Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  “What’s the last 10 percent?”

  “Sheepdogs. People like me. We protect the sheep from the wolves. That’s our calling. And we need every advantage we get. That’s why we carry guns.”

  “I’m glad you do. I sleep better at night.”

  “My point is that you don’t have to be a cop or a soldier or a fireman to be a sheepdog. There are people everywhere who have an innate desire to protect others. I get that vibe from you. I don’t know. Maybe I’m misreading you.”

  Parker thought for a moment. “I’d say I’m neither a sheep nor a sheepdog. I’m a shepherd. That’s what pastor means. And I don’t need a gun for that.”

  “Like ‘the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want’?”

  “Exactly. The Scriptures tell us that Jesus is the Good Shepherd and we pastors are his undershepherds. Shepherds don’t generally carry artillery.”

  “What about ‘Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me’? A rod can come in handy for a shepherd when wolves come around.”

  “Nice try. But the rod and staff in that passage are figurative.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  “They are. The Hebrew is shebet, and it’s almost always figurative. The pillar or rod of God symbolizes his authority, his reign.”

  “My Beretta symbolizes my authority too, I suppose.”

  Parker chuckled. “Good enough. Take a right here. I’m off Cambridge.” They rode in silence for a few blocks. “You know the Bible a little bit,” Parker observed.

  “Yeah, a bit. I don’t know the Hebrew word for rod. Then again, you may have just made that up for all I know.”

  “Do you attend church?”

  “I used to go every Sunday. Haven’t in quite a while. I’ve caught your program a couple times though.”

  “I’d think that in your line of work, a church base would be crucial. I can’t imagine looking at all that blood and guts every day. The hopelessness. Seeing the handiwork of all those evil people. Studying it, even.”

  Ketcham took a long drag on his cigarette. “It’s that kind of junk that keeps me from going to church. I don’t think I could sit in a pew and worship a God that would allow those two kids to be sliced and diced to death before they’ve even started their lives.”

  “How do you deal with it then?”

  “What do you expect me to say? I go for long jogs? Lift weights? Meditate? Drink? The truth is, I don’t do any of that stuff. I deal with the grit and the garbage by . . .” He grappled for the right word.

  “That’s my house.”

  “Wow. Nice place, Preacher.” He guided the car up the driveway and put it in park. “Do you know where the police station is downtown?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I want you there tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred. Not a moment later.”

  Parker pulled out his phone and brought up the calendar. “Okay, I’ll be there. If it’s not too much trouble, maybe we could schedule the other times you’ll need me, too, so I can work my program prep around that.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Parker. You’re with me every day for the foreseeable future. Take your little phone and block off at least a week. Maybe two.”

  “Detective Ketcham, I can’t just throw something together for Sunday morning. What I do requires hours of preparation.”

  Ketcham shrugged. “Can’t you play a rerun?”

  “It’s not a sitcom. People come to our church to worship and be spiritually fed.”

  “Get a guest speaker then. I’d do it for you, but I’m not the guy who chucked a stapler at a stewardess.”

  “That’s not what—”

  “8:00 a.m. See you then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Paige Carmichael was one of the smartest, most capable women Parker had ever met. A Vassar grad, she had worked for a television producer in New York for two years before moving back to Grand Rapids. Her skills were a perfect match for her job with Parker’s ministry. This was all a happy accident though, as Parker had largely hired her for the image of success she projected. She was a pretty, nubile little thing with short red hair and piercing blue eyes. She was exactly Parker’s type, and their chemistry and rapport were thick from day one. A romantic relationship had seemed on the verge of developing when Joshua Holton warned Parker to cut it off at the pass.

  “Paige is a great assistant, Parker, but she looks like a stripper. She’s got trailer-park lips. When choosing a wife, you have to think about your image,” he’d said in that easy Texas drawl of his. “Not that there’s anything unbiblical about factoring in the length of a woman’s legs, the width of her hips, and the size of her bust when choosing a life mate. The Bible’s full of that sort of thing. Just look at the Song of Song.”

  Song of Songs, Parker had wanted to correct, but he’d grown used to biting his tongue. He’d also grown accustomed to fighting down the urge to strangle the Southern preacher when he went off on these sexist tangents. For all the opportunities and advancement Parker got from his association with Holton, his tongue was taking quite a chewing.

  Parker found Paige working furiously in her office at Abundance Now Ministries, her fingers flying over the keys of her laptop. She was unaware of his presence until he flopped down in a leather chair next to the desk.

  “Are you looking for the one-armed man?” she joked.

  “I’m not a fugitive, Paige. I’m practically an honorary cop after today.”

  “It went well?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew a lot about occult symbolism,” she said, gesturing toward a copy of the day’s Grand Rapids Press.

  “I don’t know anything.” It felt good to admit it to someone. “I had a great seminary education. They covered systematic theology, preaching, Greek, and Hebrew, but they sort of glossed over church history, at least from before the Reformation. A little light on world religions too.”

  “That stuff seems kind of important.”

