The Sacrifice

by William Kienzle

  “Race.” Zack’s voice was emotionless.

  “Race?” Zoo sounded slightly puzzled.

  “We do have the same father.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “True, I can pass. But I’ve never done so. I’m mulatto, and to some people that means I’m a nigger.”

  That word once allowed in otherwise polite society by now was used meaningfully only by the rankest of bigots. The word enunciated here by Zachary Tully, a priest, jolted this group like a stinging slap to the face.

  “You’re saying,” Zoo stated, “that you could have been the target. That the bomb could have been meant for you?”

  “Yes. That’s very possible. And if the supposition is true, it would be a fatal mistake to overlook it.”

  Zoo shook his head. “You’ve been here, first in residence, then as pastor, for—what?—three years now. Why would any nut wait all this time to attack you? You’ve never had any trouble along these lines …” Zoo’s forehead knotted in sudden suspicion. “… have you?”

  Clearly, Zachary was deeply concerned. “Yes, I have. I just haven’t told you or Anne Marie about it.”

  Zoo found this revelation difficult to swallow. “But … when? Why? How long has this been going on?”

  “I didn’t get any feedback while I was filling in for Bob Koesler when he went on vacation. But”—he turned to Koesler—“after you retired, Bob, and I became pastor”—he turned back to Zoo—“maybe three or four months after—the letters and phone calls began.”

  “What sorts of letters and calls?”

  “The letters consisted of words cut out of newspapers and magazines and pasted on notepaper. The calls were from some man whose voice was muffled so I could hardly understand what he was saying, let alone identify him.”

  “How often would he contact you?”

  “I don’t even know for sure if it was the same man every time. There was no regularity, no routine. Usually, if we had anything out of the ordinary …”

  “Like …”

  “A festival. A novena in honor of St. Joseph—the parish’s patron saint. But especially if we sponsored a program that had something even peripherally to do with race: social justice, mixed marriages—that sort of thing. It was as dependable as sunrise: I’d get a letter or a call.”

  “Have you got any of those letters? Did you keep them?”

  Zack’s reaction was as one who had failed at something very important and vital. “No … none.” He was crestfallen.

  Zoo was both angry and frustrated. “We could have helped you. By this time, we could’ve had that bas—” Zoo caught himself. “… that guy—locked up in Jacktown.” Zoo was almost clenching his teeth. “Zack, what were you thinking of? You know you should’ve given that stuff to me!”

  Now Zack was like an adolescent being lectured. “I didn’t want to worry you. Particularly, I didn’t want to worry Anne Marie. Besides, as time went on and nothing happened, I thought maybe the guy had given it up.”

  “Not likely,” Zoo said. He shook his head. “In light of what happened today, you’re right, Zack: This gives the situation an entirely different slant.” He turned back to the others.

  “I was given to understand that there were strong feelings against Father Wheatley and his move to join the Catholic Church.” His tone was now near belligerent.

  Koesler almost winced. He knew he was going to have the devil’s own time trying to be conscious of that term “Catholic.” But he had entered upon the process of becoming sensitive to the terms “Catholic” and “Anglican” or “Episcopalian.”

  “He did seem the overwhelming choice as designated target,” Zoo went on. “But we still have to account for the delay in starting the procession. You may or may not have been the intended victim. But why didn’t that ceremony begin on time—”

  Once again a knock. This time a uniformed officer opened the door to admit two people, a young man and a younger woman.

  Nan Wheatley dropped the hands she was holding and rose to greet her other two children.

  The young man was Ronald Wheatley—”Father Ron Wheatley,” as Nan referred to him. He was “Ron” to his immediate family and familiar friends. But whenever there was the slightest chance that his professional status would be unclear to strangers, Nan always tacked on the “Father.”

  Nan crossed the room to put a protective arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “And this is our daughter, Alice.”

