this pivotal diocese, I think I will make my one-time-around life count for something.”

“A bit of excitement at your parish yesterday.”

It was the bank manager's way of straddling a fence. As far as Mr. Warren was concerned, there was good news and bad news about the bombing at Old St. Joe's.

The death and injury numbers were blessedly low for such violence. On the other hand, a priest had been killed and considerable damage done to a portion of the church.

Bradley had been expecting Father Tully and his maintenance man. Father Tully always showed up on Monday mornings to bank the church funds, and not infrequently Tony accompanied him on his own personal banking business.

Of course, there was always the chance that yesterday's tragedy might have derailed their routine. Nonetheless, Warren had his greeting ready. Better be prepared with some concerned opener, even if it turns out not to be needed.

“Plenty of excitement.” Tully waited until a teller buzzed him into the inner sanctum beyond the counter. He hefted the bag containing checks, currency, and coin onto a shelf. The money would be checked against the deposit slip later when the heavy Monday morning bank traffic had thinned out.

Warren regarded the bag with a practiced eye. “Not up to your usual deposit, is it, Father?”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Warren realized he had blundered. An ordination Mass would not include a collection. Many of the parishioners who would otherwise have attended the earlier Mass—to which they would have contributed—had instead attended the ordination Mass. In any case, St. Joseph's collection was normally small by comparison with more affluent parishes. So, what with one thing and another, naturally, today's deposit was a fraction of the normal deposit Father Tully—and before him Father Koesler—would regularly have made.

Warren tried to cover his gaffe. “How are things going presently, Father?”

“I'm tempted to say things are going as well as can be expected. The police are finally pulling out. Of course it is somewhat unnerving to be the target of an assassin.”

“You were a target?” Warren was truly surprised. “The news account this morning was somewhat unclear. It was my impression that the Episcopal priest was the target.”

“That's what the police are checking into. Was it Father Wheatley? Was it me? Was it both of us? Was one of us the target and the other had to be taken out accordingly?

“And then, of course, there's the traditional question: Whodunit?”

“My heavens!” Warren exclaimed. “I had no idea it was so complicated. Shouldn't you be … someplace? Like in protective custody? Is that what it's called? All I know is what I see on TV and read in the paper.”

“I guess ‘protective custody' would be the operative term. But I've gone over this with my brother—”

“Your brother the Homicide Detective?”

“Yes.” Tully wondered what other brother it could be. As far as he knew, he had only one brother and that brother was a police officer. “John F. Kennedy—and probably others, too—said that if someone is determined to get you he probably will. That's sort of how I feel. I guess the easiest way to kill somebody nowadays is with a gun. And God knows there are enough guns around.”

Warren, a member in good standing of the National Rifle Association, made no comment. His hero was Charlton Heston. And it was knee-jerk, bleeding-heart liberals like Father Tully who were bent on disarming our great country.

But it was easy for Warren to keep his personal convictions separate from his professional duties. He would overlook the implications of the priest's remark. “Does this mean that you will be taking no precautions at all?”

“Just enough to satisfy my brother, the lieutenant. I guess I've got a couple of officers following me around. That represents Alonzo's minimum, and my maximum, negotiated commitment.”

“You mean there's someone tailing you now?” Warren's interest rose several degrees. Outside of bank business, his contact with police procedure had been pretty much limited to radio, movies, TV, a few mystery novels, and the occasional nonfiction crime book. But this—this was real-life adventure. He peered from side to side. “Are they here? In my bank?” Warren was definitely engaged.

Father Tully was amused. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Warren, I don't really know. All I do know is that I agreed with Alonzo to put myself under some surveillance. I don't know what they look like or where they are … only that they're probably around someplace.” He looked around, then back to Warren. “I guess they could be in your bank.”