Pierced by a Sword (35 page)

10

Saturday Afternoon
14 October
Salt Lake City, Utah

Karl Slinger was surprised to see a nondescript black man attired in a red checkered shirt, chino pants, and K-Swiss tennis shoes, accompanying John Lanning to the head table. Lee Washington was definitely not dressed properly for the gala event.

Slinger's multimedia
Communications Institute was the first of its kind in the world. It was going to be as much a communications hub for SLG as an institute of learning. The SLG Institute would not limit itself to training its partners in the use of the latest communications technology available. It would house the world's most modern communications school. Slinger planned to train professionals from any industry
willing to pay a reasonable fee. The SLG Institute had access to every imaginable information highway in the world. Especially the Internet. SLG even had a large Intranet connecting all its ranches. Lenny Gold loved to surf the Net, and was pushing SLG hard in that direction.

Many in the academic world had derided SLG Industries for building it–what did capitalists know about education? Characteristically,
Karl Slinger had ignored the experts. He suspected that the academics feared competition from its efficiency and low cost. Two-year postgraduate degrees cost over sixty thousand dollars at Harvard or Stanford. The SLG Institute was planning on conferring one-year degrees for less than fifteen thousand.

Lanning's amazing,
Slinger thought as he looked at Lanning and the young black man.
Probably
a publicity stunt to help portray the Mormons in a better racial light. Hey! Wasn't Lanning in the hospital two days ago? I read it in the papers–heart attack?

Slinger had a grudging admiration for the public relations director of the LDS. The two leaders had known each other for decades and got along well enough for Karl's purposes. They were not close friends, however. The SLG Institute had
brought them together. Lanning had convinced the LDS to contribute $200,000 to the Institute's building fund.

The Mormons were also technologically savvy. Lanning had already hooked up almost all the Mormon temples in the world using satellite teleconferencing. Over the years Slinger had felt the charismatic pull of the man, and in a corner of his mind, he feared Lanning.

Elena Lanning had decided
to stay home. Lanning had not yet told his wife about his decision to become a Catholic.

There was a short cocktail hour before the scheduled dinner. Slinger found himself confronting Lanning and the young under-dressed black man out of earshot of other attendees.

"Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital, John?" Karl asked, his usual forward self.

"Yes and no. The doctors say yes. I say no.
I feel great. It was only a mild heart attack, Karl."

"Really?" Slinger was skeptical.

"Yes, really. Karl, how rude of me. Let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Lee Washington. Lee, this is Karl Slinger, the founder of the SLG Institute."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Slinger. This is a nice place."

"Call me Karl. What brings you here today, son?"

"The Blessed Mother, sir," Lee heard himself say.
He felt prompted to be honest with Slinger.

Slinger's eyes bulged. "You've got to be kidding!"

Lanning was following the strange conversation carefully, intrigued.

"Not at all, sir," Lee said softly, but not without confidence. "It's a long story. But the Blessed Mother was involved with bringing me here today, and helping me meet Mr. Lanning. I was just beginning to tell him about it. It seems
like we have a lot in common. Are you a Catholic?"

That's an odd question for a stranger to ask,
Karl thought. Less than two weeks ago, he would have quickly replied, "Not really."

"As a matter of fact, son, I am, and I've recently come back to the sacraments. This was the second Sunday in a row that I've gone to Mass in years. In over fifty years, in fact."

"That's great, Mr. Slinger! I just
came to the faith a few days ago myself! This is weird," Lee volunteered happily.

It sure is,
Lanning thought.
What's going on here?

Slinger saw a rare look on Lanning's face–surprise.

"Karl, after this event is over, can we talk about something personal, in private, with Mr. Washington? I need to tell you something that is strictly confidential. But I don't want to distract you from your triumph
today."

"I'd be happy to meet with you, John. There's bound to be an empty office somewhere in this shiny new building. And I've got an audio recording I want to give to you," Karl added mischievously.