  “It’s not that they skipped it entirely. I had a few credits here and there, but how much do I remember fifteen years later? Not a ton.”

  “But you do more research than anyone I know.”

  “Paige, you’ve heard me preach. The last thing my fans want to hear about is demons and candles and black masses.”

  “Do you need me to buy you one of those For Dummies books?”

  “Not necessary. But I would like you to track someone down for me. Do you know where my class notes are?”

  “Yeah, they’re in the file room.”

  “Find a class I took in Bible college. Undergrad. It was about occult topics or cults or something. They covered Satanism and witchcraft and that sort of thing. The prof was this oddball. Dr. Grant, I think. Make me copies of any notes and see if you can track down the professor’s contact information.”

  “I’ll get right on it. Would you like me to make an appointment for you? You have openings tomorrow and Wednesday.”

  Parker sighed. “Paige, I have to go in to the police station tomorrow morning at eight. And every morning after that for at least a week.”

  She closed her laptop and squinted at him, trying to read if he was joking. “No you don’t.”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s that or a very public trial dragging on, smearing my good name, tanking my book sales.”

  “But what about Sunday morning? When will you find time to prepare?”

  “Honestly, I could probably throw something together if I had to—wing it a little. But let’s see if Tony Rex can take over the show this Sunday.”

  “I’ll see if he can preach the service,” she gently corrected.

  “Right. And clear my schedule for the rest of this week.”

  Paige nodded and scrunched up her nose. “I hope you catch the bad guy fast. Every week you’re off the air hurts our momentum.”

  “By the time the book comes out, this will be ancient history.”

  Parker had just arrived home and dropped
his keys in the dish on the mantel when the doorbell rang. He looked through the peephole to find three men in clerical collars standing shoulder to shoulder on his porch.

  Could this day get any weirder? He opened the door.

  Father Xavier spoke. “We’re looking for the Reverend Saint.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Splendid.” The priest smiled and bowed slightly at the neck. “How are you this evening?”

  “I’m well, Father. How are you?”

  “We are blessed by God the Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. We realize this may be inconvenient, but could we possibly have just a few minutes of your time?”

  “How could I tell three priests no?” he laughed. “Come on in, gentlemen.”

  At his invitation, they sat down on a designer sectional in the living room.

  “So, what can I do for you?” Parker asked wearily. “I’m sorry to be so abrupt, but I’ve had a very long, very strange day, and tomorrow’s not looking much better.”

  “We understand,” Xavier said, “although I’m not sure where I should begin. Perhaps it would help if you could tell me what you know about the Jesuits?”

  Parker thought. “The Society of Jesus? I know a little bit. It’s a Catholic order started by Loyola, right? Francis Loyola.”

  “Ignatius de Loyola,” Father Ignatius corrected.

  “Yes that’s right. Ignatius de Loyola. Part of the Counter-Reformation, I believe.”

  All three men stiffened.

  “We call it the Catholic Reformation,” Father Michael said.

  “Oh. Sorry. I know a couple of Jesuit guys through the Christian TV station in town. I love what they do for the poor and downtrodden. They’re always working to change the system for the better. Great guys.”

  Ignatius scoffed. “You are speaking of the so-called ‘option for the poor.’ Secular liberal causes, political action. These things are innovations, leading the order astray.”

  “Um . . . sorry?”

  “Father Ignatius misspoke,” Michael said. “He meant to say . . . nothing. He meant to say nothing. The fact is that we’re members of the Jesuits Militant, a very different branch of the order than your friends. A much less public branch, with a different goal and different methods. But we aren’t here to discuss religio-political issues in modern Catholicism, are we, Father Ignatius? We’re here because of the destruction of churches in Grand Rapids.”

  “You’re talking about Valley Christian.”

  “Yes, Valley Christian was burned to the ground—intentionally, we believe. But I’m also talking about the fire at St. Casimir’s and a wave of vandalism and property damage at St. Mark’s Episcopal, Fountain Street Church, Immanuel Lutheran, and a handful of others.”

  “What about it?”

  “We are investigating these events on behalf of the Holy See.”

  Parker smiled. “The Vatican? Sure. And what would the Vatican care about teenagers spray-painting Protestant churches in the American Midwest? It seems like they would have bigger fish to fry.”

  “St. Casimir’s is one of ours,” Ignatius said.

  Xavier quickly added, “And, of course, we don’t want to see any church building defaced. We’re rather more ecumenical these days. Isn’t that right, Father Ignatius?”

  Ignatius grunted.

  “The paper said St. Casimir’s fire was caused by a wiring problem,” Parker said. “That happens all the time with churches. A friend and I were just talking today about how he lost his first church in an accidental fire.”

  “Even granting that possibility,” Xavier said, “you cannot deny the sharp uptick in occult-related crime in this city.” He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out several photographs, paper-clipped together. “Esoteric symbols spray-painted on church buildings, mysterious fires, and now, murders with Satanic overtones. These things are harder to explain away when you take them as a group.” He handed the photos to Parker. They were pictures of graffiti on the outer walls of various church buildings.

