22
He had been chauffeured back to the seminary in a limo. A nice touch. “Nothing’s too good for Father.”
Never before had he impersonated a priest. He had studied the mannerisms of this singular way of life just as he had steeped himself in what was supposed to be his field of religious expertise. He was confident that he was carrying this masquerade forward successfully.
Everyone he had associated with so far this day had been cordial, with that special courtesy extended to a fellow professional.
But this symposium was no more than a distraction. Necessary, but a distraction nonetheless.
Now, alone in his room, he lay, fully clothed, on the bed, hoping for the merciful release of a nap. As these days progressed, he would need to call on, his every reserve of alertness, caution, aggressiveness, drive, dedication, and, yes, luck.
It would be good if he were to be able to utilize every opportunity for some much-needed rest. But if it was not to be, well, so be it.
He had been in training for this task for a long time now. And he had planned most meticulously as well as precisely. He had only to carry out these plans and the deed would be done.
But it was similar to dying: One got only one chance to do it. So it was of greatest importance that he extend his every effort to the maximum. How did they put it in sports terms over here? Oh, yeah: “He came to play!” “He gave 120 percent!”
Not a bad way of describing what lay ahead.
So he would rest until it was time to at least put in an appearance at dinner.
Meanwhile, he would go through the mental checklist again and again.
He would have only this one opportunity. It had to be perfect. He could not countenance failure. Not now. Not after having come so far.
So near.
No. He could not fail.
Being selected as music director for that most rare papal appearance was, as David Wallace was discovering, not an unmixed blessing.
For one, there was the rehearsal schedule. The earliest they could get to it was late afternoon. Most of the choir members were working people. And, as rare as this papal event certainly was, there was the economy to keep in mind. And how far from the mind could the economy stray at the height of the Christmas season?
For example, toy stores and toy departments faced almost a singular challenge: how to keep the inventory up. And if one could guess what item was going to be the blockbuster toy, game, or doll of the season—and should that person somehow corner a market for said item—he or she could almost retire.
Independent toy stores had to make it big at Christmas. It was a long time between Christmases, and some part of this revenue had to tide the stores over.
And so it was with so many businesses and financial enterprises.
The marketing of Christmas began earlier almost every year. But all that packaging came to term as the day itself arrived. This was the season to be jolly. And, as much as the choir saw the need for perfection as part of a liturgy celebrated by the supreme pontiff, a liturgy to be telecast internationally, business was business.
Wallace had to keep reminding himself that his choir was a volunteer group. They were not hired to sing. Those who were employed were attorneys, sales personnel, architects, and so on. Others made care of house and children full-time work.
Some of the musicians were professionals, and the difference between them and the unpaid was telling. Beyond their superior abilities, the pros needed but a raised baton to ready their instruments. Making music was their work, and they were professionally serious about it.
For the others, while they enjoyed singing and playing, doing this was a sideline. It was a difficult challenge to keep them concentrated on the business at hand.
Further, it was a convivial setting. Many of these people had not seen each other since the previous visit of the pope, and some of them felt the need to clear up missing history. So, as they wandered into rehearsal there was a good amount of chatter.
They’re volunteers! They’re volunteers! Wallace kept telling himself. The sotto voce repetition helped. The director smiled as frequently as he could make himself do so. It also helped him hold his temper—no mean trick at this stage of the affair.
In addition to the present and predictable problems, there was the matter of the program. In large part, Wallace had no idea what music would be performed. That determination was supposed to emanate from the liturgical panel of the symposium. That discussion wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow. And tomorrow would be one scant day before the pope’s arrival.
For this abbreviated rehearsal, Wallace had complementary aims: to get these performers used to one another and to establish himself as the leader. To do this, he decided to rehearse something. It wasn’t necessary that the music practiced actually be used in the papal liturgy, only that they become accustomed to their unique sound.
Mainly because almost the entire contingent of musicians was present, he decided to run through a playing of Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man.” As Wallace had hoped, the pros pulled the amateurs along. All in all, it was close to an inspired rendition. About the only evident flaw was the continued merry, mirthful light chatter from the singers.
They’re volunteers! They’re volunteers!
He held both tongue and temper.
As the orchestra concluded the “Fanfare,” another singer arrived.
Sally Forbes had a crush on David Wallace. Just about everyone who knew them knew that. About the only one who hadn’t yet tumbled was David Wallace. He had many private and secret concerns. He gave little or no heed to interpersonal relationships, let alone a love affair.
Once Sally had parked her packages, bundles, and outer wear, she casually approached Wallace. He had nothing specifically planned for the next few minutes. As soon as a few more essential members of the choir showed up, he would run them through a hymn and/or a motet or two. So he didn’t mind Sally’s interruption.
“Any word yet from the liturgical panel?” she asked.
Setting his jaw, Wallace shook his head.
“How do they expect us to perform if we don’t know what the program will call for?” Sally persisted.
“We’ve got enough of a core group of good performers that we should be able to handle whatever they throw at us.” Wallace smiled. “But I must admit this is pretty nerve-racking.”
