Pierced by a Sword (37 page)

"I suppose I have no choice! Hey, that hurts!" he protested, laughing despite his pain, pointing to his ribs.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, did I hurt you?" Joanie asked, suddenly concerned.

"No, I mean, yes. I mean, it doesn't matter." He put his arms around his true love, ignoring his pain–somehow
pain would never be the same to Nathan–and hugged her tightly. "I love you, Joanie. I want you to be my wife. I want you to have my children..." With the last sentence, Joanie heard the emotion fill his voice. He buried his face in her warm embrace. He felt the wool of her sweater on his cheek.

"Can I explain?" he suggested.

"This better be good, Mister."

"Like I said, I know you've been suffering.
I haven't given you too many positive signs that I was still romantically interested since the Warning, Joanie. I had a long, terrifying debate with myself since the accident, a debate about
you.

"I didn't think I deserved you. I didn't tell you all the things I saw when I stood before Jesus on the Cross. Some of the things I've done are too horrible to say out loud. I think that was the point:
God wanted me to face those things before He showed me His merciful love.

"After I came back, the more I looked at you and saw how innocent, and good, and kind, and loving, and wonderful you really are, and how much you loved me, the more I thought you need a good man, not a guy like me.

"Then Joe came to the hospital yesterday and had a little talk with me. I guess Becky could tell that you were
upset; she could read between the lines that you were losing hope regarding me and you as one."

He paused, and looked into her eyes for a long time. He could see that some of the hurt was still there.

"Go on, Mister," Joanie whispered. "Go on, lover."

"Joe told me to decide either way. He said that if I really cared about you, I would make up my mind to marry you or not. I told him that I didn't
feel worthy of you. He told me that no one is worthy, and that if I learned anything about the Cross of Jesus, it's that the
only
worthy one
is
Jesus. Without quite saying so, he let me know that I was being selfish and that I was indulging in a kind of twisted pride.

"So I kept talking with him, and it became clear after about three minutes that only a fool would let a wonderful girl like you
out of his sight. I decided to marry you last night with old Hoss sitting on my bed. We prayed a Rosary together, and then we set up this little romantic evening.

"Besides, like I said, we don't have much time. Joe and Becky are getting married on December eighth, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, and Joe thinks that a double wedding would be nice. What do you think? I take it that you were
referring to my as yet unspoken marriage proposal with the thousand and one
I do's?
Should I do it up right, formal and all, now?"

"Then propose, Mister," she commanded sweetly, tears welling in her eyes.

Nathan surprised her with his strength as he lifted her gracefully off his lap, and then, less gracefully, got down on his one good knee. He pulled a jeweler's box out of his blazer pocket and
carefully opened it. It was the largest diamond Joanie had ever seen in her life. Her eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open, and she shook her head in disbelief.

"Joan Angela Wheat, daughter of Thomas Edward Wheat of Mishawaka, Indiana, will you leave your parent's home to cleave unto me; to become flesh of my flesh; bone of my bone; blood of my blood. Will you become one body with me, my wife
and my love before God and before man, till death do us part?"

"I will, Nathaniel Timothy Payne. I will."

Nathan was still Nathan–there was a preternatural grace and smoothness to his movements as he took the ring from the box and gently placed it on her finger. He took his time, and Joanie burned the act into her memory. The act of placing the ring on her finger was as important as his noble,
scriptural proposal. The moment stood still in time until Nathan broke it with a one word question.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well what, Mister?"

"Double wedding in two months with Becky and Joe sound good to you?"

"We can talk about it. Later, okay? Right now, Mister, I want to go home and show Mom this beautiful diamond!"

Little bells on the door rang as Joe and Becky returned. Joe looked at Nathan
and smiled. Nathan nodded, then blushed. Becky ran over to Joanie, who held up her ring. The two friends embraced.

Becky pulled away and gave the ring a second, closer look. She tilted her head, pursing her lips before addressing Nathan, "Nathan, really! This ring is bigger than the one Rhett Butler gave Scarlet O'Hara! Emerald cut, too–very classy. You New Jersey boys are something else!"

Joe
looked uncomfortable, but Nathan and Joanie thought she was hilarious.

Becky went on, a playful smile on her lips, "Where are you going for the honeymoon? The Grand Tour–London, Paris, Rome, Athens, Djibouti?"

"Djibouti? Where's that?" Joe asked.