  Father Koesler was the only one present who was familiar with the entire Wheatley family. He had worked with George in touching all the bases in the elder Wheatley’s quest to become a priest in the Roman Church. During that process, Koesler had met Nan Wheatley about the minimum number of times. And none of those times was it a purely social visit.

  Koesler was aware that Ron was an Episcopal priest and that Alice, too, was preparing for that vocation. However, were it not for their relationship to George Wheatley, Koesler undoubtedly would have been unaware of their existence.

  Ron physically resembled his mother. Both were tall and slim, with chiseled features. They were attractive people.

  Ronald’s clerical suit was impeccable; his trouser creases looked as if they could cut steel. Just the right length of French cuffs peeked correctly from the sleeves of his fitted jacket. Silver cuff links in the shape of a cross were occasionally visible.

  Keeping in mind his vocation, Ronald—Father Ronald Wheatley—was power-dressed.

  Alice, on the other hand, resembled her father. Even her voice, deep for a woman, had the same sonorous quality. Neither father nor daughter seemed concerned with their appearance. George Wheatley had gone to pot early, on. He was by no means gross or obese. Nan chose to look upon her husband’s waist as nothing more than leftover baby fat. His girth was not muscular or particularly flabby; it was just … there. George was comfortable with his bulk—and with his life, for that matter.

  This unconcern with appearance did not work as well for Alice.

  In her early twenties, she could charitably be described as being on the far side of zaftig. Less charitably, she clearly was overweight. At that young age she should have been as attractive as she ever would be. Instead, she just didn’t quite make it. A solid program of exercise and diet would have done wonders. Instead, most of her time was spent studying and snacking.

  The heavy, black frames of her glasses didn’t help. Her face was round and full, making her resemble a female Charlie Brown. Or, perhaps, a triple-decker snowman.

  This, Father Koesler’s initial appreciation of the young woman, may not have been kind. But it was incontrovertible.

  Alice’s entire demeanor seemed to indicate that she was missing out on the fun of being young. Koesler put himself in her place and regretted the course she had chosen. After college, she had embarked on a seminary career that would require three additional years of study. She was now completing the first of those years.

  Ron and Alice seemed breathless, as if they had been running, or at least walking rapidly.

  “Are you two all right?” Ron was addressing his parents.

  George nodded.

  “We’re fine, dear,” Nan said.

  “Was anyone badly hurt?”

  “A priest was killed,” Lieutenant Tully said. “The priest who was murdered”—Tully used the verb deliberately—“was Father Joseph Farmer.”

  “A Roman?” Ron asked.

  “What?” Even though the term had already been used during this gathering, so unfamiliar was Tully with this subidentification that he could not have provided an answer to Ron’s question.

  “A Roman, as distinct from an Anglican,” Father Tully explained to his brother. And then, to the young man, “Yes, he was a Roman.”

  “Anyone else seriously injured?” Alice asked.

  “Not as far as we know just now,” Zoo replied. Then: “Where have you two been?”

  The identical question was on Walt Koznicki’s mind.

  “You mean Ali
ce and me? What right have you—” Ron Wheatley was on his way toward being defiant and uncooperative when he thought better of it. “I was driving around,” he said calmly.

  “Going nowhere?” Tully asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes: going nowhere.”

  “You did not intend to attend your father’s ceremony?”

  “That’s why I was driving around—aimlessly.”

  “Which was …?”

  “I couldn’t make up my mind whether to attend.

  “The time to begin the ordination”—evidenced in his tone was an abundance of distaste—“came and went. And that settled things as far as I was concerned. I would have driven home. But my mother called my cell phone number. Of course, the bomb had just gone off so she couldn’t tell me much more than that. But it was enough to get me over here.”

  “You came here directly?”

  “No, not directly. My sister is staying at the Pontchartrain. It’s just a few minutes from here. So I picked her up.”

  Zoo turned to Alice, who still stood in the protective embrace of her mother. “What were you doing at the Pontchartrain?”

