Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  “The cameras I saw?”

  “Took care of them. What do you think?”

  “White smoke, new pope,” Michael answered. “Let’s go.”

  The three of them moved through the shadows up to the front door, which Xavier opened from the inside, permitting quick access. Three heavy, D-cell flashlights came to life, their beams moving in a coordinated way as they passed through the entryway.

  Walking into what had been the nave, Ignatius stopped.

  “This is sacrilege,” he said, sweeping his flashlight to and fro. The floor was covered in glitter. Several cages, each large enough to accommodate a dancing human, were suspended from the ceiling. The priest looked from one wall to the next, disoriented by the bar and the DJ’s booth. “Protestant, tell me how this space used to look. Where was the chancel?”

  “The what?”

  “The raised platform with the rail.”

  “Oh, the stage.”

  Ignatius opened his mouth, but said nothing.

  “You want to burn me at the stake right now, don’t you, Father Ignatius?”

  “No comment.”

  “The chancel was up here,” Parker said, making his way to the far wall. Not holding a flashlight, he was walking by faith into the moving arc of light.

  Ignatius zeroed in on two bolt-holes in the floor. “Is this where your father stood to preach?” he asked.

  “No, but my grandfather did. When the television ministry took off, Dad replaced the two podiums with a Plexiglas stand in the middle. Right about here.” He pointed, and Michael’s flashlight beam illuminated a lacy undergarment, abandoned on the floor. “Maybe it wasn’t there,” he said, his voice quavering. “Sorry, I haven’t been here in years.”

  They spent half an hour studying the walls and columns, finding nothing. Michael then led the group down the hall to the VIP area, where they found the door bolted.

  “We should hurry,” Xavier said. “Clearly, they farm out janitorial services. Who knows when the cleaning crew arrives.”

  “Agreed. I just want to check one more thing. This was the pastor’s study,” Michael explained, while he quickly had his way with the lock. The door swung open to reveal a velvet love seat, plush purple carpet, and a spent condom on the ground. Parker, nauseated and light-headed, leaned against the wall.

  “Let’s go,” Michael said after a moment. “There’s nothing left here.”

  “You got that right,” said Parker.

  “Your grandfather was probably speaking metaphorically,” Xavier said. They were parked in Parker’s driveway, the engine idling smoothly. “He might have meant that the Church itself or the sacraments or the gospel of Jesus Christ were a treasure that a thief would not recognize and could not take.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Michael admitted. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay at the Plaza, Parker? I know you must be on edge after last night.”

  “No, I’d like to sleep in my own bed,” Parker answered. He glanced at his watch. It was 1:40 a.m. The thought of sleeping in his own bed was the only thing that could have motivated him out of the plush seats of the car.

  Ignatius met him halfway up the drive, having made a circuit around the house. “No signs of forced entry, Protestant. And no charred animals. I hope you sleep well.”

  “Believe me, I will.”

  Parker slogged his way up the steps and wrestled with the dead bolt. He was three steps inside the house when he sensed that something was wrong. He heard a door clicking shut. The bathroom? That or the spare bedroom, he thought. A sense of panic overwhelmed him, demanding that he retreat out the front door, but stealing his ability to do so.

  Footsteps were coming his way, quick and relentless. It took what seemed like thirty seconds to unfix his feet from the hardwood floor and reverse the direction of his body. He lunged toward the doorknob, hand reaching, but collided with a pedestal, knocking it over and sending a hundred jagged pieces of broken vase sliding along the ground in every direction. He landed hard in their midst.

  The footsteps were just a few feet away. His eyes searched around frantically, not really wanting to see what or who was out there in the darkness, just beyond his field of vision.

  The overhead light came on with a click, and Parker shielded his eyes.

  “Seriously, Parker,” Paige said, “you’re a real girl sometimes.”

  He rolled up off his back and let his eyes adjust to the light before fixing her with a firm, disappointed look. His heart was still pounding and he was embarrassed, and both of those things could be channeled into blame.