"Africa, Joe. Djibouti is in Africa," Nathan answered. "Actually, Beck, Joe and I were thinking of the Palmer House in Chicago."

"I'd love to go to the
Palmer House!" Joanie chimed in. She was so openly happy that Nathan briefly thought that if he suggested they honeymoon in Bayonne, New Jersey, Joanie would say "Fantastic!"

"Why is Joe going on your honeymoon, Nathan?" Becky demanded. Before Nathan could answer, Becky turned to Joe and asked, "Is this some kind of Catholic thing you haven't told me about? Are you going to chaperone Nathan and
Joanie?" Becky was only half-kidding now.

Joe looked at Nathan. Guilt crept over the big man's face. Becky read him like a book. He opened his mouth to explain, but Becky beat him to the punch, "Have you been planning our wedding again without consulting me, Joe Jackson?"

"Becky, it was supposed to be a surprise! I was going to bring it up to you after I saw what happened tonight with Joanie and
Nathan. Honestly, I just had the idea for a double wedding with Nathan last night. I wasn't in Chicago on business this morning. I was in the diamond district. I bought that ring in Chicago for Nathan this morning!"

"You so-called Catholic guys can be real sly dogs," Joanie observed.

"I might remind you that you just called your future husband a sly dog," Nathan lectured cheerfully.

"Let the chips
fall where they may," Joanie rejoined regally. "I want another drink–and a toast!"

"And a smoke!" Becky added. Joe rolled his eyes.

The foursome found their glasses and Nathan topped off Becky and Joanie's with wine.

"To love and marriage!" Joanie toasted.

"Goes together like a horse and carriage!" Becky added.

"Hear, hear!" the men chorused.

4

Saturday Afternoon
28 October
Salt Lake City, Utah

Lee Washington sat at Karl Slinger's desk in the den of Slinger's home. Lee was reading a text on New Hampshire real estate law. His brow was furrowed in concentration. Lee was coming to the conclusion that multiple shipping facilities might not be the best way to organize the Kolbe Foundation.
I'll have to give Joe a call tomorrow.

Slinger and Washington had developed a close, warm, but rather
odd relationship. Even though he was older than Lee and had a more forceful personality, it was Slinger who constantly found himself turning to Lee for guidance regarding the faith.

Using his heart condition as a pretext, Lanning took a leave of absence from his public relations duties in the LDS and began to meet Lee at Karl's house for instruction in the Catholic faith. Lanning enjoyed learning
from Lee. There was no false holiness or pride in the young man. Lanning often thought of the attribute the world considered a weakness but Catholics have always considered a strength: meekness. Lee Washington was meek.

Even before the heart attack Lanning loved to go for walks. Now the doctors prescribed it. He began telling Elena that he was going to exercise for a few hours. Slinger lived less
than a quarter mile away from Lanning, making it easy for John to duck into Slinger's house to meet Lee for an hour or two.

Lanning and Lee spent hours poring over the teachings of the Catholic Church. They prayed silently together facing in the direction of the Cathedral of the Madeleine, which was visible on the bottom of the mountain from Karl's den.

Slinger helped Lanning find a Catholic priest
in Saint George–three hundred miles south of Salt Lake City–who agreed to baptize the influential Mormon. More importantly, the priest was willing to keep the conversion secret until Lanning chose to go public. He had already taken the long drive down to Saint George to visit the priest two times. The baptism was scheduled to take place in secret one week from now.

Lee was fascinated by the circumstances
of Lanning's conversion as well as disturbed by his explanations of Mormonism. When John and Elena were married, he explained, they agreed to put off having children to give themselves time and freedom to serve the Mormon church. She insisted on using the pill "to make sure" she didn't bear children. This practice never set well with his conscience, even though Mormons were allowed to
use contraception–they were even allowed to have abortions if deemed necessary. There was no official teaching on either contraception or abortion. Mormonism had a curious lack of well-defined moral theology. A "moral" Mormon was one who kept the rules outlined in the Word of Wisdom–no drinking, no smoking, and so on. In this sense the practice of Mormonism did not involve an interior life and was
much more concerned with keeping rules. In this and other ways it resembled Islam more than Christianity, and had, for that reason, been called the "American Islam" by scholars.

Seven years into their marriage the Lannings changed their minds and decided to have children. Sadly, before they could conceive, Elena developed ovarian cancer and was required to have a hysterectomy.

