The Sacrifice (26 page)

“So with this one guy, they've achieved a couple of their main goals. What comes next: abortion; annulments on demand; getting together with Lutherans, Baptists, what all? I can just see these turkeys the way I used to see them at the chancery. The only reason I put up with 'em then was I knew they were doomed to failure.” He sneered. “I knew they could never win. The Catholic Church was the mighty fortress!”

“Man,” Davis managed to get a word in, “you are really worked up over this.”

“Damn straight I am!”

“Bad for your blood pressure.”

“I don't give a damn!”

Davis was getting a bit uneasy about Rybicki. Somebody who says he doesn't give a damn, after making it obvious that he definitely
does
give a damn … well, in a situation like this, it could mean that this guy feels, “What the hell; I've got nothing to lose.” And with that sentiment, the sky's the limit—up to and including even murder.

“Whoa …” Davis warned. “Isn't it possible that the guy … what's his name?”

“Wheatley.”

“Wheatley … that he's like an innocent bystander in this thing. Okay, so maybe he wants to switch religions. So maybe he can't see anything wrong with women priests. But look: All he can do is submit his case. He can't do it on his own. No more than the flower children of the seventies—the ones that used to drive you up the wall—could.

“I mean, I'm no expert, but isn't it pretty much up to the Church whether or not to let him have his way? It's like the hairy kids years ago. They wanted all this stuff. But you didn't get so worked up because—as you said—they were doomed: The Church wouldn't let them have their way.

“So now it's a different story. Now the Church is getting out of their way … am I wrong?”

Rybicki was silent, pondering.

“I can see your point,” he said finally. “But it doesn't seem to help me. I mean, you can't bomb the whole screwed-up Catholic Church. What you
can
do is blast one small corner of it. Just to get the attention of Rome. Yeah, all the way to the Vatican with a bomb set off here in southeast Michigan. Right here in Detroit's core city.”

Silence as both Davis and Rybicki mulled over each other's words.

Suddenly a commotion from the only other people in the room—the odd couple. The man shouted something—it was unintelligible—at his companion.

Wouldn't you know, thought Davis; only three customers in the place and every one of them poses a potential problem.

Davis didn't know which deserved the bulk of his attention. He finally returned his focus to Rybicki, while remaining alert to the couple. “Look, I don't have any firsthand knowledge of the bombing this afternoon. Right now all I know is what you told me. Were you there? I mean when the bomb exploded?”

“I was there,” Rybicki said with a tone of self-satisfaction.

“Well, how did you feel about it … I mean, when the bomb went off … and afterward?”

“I was rocked at first. I didn't expect any explosion. It was deafening. Scary, too,” he added after a moment.

“Well,” Davis pursued, “what about after? After the bomb?”

An odd smile crossed Rybicki's face. “I felt glad … happy. I thought whoever did it oughta get a medal.”

“You gotta be kidding! I mean, you didn't know what the damage was. You didn't know whether the priest was dead or alive. You didn't know how many people—how many
Catholics
—had been injured or killed. How could you feel happy?”

“It wasn't like that,” Rybicki protested. His face twisted. “An' I don't take kindly to bein' accused of not givin' a shit who got hurt. Sure I hoped that nobody else got hurt. The point is, I figured that if somebody tried to get the sonuvabitch with somethin' as big as a bomb, well then, he probably got him.

“And if some others got hurt or killed … well, there's worse things than death.”

“That's crazy, man,” Davis said. “This is human life we're talking about. You can't wish that much misery on somebody. My God, the guy's a priest! Ain't anything sacred?”

Rybicki leaned over the bar. He was a large man; when he extended himself his face was only inches from Davis's. “Listen, my friend: The bogus priest may have survived this attack this afternoon. But he can't be so lucky that he continues to dodge the bullet every-time someone tries to kill him.”