  “I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me,” Parker said. Fatigue was pressing in on him, and he wanted nothing more than to order in some Lebanese food and go to sleep.

  “Because you’re on the inside of the police investigation into these crimes,” Father Michael said.

  Parker stood. “I’m not sure how you know that, but I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  Michael pulled a portable video player from Xavier’s bag and set it down on an end table.

  “We’ll be on our way in a moment.” Michael beckoned Parker to sit next to him. “First, I want to show you something.” He pushed Play, and a familiar image of Brynn Carter appeared on the small LCD screen.

  “He was out of control,” Brynn was saying. “He slapped my hand and then he just . . . shoved everything that was on the counter right into me.” She began to cry.

  “Where did you get this?” Parker demanded. “You shouldn’t have this.” He was not generally given to fits of rage like the one being described on the video, but he felt one boiling under the surface now.

  “Let’s say the Freedom of Information Act,” Michael answered. “No one cares about this little clip right now. No one knows about your little outburst. What if this clip were on the Internet though? Or mailed to the local paper?”

  “Am I really being blackmailed by three priests? Because I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

  Michael feigned offense. “I’m not blackmailing you. We’re just watching a video together like a couple of buddies and having a conversation. And in that conversation, I’m telling you this: all we’re asking for is a little inside information that might help us protect the churches of this city. That seems like something you’d want to do.”

  “I should call the police. In fact, I’m going to be at the police station first thing tomorrow morning. I think I’ll tell Detective Ketcham about this.”

  Ignatius frowned. “I suppose you could do that. You could have us arrested. Upon further investigation though, the police would find us to be genuine ordained priests, citizens of Vatican City, and official envoys of a sovereign state. With diplomatic immunity, naturally.”

  Michael nodded. “It’s a good deal if you can get it. Kind of like being the grandson of the old guy your dorm’s named after at boarding school.”

  Parker’s head was spinning. “What are you telling me?”

  Ignatius’s accent surfaced for a moment. “We’re telling you that we could burn down your Washington Monument, and the very worst they could do to us would be send us home.”

  “Well, I don’t think you could burn down the Washington Monument,” Michael said, “since it’s made of, ya know, stone. But that is the general idea.”

  Parker laughed, overselling it. “Vatican envoys with diplomatic immunity? This is like if a guy brags he knows karate, then he doesn’t. Right? If you guys were really secret Vatican assassins, why would you tell me?”

  “We aren’t assassins, Parker.” Michael shook his head slowly. “We never said that. And we’re telling you who we are because you’re not going to utter a word of this to anyone. Because you’re scared to death of that video entering the public consciousness.” He removed the disc from the video player and held it out in front of him. “The good news is that this is the original. They’re still using DVDs down there. Can you believe it? And this one disappeared mysteriously from the archives today. We’d like you to have it in exchange for your help in this matter. You could do whatever you want with it. Burn it, shred it, blend it.”

  “I don’t suppose you men have any sort of ID on you.”

  “You can probably imagine why we’re not issued laminated badges. But here’s my card.” Michael pulled a bone-white calling card from a silver case and extended it to Parker between two thick fingers. On the front it read Fr. Michael Faber in a sans serif font. Below the name was a graphic—the letters IHS interposed on a cross. The reverse side bore two phone numbers: one internatio
nal and one domestic with a 410 area code.

  Parker’s eyebrows went up. “This is your identification? Color me unconvinced.”

  Father Ignatius stood and reached into his jacket. “Perhaps this will help,” he said and pulled out a nickel-plated semiautomatic pistol with the same crest engraved on the custom pearl grips.

  “Whoa!” Parker was up and halfway to the door before he knew it. Michael caught his arm.

  “Ignatius, what are you doing?” he shouted at the older priest. “I’m sorry, Parker. He’s not always this psycho.”

  “What is the problem?” Ignatius asked incredulously. “The Superior General gave me this gun to commemorate thirty years of service to the order. I thought it might convince our friend.”

  “He’s convinced. Just put it away already.”

  Parker studied the card. “So you basically want me to call you and give you updates on the investigation.”

  “No need,” Xavier said. “Feel free to call us if you need anything, but we’ll be contacting you soon with some specific questions.”

  “I don’t usually give out my number,” Parker said.

  “No need,” Ignatius echoed, heading for the door. “We have it.”

  FIVE

  PARKER FELT A LITTLE SILLY TO BE STANDING IN HIS CLOSET, trying to decide what to wear to police headquarters. He wished he’d paid closer attention to Troy’s and Ketcham’s clothes the day before. As it was, he had it narrowed down to three suits, but they all seemed a bit much.

  His phone vibrated on the nightstand.

  “This is Parker.”

  “Good morning, Officer.”

  “Paige, I was just thinking about you. I wish you were here to dress me this morning.”

  “Umm . . .”

  “Yeah, that came out wrong. What I mean is I can’t decide what to wear for my first full day on the job with the detectives.”

  “You realize how that comes across, don’t you?”