Lanning's harrowing
journey to hell opened his mind to this universal teaching of the Catholic Church regarding the inherently immoral nature of artificial contraception. Elena's barrenness had embittered and scarred her. After the hysterectomy, a coldness had entered their relationship. Over the years the sweet, talkative woman he had married became cold and distant, throwing herself with a vengeance into the myriad
activities sponsored by her ward.

Lee began to do odd jobs for Karl Slinger and the Kolbe Foundation from Salt Lake City. Slinger had immediately recognized Lee's abilities in negotiating and expediting business transactions. Consulting with Lenny Gold and using Slinger's den as an office, Lee procured the perfect facility for the western division of the Kolbe Foundation. Lee was also helping
Lanning plan his "going public" with his conversion to Catholicism. It was a bold plan. Lanning had a flair for the spectacular…

Chapter Sixteen

1

Saturday Evening
28 October
County Galway, Ireland

On the day Luigi Cardinal Casino of Milan became an antipope, Dr. Barnard Soames operated on Pope Patrick to remove the bullet from his side.

Sister Mary Bernard called Doc Soames after watching the reports of Casino's election on the television. The nun now forced herself to watch daily newscasts. The ersatz election convinced
Sister Mary Bernard to act decisively. Doc Soames, who had been prescribing some unusual drugs on behalf of Sister Mary Bernard in the last few weeks, didn't seem too surprised to receive her call.

Sister Mary Bernard invited the doctor to her office at Holy Blood Monastery. When the abbess told him the identity of the patient, he reacted with silence and a raised eyebrow. He merely nodded his
agreement when Sister Mary Bernard asked him to promise to keep it under his hat. He followed the nun to Angus's room. The other three nuns were waiting for him there. Doc Soames examined Angus and his bullet wound for several minutes. He grunted and muttered something about lacking the proper equipment.

"Which one of you is the nurse?" he inquired brusquely.

"I am," Sister Elizabeth murmured.

"You've done a fine job, considering. But the wound
is
infected. You were right not to put off calling me in. I'll prescribe antibiotics for the infection after I cut the bullet out.

"It's been a long time since I've performed surgery, but I've done worse. In my youth I was quite a magician with the knife. You know, I'm not a good Catholic, but I
can
cut. I used to
love
to cut. Back in medical
school, one professor told me that cutting is a gift that could be improved, but not taught. I should have been a surgeon. I'll never know why I chose family practice. Then again, maybe the reason why is now lying before us on this bed," the doctor said directly to Sister Elizabeth as if the other nuns were not in the room. He held up his gnarled, wrinkled, but steady hands.

"Because the patient
is comatose we don't have to worry about anesthesia, at least," he added to himself.

He proceeded to ask several questions regarding recent changes in Angus's vital signs, grunting at her answers. Angus's temperature, which had been below normal when the pope arrived, had risen above normal during the last few days–indicating infection.

He asked all the nuns except Sister Elizabeth to leave the
room. After they left, Doc Soames pulled a flask out of his breast pocket and took a long, slow gulp. He breathed out loudly, looking at Angus's wound, a pensive expression on his face.

"Doctor, do you really think you should–" Sister Elizabeth began to question him, but he cut her off mid-sentence with a glare. He returned his flask to his pocket. Then he scrubbed his hands in the sink, donned
a surgical mask, and gave a mask to the nun. He pulled on surgical gloves. She followed suit.

Holding his gloved hands up like a television doctor, he said simply, "Shall we, Nurse Elizabeth?"

She opened his bag, sterilized his instruments, and laid them out on a silver tea tray covered with an altar cloth. She debated with herself whether she should pray for the pope or concentrate on helping
Dr. Soames. She battled a feeling of uselessness.

In the end Sister Elizabeth did a little bit of both–except she prayed for Dr. Soames and concentrated on Pope Patrick.

+  +  +

The operation lasted but a few minutes. Doc Soames hummed the entire time. It took less than thirty seconds to make a simple incision and reopen the wound. He then poked around until he found the bullet. After he was convinced
that the bullet was not lodged inside Angus's spleen, he used a surgeon's version of a pliers to pull it out. Then he dropped the bullet unceremoniously into a small steel mixing bowl from the convent's kitchen. The bullet made a loud ping. The piece of lead seemed amazingly tiny to Sister Elizabeth.

Neither they nor anyone else would ever discover the fact that the bullet had been slowed down
by Angus's mattress as he lunged behind it to avoid being shot.