  “How did you get in here, Paige?”

  “You gave me your spare key last year after you locked yourself out,” she reminded him. Paige lived just a short walk from Parker’s house. “Since you’re not answering your phone today, I figured waiting for you here was the only way to catch you. And I was about to give up on that.”

  His anger quickly subsiding, Parker apologized. “Sorry. My phone died today. I’ve been so busy I forgot to plug it in last night.”

  “Well, I tried to call you seven times and left you seven voice mails.”

  “The battery’s still dead. Why don’t you just give me my messages now? The short version.” He led her into the living room, and they both sat.

  “Fine.” She seemed to be working hard to maintain an edge to her tone, while not crossing the line into insubordination. Pulling a leather-bound planner from her purse, she flipped to a page of notes and settled back in the armchair. “A woman named Corrinne called for you at the church at about two. She said she wanted to tell you a funny story about Paul, whoever that is.”

  Parker smiled despite himself, but the smile quickly faded at the obvious jealousy in Paige’s eyes.

  “Paul’s a detective,” he explained. “And so is she. I’ll hear the story tomorrow.”

  “Can I say something, Parker?”

  “I’ve always encouraged you to be candid with me.”

  She took a deep breath. “I feel like you’re enjoying this too much. Like you’re not trying to jump through this hoop and put it behind you. It’s like”—she frowned—“like you’re happy to be away.”

  “Not in the least,” he said with all the conviction he could muster. “I’m just making the best of the situation. It would be pretty hypocritical if I did anything but, wouldn’t it?”

  “You haven’t checked in with me once in two days. Your mail is piling up. I have no idea what to tell people about rescheduling your appointments and appearances.”

  “I’m leaving all that in your capable hands, Paige. You said you got Tony Rex to do the show, and I know you can handle everything else.”

  “The service is covered, but that’s not all we’ve got going on, is it? Do you remember that you have a book coming out?”

  “Yes, I remember that I have a book coming out,” he droned, annoyed at her condescension.

  “Well, you may not. Some guy from Charter House called today, and they’re not happy. He said they’ve held up the book as long as they can, waiting for Holton’s blessing and his blurb. He used the word ‘self-absorbed’ like four times.”

  “The book is coming out,” he assured her. “I’ve got a contract.”

  “Your contract says they’ll publish the book, but we both know they won’t put any effort or expense into promoting it if you keep this up.”

  “I’m sure Josh is just running behind.”

  “Holton is never running behind. If his staff hasn’t sent up an endorsement, there’s a reason.”

  Parker felt a stab in his guts as the truth of Paige’s words sank in, followed quickly by the image of Holton at the desk of the Grand Plaza Hotel, that stupid cap pulled down over his eyes. In the fog of fatigue and power naps, he was only about half sure that he’d really seen him, but it scared him nonetheless.

  In many ways, Joshua Holton was the key to his future. Parker’s first book, God Is Awesome (And So Are You) had been contracted by Holton’s ow
n publisher, at Holton’s insistence. Parker had gotten a hefty advance and turned in the manuscript, and the planned release was perfectly timed with a syndication deal due to take effect in March. The idea was that his book could ride the wave of a hugely expanded, national TV platform, giving Parker a share in ten times as many markets as he now enjoyed. But without Holton pushing the book . . .

  “Do you even realize that you missed his call yesterday morning?” Paige demanded.

  The knife in his guts was twisting. How could he forget his weekly call with Joshua Holton? He hadn’t missed even one in the last two years. It was during these calls that Parker got direction and mentoring and reported back how things were going. He wanted to punch himself in the jaw.

  “I don’t know how I forgot,” he said weakly.

  “You would have just needed to duck out for fifteen minutes.”

  “Believe me, I know,” Parker spat. “Josh can never spare more than fifteen minutes for someone like me.”

  She slapped the planner down on the coffee table and threw her hands in the air. “What’s going on here, Parker?”

