No Greater Love

by William Kienzle

  Nor could his decision be brushed aside with the words, “Not my will but thine be done.” God’s will was a far, far thing from Bill Cody’s will.

  As the turmoil within Al slowly subsided, it was replaced by a quiet sort of peace. It was an entirely new sensation. Al found it comforting.

  Just to be sure, he played the script through once again. Again he arrived at the same conclusion.

  He was convinced. It was inescapable.

  He felt he could not hesitate another hour. He must go and see someone. He must tell his decision to someone. The first name that came to mind was Father Koesler. He would be sensitive and supportive. He would know what to do.

  Repeated knocking on Father Koesler’s door elicited no answer. Father Koesler must be out. Probably helping at some Holy Thursday parish liturgy.

  The next best person with whom to consult had to be the rector. Bishop McNiff had been the principal celebrant of the seminary’s liturgy. He must be here.

  Twenty-eight

  It was a spent bishop, fatigued to the point of grayness, who opened the door to Al Cody. The liturgy had been unhurried and lengthy. It had sapped McNiff’s seventy-one-year-old reserve, his physical and psychic stamina.

  Al eyed the haggard bishop, frazzled in rumpled black pants and damp T-shirt. “You seem awfully tired. Maybe I should come back some other time.…”

  McNiff wearily studied the young man. “Is it important, Al?”

  “To me, yes. Very important.”

  “Then come in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll just go in and change this shirt. Holy perspiration does not guarantee the fabled odor of sanctity.” The bishop disappeared into his bedchamber, emerging a minute or two later in a fresh white T-shirt. “I hope you won’t mind the informality.”

  “Oh no. Of course not. I know you’re pooped. I appreciate your seeing me.”

  McNiff gamely lowered himself into his desk chair and gestured toward a facing seat. “Now, then: What’s on your mind?”

  The floodgates spread wide as Al Cody poured out his story. Beginning with his fresh decision to leave the seminary, he then retraced his path toward ordination and the role his father had played in this journey.

  McNiff’s impulse was to stop Al’s recitation early on, but he restrained himself; he would hear the lad out.

  When Al had finished, the bishop began with the obvious questions. Did Cody not realize that his call to holy orders was certain? That ordination was only weeks away? The effect this would have on his parents, his relatives and friends, the others in the seminary?

  The bishop reminded Al that he had spent eight long years devoted solely and completely to training for nothing other than the priesthood. Did this not seem an extremely abrupt, ill-thought-out, hastily made decision? How could he wash away eight years of preparation with one day of no matter how intense prayer?

  Al Cody was among those few whom McNiff desperately desired to recommend for ordination. His immediate reaction to this bombshell was to attempt to talk Al out of resigning—at least until the matter was more extensively examined.

  Through it all, Al Cody remained unperturbed, relaxed, serene.

  So much so that eventually he convinced a most resistant bishop that there would be no turning back from his decision. “Bishop, I truly am flattered that you have this faith in me. I am really impressed that you think I should be a priest. I know you have high standards. And I’m grateful that you think I’ve met them. I’m grateful you want me.

  “But I cannot go on.”

  “You know, Al, once a very young Martin Luther found himself in the midst of a most violent storm. He feared he would die. He prayed that if he was spared he would become a priest. He was and he did. Whether that was bad or good for Christianity is not my point. Making a life-forming decision after one day of prayer may not lead to a justifiable conclusion.”

  “I understand, Bishop. But I believe—I truly believe—that this is the course I must take. I’m really convinced.”

  McNiff looked long and hard at the blotter on his desk, then locked on Al’s eyes. “Very well.” He sighed. “If that’s your final word, it still will not be mine. I’m granting you a leave of absence for six months. At the end of that time, the leave can be renewed.”

  “And if I meet a woman I want to marry?”

  “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

  “No, no one. Just if.”

  “You’d have to go through laicization. You are a deacon.”

  “If this makes you satisfied, Bishop, I have no objection. It’s kind of you, really. But I won’t be changing my mind.”

  In his inner heart, McNiff knew that was so. Al Cody, as suited as he was for the priesthood, would never be ordained. The bishop nodded reluctantly.

  Cody stood, then knelt. “I’d like your blessing before I go.”

  McNiff stepped around the desk and prayed a blessing over the young man. It was a heartfelt blessing.

  They shook hands, and Al Cody left.

  As he walked toward his room, Cody wondered whether it might be appropriate to see if Patty Donnelly had softened since she had thrown his offer of friendship back in his face.

  That had been a charged moment when he had made his peace with Patty only to embitter her by offering an excuse for Bill Page’s actions. In the space of mere minutes, he had lost the friendship of two people.

  Losing a friendship was something Al Cody seldom, if ever, had done. But two in one fell swoop? Never.

  The incident with Page and Donnelly was largely caused by Al’s indecision—the failing that had plagued almost his entire life.

  But, no more.

  Jesus had given him strength through prayer.

  Cody had three possible paths. He could see if Patty would talk—leading, he hoped, to friendship renewed. Or he could see if Bill Page was open to a resumption of their relationship. In either case someone had to break the ice; it might as well be he. The third option was to put all this on the back burner till tomorrow.

