He opened the heavy oak door, stepped outside, and paused. A premonition? All seemed deathly still. Not even any traffic sounds from adjacent streets.
A light fog hovered. The weathercaster hadn’t mentioned that.
The feeling of nameless dread was so palpable he almost turned to go back to his room and phone in some excuse to the parish. But, what the hell; only women live their lives based on intuition. It was not the part of a macho man to fear the unknown.
Bracing, he descended the first flight of steps. As he reached the first landing, he thought he heard a click. As he turned to investigate, he was stopped by an explosive roar. He dropped as if poleaxed.
In a split second, a series of thoughts popped through his mind: This is what it is like to die. How long before I meet God? What will judgment be like? Will my father and mother greet me? Oh, my God, what if there is nothing!
Suddenly, a new and significant thought occurred: Nothing hurts.
He hadn’t been hit. The close sound of gunfire, combined with his premonition of doom had caused him to collapse.
What happens now? Will he fire again?
Father Merrit flipped over on his back and peered up into the mist. A man stood inside the low railing of the porch. He was dressed entirely in black. His right wrist seemed bent at an unnatural angle. In his right forearm crooked close to his body he cradled a large, shiny revolver that seemed to have exploded.
As if in delayed action and slow motion, the man let out an excruciating cry—a howl of agony and frustration. Then, using his left hand as support, he clumsily vaulted the railing, as windows all about that section of the seminary were thrown open. He limped appreciably as he made his way to a nearby car, awkwardly entered it and, after a stretch of time, necessitated by having to turn the key and shift with his left hand, started it and drove off into the fog.
Heads bobbed and swiveled, as the onlookers at the open windows gaped at the scene and each other in startled disbelief.
Merrit took stock. His clothes were soiled from rolling on the tile. His glasses had broken when he fell. Otherwise, no damage that he could ascertain.
Phil Merrit, he thought, this may have frightened a few years off your life, but, by and large, you are a lucky bastard.
Then he recalled that moment when he had thought he was dying, and had doubted, just for an instant, that immortality followed this life.
He breathed a prayer of faith just as he was being encircled by people who wanted only to help.
“Can you give any kind of physical description, Father?” Father Merrit, since the attack earlier in the day, had been visited by several solicitous colleagues, the rector of the seminary, and his doctor—who had pronounced him alive, the possessor of soaring blood pressure, and on the verge of hyperventilating. Sergeant Patrick, with all this in mind, was trying not to pressure him.
“I’m afraid not, officer. I was on the ground, and there was all that fog.”
“Let’s give it a try, anyway, Father. Now, recall the incident. You say you saw no one as you descended the stairs to the first level. Did you see him at all before he fired?”
“No…eh…no.” Merrit lit his fresh cigarette from his expiring one. He had been a heavy smoker for as long as his confreres could remember. But it had been many years since he had chain-smoked. “I heard a sound... a click. I suppose he was… eh… cocking the gun. I… eh… don’t have much experience in that sort of thing.
“Anyway, I was just turning when he fired... or tried to. Then I fell to the ground. I don’t know why. Just instinctive... I suppose it was the combination of the noise… the sound of that explosion, along with my premonition.”
“You had a premonition?”
“Yes… I’m not sure why; maybe it’s just—well, it’s just that with what happened to Father Ward and all.…”
“I understand,” Patrick reassured him. “What did you do when you realized you hadn’t been hit?” Patrick was taking notes.
“Well, I turned over onto my back. I didn’t know what might happen next.”
“Describe what you remember.”
“Well, mostly ... eh ... I remember the gun. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It was shiny, metallic—steel, I guess. It was a revolver and it had evidently exploded. That must have saved my life.”
“Did you see the man’s face?”
“No, uh, yes. Yes, I did glance at him, now that I think of it, when he shrieked. But I couldn’t see it very clearly… couldn’t see his features. There was this fog, and…” Merrit paused. “No, eh… there was something more—something that distorted his features.”
“Like a mask? Or a woman’s stocking?”
“A stocking; yes, that was it.”
“Could you tell his height or weight? His age?”
“That’s difficult. I was on the ground looking up. I think he was wearing all black. I know he had on a black overcoat. He seemed stocky, as I recall… but not muscular. More like flabby. And he was not tall. He didn’t appear to be anywhere near six feet. I couldn’t possibly tell about his age, except that he didn’t move like an older person. He could have been young, but then he did move kind of awkwardly…”
Patrick noticed that Merrit’s hands had begun to tremble. Ashes were falling to the floor from his cigarette.
“That’s enough for now, Father. We’ll contact you again, soon. In the meantime, if you remember any more details, please give us a call.” He handed his card to the priest, who looked relieved. Patrick then stood and exited into the corridor, where his partner, Sergeant Morris, approached.
“Did you check everybody?” Patrick asked.
“Yes. Did you get much of a description from Father Merrit?”
“No. He’s still pretty shook up. Understandable. We may get more from him later. He does think the guy had a stocking over his face. That would jibe with the M.O. of the guy who attacked Father Ward.”
“That’s not all that jibes,” said Morris as they headed out to continue their investigation in the neighborhood.