"Great! I can get to know Mr. Washington better during the meal. What's the CD about?" Lanning asked.

"The Blessed Mother," Karl replied evenly.

"Interesting. In that case, I am looking forward
to our meeting more than ever."

Lanning didn't even bat an eye when I mentioned the Blessed Mother. Strange,
Karl thought.
Lots of strange stuff for one conversation.

"John?" Slinger asked.

"Yes?" Lanning replied.

"I thought you said Lee was your friend. Why would you want to get to know him at the table?" Karl was not beyond asking a discomfiting question, no matter what the circumstances.

"Lee
is
my friend, Karl. I just met him on the corner before walking into the building. It will all come clear when we meet afterwards, I assure you."

"Okay. Sorry, I guess I'm still confused, but it can wait. By the way, the SLG Communications Institute isn't my triumph. I delegated the whole thing to Lenny Gold. He did all the work, probably by delegating it to others. I just approved a good idea
when one of my research guys came up with the concept. I gave the concept to Lenny. I love technology–SLG is built on it–but I doubt I could figure out the keyless entry system to get into this place!" With that, Karl Slinger launched his trademark booming laugh.

Behind Karl, Lenny Gold tapped a glass with a spoon, then asked the small crowd of influential people to enter the temporary dining
room set up in the institute's meeting hall.

Karl excused himself, walked over to Lenny and whispered in the lawyer's ear. Lenny looked over to Lee and nodded.

Fifteen minutes later, between the first and second course, a waiter came up to Lee Washington's seat and whispered in Lee's ear. Lee followed the waiter to a men's room where a rented tuxedo was waiting for him, including adjustable shoes.
As he dressed, a scripture that Randall Knott had paraphrased came to Lee's head:
"Look at the lilies of that there field, boy! Solomon in all his splendor didn't have better duds than them there flowers! The Lord is gonna put clothes on your back today. And I'm gonna help Him do it."

Lenny Gold, fearful of guessing wrong, had guessed large, so the tuxedo fit Lee loosely.

"You got some pretty
powerful friends," the waiter observed, referring to Gold, Slinger, and Lanning.

"If you're talking about Jesus and Mary, you're right." Lee smiled. "Are you a Catholic?"

After five minutes of gentle questioning, he let up on the waiter, a Jack Mormon utterly uninterested in Catholicism. The waiter seemed to be afraid of Lee. Lee got back to the table in time to enjoy the main course and a rousing
address on the importance of technology by Karl A. Slinger.

Slinger's even working in a Catholic saint! Saint Maximilian Kolbe,
Lee thought excitedly.
Kolbe? I wonder what he did?

+  +  +

The subsequent meeting was more than a bit odd. It was less of a conversation than a briefing. After everyone else had left, Slinger, Lanning, and Washington met in the small waiting room outside Lenny Gold's
office. There were three comfortable padded chairs and the inevitable potted plants, along with a modern glass coffee table.

Slinger undid his bow tie and collapsed onto one of the chairs. Lanning sat down, relaxing, but did not appear as fatigued as Slinger.

Lee Washington sat upright on the edge of a third chair, praying silently. He noticed that Karl looked a bit like that guy on the household
cleaner bottles his mother used to use.
Mr. Slinger looks like Mr. Clean!

A very long silence ensued. Lee began with a prayer: "Father of Eternal Truth, we are your servants. Send the Spirit of Truth. Amen."

Slinger and Lanning echoed, "Amen."

Lee then turned to Lanning and said soberly, "Welcome to the Catholic Church. Though you didn't say anything at the dinner table, the Blessed Mother has
given me a certain knowledge that you have been marked on the forehead with her seal. Is this not true?"

Lanning was stunned. During the meal, he had not given any indicators to Lee Washington of his inner conversion. "I don't know about any seal on the forehead, Lee, but yes, I have become a Catholic in my heart. How did you know?"

"I just know, sir," Lee replied honestly.

Another long silence.

"Karl?" Lanning asked.

"Yes," Slinger replied.

