by Jack Ketchum
The Father’s conscience only balks at the modus operandi. At first, the questions of “how” and “when” kept him awake at night. He refused to acquire a firearm. Any manner of poison would be easily detected and immediately presentable. A public crucifixion would be poetic, but hardly feasible.
Too bad, as he favors that method most.
He needs a miracle. An event so perfectly sculpted, not one who witnesses it will ever dare question why it happened. Something that could even be used to bring his faithful back into the fold. Something beautiful and reverent ... if death could ever be reverent.
By the following morning his sister has come to visit the parish, with his two nieces in tow. She comes to help with cleaning and preparation for the grand Liturgy of the Eucharist that he holds on the last Sunday of the month. Parishioners who do not attend weekly Mass services rarely ever miss the large once-a-month ceremony, complete with all the bells and whistles he usually leaves out. Another cutback due to poor finances. Soon this will be a bad memory ... nothing more.
He attempts to focus on his work, despite the chaos that disorders the rectory as the children are settled in for their visit. A cacophony erupts the silence of his office. The squeals of excited little girls interrupts his brevity as they rush to his desk to show him the trinket toys his secretary gave them when they arrived. Fashion dolls, plastic beaded necklaces, sopping wet sponges shaped like various zoo creatures the size of their fists ... he chuckles and teases, feigning interest for their benefit. One string of beads breaks and scatters across the floor, and a doll loses her head, casualties of their childish exuberance.
He engages them for a while, before their mom comes to his rescue. She chides the lively girls and apologizes as she shuffles them from the room, leaving a trail of water droplets in their wake. He smiles, shakes his head.
It is late at night and he is in bed when the answer comes. Divine intervention, some might say. In the dark of his room, he laughs out loud, his chest constricted with joy, thanking God for his newfound wisdom.
Every good gift is from above ...
October 18th
Father Moore preaches creationism, but harbors a secret fascination in science. In fact, one of his oldest friends is a professor at the state university. At first, he worried the professor would refuse his unusual request, but like yet another gift from God, he instinctively knew what spin to put on it.
“So you plan to sell these to the children?”
“It’s perfect. Of course, their parents will be happy to buy these ... the little ones love them. Both simple and godly. And I can use the profits to bolster the church’s coffers.”
Professor Mark Taylor appears unconvinced.
“I got the idea from my nieces, truth be told,” Father Moore continues. “Out of the mouth of babes.”
“I know things have been rough for a while. That parish means everything to you, I get that.” He sighs, rubbing his hand across his eyes. “Tell you what ... let me work up a prototype. Give me a few days. Then you can test it for yourself to see if it is what you had in mind.”
“Can you give me two?”
“Uh, sure. I guess two are just as easy as one.”
Father Moore shakes his friend’s hand a bit too enthusiastically. “You’ve no idea the good you’re about to do ... but you will.”
Four days later, Professor Taylor delivers. The prototype works perfectly. Father Moore begins his planning. The end of the month approaches.
It is time.
October 30th
The toxicology report indicates Perry Richards was not an avid pill popper, unless those pills were vitamins and fish oil. There’s no alcohol in his system, no traces of prescription medications. He might be the healthiest dead man Randolph has ever examined. Which makes death by stroke or heart attack less likely. Blood work shows the chemistry of someone who took his doctor’s advice to heart.
More important, there are no traces of foreign substances. Arsenic, botulinum, cyanide, dimethyl mercury ... Randolph considers the possibility of a more antiquarian method. Perhaps aconite, which is typically untraceable, but causes arrhythmia and asphyxiation.
Yes. Definitely a possibility.
He studies the report intensely, looking for the smoking gun. The usual suspects are nowhere to be found. He starts pondering the question of an allergic reaction to something previously undetected.
A piercing throb above his brows interrupts his hypothesis, demanding his attention. Pressing his fingers deep into the corners of his eyes, he groans. He could use some hydrocodone.
Returning his attention to the toxicology screen, his bleary vision readjusts to the smeared typeface on the page, courtesy of an archaic fax machine.
Wait a minute ...
And there it is. Out of place, though not a usual red flag. An unassuming brown spider lurking on a bookshelf.
Hydrogel.
October 28th
Ten a.m., Sunday Mass.
The congregation mumbles The Lord’s Prayer and observes in faux reverence as Father Moore recites the Agnus Dei, holding a round crisp above his head. He halves it, and then halves those pieces, repeating the steps until he has eight wedges in his hands. Distributing them among eight chalices, he says, “Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: grant us peace.” He raises a chalice, and brings it to his lips.
After issuing communion to his attendants, the congregation lines up to receive the Eucharist. They approach him solemnly, eyes appropriately supplicant. Holding skyward a small communion wafer, he softly says to each person, “The Body of Christ.” As they whisper their amens, he places the host on their tongues. The wafers dissolve just enough on contact that they can be swallowed without chewing. The supplicant then shuffles to the left where an assistant offers them a chalice of watered down wine. As parishioners receive the communion, they return to their seats to reflect and pray.
