Archangel of Sedona (10 page)

Chapter Six

August 23, 2013, 5:15 PM

Cowboy Club and Silver Saddle Room

241 North State Road 89A

Uptown Sedona, Arizona

Uptown Sedona has a different character than it did in simpler times. The venue for our meeting, the Cowboy Club, sits on the property that used to be the Oak Creek Tavern.

The Tavern was the classic diamond in the rough. Located north of the fork created by State Roads 89A and 179 at the bottom of Oak Creek Canyon, it served as a watering hole and community forum for locals, ranchers, cowboys, miners, loggers, artists, and tourists who would stumble in from the road. Corporate powerbrokers rubbed elbows with grizzled old ranch hands. Artists discussed their creations with ranchers and loggers. The atmosphere was friendly, boisterous, and equalitarian.

At the Tavern, the food was good, the beer better, and the company best of all. The décor was eclectic cowboy. The owner and operator, Ms. Bird, had diverse tastes, including the stuffed eight-foot-tall polar bear that she set to one side of the tavern.

As a kid, my family and I often ate lunch there after mass at the chapel. Some of my best memories of my family are from the Tavern.

Nothing is ever the way you remember it after the passage of significant time. None of the old timers would concede an improvement. Still, everyone agrees that the Cowboy Club is a great place.

The food at the Club is fantastic. In addition to everything you’d expect in a superb restaurant, you can get buffalo, elk, and rattle snake. Try finding that in your local five-star bistro. The service is good and the prices are reasonable.

The Club was walking distance from L’Auberge. After our hike around the Twin Buttes, I’d worked up a thirst. I looked forward to a couple of beers.

As we walked up the steep grade to the restaurant, I cautioned Gretchen to be careful on this evening. Some of what transpired at the chapel seemed ominous.

“You’re paranoid,” my wife said. “You’ve been out playing intergalactic detective. You’ve implied to the local Catholic priest that the Church has covered something up. That might make them a tad defensive.”

“Why did they do a background check?” I asked.

“They didn’t do a background check. Anyone with access to the Internet can Google your name and get tons of data about you, including everything that the store manager mentioned.”

“I repeat. Why do that?”

“I can think of two reasons,” Gretchen said.

“Enlighten me.”

“First, it’s easy to do. Your daughter-in-law was sweet enough to set up a website for your publisher in California to showcase your great American novel. You know, the one you wrote that has made no one’s bestseller’s list. Thanks to Heather, half your history is on that site. It would take a total stranger less than thirty seconds to get access to the story of your life. Try it. You’ll see.”

I probably should have mentioned that after ten years of trying, I convinced a small, boutique military-style publishing house on the West Coast to publish a novel I’d written about the heroic adventures of the father of an Army buddy. The book seemed to be selling, but it hadn’t gone viral.

“There’s even more stuff about you on the Sheriff’s website. Remember?”

“OK. What’s the second part?” I asked.

“They want to know what kind of lunatic they’re dealing with. The Church gets accused of a lot of things. You’ve implied that the bishop and priests are hiding something nefarious about the Christus, and that—whatever they’re hiding—caused them to stop services at the chapel. That allegation might make them cautious. They want to know if they need security when they meet with you. In their place, I’d have done the same thing.”

“I think Henry Kissinger—describing Richard Nixon—said that even paranoids have enemies. So be careful,” I said.

“You know me,” Gretchen said.

“That’s why I’m worried.”

“I wouldn’t be counting on any lingerie modeling later,” Gretchen warned.

“By the way, I cancelled the credit cards while you dried your hair,” I said.

“Fuck off!”

“Hit a nerve?”

“All right, we’re almost there. Behave and I may change my mind.”

“Who says I’m interested?” I asked.

“Pleeeeese!” Gretchen said in an exasperated tone, followed by a world-class sigh and a headshake, signaling that she thought that I was the easiest, most pathetic conquest since the British burned Washington, D.C. in 1814.

“Welcome to the Cowboy Club,” a clean-cut adolescent-looking cowboy said as Gretchen and I walked in. “I’m Sean. Table for two? Or do you want drinks at the bar?”

“Definitely drinks. We’re meeting a couple of men.”

“Are you here to see Don?” the host asked.

“Don Hansen?”

