The Sacrifice (34 page)

“But not in your present school?”

“No. Another one. But that's not all.”

“There's
more?
”

“Her husband, he used to be a priest.”

“A Roman Catholic priest!”

“Yeah. He left the priesthood to marry her.

“He left the priesthood to marry her,” she repeated, “and now my husband is leaving me to marry her!”

“Incredible. Let me just run through this thing once more to see if I've got it straight: You are divorcing your husband, the deacon, because he wants to get married to an ex-nun who was married to a former priest.”

“That's pretty much it.”

“And”—Tully was having a difficult time holding everything together and not collapsing in laughter—”you want to confess that you shot your husband?”

“No. The bastard deserved far worse than that. He came over to tell me he was going to fight for custody of our little girl.”

“No kidding!”

“Yeah. So I got the family gun. I was going to shoot him in the gonads. I thought that was a particularly appropriate spot to hit him. But then I just couldn't do it. So I shot him in the foot. I figured that it might keep him from putting it in his mouth so often.”

“Then, you'll excuse me, but why did you come to see me? You said you don't want to confess. Did you want absolution for shooting your husband?”

“No. I already said the bastard deserved at least that.”

Careful,
Tully reminded himself; she hasn't asked for any advice. Not yet. Let her conscience be her guide. “Well, then, what
can
I do for you?”

“I've been contacted by a literary agent.”

“You've—! A book? You've been here only a couple of days. They want you to write a book?”

“Well, I wouldn't exactly write it. They suggested that I tell my story to Lowell Cauffiel and he would write it. He's a terrific true crime writer. What I want you to tell me is, Do you think making money for shooting my husband is … uh … unethical?”

“You may not have to concern yourself about that. I think there's a law against profiting from a crime.”

“
If
you're found guilty. We're figuring I'm going to be found not guilty.”

“So … unethical?” Father Tully's face wrinkled as he pondered this. “I don't think so.”

“Oh, that's good news, Father. I already talked to Mr. Cauffiel once. I kind of sketched the story. I even suggested an illustration for the dust jacket.”

“Oh? And what's that?”

“Well, when my husband was studying to be a deacon, all the would-be deacons' wives had to take classes for a few weeks to learn what would be expected of us.

“To make a long story short, we wives were supposed to be supportive and nonpublic. So, with that in mind, I suggested a picture of a jockstrap for the cover of my book.” She smiled. “What do you think, Father?”

“It sounds like a grabber.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Father Tully realized he was guilty of a very bad pun. But it was too late to take it back.

They agreed there was no absolution needed. Father Tully wished her well and blessed her, mentally shaking his head at her seeming lack of repentance for her deed. The two of them then left the room, he to return to his concern about an assassin, she to her cell.

He took the stairs. They were a compelling alternative to one of the truly slowest elevators in Western civilization.

On the way down he met another priest who was headed up the stairs. The pastor of downtown St. Mary's parish, a neighbor of Old St. Joe's, was eager to get the bombing story from the horse's mouth. After all, the bomber might well have mistaken St. Joe's for St. Mary's. Crazier things had happened in Detroit.

As they conversed, the Angelus sounded in St. Mary's tower.

It was just twelve noon.

Leon Harkins continued to practice drawing his gun from its holster. He was getting quite good at it.

Leon was about to leave for his appointment with destiny.

Should he send one more message to his prospective victim, Father Tully? He debated with himself. Would it be overdone? Would it be inappropriate?

He knew that Father Tully would not be at the rectory by noon. Probably he would be just about to leave the jail. The rectory answering machine would record any phone message.

If Harkins were to fail in his deadly objective, he himself might well be killed. In which case Father Tully would live to hear his message. However, if Harkins were to succeed, Father Tully would be dead, but the message would survive, taunting the police, who would not be even close to figuring out who did it.

He adjusted the device that would mask his voice. He dialed the rectory number. The phone rang five times before the answering device picked up. The recording detailed the Mass schedule. If this was an emergency there was an alternate number to call. If the caller merely wanted to leave a message, wait for the beep and carry on.

B-e-e-p.