Administering Holy Communion to so many people dulls his reflexes, and his motions and words quickly become robotic. The faces are blurring together before him as he sets paper-thin, white disks on fat, impatient tongues. On days such as this, the Lord’s Work is tedious, and unsanitary. He resists rolling his eyes at some of the lesser-refined recipients who still manage to drop their hosts on the floor, or genuflect incorrectly as they approach. One lady drools on his sleeve. Clumsy cows, he scoffs.
He glances up, gauging the approximate number of people still in line to receive, when his eyes collide with a familiar face. Three people back. His hands remain steady, but his palms begin to sweat. His mark is waiting to receive.
It is time.
October 30th
“I’m not sure I understand, doctor.” Eric hands the report back to Dr. Brown. “Hydrogel? He didn’t have so much as a paper cut on him, and outside of a bandage, I don’t see why that would come up in a tox screen.”
Pointing again to the X-ray image, Dr. Brown says, “We need to see what that is all about.”
October 28th
“Father?”
He stands before Father Moore, his suit impeccable, shoes polished to a mirror’s sheen, hair perfectly coiffed ... probably with designer mousse. His aftershave overpowers the holy incense that fragrances the sanctuary. Even his only flaw—that slight scar cutting through his eyebrow—is pretentious. He has the whitest teeth Father Moore has ever seen, and he’s getting an eyeful of those artificially brightened pearly whites. His heart pounds louder than the choir singing “Ave Verum Corpus’”at his back.
“Father?” The mark seeks his attention, genuflects correctly—of course he does—and opens his mouth to receive the host.
Father Moore lifts a host from the silver bowl, before remembering his mission. With a jerk of his wrist, too subtle to be noticed by the man with eyes fixed skyward, he pushes the wafers aside and plucks up the one sitting on the very bottom of the bowl. It is slightly sticky to the touch, just barely shinier than the rest of the bowl’s contents. He holds the wafer up a
nd repeats, “The Body of Christ,” then places it on the man’s tongue.
The man swallows, a little slower than his counterparts, and replies, “Amen.” Clearing his throat, he follows the procession of people to an assistant waiting with a wine chalice.
Father Moore forces his attention back to the task at hand, portioning out hosts until the communion line has passed through and all the patrons are back in their seats.
During prayer, he searches the crowd, but he has no idea where his mark is seated. He hears a soft cough from the left of the sanctuary. The congregation rises as he begins the concluding rite.
“The Lord be with you.”
Cough, cough
In unison, the congregation replies, “And also with you.”
Cough, cough, cough, cough
“May almighty God bless you ... The Father, and the Son—”
Cough, cough, cough
“And the Holy Spirit.”
He sees him then, slipping out of a pew and quickly heading down the aisle toward the vestibule. A blonde woman attired in a conservative suit follows him out. He watches the door close behind them as the congregation ends the service with “Amen.”
As parishioners file out of the doors, he can hear faint coughing drifting in from the outer hall.
October 30th
Dr. Brown hovers over the prostrate form of Perry Richards, while Eric takes notes. A small voice recorder placed at the corpse’s head is running as Randolph rattles off the subject’s name, age, weight, and other pertinent information. Officer Thomas North, the crime scene investigator, has joined them to take his own notes. This is standard procedure during a criminal investigation, everything done by the book. So even though Randolph knows where the answers he seeks will be found, he prepares to examine Mr. Richards’ chest, abdomen, and head. Being the protocol for the industry-preferred Virchow method that most pathologists use, Randolph adheres to it closely.
He studies the face through a magnifying lens, and lifts each eyelid back. “Presence of cyanosis on the skin. Petechiae in both eyes.” He motions Officer North to his side so he can see. “Cyanosis is the purple you see in his skin. And petechiae is hemorrhaging that appears in the eyes commonly due to suffocation. See those red specks?” He lifts the eyelids again to show the officer.
“So we are looking at a probable homicide by strangulation?” Officer North is furiously writing as Dr. Brown continues his examination.
“No bruises on the neck. X-rays did not reveal a broken hyoid bone. So far my guess is asphyxiation, but probably not by strangulation. Not enough physical evidence to support that.”
Brandishing a scalpel, Randolph begins an incision at the right shoulder and pulls it toward the sternum, then makes another cut from the left shoulder in. He runs the blade down from the incision juncture to the pubic area. An additional assistant steps in to help him open the large, Y-shaped incision to investigate the chest cavity and organs. Each organ is removed carefully and weighed. Eric records the stats as Randolph relays them. As he’d already surmised, all are in perfect condition.
Richards could have lived to one hundred.
After removing the skull cap with an oscillating saw, Dr. Brown repeats the process of weighing, measuring, and examining the brain. Once again, a flawless organ. Eric and Officer North continue note taking as Randolph makes another incision along the jawbone. Very carefully, he traces the curve with his knife, extending it from ear to ear. The skin is carefully pulled back to reveal the musculature of the neck.
His gloved fingers run the length of the throat. Yes. Right there. He uses a smaller scalpel to make a shallow, vertical incision. As the cut separates, he slides three fingers into the cavity that should have been empty ... but isn’t. He pulls the foreign body free.