  “Nothing’s going on. I’m just tired of how one-sided this whole thing is. I’ve flown down there, what, fourteen times? Why doesn’t he ever come up here?” Once again the image of Holton at the hotel desk flashed through his mind.

  “He’s busy.”

  “He’s using me, Paige.”

  She scowled, an expression that Parker usually found unbelievably cute. “Maybe he is, but if we’re going to use him back, you need to smooth this out and get that book endorsement.”

  “I’ll try to find some time tomorrow.”

  “You’ll try to find—? I’m going to ask this one more time: what’s going on with you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean!”

  “I tried to reach you at the police station this afternoon, and someone told me you had left before lunch. I think it was that Corrinne woman, and she asked me why I needed you, and she called me ‘hon.’

  “If you weren’t with them, where have you been all night? Where were you last night? It may be none of my business, but I need to know what you’re into if it’s going to affect our work.”

  Parker weighed the prospect of telling her about the Jesuits Militant. On one hand, he was afraid he would be unable to explain his getting dragged into their investigation. Still, he was longing to share the whole affair with someone, and Paige was the best sounding board he knew.

  He decided just to push through and give her the long version. He prefaced it with, “I know this is going to sound crazy, but—” and then walked her through every event of the past three days, leaving nothing out—nothing but his date with Corrinne. Paige’s expression went from disbelieving to incredulous and back again as she listened.

  When he had brought the narrative full circle to his breaking the vase, he flopped back on the sofa and waited for her reaction.

  “You’re not serious.”

  He nodded.

  “Secret agent priests.” She shook her head. “Tell me you checked up on them.”

  “With who? I don’t have any contacts at the Vatican. Besides, between the detectives and running around with these guys, I haven’t had a spare moment to even think about it.”

  Paige stood stiffly and gestured with short cutting motions. “Has it occurred to you that they may not be priests at all? Have you thought about that?”

  “They’re priests,” he said. He understood her concern and knew all too well how farfetched it all sounded, but the idea—that Father Michael especially was not who he claimed to be—seemed somehow ludicrous.

  “How do you know that? They could be with one of those breakaway-fundamentalist, splinter groups I’ve read about—some weird sect with stockpiles of weapons. These do not sound like people you want in your life, Parker.”

  “Well . . .”

  “And even if this Crown thing is real, how do you know they aren’t the ones burning down churches looking for it? Have you ever actually heard of Catholic priests carrying guns? Baptist pastors, maybe . . . but priests? I went to Catholic school for six years and, trust me, priests aren’t like that. They’re all about love and peace and feeding the poor, not breaking into churches and packing iron.”

  “There are only fifty-seven of them in the world. They’re a secret order.” He knew it sounded stupid as the words came out of his mouth.

  “Seriously, Parker. Secret priests from the Vatican, diplomatic immunity, guns, hidden treasures . . . and it never occurred to you to check their credentials?”

  “One of them gave me his card,” Parker offered lamely, producing the calling card.

  Paige snatched it and flipped it over twice. “Oh, well, why didn’t you say so? No way they could fake this. I doubt that kind of technology even exists!”

  Parker knew that when Paige got sarcastic she was feeling protective, so he endured it without complaint. He suddenly realized that as they’d been talking he’d been sliding down the sofa, so that he was now about two-thirds lying down.

  “I really have to sleep,” he said. “Any other pressing matters?”

  “Yeah, Bishop Jackson called to confirm that you would be at his revival tomorrow night. I told him I’d have to double-check with you.”

  “Why didn’t you cancel that for me?”

  “Because I didn’t know about it, Parker. When you make plans for yourself and you don’t tell me, I can’t be responsible for them.”

  “Call him back tomorrow. Tell him I’ll be there. I’m taking a break from all this craziness tomorrow night. I promise. I’ll call Joshua and patch things up. And I’ll plug the book at the revival.”

  “Okay,” she said, resuming her seat and picking up the planner. “Just two more things.”

