Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

“Of course. We’re waiting for the police to return her mortal remains to the family.”

  Parker thought of Melanie Candor on that metal table, the rib tray, and the brain bucket. He felt sick once again.

  Rick made his confession every year on his birthday. Apart from that, he never entered a church.

  “My friends call me Rick the Closer,” he often told clients, “because I close deals like nobody’s business.” But he had few friends, and none had ever called him that. He was splayed in the confessional, stroking his neatly trimmed chin beard and hitting the highlights of another debauched trip around the sun.

  “ . . . then, six months ago, I brought Candy up to the lake house for the weekend. She was all worried that my wife would be there, and I’m like, ‘Babe, my wife’s swimmin’ with the dolphins in Florida right now.’ Well, I was wrong. So Candy and my old lady get in this knock-down, drag-out, all-on fight, and I’m like, ‘Whoa, I know this is all wrong, but this is totally turning me on.’ So, then—”

  “I’m going to stop you a moment and give you some penance. Just to clear the slate.”

  “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “All the same, get on your knees and give me fifty Hail Marys.”

  “Not really, though,” Rick chortled.

  “I’ll wait.”

  Rick the Closer glanced from side to side, as if to be sure no one was perched in the corner of the booth watching him, then shrugged and plopped to his knees.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed are—”

  “In Latin, please.”

  “I don’t know Latin.”

  “Not even the Hail Mary?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  “Get out,” Ignatius growled.

  Rick curled his lips into a slick smile. “Look, baby, you have to listen to me. It’s your job to absolve the Closer.”

  “I will drag you to the street by your throat and give you Last Rites.”

  Rick the Closer scrambled out of the confessional.

  “The third matter is rather sensitive,” Xavier told the monsignor. “By bringing it up, I am betting the integrity of our assignment here on your reputation for absolute discretion.”

  “You can trust me to keep whatever we discuss in the strictest confidence,” Naughton assured him. “But are you sure you want to discuss confidential Church matters in front of—” He tipped his head toward Parker.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Michael said. “He’s cool.”

  “As long as he’s cool,” said Naughton.

  Father Michael leaned forward dramatically. “What do you know about the Crown of Marbella?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Naughton answered. “What is it?”

  “It’s a relic. Or it was. We’re not sure which.”

  “I’ve never heard of it. A relic of which saint?”

  “Not a saint,” Xavier answered, excitement infusing his voice. “It is said to be the true crown of thorns worn by our Savior.”

  Parker stifled a laugh.

  “Something funny, Parker?” Michael asked.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just—I think of Martin Luther’s line about how there were once so many ‘pieces of the true cross’ that Jesus must have been crucified on an entire forest.”

  Xavier nodded. “Since Father Ignatius is not in the room, I can admit that Luther had a point. But the Crown of Marbella is different. It can be traced with absolute continuity back to a time before the age of multiplying relics and pilgrimage for profit. There is even a strong tradition tying it to the Sudarium of Oviedo.”

  “I don’t know what that is either,” Parker admitted.

  “It’s a cloth,” Naughton said, “from the sixth century or earlier. Supposedly the facecloth of Jesus at his burial.”

  “There is a leaner manuscript trail for the Crown,” Xavier said, “but it can be traced back in a way similar to the Sudarium. It was widely accepted as a true relic from early on because of a miracle attributed to it. You see, the Crown was in the hands of private individuals—noble families—for hundreds of years. Then some time in the early ninth century, it was becoming so very brittle that, even without being handled, it began to crumble—sitting as it was on a golden plate.

  “And so to keep it from turning to dust, an artisan was hired, a glassblower, to craft a glass globe, a permanent protective vessel. The Crown was placed inside with the utmost care. Then the glass ball was fire-closed, sealing the relic inside.”

  “What was the miracle?” Parker asked, mentally adding “Crown of Marbella” to his search terms list.