  Tomorrow. He thought for a moment, then nodded to himself. That was it: He would stay in the seminary till Easter. Plenty of time to smoke the peace pipe. Yes, he would follow the third course. Realistically, he was too tired to pursue any détente without a good night’s sleep.

  It wasn’t the liturgy that had drained Al, but the prayer and fasting. Even so, he would not try to scrounge up some food. Rather, he would continue his fast—now a prayer of thanksgiving and triumph.

  So, he continued on toward his room.

  Suddenly, he stopped, panic clutching at his heart.

  He had forgotten to touch a base. A vital base.

  He turned, scooped up his cassock, freeing his young legs to stretch out, and ran full tilt along the corridor and down the steps. He reached the door and pounded on it furiously.

  After several moments that seemed an eternity to Cody, the door was opened by an obviously shaken bishop. His entire body seemed to be experiencing a slight tremor, though he tried to affect a self-control that belied this appearance. “Oh, Al. What a coincidence. Come in.”

  McNiff stepped aside and Cody entered. He feared he knew the cause of the bishop’s underlying emotion. By the time the two reached their chairs on either side of the desk, each was deeply troubled.

  “Bishop, I forgot to mention that I would prefer notifying the others of my decision myself. I think it will work out better that way.”

  McNiff would not meet Cody’s eyes. “It’s a little late for that.”

  Cody’s worst case scenario! “What do you mean, a little late?”

  “Just after you left, I called your home. Your father answered.”

  “And …?”

  “I thought it wouldn’t matter whether I talked to your mother or your father. I just wanted to break the news gently. I thought I could soften the blow … that if I told them of your decision, they’d have tonight to think it through. By tomorrow, they could’ve calmed down and could talk to you abo
ut it. I wouldn’t have blamed them if they had been bewildered; in all my experience, I can’t recall a single seminarian who resigned only weeks before ordination.” McNiff bowed his head and shook it slowly. “I called them for their own good!”

  “What happened?” Even as he asked, Al was sure he knew. Indeed, this was the reason he’d returned to the bishop’s suite.

  “The strangest thing.” It seemed that McNiff was going to leave his explanation just there, well short of the mark.

  “What!?” Al’s impatience took over.

  “He … your father accused me of expelling you! You know that’s the last thing on my mind. I all but begged you to stick it out. When I realized he was trying to put the responsibility on my shoulders, I chose my words very carefully, and I insisted this was your decision.

  “But I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. He kept saying—well, shouting—that he knew the Cardinal was up to no good by making me rector of the seminary, that I was sent here to get rid of candidates who wouldn’t go along with the modern Church.” McNiff squinted as if trying to comprehend—or as if he were in pain. “‘All its excesses and heresies,’ he said.”

  The bishop looked at Al almost apologetically. “I shouldn’t involve you in this.”

  “I am involved.” In this match between the mature, experienced rector and the youthful, inexperienced student, the younger man seemed strangely in command of the situation.

  After a moment’s reflection, McNiff nodded. “Yes, you are involved. But if only I hadn’t made that call …”

  “It might have happened anyway.” Al tried to relieve the bishop. “Was that all he said? That you were responsible for this decision?”

  “No.” McNiff hesitated. He disliked being on the defensive. But he was. “Then came the threats. What he swore to do to me. Much of it was incoherent … and to be perfectly frank, I was so unnerved that I couldn’t understand what he was shouting about. But this I know”—the words came slowly, but forcefully—“he was threatening my life!”

  Al groaned.

  “Do you … do you think he really meant it?” The bishop’s question pleaded for a denial.

  But Al dodged it. “Not long after you became rector, my dad gave me practically the same evaluation of your appointment. He made the same statement to Father Koesler recently. Of course at these times he didn’t make any specific threats. But, now that I think of it, the threats have always been lurking.”

  “But,” McNiff pressed the point, “was he serious, do you think?”

  Al could not be certain. If he had to guess, he would say his father was, indeed, serious. But there was no need to further alarm the rector. Not unless it became necessary.

  Al’s mind was racing. He startled himself. Only hours ago he would have been hopelessly mired in indecision. Now he was clearheaded and in control.

  His father was not one to issue idle threats. If he threatened “ McNiff’s life, it wasn’t a mere scare tactic. “You don’t mind if I use your phone?” He didn’t wait for a reply. By the time McNiff nodded, Al was halfway through dialing.

  His mother recognized his voice immediately. “Al”—she sounded frightened—“what’s going on? I was just going to call you.”

  “We’re trying to piece it together.”

  “Al, why would Bishop McNiff fire you?”

  “He didn’t. That’s part of the problem. I haven’t got a lot of time, Mother. You can help by finding out something for me. And, please: Time is of the essence.”

  “What? What?” She caught the urgency in his voice.

  “Is Dad home?”

  “No. He left a little while ago.”

  “Did you see … did he take anything with him?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t actually see him leave.”

  “Mom, can you quick check the gun rack? See if any of them are missing?” Al had to risk the probability of unnerving the bishop still further, but this was no time for subtlety.