Sally directed at him a gaze of love and admiration. “The only reason we’re any good at all is because we’ve got all this confidence in you.”
Had he taken her seriously, he would’ve been embarrassed. As it was, he merely shrugged and began to arrange the music on his stand.
Sally switched her weight to the other foot. “What do you think, David: Is the pope going to do what everybody’s been talking about?”
“Introduce infallibility into the family planning debate? Beats me. We’re just here to render the liturgy as best we can.”
“What do you think will happen if he does?” she pressed.
A slight shudder passed through David Wallace. “I really don’t know. I don’t even want to think of it.”
Sally looked around the vast arena. The main floor was empty save for the maintenance people who ranged among the seats in a final cleaning effort.
Almost absently she walked slowly toward the newly constructed altar. The altar that had been used for the previous papal visit had been used at the Silverdome in Pontiac. In any case, the original altar had been destroyed shortly thereafter. No one had envisioned a repeat papal visit to Detroit so soon.
Wallace looked up from his music to see Sally standing at the impressive raised pulpit from which the pope would address the crowd. Wallace had lost track of her as he concentrated on which selections he would use as a warmup. “Sally! What do you think you’re doing?”
She looked over at him, smiling. “Come on over here, David. It’s quite a sight. It’s the same view the pope’s going to have.”
“Get back here!”
He couldn’t really be angry with her. He admired her buoyant youth and spirit of adventure.
“No, come on, silly,” she urged. “Just for a minute.”
At that moment there wasn’t anything going on. Nor would there be till the rest of the choir arrived. For now, those present were chatting among themselves or simply drinking in the far reaches of this immense arena. So he followed in Sally’s tracks.
He found himself counting his steps. Fifteen strides from his podium to the pope’s pulpit. A short distance indeed. Others might be awed at the proximity to so famous a personage. His thoughts were on how accessible the man would be—the man who, if the rumors were true, would make a mockery of Abigail’s sacrifice. It was this old, tattered doctrine sharply limiting the means of family planning that had led to her death.
Fifteen strides.
Wallace didn’t own a gun. He’d never fired one. He did own a knife. He’d checked: It fit snugly in his baton case.
Fifteen strides and he could cut down this pompous prelate before the man could enshrine this dangerous, deadly “moral” teaching in the powerful cloak of infallibility.
Wallace didn’t want to do it. God knew he shrank from the notion. He had prayed that it would not come to this. But, to date, there was no assurance whatever from Rome that the scuttlebutt wasn’t true. And, so far, there was no indication that anyone intended to challenge the man.
Of course, the pope was not standing at this pulpit yet. Maybe something would happen, maybe somebody would do something.… Maybe David Wallace would not be the one last hope. His prime prayer was that this responsibility would not be his. But if it was … if it was …
He had never killed anyone or anything. He didn’t actually know if the dread moment arrived what he would do, how he would react.
One thing was for certain: If he attempted this murder, he would forfeit his own life. His proximity to the pope would make the deed possible. He was in the inner circle. That was where all the security was gathered—
“Are you going to stand there all night?”
“No … no. The view is mesmerizing, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.”
Wallace, now fully returned to the present, looked back at his choir and musicians. Most of them were smiling as they studied the one-and-a-half lovebirds.
“Come on,” he said, “we’ve got enough to have a decent rehearsal. Let’s get on with it.”
They walked, not hand in hand, back to the stage.
“I was just thinking, David,” Sally said, “do you have anything on for this evening?”
“What?”
“I mean, I’m not doing anything. And it’s awful close to Christmas to be alone. I thought maybe you could come over to my place. I can whip up a pretty decent dinner if you don’t mind a sort of vegetarian meal.”
Wallace hesitated as he continued walking. “I …”
“Please. It would make me very happy.”
His smile was a shrug. “Seven?”
“That would be great.”
Sally settled into her chair and fiddled with the music stand.
The other choir members continued to smile. All the world loves a lover … especially at Christmastime.
“Let’s try the Panis Angelicas,” Wallace said. “It’s a fairly safe guess to be included in the program.” He smiled. “Anyway, it’ll get us started.”
He raised the baton. This would be a capella. The musicians rested. The choir members were slow in readiness.
They’re volunteers! They’re volunteers!
Actually, once they began, they sounded quite good.
Finding it unnecessary to concentrate on this most familiar hymn, Wallace’s thoughts drifted toward an evening with Sally Forbes.
Just what the doctor ordered, he thought. Left to his own devices this evening, he would only torture himself over and over again.
Could he do the deed? Would he do the deed, if push came to shove? Was he willing to put his life on the line?
Only the moment of truth, if it should arise, would tell.
For now, it would be good to take his mind as far from these questions as possible.
An evening with Sally. Yes, just what the doctor ordered.
23
“I can’t believe it!” Leo said.
“You better believe it. Wanna hear it again?” Rick flipped on the radio. It was tuned to WWJ-AM, the all-news station. As luck would have it, reporter Ed Breslin was narrating once more what had become the day’s top story: A couple—at most a small group—of young people were rampaging through the Metro area causing injury and death in seemingly random fashion.