"If you know anything about the LDS, then you know that I need to keep this under wraps for a while. I need to plan things out. I need to get my bearings. Can I trust you?"

"Yes, of course!" Karl said with somewhat muffled enthusiasm. Karl knew that no one could be listening in on their conversation. Nevertheless, he still had an urge to whisper. "What
happened to you, John?"

"My journey to the freedom of the Catholic faith started a long time ago, and ended, thank God, with my heart attack. I know you'll find this hard to believe, but I woke up in the middle of the night with unbelievable pain..."

And so Lanning told his story. John spoke quickly and succinctly, summarizing the theological problems he had with the Mormons, as well as his role
in building the sect's image. He spoke about his harrowing trip to hell and his first prayers in the cathedral less than a block away. He talked for over two hours with only a few interruptions. Karl Slinger asked several clarifying questions during Lanning's story.

Slinger, who had lived and worked with Mormons for decades, had no idea how influential and powerful the sect really was financially,
socially, and politically around the country and the world. Almost one-third of the SLG staff were Mormon and Slinger respected them as trustworthy workers and solid citizens. Normally, a higher percentage of workers in a Salt Lake City company would be Mormons, but SLG recruited heavily on a nationwide basis. At times during Lanning's long monologue, especially at the parts describing the true
nature of Mormonism, Karl felt his hands go clammy with fear.

After Lanning spoke, Karl related his return to the Catholic faith. Retelling the story of his change of direction was still exciting for Slinger, who couldn't hide his enthusiasm or joy. Lanning had been much more somber.

Finally, Lee Washington, who had barely uttered a word during the first three hours, related his own incredible
story. Karl felt goose bumps when Lee revealed his commission from Mary to find "a man who will recognize you" in Salt Lake City. It made Lanning's vision of Lee in the Emergency Room all the more stunning and believable.

They were tired, and soaked with information.

Lee accepted Karl's offer to stay at the Slinger home for the evening. A limo was waiting in front of the building when they emerged
onto South Temple Street. All three piled in. From there, they were driven to State Street and then up East Capitol Boulevard to the exclusive homes of both Slinger and Lanning.

+  +  +

To the security guard, who could see but not hear the conversations among the three unusual men, the scene had looked like three friends conversing about old times. The only strange part was that each was wearing
a tuxedo.

In the room, however, the atmosphere was electric, as if a supernatural field of grace was enveloping the area occupied by the three men. Each responded in his own fashion. No verbal commitments were made that night among Karl, Lee, and John. But a commitment was made nevertheless. Each man was distinctly different in experience, temperament, and talent, but none of them lacked the most
important attribute: an open, generous, and unselfish heart.

This troika was the culmination of a Divine plan that was finally coming to fruition. The group the Mother of God was assembling in Utah was not unlike the team she was gathering in South Bend. Both groups would merge into one eclectic team. A humble, small, but powerful corps.

The members of this Marian Corps–Chet, Nathan, Becky, Joanie,
Tom, Lee, Karl, John, and Joe–were brought together in answer to the prayers and sacrifices of millions of people around the country who had responded to Mary's call. For decades Jesus and His mother had begged Christians to pray, evangelize, and sacrifice. A portion–a small portion–had responded. Now God was responding.

Chapter Fifteen

1

Friday Afternoon
27 October
South Bend, Indiana

A week after Nathan's accident, Becky Macadam quit her advertising job in Chicago and moved in temporarily with the Wheats to be closer to her fiancé, Joe Jackson. Becky and Joanie had become best friends. Becky spent her days volunteering at the Kolbe Foundation. Joe had delegated to her the daunting job of implementing the prodigious
media campaigns needed to offer Tom Wheat's "Marian Apparitions" to all Americans. On most days after work she ate dinner at Joe's apartment. Joe was a terrible cook and she was not much better.

"Bruno's is sending someone over tomorrow with a plaque honoring us for being the number one customer for home delivery in South Bend. We're supporting three delivery men and their families," she told
Joe with a straight face.