  “Within a day, vitality returned to the relic. It was no longer crumbling and dry. Within two days, it began to bud. And within a week, it began to bloom—flowers that remained until the relic was lost.”

  “Lost how?”

  “It’s a bit ironic, really. Because of political turmoil—and possibly for some financial remuneration—the Pasquale family donated the Crown to the Iglesia de la Encarnación in Marbella, Spain, sometime in the early 1570s.”

  Michael interrupted excitedly. “Have you been there?” The other three men shook their heads. “It’s about a fifteen-minute drive from where Father Ignatius grew up. He took me once. It’s incredible, the majesty of the place.”

  Xavier resumed his history lesson. “Well, it may be beautiful, but the Crown would only remain there for about seventy years. In hindsight, it was precisely the wrong time and place to bring such an artifact into the public consciousness. Local rumors—or perhaps legends is a better word—began to grow and circulate.”

  “What kind of rumors?” Naughton asked.

  “That the Crown possessed the power to forgive sins—all sins, even those of the impenitent and the heathen. The bishop decided to jettison the Crown before it became bogged down in superstition.

  “To that end, in 1641 it was brought by Hernando Escriva to the Jesuit College at Saint Omer, which was for the moment under Spanish control. After the Crown was nearly destroyed on several occasions by fire and the constant threat of Protestant persecution, it was decided to move the relic once again.

  “The Crown survived the voyage to Baltimore, Maryland, in 1761, transported by a company of Jesuits. The idea was twofold: to escape the religious powder keg of the Franco-Spanish border and to breathe a renewed sense of religious zeal into a New World colony that was becoming less Catholic every day. The plan obviously failed in regard to the latter goal, but the Crown remained safe, housed in St. Luke’s Church, where it stayed for 135 years, through three new buildings, protected and cared for by the clergy there.”

  “But here’s where the intrigue comes in,” Father Michael said, rationing his eye contact between Parker and the monsignor. “In 1893—”

  “1891,” Xavier corrected.

  “In 1891, Jonathan Wescott, the bishop of Northampton in England, was getting into all sorts of trouble for his radical views on a whole slew of topics—ecclesiastical, political, and beyond. He was shipped over to America and busted down to parish priest.”

  “Can they do that?” Parker asked.

  “They did it. The idea was that Wescott would be out of sight, out of the loop, living out the rest of his days in obscurity in a place where radical views were the norm. As a friendly gesture to honor his former rank, they gave him St. Luke’s, a prominent Baltimore church. Good place to be semiretired. Problem is he started gaining a following in Baltimore. Before long it was clear that he was more of a problem as a priest in America than he had been as a bishop in Britain.”

  Michael paused to take a breath, and Xavier took the opportunity to jump back in. “The archbishop of Baltimore wanted him defrocked. But Wescott still had a lot of friends in prominent positions. So they transferred him again, this time to the newly formed diocese of Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  “In an infantile act of revenge, he hid the Crown in with his baggage and spirited it up here with him. Within a short time he had made connections with a group of Protestant clergy in
the area. One day he brought them all together, showed them the Crown, and told them about some plans the bishop had to build a chapel, where the Crown would be an object of worship.”

  “It was a lie,” Michael said with a sneer.

  “Of course it was a lie. There were no such plans. For 135 years it was rarely even displayed; the Crown was kept in a reliquary in the sacristy at St. Luke’s. But the Protestant clergy were quick to believe it. Swearing secrecy, resisting the pope’s ‘evil plans’—these were the types of romantic adventures they had fantasized about as seminarians. They told Wescott that they understood why he had to take it, why such an important object could be neither worshiped nor destroyed. And so he charged them with keeping the Crown of Marbella safe, hidden, and away from the hands of Rome.”

  “How do you know all this?” Parker asked.

  “The Jesuits have come into possession of the diaries of two of those ministers. Both documents agree on the general arc of events, although one claims that twelve churches were represented in the group, while the other remembers only seven. Unfortunately, neither lists the congregations involved.”

