Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  Parker was trying to keep his mind off the creepiness of their surroundings and the inky blackness ahead. “Is that how you got into this line of work?” he asked. “Some kind of ROTC for Jesuit-prep-school kids?”

  “That’s not as far off as you might think. My parents died when I was twelve. They left money and instructions in their will that I was to attend Stonyhurst in Lancashire. That’s England. My family has connections to the school going way back. I excelled there academically and athletically. I also fit a certain ‘psychological and spiritual profile,’ and so the Jesuits Militant recruited me on my sixteenth birthday.”

  They came back out of the boiler room and made their way to a flight of stairs. Parker was thankful for the streetlights streaming weakly in through the windows.

  “Father Michael, can I ask you a question along the lines of ‘speaking plainly’?”

  “I guess that’s fair.”

  “When you were sixteen and they recruited you, did you strip naked, put a dagger to your chest, and take an oath that you would burn, flay, strangle, and bury people alive?”

  Michael spun and faced him, his face emotionless. “What did you ask me?”

  “It was something I read on—nothing, never mind.”

  The priest’s face hardened. “I’m afraid I have to kill you now, Parker.”

  “You have to—what? Why?” He wanted to run, but his feet felt glued to the stairs.

  Michael burst out laughing. “I’m just messing with you. You’re talking about the Extreme Oath of Induction. It’s a fake. Basically every nasty anti-Catholic rumor ever spread, all rolled into one. The idea of an oath might have come from some kernel of truth—the early Jesuits were pretty active in fighting Protestantism. But then again, John Calvin was active in fighting the Catholic Church too. I like to think, five hundred years later, we might be able to let some of those old grudges go.”

  “What does Father Ignatius think about that?”

  “Well, he’s five hundred years old, so he gets a pass,” Michael joked, flashing a goofy grin. “But really, if you knew his background, you’d understand.”

  Parker thought of Ignatius glaring at him in the backseat. “Try me.”

  “You know those families where every generation has a fireman or a soldier or a cop? It’s passed down father to son to grandson to great-grandson—a straight line down the family tree?”

  “Firsthand.”

  “Well, in Father Ignatius’s case, it’s like a slalom run down the family tree. Every generation for at least twenty has had one Jesuit Militant. His uncle was one, and his great-uncle. And his great-uncle’s uncle. He’s had some of the old ideas kind of bred into him.”

  “So what’s his position on us Protestants, really?”

  “Let’s just say I wouldn’t leave you alone with him.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re kidding, Michael.”

  “I am. I think. But he really is old-school. I mean, it never crossed my mind to drop him off here. This church is a ministry of the Paulist Fathers, who are most well-known for their work toward Christian unity. Incredible priests—it just wouldn’t sit well with him.”

  “But he hasn’t flayed, strangled, or buried Protestants alive. Has he?”

  Michael laughed. “Of course not. Father Ignatius likes to talk like it’s the Middle Ages, but even then, we’ve honestly never been above the law. We’re subject to the Scriptures and the rule of the Church. Like any Christian, we can only take a life in a just war or to protect ourselves or someone weaker than ourselves.”

  “For the record, I’m a lot weaker than you.”

  They had come full circle to the narthex of the church. Michael opened one of the large oak doors and signaled for Parker to stay behind him as they entered the nave. Passing a small font, the priest dipped two fingers and crossed himself. He dipped them again and splashed a few drops of water onto Parker’s face.

  “Let this water call to mind your baptism into Christ,” he said with a solemnity Parker could not have imagined a moment before. “Christ who has redeemed us by his death and resurrection. Amen.”

  “Amen. Thank you, Father Michael.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Can I ask you one more thing? You know, speaking plainly.”

  “Sure, Parker.”

  “Would you really have sent that video to the newspaper? You seem like such a nice guy.”

  Michael grinned sheepishly. “Of course not. I’ve actually been meaning to give this to you.” He brought the DVD out of his pocket and handed it over.

  “This is really the only one?”

  “It’s the original anyway. I shouldn’t have taken it, and I really shouldn’t have used it like that. I’m sorry.” He sat down on a back pew and motioned for Parker to join him. “They’re not allowed to contradict me directly, but both of my colleagues thought my approach last night was way over-the-top. And they were right. Like I said, I get too passionate too easily. And I suppose I’m a bit overeager to prove myself. It’s my first time in charge.”

  “I don’t get that. How can you be in charge of those men? What are you, twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-four, actually. We have a pretty unusual hierarchy in the Jesuits Militant. We’re divided in teams of three, each team member complementing the skills and abilities of the others. When we’re sent on assignment, the Superior General tags one of us as leader for the duration, based on our gifts.”

  “So next time, Father Ignatius might be in charge?”

  “He almost certainly will be.”

  “And yet you keep poking the bear, so to speak?”

  “He’s a teddy bear.”

  “And Father Xavier?”

  “I’d be answering to him if we were here investigating a weeping statue or an alleged miracle. That’s his area of expertise.”

  “And what is yours?”

  “I’m good at inspiring people to tell the truth.”

  “Are you talking about interrogation?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Torture?”