"That's nice," he played along with nary a hint of a smile.

They had delayed dinner in order to meet Nathan at the hospital–Nathan was finally checking out. It had been two weeks since his fateful Warning. He had agreed to move in with Joe temporarily.

Joe now kept a stock of Klondike bars in the freezer. Becky had just finished one. "The baby likes them," she had explained
a few days earlier while urging him to stock up. "Next week he or she will want onion sandwiches or some other weird food." Becky had also been feeling quite tired in the early afternoons. "At least I'm not throwing up–yet," she had added dryly.

Becky Macadam sat at the clean but modest kitchen table in Joe Jackson's apartment, looking at her man, patiently waiting for him to speak. She was wearing
a blue Laura Ashley dress that demurely covered her to the nape of her neck. Joe had replaced the Miraculous Medal she had given to the hitchhiker, Tommy Gervin. Her new medal was smaller, more refined, and made of sterling silver. The silver medal was set off by the navy blue fabric with a small red flower pattern. Joe was gradually learning how to find jewelry that complemented her beauty.

She took another drag off her cigarette and noticed the big man wince. Becky decided to beat him to the punch and speak first–not a great challenge while conversing with Joe Jackson.

"What? You don't like me smoking?"

"Aren't you worried about the baby or your health?" he replied.

Becky thought for a moment and took another puff, her expression coming just short of defiance.

"I haven't had time
to think about it. I've been smoking since I was in high school. Mom smoked. Dad smoked. Sam smoked. It seems like all my friends at work smoke–the copywriters especially. It helps you relax when you have a creative deadline and are strung out on caffeine, or worse. I never did drugs myself, Joe Kid."

Joe smiled at her use of the goofy nickname.

"I suppose I read somewhere that smoking increases
the chances of low birth weight in babies. Of the few gals I know who've had babies, most ate healthy, exercised, laid off smokes, caffeine, and alcohol so much that their babies were too big and they had to have C-sections. Why didn't you tell me before that my smoking bothered you?"

She squinted. She had not given him the desired response. He was obviously struggling to avoid saying what was
really on his mind–his desire to have her quit smoking.

Becky continued, "Is smoking against Catholicism or something? Father Chet smokes more than I do."

"It's not that, Beck. I don't want you to die before your time," Joe told her with childlike sincerity. "I just want to be with you for as many years as I can."

"Jesus! You're a sweetheart!" she exclaimed, genuinely touched. There was something
about whatever Joe said to her which had the power to burrow into her heart. She noticed Joe wince again.

"Now what did I do, Joe Hunks?" She could tell he was offended by something.

When he responded, she noted that he did not revert to a sugary sweet tone. His answer was firm but not unkind.

"Becky, I know you don't realize you're doing it, but you've got to try to stop taking the Lord's name
in vain. God's name is holy, and isn't meant to be used as filler for conversation. I know it's just a habit for you, and that you don't intend to offend Jesus."

Becky quelled a sudden urge to defend herself. She realized that Joe was genuinely concerned for her soul. She cut off a sharp reply before it escaped her mouth. Her face turned red.
He really cares about me. I guess I've got a lot to
learn. I didn't even realize I said Jesus just now–using it like Joe said, like filler.

"Oh Joe! Can you put up with me while I catch up to you with all this Catholic stuff?" Then Becky admitted rather contritely, "not only do I curse and smoke, but I have a snotty sense of humor. Sister Bertrill I'm not. And I guess I came on pretty strong about smoking, too, when you were just concerned about
me and the baby." Becky paused, trying to think of something conciliatory. "Tell you what, Joe DiMaggio, I'm not promising anything, but I'll consider quitting smoking for the sake of the baby. I'll
consider
it. Deal?"

"Deal," Joe accepted evenly. "Catch up with me? You don't have to catch up with me. I'm not ahead of you. I'm next to you, shoulder to shoulder, Becky. I feel uncomfortable correcting
you about taking the Lord's name in vain, but it grinds against my ears like scraping a fork across china. As a general rule, I don't believe in pointing out other's faults before considering my own. As for your sense of humor, I like it just fine. It makes me think."