“Naturally, not all the witnesses saw the same thing. But consensus has it that the guy was approximately five-five, -six, or -seven. Shoes, trousers, overcoat, and hat were black. All the witnesses saw him from the rear, so we have no facial description. He limped to his car, so he probably injured his leg when he jumped from the porch.
“For being roused from a sound sleep and with all that fog, I think that’s a pretty good description.”
“Not bad at all,” Patrick agreed. “But who wears black?”
“Undertakers.”
“Gary Player.”
“A member of a rock group.”
“Priests.”
“Priests! It couldn’t be another priest, could it?”
“If it is, he picked a dilly of a disguise.”
“I have it,” said Morris, as they were about to enter their car, “the Bad Guy.”
The shades had been lowered, making the small room nearly dark.
“Now look at the fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” said the First Man.
“It couldn’t be helped,” said the Second Man, as he extinguished his cigarette. In the dimness, he missed the ashtray, butting the cigarette on the table.
“Watch it!” stage-whispered the Third Man. “Do you want to set the place on fire!”
“Don’t be so hard on him,” said the Fourth Man. “He tried.”
“Tried!” stage-whispered the Third. “Tried! So did Squeaky Fromme! With about the same results.”
“Who is Squeaky Fromme?” asked the Fourth.
“She tried to assassinate Ronald Reagan,” answered the Third, “but her gun wouldn’t go off.”
“Gerald Ford,” said the First.
“Gerald Ford?” asked the Third.
“Ford was the one Squeaky Fromme tried to assassinate,” the First clarified.
“Whatever,” commented the Third.
“What I want to know,” said the First Man, “is how you c
ould possibly bungle your attack on Father Ward.”
“That skull shook me up,” the Second Man whined, “and then things sort of fell apart.”
“Yorick?” the Third Man scoffed. “Yorick was the basis of our plan! Ward never leaves his room at night except once a year to deliver Yorick to the classroom. You had to know he’d have Yorick with him!”
“I know, I know,” the Second Man pouted, “but this was the first time I’ve ever physically attacked anyone, let alone tried to kill somebody. I was under a lot of stress, you know. And all that tension… and in the excitement… and in the dark with the flashlight shining on that freaky skull…well, it just shook me up.”
“It wasn’t going to bite you,” the First Man observed.
“Well,” said the Fourth Man, “it would have startled anyone.” In his attempt at a conciliatory gesture, he knocked the ashtray off the table.
“First him, now you,” said the Third Man. “Are you guys studying to be arsonists? Why don’t we try to burn somebody up? It’s about all you guys are good at!”
“Oh, come off it,” said the Second Man, huffily. “Anyone can have an accident.
“Besides, it wasn’t just the skull. I couldn’t stay on my feet. Neither could Ward, for that matter. The floor must have been waxed.”
“There are times,” observed the First Man, “when you couldn’t keep your feet if they were nailed to the floor.”
“And furthermore,” said the Third, “what about this morning? We had that so carefully planned. Do you realize how much time we spent setting up Merrit?”
The Second nodded.
The Third continued regardless. “We spent weeks in surveillance. We figured out that his early morning trip to Saint Gregory’s was our best bet. And what happens? You blow it!” He made his way cautiously to the wet bar against the wall. He poured a jigger of scotch. In the dark, he missed the glass, pouring the whiskey onto the counter. He wiped it up surreptitiously.
“What actually happened?” asked the Fourth Man.
“Defective powder,” answered the Second.
“Defective powder!” exclaimed the First.
“Yes,” said the Second. “I called the store where I bought the bullets. They said it happens every now and again. There’s nothing they can do about it.”
“Could we sue?” asked the Fourth.
“Oh sure; with everybody and his brother looking for a gun that exploded,” rejoined the First. “That suggestion sure makes a lot of sense.” His voice dripped sarcasm.
He leaned back in his chair—too far. He would have fallen flat on his back if the chair hadn’t been so close to the wall. As it was, he barely kept his balance. He tried to cover his bungle, but the others noticed.
“So, here I am,” the Second Man reproached, “through no fault of my own. Probably fractured or broke my wrist. The same probably for my ankle. They both hurt like hell.” As if to reinforce his statement, he took a tablet from a bottle labeled Empirin Codeine and popped it into his mouth. “And how can I get medical help without appearing suspicious?”
“What you’re all overlooking,” noted the Fourth Man, “is that at least we’ve gotten their attention. We may have had a run of bad luck. But it hasn’t been a total waste. Two of our targets have at least been almost scared to death. That’s not insignificant.”
“Well,” asked the Third, “where do we go from here?”
“That’s what we’re gathered to discuss. I suggest the meeting come to order,” said the Fourth. He picked up an ancient-looking gavel and whacked it against the table top. The handle split; the head flew into a corner.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Nellie,” said Joe Cox. “When it comes to weeping statues, or the image of Christ on a tortilla, your sense of news value is unerring.”
“A gift,” Nelson Kane acknowledged.
The two were lunching at the Money Tree, a popular albeit expensive downtown restaurant.