  “In 1891? There can’t be that many to choose from.”

  “It was 1893 by the time he arrived in Grand Rapids. And I think you’d be surprised at the list. The church where you cut your teeth is one, in fact. It had a different name back then, but there is still continuity—the same church charter, an unbroken succession of elders and clergy.”

  “Do you have the Crown at home, Parker?” Michael joked. “Just tell us.”

  “Hope Presbyterian was not that kind of place,” Parker said. “The only ancient treasures you’d find there would have been flannelgraph boards and filmstrip projectors. Trust me.”

  “Worth a shot.” Michael shrugged. “What about you, Monsignor? And let me remind you that if you know where it is, you are required by the very authority of the Holy Father to tell us.”

  “Why on earth would I know that?”

  “My research tells me you’ve built more interchurch relationships than any other priest in the area,” Xavier said. “You might be able to give us some direction.”

  Parker interjected, “Can I ask why you’re even bringing this up after 125 years? This seems really random.”

  The monsignor stroked his beard slowly. “That’s a misnomer, Pastor Saint. There is no such thing as ‘kind of random’ or ‘really random.’ Something is either random or it is not. And our friends here don’t think that any of these events are random. Am I right, Fathers?”

  “You are correct,” Xavier affirmed. “We are inclined to believe—or at least to explore the possibility—that all of the events we’ve been investigating are connected at one point, and that point is the Crown of Marbella.”

  “How?” Parker asked, gesturing widely.

  “It’s a bit of a web. There’s no one telltale connection to point to, but the reason we’re even here in this city is this: every church that’s been vandalized or experienced a fire in the past three months, save one, was founded before 1893.”

  “Older churches are in rougher neighborhoods,” Parker said. “And they have older wiring.”

  “No, four of them have fled outward as their neighborhoods changed.”

  “But what would someone have to gain by spray-painting churches that may or may not have been part of a secret cabal more than a century ago?”

  “We suspect that someone, or a group of people, is searching for the Crown, covering their tracks as they go, perhaps disguising it as a string of vandalism. There have been different levels of destruction at these churches, from merely cosmetic damage to break-ins to what we believe is arson, but each has been written off as the work of teenagers with too much time on their hands, and therefore not given an in-depth investigation. We believe the graffiti, the fires—even the murders—may be part of a campaign to find the Crown. Part distraction, part treasure hunt. The subtle occult element in the graffiti implies that their motivation in finding the Crown is not monetary gain. They’re marking these houses of worship as they go—some of them more thoroughly than others.”

  “But the one church that burned down has got to be the one founded after 1893,” Parker said. “I can’t believe Valley Christian is that old.”

  “Believe it or not, Valley Christian—or at least the original congregational church—is one of only two churches that we know for certain was part of the group. Their original pastor wrote one of the diaries I told you about. They ‘relaunched,’ as their website calls it, in 1992, but that just entailed an unofficial name change and public relations campaign. It’s still the same church.”

  Naughton sighed loudly. “I’m afraid I won’t be of any help to you gentlemen. I had hoped your visit would be about the work of the Church, feeding the hungry, proclaiming the release of captives, and the forgiveness of sins. Instead, I think you’re letting your minds do what the human brain does best: find patterns where none exist.”

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Andrea said in little more than a whisper. “It has been two weeks since my last confession. I accuse myself of these sins: I have failed to love and honor my husband, Jeff, as my spiritual head.”

  “Go on,” Ignatius said, relieved to finally have an informed penitent in the booth.

  “Father Naughton?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “I guess it doesn’t.” She sucked in a long breath. “I am filled with bitterness toward Jeff. He won’t work. He’s not injured, but he gets disability. All he does is sleep and watch TV, and I get so frustrated. I know it’s wrong, Father. And I know that he only gives me what I deserve, but when he hurts me . . . sometimes I hate him.”

  Father Ignatius snapped to attention. “Hurts you?”