“Yeah. He’s there in the back booth with another gentleman. He told me that Tony and his wife would be here to see him. I’m thinking that you’re Tony.”

“Guilty.”

“Go on over and get comfortable. What would you like to drink?”

“Have a good Chardonnay?” Gretchen asked.

“How about the Kendal Jackson Vintner’s Reserve. It’s layered with rich tropical fruit and has a lingering toasty finish,” Sean said.

“It’ll have to do,” Gretchen, the wine snob, said.

“Rogue Dead Guy on draft or Fat Tire, but no toasty finish,” I said.

“We have Oak Creek Amber on draft.”

“Better than perfect. We’ll be waiting.”

Gretchen and I walked over to the booth. Father Pat sat on the side facing us. He was wearing jeans and a light green pullover shirt. He looked normal—not like a priest at all. He conversed with someone on the other side of the booth. Due to the arrangement of the booth, I couldn’t see the other person.

When Father Pat spotted us, he said something to his companion. Father slid to his right to get out of the booth and greet us. The other person slipped to the left, exited the booth, and turned around.

“Don Hansen, I presume,” I said, as I offered my hand.

“You must be Tony and this lovely lady, Gretchen,” Hansen said.

Hansen was two or three inches taller, 20 pounds heavier, but he didn’t have one ounce of fat on his entire body. He looked mid-to-late 40s. He had long brown hair with a shock of grey on his left side. He wore it in a ponytail that ended at his shoulders.

Gretchen and I had showered and changed after our hike. Hansen still had on the hiking pants, shirt, and vest that he wore on his guided tours. I noticed a wide-brimmed safari hat stuffed over in the corner of the booth.

We shook hands and made eye contact. I look a man in his eyes when we meet. A man’s eyes can tell you a lot. Hansen’s were unsettling. They were grey, like a timber wolf’s. They bored into you. He evaluated me with the same intensity that I examined him.

For the second time that day, a strong feeling of déjà vu hit me. This time I didn’t shake, sweat, gasp, or fart at the strong, negative vibe.

“Mr. Hansen, I feel like we’ve met before,” I said as we shook hands.

“Call me, Don. I get that a lot. I’m an old soul. Maybe we met in a former life.”

“I doubt that, Don. Father will tell you that we don’t believe in reincarnation,” I said to Hansen, as I reached past him and shook hands with the priest.

“I know that. I was an Episcopalian priest. Our religions have many similarities. I’m in tune to Catholic dogma.”

Father Pat slid back in the booth. Gretchen slipped next to him. Hansen took his seat opposite the priest and my wife. I grabbed a chair from a nearby table, spun it around, and set it at the head of the booth. I wanted to look at both Hansen and Father Pat as we talked.

“I know less about Episcopalians than I do about the Catholics,” Gretchen said. “My husband indoctrinated me so our sons could go to a Jesuit high school.”

“That’s commendable,” Father Pat said. “It’s his duty.”

“Why?” Gretchen asked. “The Catholics tossed him out. What’s the word, honey?”

“Excommunicated, sweetie,” I answered. I’d hoped not to reveal that little tidbit.

“Yeah, Father. You guys excommunicated Tony for marrying me.”

“First wife wouldn’t go for an annulment?” Hansen asked, showing more interest than I would have credited.

“Gentlemen, let’s change the subject from my dispute with the Holy See and have something to drink,” I said as a cute female waitress arrived with the wine and beer that we’d ordered. “Father, Don, y’all ready for another round?”

“Sure,” Father Pat said. “I need to try something else. Your American beer leaves something to be desired.”

“Try Rogue Dead Guy,” I suggested. “It’s a red ale. Very good.”

“It’s a Maibock, Tony,” Hansen corrected, irritating the crap out of me.

“I’d love a Maibock. I’ll try this Dead Guy ale,” Father Pat said.

“I’ll have another double Macallan, eighteen years old, neat,” Hansen said.

“Guide work must pay well, if you’ve acquired a taste for single malts,” I said.

“I get by,” Hansen said.

“With a little help from your friends?” Father said, trying to be funny.

“I count heavily on support from special friends,” Hansen said.

While we waited for their drinks to arrive, Hansen and Father Pat made small talk with Gretchen. She provided more information about our lifestyle, jobs, sons, neighbors, dogs, and her mother than I thought prudent. Hansen appeared to be interested, though he seemed to know the answers before he asked the questions.