“I mean the way you latched onto that initial attack. The News missed it entirely. But they can’t overlook it now that the story’s got TV and radio coverage. They’re going to have to play catch-up.
“Did you have any idea there would be another assault at the seminary?”
“Of course,” Kane lied.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously? Of course not. But I’m not surprised. It’s a high crime area and anything can happen. They’ve had plenty of B and E’s. But I’m pretty certain no one has been attacked inside the building or on the campus till now.”
“No, if I had given it any thought, from the M.O. of the first attack, I would have guessed another attempt on the first guy—Father Ward.”
“Ward?”
“Yeah.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
Kane looked up from his soup in mild surprise. Staffers rarely disagreed with him. Not because he was reluctant to argue a point. Rather because the more experience the reporters gained, the more they learned that he usually was correct in his appreciation of news stories.
“Walking the corridors at night was not one of Ward’s practices,” Cox said. “In fact, he usually had tucked himself in by nine. I think the guy was lying in wait for the first one who looked like he had a wallet to come by. Intent: robbery. Victim: anybody.”
Kane paused, soup-filled spoon suspended between bowl and mouth. His eyes twinkled.
“And what was it this morning?” he challenged. “Intent: robbery? Victim: the first one out that door?”
“Well, why not?”
“You’re overlooking a couple of things. And you’d better damn well not overlook them when you develop this story.
“First, if someone wanted to badly enough, he could have plotted to attack Ward specifically. According to your own notes, Ward uses that crazy prop once every year when Hamlet mourns Yorick’s loss. Ward always brings the skull to the classroom the night before that particular reading is scheduled. Ward’s current class was about to reach that passage.
Thus, Ward walks down corridor leading to classroom on what turns out to be a lucky break for the attacker: Halloween night with a big party going on and security at its worst.”
Cox thought for a moment. “Then why was the guy apparently scared off?”
“Spooky place, spooky night, spooky business and, from all indications in both these encounters, a guy who is easily spooked.”
“And today?”
“Even more cleverly planned. A guy is waiting in darkness and fog at a perfect spot for an ambush at just the moment when Father Whatzisname—Merrit—leaves the building. And, need I remind you, you don’t have to shoot a guy to rob him. You just walk up behind him and say something clever like, ‘This is a stick-up.’”
“You may be right.”
“I’m right. Someone wanted to kill first Ward, then Merrit. He failed. Will he be back? Will he go after the same priests? Will he try for someone else? And the biggie: Who is he and why is he doing this?
“Those are just some of the questions we pay you so handsomely to find answers to.”
“Not me, Nellie; it’s the police who are paid to find the answers.”
“And we’re paying you to dig until you find the police who have those answers.”
“O.K., O.K., right after this quiche,” temporized Cox, as he ate more rapidly than he cared to. Lunch with Kane was seldom leisurely. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention: Father Merrit’s string of luck was all bad.”
“Why? What else happened?”
“Somebody stole the battery from his car.”
Kane smiled and shook his head. “So he couldn’t have gone anywhere anyway.”
“Right. They got the batteries from four of the six cars parked in the same area as Merrit’s.”
“The other two?”
“Hoods locked.”
“Told you it was a rough neighborhood.”
Kane had finished his soup. Cox knew if he didn’t finish his quiche in the next sixty seconds he
would be left alone with the check.
“Blind luck, I say,” said Bob Ankenazy, news editor at the Detroit News.
“I’d have to agree,” agreed managing editor Leon London.
“It never seems to fail: Just when you think you’ve got that upstart Free Press by the balls, she gets lucky,” Ankenazy elaborated, badly mixing the gender of his metaphor.
“Yup. Any other time and that first mugging would have been just an isolated incident. But the Freep lucks into a beat on the story and we lie back rather than come in late, and now look: a second attack on a priest.”
“Only hindsight could prove you were wrong in that decision, Leon.”
“But now they have a print exclusive with TV and radio coverage and we’re forced to play catch-up.”
“It’s not the first time. As a matter of fact, with our staff and resources, we’re rather good at it.”
“That’s true,” London affirmed. “I’d hate to be at the Free Press if our present roles were reversed.”
The two stood in the News city room near the coffee-maker, though only London held a cup.
“Well, we’d better get on it,” said Ankenazy. “Any suggestions on who you’d like to send?”
“Pat Lennon, of course.”
“Geez, I’ve already got her on the slush fund story. And nobody covers Mayor Cobb better than Lennon. You sure you want to go with our top staffer?”
“Yup. They’ve got Cox on it and he’s their Numéro Uno. We’ve got to respond in kind.”
“I couldn’t dissuade you by reminding you that Cox is Lennon’s live-in?”
“Why would you think that might change my mind? They’ve been living together for—what, now?—six, seven years or so? This wouldn’t be the first time they’ve been on the same beat.”
“O.K.” Ankenazy smiled and shook his head. “You want our top card, you’ve got her.”
Ankenazy made his way toward Lennon. All he could see of her over the CRT was a gentle flow of auburn hair cascading over the phone receiver pressed against her ear. For at least the foreseeable future, she would have to divide her time between Maynard Cobb and the strange goings-on at Sacred Heart Seminary.
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