  TWELVE

  “BUT ASSUMING YOU’RE RIGHT,” PARKER CONTINUED, “AND not just inventing patterns like our friend here said, why would anyone go to such great lengths to try and find this thing now? I mean, killing people, burning down churches—it just doesn’t make sense.”

  “We’re not entirely sure,” Xavier said. “It may have to do with the legend that the Crown had the power to atone for sin. Whoever is looking for this relic might have any number of motives. It could be that someone is looking to make up for a lifetime of evil in one fell swoop.”

  “Or it could be,” Michael said, “that someone wants to desecrate one of the holiest relics of the Christian church, but one that remains, conveniently, in obscurity.”

  Xavier stood. “At any rate, I believe we are in danger of overstaying our welcome with the Reverend Monsignor. Naughton. I thank you for your time and your hospitality, sir, and I will commend you and your work to my immediate superior.” He threw Michael a sidelong glance that said Consider him commended.

  “Thank you,” said Naughton, rising from his desk to shake each of their hands again. “I’ll walk you back to your colleague. I can finish hearing the confessions myself.”

  They retraced their steps under the arch and down the hall.

  “Do your parishioners partake of the sacrament of Reconciliation often?” Xavier asked.

  “Not most of them,” Naughton answered. “I have six or seven who come quite regularly. In a given week I’d say I usually have about ten, which isn’t bad these days.”

  They entered the sanctuary and approached the confessional. A note taped to the door read Back in 30 minutes.

  “What a boob,” Michael said under his breath.

  “Why’s that?” Xavier asked.

  “Back in thirty minutes? When did he write it? Two minutes ago? Twenty-nine minutes ago?”

  Father Xavier shrugged slightly. “I don’t know, but I can’t believe he heard all those confessions in that short amount of time. That’s what I call a priest.”

  Jeff and Andrea’s house was a silent victim of neglect. The large porch leaned to the right, making the front doorway a slightly different shape from the front door. Andrea tried to lead Father Ignati
us as quickly as possible down the narrow aisle between cubes of beer cans and garbage bags full of empties.

  “I really think this is a bad idea, Father. Jeff has a temper.”

  “I only want to talk with the lad,” Ignatius said. “I’ll be gentle.”

  She took a deep breath and slid the key into the lock. Jeff sat slumped on the couch, his back to the door, eyes glued to an old television set where a handful of cars continually circled a track. His beer belly betrayed his present sloth, but large, tattoo-filled arms suggested a past full of military service and automotive work.

  “Didja get my cigarettes?” he slurred.

  “No, honey. I was at church.”

  He pulled himself to his feet. “Are you kidding me? You forgot my—” He locked eyes with Ignatius, and his next words became “Forgive me, Father, I didn’t know you were there.” He sobered instantly, quickly covering the space of the living room and giving Ignatius’s hand a firm, friendly pump.

  “I’m Jeff. Nice to meet you, Father—?”

  “Ignatius. I am glad to make your acquaintance as well. Thank you for welcoming me into your home.”

  The priest did not wait for an invitation but sank into a battered recliner, picked up the remote control, and clicked off the television. Jeff returned to the couch, trying and failing to mask his annoyance.

  “I’m going to get right to the point,” Ignatius said. “Jeff, I’m here to talk with you about some spiritual matters. Specifically, those related to your marriage and the way you treat your wife.”

  Jeff’s posture changed. “Did she tell you to come here?”

  “No, your wife did her best to dissuade me from coming and to defend you as a decent man and a good husband. Unfortunately for you, I remain far from convinced.”

  “Yeah, well, sorry Father, but you’ll have to come back another time. I’m a little busy right now.” He reached for the remote, but Ignatius snatched it up first.

  “If it were my life and my marriage, I would make time for this.”

  “Look, no disrespect, Father, but my marriage is none of your business. And if I want to see a priest, I’ll go to confession with Andie.”