"It's supposed to make you laugh, sweetheart," she said with just a touch of exasperation, making him think–and then laugh.

"There
you go again! I never know what's going to come out of your mouth, and even though I don't always laugh, I'm sort of laughing inside. I'm usually trying to figure out where the pun or turn of the phrase is lurking. You've called me over twenty different kinds of Joe since you got here–Joe Kid, Joe Hunks, Java Joe. Where do you get them all?"

With a serious look, she fixed her gaze across Joe's
small apartment, and nodded toward an empty corner near the couch. "Over there. I get the names over there." She even pointed helpfully toward the empty corner.

Joe turned to look, then realized that she was teasing him. When he looked back at her, she was taking another drag off the cigarette, smiling her wry, wonderful smile, one eyebrow raised. He laughed easily and showed his own big smile.

"Ha! That's what I mean, I like your oddball sense of humor," he observed with perfect seriousness.

"I'll run out of my best material in less than two months, Jo Jo. Then you're back to loving me for my cursing and smoking again," Becky remarked, somewhat relieved that Joe liked her most prominent qualities. Her beauty, humor, and strong will intimidated most men.

"And don't forget your Sherman
tank personality, Beck. That's what I like the best. Sometimes I get the feeling that your inner reserves are stronger than mine. I like that in a woman..." Joe paused to think for more than a minute.

Becky was now quite used to Joe's pensive interludes, as she thought of them. She used the time to admire his strong features and enjoy her cigarette. They were perfectly comfortable with each other.
Several new Joe Names popped uncalled into her mind, including: Joe College, Hey Joe, Joe Camel, and Cup o' Joe. Presently, Joe came back from his brief journey into the world of thought.

"Yeah," he continued, as if he had paused for only a second, "I am completely certain that your strong will is your most attractive trait. I can't push you around, and you can't push me around. We cancel each
other out. I don't know how to say this, but most girls were either in awe of my football prowess, or too tame for my tastes. I think it's safe to say that neither one of us cares about my football past. You're like a dog whose bite is worse than its bark. I like it. Keeps me on my toes."

She snorted softly.
He doesn't realize that he just compared me to a dog. Jesus! I mean, Gee Whiz–sorry, Big
Guy,
she prayed quickly.
I guess that's a Southern boy's version of a compliment.

"So I'm like a good hunting dog?" she asked with feigned innocence.

"Yeah!" he concurred enthusiastically, confirming her thesis and endearing himself to her all the more.

"I'm like a dog?" she repeated, a playful smile coming to her lips.

"Yeah, you're like a really good dog. The best dog in the whole world!"

He
still doesn't realize what he's saying, the dear,
she thought. Becky stuck out her tongue and panted, holding her hands up like paws.

Joe turned red.

"Beck, I didn't mean you were a dog!"

"Then why did you call me a dog, Cup o' Joe?"

"You're teasing me again, aren't you?"

"Yes," she said simply, letting him off the hook.

Relief showed on his face. He got up from the table and stretched, his hands
touching the ceiling. He shook his head and eyed her again. Her beauty was new and striking from every angle. He was a man in love.

"Oh, before I forget..." Joe went over to the refrigerator and pulled a large book down from the top. "This is for you, Becky." It was the
Catechism of the Catholic Church.

"The Catechism! Thank you so much, Joe! Chaplain Chet just told me to get a copy a couple of
days ago."

"I know," he said with his usual soft voice, "I called him last night. He suggested I get you a copy. He brought it up–I wasn't spying on you or anything. You know Chet, he's always working an angle."

After being suspended from his parish at the time of Nathan's accident, Father Chet had agreed to become the chaplain of the Kolbe Foundation. Joe was already expanding it with the advice
and resources of Karl Slinger.