Sunday night it was a suburban socialite, gang-raped and shot to death execution-style. Monday morning, it was a Detroit priest who was fortunate to escape with his life in a hit-and-run incident. Shortly thereafter, it was the proprietor of a convenience store—shot and killed without provocation.
Police were certain, from physical evidence, that more than two males had participated in the rape. Eyewitnesses to the other two crimes agreed that there were only two, again probably young people, involved. Police state that the vehicle used in each of these crimes may have been a black, late-model Jaguar with a damaged front grill. Anyone with any knowledge of …
“Believe it now?” Rick’s face glowed with uninhibited glee.
The others shook their heads in uncomprehending belief.
“But why?” John inquired.
“Bonnie … hell, Bonnie and me needed the practice. Sunday night Ronnie had all the fun. We had to catch up.”
“Well … what about the rest of us?” Leo said. “We haven’t got anybody!”
“Too late for that,” Rick said. “Besides, things are getting too hot for us to fool around. The cops are looking for us. And they’re getting close—too close. For one thing, we can’t use the Jag anymore.”
“How about if we get the front fixed?” John said.
“By who?” Rick replied. “Every dealer and bump shop in and out the area is lookin’ for a black Jag with a busted grill. Tell ya what,” Rick challenged, “I’ll take the Jag into a bump shop if one of you guys pick it up with the front fixed and a couple carloads of cops waitin’ for us.” He waited a moment, but none of the four took him up on that.
“So,” he continued, “anybody got another set of wheels till this blows over? If it ever blows over?”
The others seemed lost in searching thought.
“How about you, Harpo? Haven’t you got a jalopy?”
“Well … yeah,” Andrew reluctantly admitted. “But it ain’t anything you guys would ride around in. It’s just a bucket a bolts.”
“It runs, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, it runs, okay. But it looks like hell.”
“Just what we want. The last thing the cops’ll be lookin’ for will be a heap like that. If you can tool with a Jag, who’s gonna ride in a jalopy?”
“Sounds good to me!” Ronnie said.
Throughout this conversation, no one paid any attention to Bonnie, who crouched in a corner of the Vanderwehl rec room. Tears coursed her cheeks in unrestrained abundance. Her body was shaking uncontrollably. She said nothing and nothing was said to her. She might as well have been elsewhere—anywhere. Bonnie was in mild shock. None of the boys cared. She could have been a tragic ornament.
“So it’s settled: We use Harpo’s jalopy.” Rick looked around for the expected unanimous approval.
He got it from everyone except Ronnie. “Before we risk our lives in this rattletrap, does anybody know if we can depend on it?”
“Yeah, right.” Without Ronnie’s expressed doubt, John never would have come up with a question on his own. “So the cops won’t be looking for innocent lookin’ kids like us in Harpo’s boneyard. What the hell good is that if our getaway car can’t get away?”
Rick froze them with a single glare. Thus they knew their objection—any objection—was thoroughly out of place. Then Rick mellowed. “Come on, you
guys know better than anybody what a good mechanic Harpo is. He can fix anything. Who do we all go to when something’s busted?” The question hung rhetorically. “If Harpo says the crate runs, the crate runs … no?”
After a moment, Leo spoke. “Okay. While you and Bonnie were makin’ your own crime wave, we were checking through your plan. We cased the grounds back of that seminary. We walked it all through. We’re ready to go. So, when do we got”
“When do we go? When do we got” Rick spoke in mocking imitation. “We don’t go until we take care of one more bit of business.” He was about to tell them when it occurred to him to put it in the form of a quiz. “Anybody know what has to happen?”
Bonnie knew. But Bonnie wasn’t talking to anybody.
“Wait,” Ronnie said, “we got to … oh, yeah … we got to get the cops to loosen the knot.”
“What?” Leo looked bewildered.
“Ronnie’s right,” Rick said. “Right now, the cops’ll be mainly concerned with security for the pope. They’ll be tight in on him. We can’t get a clear and sure shot unless we go close. So we gotta do something that’ll make them have to protect a wider circle of people. That way there’ll be more holes in their protection screen.
“That’s what comes next.”
“Uh …” Leo jerked his thumb in the general direction of Bonnie. “What about her?”
For the first time in a long while the boys became aware of Bonnie.
“Gimme a few minutes.” Rick walked back to Bonnie’s corner of the room. The others gathered around the pool table, occupying themselves with offhand talk, or fooling with the billiard balls. None of them attempted to listen in.
“Hey, babe, come out of it, willya?” Rick said softly.
Bonnie just looked at him. In her eyes was an emotion he’d never seen before.
“What is it? What’s the matter? Take your time. But talk to me. C’mon now.” He rubbed his hand along her arm. But she shrank from him. She tried to talk, but her teeth were chattering.
Rick had been playing off an emotional high. Now for the first time he experienced fear. The fear was about Bonnie and, if she did not pull out of this, what he might have to do.
Call No Man Father Page 18