During the operation Sister Elizabeth gently dabbed a cool washcloth on Angus's forehead. The pope's expression was so peaceful that it seemed to the nun as if she were consoling a sleeping child.

Most of the surgery was spent cleaning, dressing, and sewing the wound closed. As she watched the old doctor's fingers move with speed
and precision, Sister Elizabeth was reminded of a documentary she saw years earlier in the States about an octogenarian piano virtuoso. The doddering Russian pianist became animated and young as soon as he sat down and placed his hands on the keys. Leaving the piano, he could barely walk or even bring a teacup to his lips without spilling the tea.

"That's that," the doctor chuckled. "Don't look
so shocked, Nurse. He might be the pope, but a wound is a wound. Call it luck or call it grace, but now that the bullet is gone, the concussion on his head is more dangerous than the wound. Perhaps I can find an anti-inflammatory drug to relieve the swelling in the brain cavity. We wouldn't want to do brain surgery," he observed coolly. "I didn't see any damage to his innards, though, which I find
so unlikely as to be miraculous. The antibiotics should take care of the infection. Nevertheless, I'll return on a daily basis to check on the patient. Call me if you observe anything unusual, Nurse."

Sister Elizabeth was stunned by his nonchalant demeanor. Dr. Soames was enjoying himself.

Just as long as he does a good job!

Soames quickly washed his instruments, packed his bag, and left without
saying good-bye, still humming.

+  +  +

Doc Soames spent the afternoon after the surgery at Matthew's Tap House. He said nary a word to his longtime drinking buddies about his unusual activities.

However, that night before going to bed, he did tell his wife about the pope's surgery. She thought her husband was out of his mind and advised him to give up medicine, as she had urged a thousand times
before. He didn't try to convince her that he was telling the truth–it amused him to no end that she wouldn't believe him unless she saw "the pope and the wound in the pope's side," as she put it.

Two weeks later Mrs. Soames told the ladies in the sewing club about her husband's "fib." The old women in the sewing club got a big laugh out of it. One of the women told her daughter. The daughter,
a reporter's wife, told her husband. Her husband brought it up with his editor at the Galway newspaper during the daily meeting. The editor humiliated the reporter by pontificating that the
Galway Standard
was not the
Galway Supermarket Rag.
The reporter put his notes into the circular file and forgot about the sensational, un-believable lead–for the time being.

2

Monday Morning
30 October
Salt
Lake City, Utah

"I want to resign. I'm retiring," Lenny Gold stated with perfect seriousness.

"You're kidding, right?" Karl Slinger asked in reply. He threw a folder down on his expansive desk.

"No. I'm serious, Karl. I'm not a Catholic–as if I had to point
that
out to you. Hell, I'm not even a good Jew. I don't have any idea what you're up to with this...this
crusade
you've embarked upon. SLG
is not a media company. We help ranchers raise cattle and farmers raise crops. I don't know what I'm doing here. I'm like a fish out of water." He now had Karl's full attention.

"Lenny!" Karl shouted, dumbfounded.

"Karl, I'm serious. I'm getting old. I've been working with you for over forty years. You're too good a friend–I don't want to leave with hard feelings. I want to resign quietly. I'm
tired. "

"You can't, Lenny."

"Why not?"

Karl smiled. "Because we're just getting started, for one thing. I can't do it without you, for another. Sure, you know I'll press on without you–but both of us know that we're five times as good at whatever we do if we do it together. Lenny, I need you. God needs you."

"But I don't believe in God. At least I think I'm pretty sure I don't believe in God."

"Now it's my turn to say 'so what?' Faith is not a job requirement for this project. While I wish you had the faith that I've rediscovered, I'm not foolish enough to think you can go pick up a bottle of belief down at the 7-Eleven."

Lenny chewed on Karl's last remark. Karl got up and went to the bar and poured two drinks. He didn't ask Lenny if he wanted one–Karl just handed him a glass.

"Look,
Len," Karl continued, "all I need is one more year from you. You're right–you are old enough to retire and enjoy yourself. But Gwen is gone, what, eight years now? What will you do? Paint again? You're a lousy artist and you know it. Don't think of this project as a crusade so much as a change of direction. We're embarking on a great media challenge–a real long shot. Unlike the old days, we're not
starting from scratch, sharing the same desk in a dingy office on the third floor of a cruddy building. It's going to be fun! We've got tens of millions to blow down the hole."