  Parker stood abruptly, suddenly very irritated. Why couldn’t they all leave him alone for even a few hours so he could sleep? Why did everyone want to cash in on him? It wasn’t just Holton using him. It was everyone.

  “I’m going to bed, Paige. You can either come up with me or go on home.”

  She stared at him for a few seconds, her reaction unreadable.

  “Why would you say that to me?” she asked, her voice quivering with anger. “Why would you say that?”

  She clomped to the door and let herself out without so much as a good night, giving the door a healthy bang behind her. Parker wanted to indulge in some self-loathing, but he was far too tired. Besides, he knew there would be plenty of time for hating himself tomorrow.

  He went up to his room, plugged his phone in, and dumped it on the nightstand. When he had returned from brushing his teeth, the display alerted him to eleven messages waiting. Knowing he couldn’t sleep until he’d heard them all, he punched the button for voice mail.

  The first two were from Paige. He knew what they would say but listened to them both in their entirety anyway. He loved her voice. His regret was mounting, and he wanted to call her right this minute, apologize for being a jerk, for taking all this stress out on her. But he knew her well enough to let her calm down before he made that move.

  “Hey Preacher, it’s me.” Corrinne’s voice, lower, laid-back, and a little scratchy, was almost the opposite of Paige’s, yet just as inviting. “I hacked in to Paul’s computer to get your cell number,” she said. “And by ‘hacked in,’ I mean I looked at it when he went to the bathroom. And by ‘computer,’ I mean this really gross, grease-stained spiral notebook he keeps in his jacket pocket.” She laughed—far too briefly for Parker, to whom the sound was like a drug.

  “Anyway,” she said, stretching the word out in a playful singsong, “I have to tell you something hilarious that happened after you left today. So call me back. It’s three thirty. Oh, and I don’t think the secretary at your church likes me. What’s her deal?” She laughed again, and Parker caught his reflection in the mirror, grinning like an idiot. “Really, though,” she said, “call me if you get a chance. Bye.”

  Parker kicked hi
mself for not charging his phone. He was sure it looked like he was intentionally dodging Corrinne, just as surely as it had seemed to Paige.

  He saved the message and quickly listened to and deleted the next six, five of which were from Paige and the other from Bishop Wayne Jackson, trying to make sure that Parker would be making an appearance at his church the following night and asking if he would please return the call because everyone would love to see him. Parker pressed Delete.

  The next message was in an unfamiliar voice. “Brian Parker, this is Dr. Geoff Graham. I’m just getting back into town, and I have a message from your secretary. She said you wanted to meet with me. I’m pretty open tomorrow, just unpacking and such. Why don’t you give me a call back? If this is about a grade I gave you twenty years ago, please know that I can be bought. I love Chunky Monkey ice cream.” He laughed at his own joke.

  Parker jotted down Dr. Graham’s cell number and stuck the note in his money clip on the nightstand.

  The next message began, “This is Joshua Holton.” The voice sent the little hairs on Parker’s neck at attention. “You missed our call yesterday, and now you’re not answering your cell phone. I just wanted you to know that I’m in Colorado right now, and I passed up an appearance on a national television show this morning so that I could have my weekly update time with you. I’m feeling unappreciated and a little angry. I just needed you to know that.” Click.

  He’s in Colorado? Was his clone in Grand Rapids? Or was he lying? Despite Parker’s promise to Paige, he decided right then not to return Holton’s call until this whole thing had blown over. He’d successfully kept the entire Brynn Carter affair below Holton’s radar, certain that he would not be okay with this sort of accusation, litigation, or the complication of police involvement. Better to call him after the fact, hopefully having helped to catch a serial killer—good news for the book—apologize profusely, and get things back on track.

  Parker inserted himself between the sheets and found his mind instantly alert. He spent nearly an hour tossing and turning, trying not to think about Damien and the bodies, the Jesuits and the Crown, Paige and Joshua Holton.