She carefully placed the book on the table, got up and embraced the gentle giant. "Thank you, Joe, thank you. I really do want to read it." She reluctantly left his embrace and picked up the book, affectionately running one hand slowly over the cover.

"I know you'll love it," Joe added. "Sometimes I find the Catechism dry, except for the scriptural references that
support doctrine, which fascinate me. I've read it several times since it came out. That's just me, though, Bible Thumper that I am. I get the feeling that you'll find it right up your alley, the way your mind works. I really do. Father Chet agrees. He thinks you've got the makings of a theologian."

She looked at him. "Me? A theologian? Not likely. Father Chet is a real card–"

"–a wild card?"
Joe offered tentatively, taking a stab at humor.

"Please, Mighty Joe, leave the witticisms to a professional like me."

Joe smiled, unhurt.

"Anyway, we've got to get ready to go before Joanie shows up," he said.

"Okay. I think it's wonderful Nathan agreed to work at the Kolbe Foundation! Joanie says he's itching something awful to leave the hospital. The doctors are amazed at his recuperation."
Becky grabbed her jacket.

"Karl Slinger agrees wholeheartedly with bringing Nathan into the mix," Joe pointed out. "Nathan's a real genius with numbers and a natural leader. The Kolbe Foundation is going to get too big too fast for me to run the thing. Slinger also wants me to bring in this Lee Washington guy to run our new western division. More and more, I get the feeling that the Blessed Mother
wants me to be less of a hands-on leader and more–how can I describe it–more of a philosophical leader for the Kolbe Foundation. Nathan doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to put him in charge of the whole thing as soon as he learns the ropes. He's not the same since the accident–"

A horn beeped outside as Joe finished his sentence. He looked out the window and saw a dusty maroon Caravan. "There's
Joanie now."

Becky confirmed his observation about Nathan. "It's like he aged or something, but in a good way," she said. "By the way, when is Father Chet arriving in South Bend?"

"Three days. Look, we can talk in the car, we've got to go."

"Then let's go, Philo Joe."

"Philo Joe?"

"Joe Jackson, Philosophical Leader of the Kolbe Foundation," she explained as she led him out the door.

"Oh. I get
it," he said as he grasped her left hand.

There was a simple, modest engagement ring on her finger.

2

Friday Evening
27 October
Mishawaka, Indiana

When Joanie, Joe, and Becky arrived at Nathan's room, Nathan was already in the wheelchair required for patients checking out. His left leg was still in a cast, but he could limp around without the help of crutches. Nathan's collapsed lung had recovered
with amazing speed and his broken ribs were mending after the extremely painful first week following the accident. He had been forced to forego cigarettes during his recuperation and had taken the opportunity to quit the habit. He still had a large scab on the side of his face. The doctors had warned him that there would be a permanent scar.

Nathan would move in with Joe. He had already broken
his lease in Chicago. The apartment was in such a prime location that the landlord had been more than willing to let him go–the landlord was planning on raising the rent substantially on a new tenant. No one but Nathan knew that he couldn't stand the thought of living in the apartment where so many of his more serious sins had been committed. Since the Warning, he had prayed a full Rosary with Joanie
every day, and had taken Communion from the Eucharistic ministers who served Saint Joseph Hospital.

Joe visited Nathan every day in the hospital and the two men solidified a friendship that had barely begun before the accident. He didn't relate specific details of his Warning to Joe, but Nathan did have a lot of questions. He found that Joe was a good listener and could answer his questions about
the faith with a subtle simplicity. There was something about Joe Jackson–holiness, really–that lent weight to what he told Nathan about the spiritual life.

Two weeks earlier, when Joe had approached him about working for the Kolbe Foundation, Nathan had balked at the idea. Joe outlined the ambitious plans for the Foundation and convinced Nathan that his financial expertise was desperately needed.
Finally, he agreed to "help out"–but flatly refused Joe's offer of a modest salary. He planned to privately invest what was left of his savings along with the generous "golden parachute" from VV&B to support himself.