"That's what I mean, Karl. You never talked about blowing money down a hole before. Never! I thought the idea was to make money, not lose it. I've already disbursed over five hundred thousand dollars to the Kolbe Foundation–"

"Only half a million!" Karl angrily interrupted. "Joe Jackson's moving too slowly! He should be paying more attention to Lee Washington–that black boy knows how to get things done! Not that Joe's a bad guy–he's as much as admitted that he doesn't know what he's doing!" His bald pate turned a shade of red. Lenny mused that Karl always gave the same telltale sign when blowing his top. A smile
crept to Lenny's lips, and he took a sip of his Scotch.

"Karl," Lenny said softly, "you've gone stark naked crazy."

"I swear, Lenny, too many people have told me I'm crazy in the last few weeks for me to have to hear it from you. Have I really acted any differently? Sure, I've been trying to spend more time with Dottie since my change of heart, but I scream and scheme just like the old days. And
the old days were only three weeks ago!

"Another thing. You're wrong about SLG not being a media company. We always were primarily a media company. Oh, nowadays they call it 'leveraging information' and so much gibberish, but you balked when I wanted to blow money down the hole for short wave networks, and more recently, satellite uplinks for the bigger ranches. We're just switching from cows
to Catholics."

"Listen to yourself, Karl. Cows to Catholics! Where you gonna set up the meat packing plant?"

Karl stopped short, then roared with laughter and spilled his drink.

"That's why I love you, Lenny. I'm just saying we've got to apply sound business principles to this project. We've got to move fast, innovate, use process engineering. Really, SLG has very few employees–everybody's on
the ranches. I need somebody to act as a liaison between SLG workers here and Kolbe Foundation workers. You can do it, Lenny. Only you!"

It was true. Despite its size on paper, SLG Industries had less than two hundred workers in Salt Lake City.

"Admit it. I'm right. I was always the smart one–the ideas guy–you were the implementation guy. Like I said, the sum is greater than the parts."

"Always
the diplomat, Karl! And you always express yourself with such sweet sensitivity, Big Mister Ideas Man." Lenny countered with practiced ease. "Dumb Polack," he added under his breath.

Even though Karl was worked up, he could tell Lenny was returning to form.
He's starting to come around,
Karl thought optimistically.

"Tell me something, Lenny–do you think that this Jackson guy, Nathan Payne, Becky
Macadam, and Lee can pull off what we're planning without you?"

"Maybe."

"Give me odds," Karl demanded.

"Ten to one," Lenny indicated quickly. The lawyer
had
been thinking things over.

"And
with
your priceless guidance and experience?" Something in Karl's tone relayed to Lenny that Karl was not being sarcastic.

"Eight to one," Lenny responded just as quickly and certainly.

"More like five to one,"
Karl rejoined.

"But I don't understand what you're up to, Karl! Really, I'm lost. Maybe if I did, we could get those odds down. They're young, but it's a talented team you've put together. They work hard. I like Washington. You may claim to be a convert, Karl, but Lee is the real thing. I don't know what happened to the boy out in LA, but he's a black Moses come down from the mountain. He was
explaining Torah to me the other day on the phone–Old Testament stuff–and I was actually listening until another call came in. It was just like being back in Hebrew School."

Karl took a minute to mull over Lenny's last statement.

"You know, Len, I believe you catch a lot more than you let on. Tell you what? Why don't you put off your resignation for a few months. Don't tell me that the challenge
isn't exciting–you know it is. Take a few days off. Think it over. Fly out to South Bend and spend some time with Jackson. Let him talk to you about the 'philosophy of the Kolbe Foundation,' as he calls it. You don't have to convert–all we need is for you to be a part of the team. According to Jackson–and I agree with him–we don't have to force-feed Tom Wheat down anybody's throat. We're not 'selling.'
We're just trying to give as many folks as we can an opportunity to listen to the warnings from heaven and to digest them. Even Jackson expects most people to reject the opportunity. The key is to get as many people to start praying as quickly as we can. Jackson calls it looking for the Ten Just Men.

"Tell me, do you really think that with all my money I could possibly spend it all? I don't care
about money any more. In a certain sense, I never did. I just cared about winning. I've got a hundred times what you have and you couldn't spend all
your
money if you tried. Jackson says it's not about money, it's about effort. Somebody's got to give this a grand effort. You can help us do it! You can top off your career with one wild ride, buddy boy."