Davis instinctively leaned back away from Rybicki's strong presence. “Friend, you make it sound like there's an army out there waiting to kill this priest. That can't be so …”

“Maybe not an army … but there's lots of people who'd gladly buy into a lottery for the next chance to get rid of the guy. We're not so very many, but”—Rybicki's voice dropped to a harsh whisper—“we're committed. We'll do it!”

With that, Rybicki downed the last of his beer, slammed the glass down on the bar, spun about, and strode out. He walked such a straight line that any cop checking him for sobriety would be satisfied.

It had been a disturbing conversation. Jim Davis was a peaceable man. He was that way by nature and had made pacification a principal practice. Operating a bar, especially in downtown Detroit, called for this. Many's the argument he'd had to mediate. Many's the fight he'd had to break up.

But this Rybicki, he was a rare bird. His quarrel was with the Catholic Church. Davis did not get many beefs like that.

And as for killing that priest, how much of that was for real and how much was the beer talking? Judging from his long experience listening to customers whose basic attitudes were colored by alcohol, Davis would wager that Rybicki had just pumped himself up and was no real threat.

Davis turned his attention to the remaining couple. He couldn't understand why the woman had stayed this long. She'd given every indication that she didn't want to hang around with the guy. Was she just baiting him? Some women did that … oftentimes to their eventual sorrow.

Suddenly she stood, picked up her purse, and walked purposefully out of the bar. Closely followed by her erstwhile companion.

Davis listened carefully. He half expected to hear a gunshot. But … nothing. All was quiet.

Too quiet.

Ten o'clock. Time for the local nighttime news on Channel 50.

The anchorwoman gave a big introduction to the most startling news story any area channel would feature anytime. A bomb had gone off in a local historic Catholic church this afternoon. Old St. Joe's, a place of prayer almost from the first days of the founding of the city of Detroit, was the scene of a bomb explosion that had destroyed part of the sanctuary and killed a visiting priest. After a commercial break, a reporter would be back with all the details.

Well, thought Davis, at least that Rybicki guy was right about the church bombing. He hadn't made that up.

But Davis wasn't about to wait around for the commerical break to end. It was past closing time. He began locking up. He'd be able to pick up the details on the eleven o'clock news after he got home. And tomorrow, nice and early, there'd be the newspaper.

As he turned the deadbolt, he wondered if he would ever see or hear of Rybicki again.

S
IXTEEN

Most nights, before retiring, Father George Wheatley watched the eleven o'clock TV news. This evening he was early by an hour: He watched the ten o'clock news. That finished, he clicked the off button and watched as the screen zeroed into a white dot, and then darkness.

He walked slowly and deliberately around the house, checking all the locks. As he reached the front door he could see through the window the unmarked police car at the curb directly in front of the house.

Nothing had happened except for the arrival of his son, Richard, driven home by Lieutenant Tully and his wife. That, thought George, might rank as the safest ride in the city.

Richard briefed his parents on all that had gone on at and after the dinner at the Koznickis'. Then, not at all sleepy, he headed for his room and a little computer nonsense, as well as some homework before bed.

Neither George nor Nan had been hungry. They'd each had a bowl of cereal, merely to accompany their vitamin supplements.

They hardly said a word all evening. At about nine-thirty Nan kissed George on the forehead and went up to bed. George would've accompanied her, but he waited to see how the news treated this afternoon's explosion.

There were many shots of the interior of the church, especially the sanctuary. The damage did not seem widespread. The bomb's effectiveness appeared to have been limited to the section between the altar and the rear of the sanctuary, with emphasis on the area nearest the altar. Just where he himself would have been standing. He and Father Tully. George shuddered.

Now he would go to bed. Not because he was sleepy. Tired, yes; sleepy, no. He was going to retire because it was time to do so. He well knew what that meant: a long, lonely night of turning this way and that.

At times like this, he tried to convince himself that lying down, quietly resting, was good for one … even if sleep was delayed. The way he felt right now, it looked as if it might be an all-night delay.