  Within a couple of moments she was back. “I’m not sure, honey, but I think there’s a rifle missing. The guns are dumped all over the floor. But I think he took one of the hunting rifles.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I’ve gotta go now.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Pray, Mom, pray!”

  Unless he was terribly mistaken, his father was headed for the seminary. He would come intending to kill the man who, he believed, had derailed the express carrying his son to the priesthood.

  And, in his present condition, the bishop wasn’t a lot of help.

  Should he call the police? Probably. But Al had learned enough from TV cop shows and real-life police stories to know that the police can’t act until a crime has been committed. And there wouldn’t be a crime here until after his dad attempted to kill the bishop. And that, by anyone’s gauge, would be too late.

  Al thought intently. Who might comprehend the seriousness of this situation? Who might be able to cut through the red tape and do something about it?

  Father Koesler. He knew Bill Cody’s opinion of the rector and he knew his way around the police department and its procedures. “Where can I reach Father Koesler?”

  McNiff knew where Koesler was, but, startled by the question, he hesitated. “He’s … uh, helping with the liturgy at St. Joseph’s. Why?”

  Al ignored the question. He glanced through the Catholic directory and began dialing. Al was very much in command. Secretly, McNiff was grateful.

  Al caught Koesler just as the priest was about to leave St. Joseph’s rectory. Quickly but comprehensively Al explained what had happened. Father Koesler immediately grasped the danger. He knew that Cody’s apartment contained an ample supply of killing weapons. And he had heard Cody’s vow of action should anyone come between Al and the priesthood.

  Koesler would borrow Father Tully’s car with its mobile phone and leave for the seminary immediately. En route he would try to reach Lieutenant Tully, or, if that wasn’t possible, one of the other officers he knew.

  Before hanging up, Koesler warned Al not to attempt anything heroic, but to do nothing other than stay out of the way and pray.

  Twenty-nine

  Lieutenant Zoo Tully was “on the street,” meaning simply that he was on duty but away from headquarters. Because the officer who answered knew the priest, he had the call patched through to Tully.

  Bishop McNiff’s life was threatened; immediate action was called for. Fortunately, the lieutenant was cruising not far from the seminary. He trusted Koesler’s perception of the seriousness of the situation and shoved the red tape aside.

  Koesler gave the lieutenant the bishop’s room number and its location. He also urged Tully to be on the lookout for Cody’s son, a seminarian who had put himself in the middle of this thing.

  The lieutenant called for backup, slapped the flasher to the roof, and, siren blaring, headed for the seminary.

  Though Tully had been nearby when Koesler contacted him, Cody, with his head start, reached the seminary first.

  The parking lot was unattended. Security began just inside the heavy Gothic door.

  Bill Cody stormed through the entrance. His eyes were wild, his face reflected fury. Struck by Cody’s demented expression, the guard, rather than staying in his protective cage, stepped out into the foyer and into Cody’s path. Only then did he catch sight of the rifle.

  The guard was unarmed and too elderly to be agile. Cody said nothing. He brought the rifle butt up with as much force as his right arm possessed, catching the guard just under the chin.

  The blow broke several of the guard’s teeth. But he would not know that for a couple of hours as he dropped unconscious to the floor.

  Without a glance at the fallen man, Cody headed for the bishop’s suite.

  As Tully rushed through the seminary door, his trained eye instantly took in all. He didn’t stop to check on the guard’s condition; that would have to take its turn. He was either dead or alive. If he was dead, there was no hurry to bur
y him.

  One thing was clear. Somebody—undoubtedly Cody—had done this. Judging from the small pool of blood forming around the guard’s head, the perp had been here only minutes ago.

  And, following that, Koesler had been right: Cody was determined and dangerous.

  On the surface, Tully appeared cool, but inside, adrenaline was sending shock waves through his body. His heart was pounding, his blood was pumping at fever pitch. Movie and TV cops did this sort of thing all the time. In real life, even in the busiest precincts such a chase was rare.

  Tully drew his gun as he raced down the tiled corridor, hoping the directions Koesler had given him were correct. He had no time now to look out for Al Cody. Besides, Tully had no idea how the young man figured in this case. All that was on his mind, all his training, his years of experience, his discipline—all converged to keep him focused on one objective: reaching the bishop’s suite as quickly as possible.

  That, and being ready for anything.

  Bill Cody arrived at the bishop’s suite. Having made his threats, he’d half expected to find some sort of security or protective barrier here. Nothing.

  A guard inside with the bishop perhaps?

  But Cody was not concerned with any possible confrontation. To hell with confrontation! This was a time for action, for retribution.

  He turned the knob and the door swung open.

  There he was, not twenty feet away, seated at his desk. Cody wasted not a second. He raised the rifle, aimed at the red zucchetto just above the back of the chair, and fired.

  From the lower corridor, about halfway between the front door and the bishop’s rooms, Lieutenant Tully heard the crack of the rifle. There was no way he could increase his speed. He was already at full throttle.

  Leaving caution aside, he raced up the steps, turned the corner, and reached the open doorway. The odor of gunsmoke was strong. The rifle had been fired only inches from where he stood. Now with caution, he let his gun lead him around the doorway and into the room.