The beer and single-malt scotch arrived. Hansen took his glass and clinked each of our glasses in turn.

“Here’s to your trip to Sedona! May your quest be a success,” Hansen toasted and then sipped his drink.

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate your willingness to meet with us. I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Once Father Ted called me from California and told me that someone had been asking after the Christus, I was intrigued. Haven’t heard anything about that item in fifteen years.”

“What do you think happened to the Christ figure?” Gretchen asked.

“I don’t think it’s a big mystery. The Christus was so controversial that Ms. Staude
came back into town and took it down in a fit of artistic pique. She was a sensitive artist and a sculptor. The criticism rankled her. There weren’t as many visitors to the chapel in those days. The priest was always traveling. She had plenty of opportunities to get inside, take it down, cut it up, and hide it,” Hansen said.

“You believe that?” I asked.

“It’s the most logical and straightforward explanation.”

“It’s the official position of the Diocese,” Father Pat said.

“That’s comforting,” I said. “The Church has always been so candid.”

“That a cheap shot,” Father Pat said, the freckles on his face merging into one large, red blotch.

“OK, Pat,” I said, ignoring his title. “What’s the Church’s official explanation for its decision to end regular religious services at the Chapel?”

Father Pat seemed surprised by that question. Though he should have been, he wasn’t prepared for it.

“I don’t know,” the priest said, his burst of anger quelled. “Father Ted doesn’t know either.”

“It can’t be manpower. Even with one priest in the area, you could have the occasional services there. Sedona is so beautiful that you must have lots of priests from tons of places who would do a voluntary tour here. You claimed that it would be a joy to say Mass in the chapel,” I said, piling on.

I’m a trial lawyer. This was my first chance in 40 years to cross-examine a priest. It was pure joy. The only thing better would have been a shot at Sister Mary Erintrude
, the sadistic scourge of seventh grade at St. Francis.

“You don’t know why the Church stopped having services at the chapel?” Gretchen asked.

“I suppose that’s correct,” Father Pat said.

“Don,” I began, turning toward him. “You said that the last time you heard anything about the Christus was fifteen years ago. That’s after the article written by Bishop McMannes.”

“Tony, David McMannes created that presentation for a Good Friday Meditation.”

“You knew McMannes?” I asked.

“Who doesn’t? He’s been the Bishop of the Anglican Diocese of Arizona for twenty years.”

“Did you ever work with him?” Father Pat asked.

“No. Bishop McMannes is Anglican. I’m Episcopalian. He’s the pastor at St. Luke’s. It’s on SR 179 down the hill from the Chapel of the Holy Cross. When I worked out of Sedona, I helped to tend the flock at St. Marks in West Sedona. They are two entirely different churches in two different Christian sects. Since David named his church St. Luke’s Episcopal, some people get confused.”

“I’m sorry, Don,” Gretchen said. “Are you saying that the Episcopal churches in Sedona are different sects?”

“Yes, that’s right. I never ministered with David. After I was ordained, I served mostly in Episcopalian parishes in California and performed ministries north of here. I did come down and fill in at St. Marks from time to time.”

“This is a small town,” Father Pat said. “You must know about this man. His article is fascinating and unsettling. I’d appreciate your evaluation of him.”

“I’d rather not. David has had his challenges,” Hansen said.

“What do you mean?” Father Pat asked.

“Let’s say that he had issues. Throughout his personal tests, he seemed to have the passionate support of most of his congregation. I’m far more controversial in my own way than he’s ever been,” Hansen said. “Have you spoken with McMannes, Tony?”

“I tried to call, but for some reason St. Luke’s has no voice mail. I tried to use the e-mail on their website, but all my attempts came back as undeliverable.”

“Interesting.” Gretchen said.

“Yes, I suppose it is. But we all do God’s work in our own way. Right, Padre?” Hansen said, looking for support from the Irish priest.

“What happened the last time someone inquired about the Christus?” I asked.

“Don’t know. After he made his inquiries, the man disappeared,” Hansen said.

“You mean that you never saw him again,” Gretchen said.

“No, I mean that he disappeared. I don’t know what happened to him.”

“Don, that’s vague. Tell us about it, if you don’t mind,” I said.