“Father Tully …” Harkins spoke in a normal tone, knowing that the masking machine would slow the speed of his voice to the point where his identity would be well disguised. “You have had all the warnings I am going to give you. If you can hear this, I have failed. But others like me will follow in my footsteps. I have given you all the reasons why I have come for you. We need not go into them again. Farewell, Father Tully. We will meet again before God.”

Hawkins hung up. He would say nothing to his wife. If she had the slightest idea of what he had in mind, she would do all in her power to prevent him from carrying out his plan

No, nothing would stop him now.

It was 12:02. Father Tully was still in conversation with his neighboring pastor.

Koesler and Wheatley at long last emerged from the coffee shop. They were now standing next to Wheatley's car in a nearby parking lot.

“Would you like me to accompany you to the news conference tomorrow?” Koesler asked.

“Thanks, but no, I don't think so. I don't want to trouble you. Goodness knows I've been through enough of these over the years. I'll meet with the Cardinal beforehand. I imagine he'll want to settle on a schedule for my ordination. I can give the media that information, anyway.

“As far as anything else related to the bombing, I don't really know all that much. I'm afraid what little I do know will not satisfy their curiosity. Sorry about that. But, as you Romans occasionally put it, ‘
Nemo dat quod non habet.'”

“Nicely said. It brings me back to my seminary days. We sneezed in Latin.” Koesler fingered the keys to his car. “Do you feel as creepy as I do about not knowing the identity of the bomber?”

Wheatley nodded somberly. “Uh-huh. I hope it's all over now. Still, it's unnerving to know there's someone walking around freely who wants—or wanted—to kill me. It makes me reflect on my own mortality. It's unsettling, to say the least.”

“Turning seventy did the same for me. Death is not all that real when you're in your twenties—even your fifties.”

“But if someone is trying to kill you, that does bring a measure of reality.” Wheatley fingered his key ring. “Trying to guess
who
that someone is has become an obsession with me. The closer that
someone
may be to me, the more frightening the whole thing becomes.”

“‘Closer'? You can't mean Alice or Ron!”

Wheatley's face was pained. “Just a thought. Touching all bases, as it were.” He hesitated, as if trying to decide whether he was putting an unwarranted burden on his fellow clergyman. Although Father Koesler was of a different background, and their friendship was of a more recent vintage than that of the majority of Father Wheatley's Anglican cronies, still he had come to value that friendship, as well as trust Koesler's judgment.

“Don't exclude Gwen,” George said quietly. “She would like me out of the way—out of Ron's way.”

Koesler looked puzzled.

“Ron wants—badly—to be a bishop. Gwen wants him to be a bishop—as much or even more than Ron himself wants it.” He looked fixedly as Koesler. “What do you suppose his chances are now that his father is ‘deserting' to the enemy?

“No,” he said sadly, “my son and his wife are
not
happy that I may have cost him—them—their bishopric.”

Koesler didn't know what to say. So, as he usually did in such circumstances, he uttered a non sequitur. “On the brighter side, I'm beginning to look on whoever made that call as your guardian angel.”

Wheatley winced. It was a momentary reaction, but Koesler caught it. “What is it, George? What's wrong?”

Wheatley hesitated. “Nothing. Just that if that
was
my guardian angel I hope he stays alert.”

Wheatley climbed into his car and rolled down the window. “Thanks again for the offer to accompany me tomorrow. Let's stay in touch.”

It was twelve-ten.

“Manj,” Lieutenant Tully shouted into the phone, “I was just going to call you.”

“Zoo, I got somethin' I gotta tell you—”

“In a minute. We got the phone call! The guy who's been calling my brother just phoned a few minutes ago. His name is Leon Harkins. Lives on the near east side. Our people are talking to his wife right now.”

“Good God, no! Zoo, your brother: We lost him.”

“Zack? How could—?” Time enough later to fix guilt. Right now he had to find his brother. The assassin was on his way for the kill. “Where are you?”

“Here at 1300. I'm in the elevator comin' up to our floor. Geez, Zoo, everything was goin' right on schedule. Al and I were parked out front. Father was supposed to leave here between twelve and twelve-ten. When he didn't show, I left Al in the car and went in to look for him. The women's guard said he left a bit early. Bottom line: I don't know
where
he is.”

Father Tully was growing antsy. The other priest was buttonholing him for all the details. Zack had no idea that while he was stuck in the stairwell, a massive search of the building was about to start.