Eric curses. The officer gasps.
Randolph is too shocked to speak.
October 29th
The soft drone of the television accompanies Father Moore’s dinner. Alone in his small kitchen, he savors the stew that simmered in a crock pot for most of the afternoon. It tastes incredible. Another blessing from God. He is surprisingly calm, considering his machinations the previous morning. But there is no fear. No concern. He has done the Lord’s work. Soon his parish will be saved.
He eschews the dire headlines of the evening paper for a lighthearted situational sitcom on television. He laughs like it’s the first time. His spirits are so high, he indulges in a second bowl of dinner.
The program on the television is interrupted by a breaking news bulletin. He turns up the volume when the face of his mark appears on the screen.
“Republican Perry Richards was found dead at 4:37 this afternoon. He was discovered by his wife in their home. Authorities have not released a cause of death, but it is being ruled as suspicious. Richards was running for state representative of the thirteenth district against Democrat Aaron Grant, and with elections just weeks away, it is unclear at this time who will run on the Republican ticket in Richards’ place. We will bring you more details as they are given to us.”
Father Moore’s stomach lurches as the stew threatens to make a comeback. He switches off the television and reaches for the bottle of scotch. He’d been instructed not to ask questions, and he didn’t. The money was worth more than his curiosity. He didn’t consider that the mark might be someone important.
But why not? Who offers that much money for the head of an average nobody, really? A politician, better yet, a conservative politician ... he never would have agreed, had he known. He told himself the man must be inherently evil. A thief stealing from helpless women and children. A pedophile. A rapist. An investment banker, maybe.
And a member of his parish. He should be flattered that such a public figure graced his services. But he disconnected from his flock years ago when they stopped providing. Was this God’s punishment on him for being so bitter and detached?
He finishes the bottle quickly and heads for his bedroom. He has a hell of a lot of Hail Marys to say tonight.
Oh Lord, have mercy.
October 30th
“Jesus Christ!”
Randolph almost laughed at Eric’s exclamation, despite the chill that snaked over him. “Yes. You are absolutely correct.”
The mysterious intruder has to be carefully cleaned, it is covered in blood, saliva, and bile. A closer evaluation reveals that Richards vomited while he suffocated—normal during asphyxiation—but with the item lodged in his throat, the bile was trapped. It stained the bottom of the object, soaking into the porous foam.
But that is what sponges are supposed to do.
Eric whispers, “What is that thing?”
“It’s ... Jesus.”
Randolph squeezes the figurine gently around the middle, and the head and feet bulge around his fist. It is five inches tall and roughly two and a half inches around.
And it is Jesus. Hands open at his sides. Broad smile on the bearded face. Halo on his head, sandals on his feet. Randolph could even make out dimples in the palms of his hands to signify nail holes. A miniature statue of Jesus Christ, sculpted in white rubbery foam.
“I don’t understand,” Eric says. “Why would anyone swallow a sponge?”
October 30th
His morning coffee scalds his tongue, numbing his taste buds. No matter. His appetite is gone anyway. He meets with his secretary, the parish treasurer, and oversees the choir rehearsal, throwing himself at his priestly duties in an effort to forget the dark shadow that looms behind him.
The news that morning offers no new developments, except to announce that Richards’ body was now at the county coroner’s office. He is anxious, trapped in a surreal daydream. He needs to separate himself from the pall of death trailing him. He smiles at the old ladies that trail in to light candles and say their prayers. Old-school Catholics. Just the distraction he needs.
He listens to a grandmother’s lament over her wayward grandson, who recently joined band of punk rockers and now worships Satan
. He pats her shoulder and assures her that her grandson most likely is just going through a phase, and probably really doesn’t worship Satan at all. The black fingernails are a fashion statement, not evidence of a rotting soul. She smiles at the priest like he is the Savior. He starts to feel more relaxed.
A movement in his peripheral distracts him. A man in the vestibule is shuffling past the sanctuary doors. His drab coat droops off his hunched shoulders as he uses a cane to hobble in the direction of the confessional booth. After giving grandma another word of encouragement, Father Moore excuses himself.
The door to the confessional has just latched shut, so Father Moore steps into his cubby and slides open the partition. The screen obscures the occupant’s profile, but he can just make out a head of gray unruly hair.
“Do you seek to confess, my son?”
The response is soft. Muffled. Father Moore cannot hear anything more than a murmur. He leans closer to the screen.
“I’m terribly sorry. I’m afraid I can’t understand what you are saying. Would you mind repeating that for me?”
“I said, thank you.” The voice is raspy, and doesn’t sound particularly grateful.
“Thank you?”
A sudden zing, followed by a fiery punch to his abdomen, startles Father Moore. He is thrown against the side of the booth, disorientated. A small hole under the partition screen is smoking. He reaches for it, but his arm is suddenly too heavy to move from his side. He runs hot, feverish, but then abruptly feels cold. Weakly, he presses his side and feels hot, sticky wetness soaking through his robes. His hand comes away covered in copper-scented wine. Fresh, warm blood is pooling in his lap.