  “I flew up from Dallas. I’m a student at a seminary there.”

  “So you’re an out-of-towner. It seems probable that you would stay with your parents … or your brother.”

  “Yes.” Alice seemed impassive. Being questioned by a police officer in a rectory where a bomb had just exploded didn’t seem to rattle her.

  “So why didn’t you stay with one or another of your relatives?”

  “The main reason is that I wasn’t sure I would attend my dad’s ordination.” Her tone was almost identical to her brother’s. Was she parroting his sarcasm, Zoo wondered, or was the sentiment her own?

  “I knew she was in town,” Ron volunteered. “I phoned her. We talked about what Dad was going to do. We agreed that we both were uncertain about attending. She didn’t want to stay with our folks and feel pressured to accompany them.

  “Likewise she didn’t want to compromise my decision. So she stayed downtown. The idea was that the Pontchartrain is close enough so that she could wait till the last minute to decide and still taxi here in time. Matter of fact, I wasn’t even sure I’d catch her in. But I did. We came straight over. And”—with a. gesture—“here we are.”

  “So,” Zoo said, “I assume you both were alone at the time of the explosion. You have no one who could testify that you were in transit and not at the scene?”

  “What!” Ron’s anger was instant. “If we had been in the church then, don’t you think someone would’ve seen us? We don’t need an alibi for being alone and away from this place. We simply weren’t here.”

  “There were a lot of people milling about,” Zoo suggested.

  “This is purely outrageous!” Ron’s anger was escalating. “I am a priest. My sister is a seminarian. And we’re talking about our father. You are suggesting that we tried to kill our own father. Killing anyone is out of the question. Killing our father—patricide—why, the very idea is a gross insult to both my sister and me.” The words were uttered as if they were bullets.

  “This is a murder investigation, Father,” Zoo said calmly. “We ask questions … lots of questions. You’re going to have to get used to this. You are not the only ones who may get angry about being questioned. We are going to get whoever did this. And, in order to do that, we must ask questions. Get used to it, Father; it’s going to happen.”

  Father Ron Wheatley and his sister looked daggers at Lieutenant Tully. They were furious … and deeply insulted. The lieutenant didn’t care. His mind was occupied with bringing the bomber to trial. And it didn’t help that his brother the priest had just revealed that he’d been the target of threats to his safety and even to his life.

  This investigation had too many loose threads. Zoo dedicated himself to tying up these loose ends and getting to the bottom of this. “Now …” He took a deep breath and dived back into the cause of the delay in the ceremony—a delay that seemed to grow more important by the minute. “Now,” he repeated, “we were just at the point of determining what caused the delay …”

  “You must know,” Zachary Tully addressed his brother, “that delay is mother’s milk in churches. Just drawing on my own experience, I’d say that far more ceremonies start late than start anywhere near on time.”

  “I know, Zack. But we can’t dodge the fact that this delay made a lot of real difference.”

  No one picked up the verbal ball. Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to either take responsibility or suggest some hitherto unsuspected cause.

  At length George Wheatley said quietly, “I’m afraid it’s my fault.”

  All eyes turned toward him. No one was more surprised than Zoo Tully. He had never heard George Wheatley speak.

  But the others were more than conscious of the resonant quality of that voice. There were those who, with some humor, called it, “the voice of God.” The implication being that if God were to speak in human voice, this was what it would sound like. The phenomenon was that such a stentorian instrument should be packaged in so unlikely a box.

  To look at the hitherto silent George Wheatley, one might expect his voice to be reedy, perhaps even shrill, possibly even not particularly attractive. But when George Wheatley spoke—even merely cleared his throat—it was, indeed, “the voice of God.”

  Koesler was interested in what George had to say. He also was content to sit back and listen to this magnificent organ.

  Still, no one had asked the obvious question: Why did George think he had been responsible for the seemingly all-important delay?