  Michael bobbed his head from side to side, as if to evade the question. “Father Ignatius says torture is ‘a crude and imprecise word.’ I kind of agree. I almost never need to touch someone to make them tell me the truth. I can read them and get inside their defenses. It’s a gift.”

  “And what gifts does Ignatius have?”

  “He’s just good to have around. Trust me. The guy’s fought in wars, taught literature at university, speaks twelve languages fluently. He’s even a certified exorcist.”

  Parker suddenly thought of Damien, his eyes dark and cruel, shouting I am Legion. “But you’re not?” he asked. “You can’t cast out demons?”

  Michael shook his head. “No, I haven’t been qualified for that particular ministry.”

  “Father Ignatius hasn’t given you any pointers?”

  “Not really. You have to remember: in the Holy Catholic Church exorcism is a formal rite, and only those who are authorized can carry it out. And even then, only with ecclesial permission.”

  “What if there’s an emergency and there’s no time to get permission?”

  “I know of one method. But it’s undesirable. And messy.”

  This whole situation seemed undesirable and messy to Parker. “How does something like this end for you?” he asked. “You can’t make an arrest on American soil, can you?”

  Michael shrugged. “Honestly, this kind of thing usually goes unsolved. My guess is, it will just stop happening and people will eventually forget. We don’t get many wins in this game. That’s just the nature of the beast. Literally.”

  Michael’s phone buzzed in his coat pocket. He read a short text message and jumped to his feet. “Xavier says they may have something. Let’s go.”

  The four men met up in the narthex of St. John’s Anglican Church.

  “That light in the sacristy came on less than ten minutes ago,” Xavier whispered.

  “Could be someone def
iling the Sacrament.”

  “Or poisoning it.”

  Father Ignatius drew his gun and clicked off the safety. “That can’t happen,” he gritted. “Protestant, you stay to the epistle side of the church, up against the wall.”

  “Which side is that?” Parker asked. The older priest expelled an annoyed sigh and pointed to the right.

  They entered silently, walking quickly through the nave: Michael in the left aisle, Xavier in the middle, and Ignatius on the right, Parker sticking close. Converging behind the altar, they could hear someone moving around in the sacristy . . . heavy breathing, some sort of chanting.

  Michael was gazing into the edge of his flashlight’s beam—dilating his pupils, he would later explain. He signaled that he and Xavier would breach the small room while Ignatius hung back.

  Parker’s heart thudded in his chest, stealing his breath. He thought about his warm bed. His nightly routine. Even the burning carcass in his backyard seemed warm and inviting now.

  Xavier yanked open the door and Michael disappeared into the sacristy, Xavier behind him. Parker heard shouting and crashing. Father Ignatius launched himself toward the door, and without thinking, Parker followed him into the small room. A squat, sweaty man with thick, round glasses was holding a pump-action shotgun in Xavier’s face. Three feet away, Michael had his weapon trained on the man’s head. All were yelling some variation of “Put it down!”

  At the sight of Ignatius’s clerical collar, the man went silent. He pulled the earbuds from his ears but kept the gun up.

  “I think he’s the janitor, guys,” Parker said, pointing at the large, plastic trash can on wheels and the dozen bottles of cleaning solution.

  The man swung the thick gun in Parker’s direction. “I’m the custodian, not the janitor. Night watchman too. What are you doing in my church?”

  Ignatius quickly stepped between Parker and the shotgun. “Please calm down. I’m with the diocese,” he soothed, his voice reflecting a perfect Midwestern accent. “These men work for a private security firm—part of our effort to step up safety and security in our local parishes. Weren’t you told about this?”

  The custodian slowly lowered the shotgun. “No, nobody told me.”

  “Are these your normal hours?” Michael asked.

  “So happens they are. I come in three times a week. This ain’t my real job. I clean the church when I get done at UPS.”

  “You always carry a gun while you work?”

  “You bet your life,” he said, patting it lovingly. “No one’s going to lay a finger on my church. I’ve been going here for forty-five years.” He pushed his glasses back up his broad nose. “You think I don’t see what’s going on out there? Father, you’ve got the right idea, bringing in some muscle. And I’m glad to see you’re packin’ too.”

  “Just don’t get caught with that thing,” Michael advised.

  The custodian safetied the gun and slid it between the cart and the trash can. “I won’t be caught without it, kid.”

  “We apologize for the scare,” Father Xavier said. “Carry on.”

  The four of them filed wordlessly out the front of the church, everyone a bit embarrassed.

  On the sidewalk outside Xavier finally broke the silence. “He was a bit of a loon, no?”

  “He seemed an exceptional servant of the Church to me,” Ignatius said.

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Of course you liked him. He’s the American You.”

  They were all silent for a beat.

  “That could have gone smoother,” Michael admitted. “Sorry, guys.”

  Ignatius squeezed his shoulder briefly.

  “This might not be the time,” Parker said, “but can I ask a question? What’s the PX thing on the altar in there? I’ve always wondered about that.”

  Ignatius’s face soured. “A PX is a candy store, Protestant. The symbol on the altar was a Chi-Rho, the monogram of Christ.”