That could be unfortunate. Tomorrow likely would be a most busy Monday. This thing had to be investigated. The culprit had to be apprehended. Plans had to be rescheduled.

George wanted to be ordained in the Roman Church. That hadn't changed. He wondered whether his sponsor, Cardinal Boyle, would still want to go through with it. After all, the Cardinal wouldn't want to establish an atmosphere wherein it could be open season on the clergy.

George knew that the Cardinal must even now be mulling over the possibilities. No use trying to figure how it was going. Tomorrow would be soon enough. And that was only a few hours away.

Everything was secured. His surveillance team was in place. Wheatley stood very still, gazing through the window at the officers. He couldn't actually see them. But they were there, that he knew.

They would do whatever was humanly possible to protect him, his wife, and his son. But there were so many windows and doors in this rambling house. It was too large for his diminished family. On the other hand, if ever he
was
ordained, he would be expected to move into St. Joe's rectory, which was also too large for his family. Meanwhile, he was grateful for the roof over their heads. Grateful to the Episcopal Church of Eastern Michigan, which, in recognition of the years of distinguished service George had given the Church of his birth, had permitted the Wheatleys to stay on in the rectory until George's future was firmly and irrevocably settled.

He wandered upstairs. He paused at Rick's door. He knocked softly several times, then pushed the door ajar.

The young man, in pajamas, and seemingly wide awake, was seated at his desk, which was almost covered with open books as well as a couple of legal pads. As George opened the door wider, Rick looked up apprehensively, then relaxed somewhat as he saw his father enter the room. “You all right, Dad?” He seemed genuinely concerned.

George smiled. “I'm hanging in there, son. How about you?”

Rick smiled. “I'm okay, I guess.”

“Catching up on the homework?”

Rick nodded. “Sort of. But I can't seem to get what happened this afternoon out of my mind. It's kind of hard to concentrate.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Rick thought for a few moments. “I don't think so. I'm getting tired, which means I'm moving in the right direction.”

“I'm sure your teachers will be aware of all you've gone through today. I think they'll cut you some slack.”

Rick began closing the books on his desk. “It always happens this way. I put off the homework and then something comes up and I don't get a chance to do it. I figured the Mass and the reception would be over by early evening. I guessed wrong. I should've taken the time to get this stuff out of the way. But in my wildest dreams I couldn't have expected …” His head drooped.

“Nobody could have. Hit the sack as soon as you can. If you need me for anything, just let me know. I'll be sleeping lightly—if at all.”

George shut the door and headed for the master bedroom. He paused at the door of the room his daughter, Alice, used to call hers. How many hours he had spent with her, telling her stories, singing her songs …

He gave her door a gentle push and it opened slowly. He walked in and sat on the bed, just where he had sat so many times, so long ago.

Anytime he was asked which of his three children was his favorite, he always breezed off an answer along the lines of “They're all equally my favorite.” Indeed he did love all his children totally, each for different reasons.

But in his heart, he knew that Alice, always his little girl, held the edge.

Why did she so oppose his decision to affiliate with the Roman Church? He had explained his reasons at length at the family gathering that had turned out to be their final meeting before the ceremony ordaining him to the Roman diaconate.

He had known beforehand how Richard and Ronald would react. Richard largely wouldn't give a darn. He just wasn't that involved with any organized religion, not even his own Episcopalianism.

As for Ronald, George was well aware that he had been competitive almost all his young life. It was a private joke between George and Nan. First Ronald played at offering Mass or leading prayer. Later he would find anything that his imagination could conceive as a microphone, and he would imitate George's technique in doing the radio broadcast.

At age five or six Ronald could have told anyone who cared to ask that when he grew up he was going to be a priest. It was cute.

After college graduation, Ronald, as expected, entered seminary. His classmates let him know repeatedly that while he was his father's son, he did not—and never would—measure up to his father's accomplishments.