  Zoo Tully, who, with no challenge from former Inspector Koznicki, was heading this investigation, shook off his amazement at the quality of the man’s voice. “Why do you say it’s your fault?”

  “Well,” George said, “it was the phone, really.”

  His children—all three of them—broke up in laughter.

  It must be an inside joke, thought Koesler. Certainly there was nothing intrinsically funny about answering a phone.

  Lieutenant Tully experienced the same bewilderment: What was so funny about answering a phone?

  “You must excuse us.” George Wheatley too was chuckling. “It’s a bit of an inside joke. I have a nasty habit of answering a ringing phone.”

  “Whenever it rings,” Alice said.

  “No matter what’s going on,” Richard added.

  This interrogation had been so deadly serious, literally, that everyone was grateful for the levity.

  “The classic example,” Richard said, “happened when we were in a rural parish, up around Port Huron. It was eleven o’clock on a cold evening. We kids had gone to bed. Mother had taken our two dogs—two big dogs—out for their final run of the night. Suddenly she called to my father—so loudly we kids woke up. Dad went running out—”

  “We were living on about two acres—fenced in,” said Alice.

  “Right,” Richard continued. “It was pitch dark … big oak trees all over the place, so there was not even any moonlight to see by. It was almost impossible for Dad to see where Mother was. She couldn’t have jumped that fence unless one of our lives depended on it. But that wasn’t the case. Mother and the dogs were out there somewhere.”

  “We wanted to go out and help, but we knew better,” said Alice. “And then we heard Mother yell, ‘George! The dogs! They’ve cornered a possum!’ It was obvious she was at wit’s end.”

  “And then,” Ron joined in the story, “the phone rang.”

  The Wheatleys broke up again at the memory.

  George grew sober. He was not at all proud of his contribution at this point in the story. “I know it sounds silly, but I couldn’t help it. I went back inside to answer the phone.”

  “He left Mother, the dogs, and the possum out there in the dark, and came in to answer the phone!” Ron summed up.

  “I regretted it,” George said, “the very instant I got back in the hous
e. I knew I had made the wrong decision. I knew it. But by that time there was no turning back. So I picked up the phone …”

  “Was it worth your while?” Father Tully had been caught up in the flow of this incident. “I mean, who was on the phone? An emergency? A sick call?”

  “Well,” said George, “that’s just the point. I had no way of knowing whether it might be a sick call or some other emergency. That’s why I was so torn over which way to go.”

  “So, who was it?”

  “A wrong number.”

  Now everyone, including even Nan Wheatley, laughed.

  “And then?” Father Tully prompted.

  “Well, of course, I got back outside as quickly as I could. From all the racket—Nan yelling and the dogs barking loud enough to rouse the dead … well, I started wondering whether we were waking the neighbors.

  “Whether or not we were didn’t really worry me at the moment. I finally located the foursome. It appeared to be a tableau: a lot of noise, but not much movement.

  “Nan was trying to hold the snarling dogs back. The possum, cornered up against a pile of logs, seemed willing to wait for the first one of the three dumb enough to dare those bared razor-sharp teeth.

  “I took hold of the larger dog’s collar in hopes that that helpful gesture might win me a bit of absolution.”

  “Did it?”

  “It did not—at least not then. Informing my wife that it had been a wrong number didn’t help either. Not until much later. It took years before we were able to laugh at it all.” He turned to his wife. “Nan was the last to find any humor in the incident.”

  Lieutenant Tully looked thoughtful. “Who beside your immediate family knew of your compulsion?”

  Wheatley likewise looked thoughtful, then smiled. “Almost anybody who knew me or worked with me. As I recall, I’ve even written about it in my column, and mentioned it on my radio program. Now that I think of it,” he added, “I’ve heard from several readers and listeners who say they suffer from the same addiction.”

  “Did you ever,” Zoo asked, “discover what in your past might trigger such a compulsion?”