  “I know. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

  “No more for me, please,” Parker told the waitress, laying his hand over his cup. “I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow morning.”

  “It’s decaf, sir,” she said.

  “It still has trace amounts of caffeine, which can affect sleep patterns. I’m not supposed to drink coffee anyway. It stains your teeth.”

  The waitress snuffed and made her exit.

  The priests had convinced Parker not to go directly home to bed, keyed up as he was. Best to wind down a little after having a shotgun poked in your face, to talk things out, they had explained. It made sense to Parker.

  They had found Café 37, a twenty-four-hour diner off the highway, where a table in a dark corner provided plenty of privacy for Parker to recount Damien Bane’s alleged connection to the murders, his response to Parker at the interrogation, his videos on the Internet, and the visit to Parker’s home that evening.

  The smell of grease and meat had revitalized Parker’s appetite with a vengeance. He set aside his usual culinary snobbery and ordered a plate of something called volcano fries. The three priests all had questions for Parker, but he was unable to answer most of them. He did give them Damien’s address and a few other tidbits. All in all, the priests seemed pleased.

  “We have a suite at the Grand Plaza,” Xavier said as they paid the bill. “If you’re worried about sleeping at home tonight, we could have them bring up a rollaway.”

  “No thanks. They were just trying to scare me. You can take me home.”

  “Actually, we’ve got one more place to go,” Michael said.

  “But it’s 1:35 in the morning.”

  “It’ll be quick, Parker. I promise.”

  Father Xavier pulled the Cadillac up to the curb.

  “What are we doing here?” Parker demanded, panic edging his voice.

  “You recognize this place?” Michael asked.

  “Of course. That’s Damien’s house up ahead. I don’t want to be here. Will you please take me home?”

  “You don’t have to leave the car,” Michael assured him. “You’ll be safe here with Father X. I promise. We’ll be back in a few.” He and Ignatius stepped out of the car and approached the house on foot.

  “What are they going to do? Are they going in there?”

  “No,” Xavier said. “And don’t worry; the windows are tinted. They can’t see us.”

  Parker watched the two priests walk past the house and disappear into an alley.

  “Now, I want you to look carefully,” Xavier said, “and tell me if you recognize anyone.”

  “You mean, do I see the guys from my backyard?”

  “Or Damien himself. That would be even better.”

  The house was alive with young people—coming and going, drinking on the porch, milling on the lawn. Occasionally a group would emerge from the backyard, laughing and weaving. Parker let his eyes drift across the scene from face to face.

  “No. I’ve never seen any of these people.”

  “We’ll just wait a little while.”

  “Sir, I’m really tired. I’m afraid I’m going to fall asleep right here.”

  “Please just give us five minutes, then we’ll take you home.”

  Parker leaned his head against the soft leather headrest and let his eyes half close. His stomach full to bursting with junk food and his mind running on fumes, he began to drift.

  “That Michael’s a good kid,” Xavier said, a transparent attempt to keep Parker from dozing off.

  “Yeah, he’s a nice guy. I like him.”

  “I think it’s a mark of incredible piety that you can say that and mean it, considering your first impression.”

  “He explained himself. There’s no harm. I can’t imagine the pressure for someone that young in his position.”

  “He’s a bit of a loose cannon now, but by the time he’s my age, he’ll be one of the best.”

  “As long as he and Father Ignatius don’t kill each other out there.”

  Xavier chuckled. “Unlikely
. Don’t buy into their bickering. The reason they get on each other’s nerves is because they’re so much alike. And they’re closer than you would ever guess. Michael lost his parents at a young age, and Ignatius has been like a second father to him.”

  “How long have you three been a team?”

  “Father Ignatius and I have been working together for twenty-two years. Michael joined us fresh out of seminary, a little more than five years ago.”

  “He must have been some kind of prodig—Wait.” Parker leaned forward in the seat, squinting toward the house. “That’s them.”

  “The three coming down the steps?”

  “Two of them, anyway. I didn’t see the guy with the black hair. He might have been there, I just didn’t see him.”

  “That’s not Damien?”

  “No. Damien’s older.”

  The three young men cut across the grass and headed down the street, away from the car.

  Xavier pushed a button on his phone. “Parker’s houseguests are headed your way now.”

  “No Damien?” Michael asked.

  “Negative. They’ll reach your position in approximately forty seconds.”

  “Copy,” came the reply.

  “Will they hurt them?” Parker asked, slightly concerned. “They really didn’t do much of anything. Just a prank, if you think about it.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll just—what’s the American phrase?—put the fear of God into them.”

  There were train tracks a block from Damien’s house, and the neighborhood had once been on the right side of them. The tracks hadn’t moved, but in the past few years a distinct shift had occurred. Damien’s presence had everything to do with it.

  Three stoned hooligans whooping their way down the street, discarding bottles in the gutter, was no longer an unusual sight. A seventy-four-year-old priest walking alone at two a.m., his coat wrapped tightly around his frame, was.

  “Guys! What am I seeing? Am I seeing this?” one of the punks called out, pointing toward the sidewalk with one hand and holding up his sagging pants with the other. “What is this?”