The Only Good Priest

by Mark Richard Zubro

  The outer walls of the complex stood anywhere from ten to twenty feet inside a thick evergreen hedgerow that surrounded the entire place. Scaffolding, at various points piles of planks, and stacks of bricks all looking recently used, lay strewn about the open spaces between hedge and building.

  We carried on a whispered conversation in the alley that separated the complex from the few houses on the rest of the block.

  “The Lesbian Radicals from Hell meet in a church?” Scott asked.

  “I don’t think it’s been a church for a while,” I said. “All that construction shit scattered around smacks of rehabbers on the loose. That one corner where the streetlight hit the building full on showed all new window frames. No ugly grill work, no dirty opaque windows. No, this place had been fixed up, by somebody with a ton of money. Even you might need an investment group for this kind of shit.” I eyed the exterior of the building carefully. “We’re going exploring,” I said.

  “I hate that tone in your voice. It tells me you’ve had a moment of wild inspiration and daring. Usually it means mess, chaos, and deep shit up to our nipples.

  “Jerry could be in there.”

  “Yeah,” he conceded. “Then let’s get the police.”

  “Are you serious? Even Frank Murphy, a cop we know who likes us, doesn’t buy this shit. And while that Chicago cop may be gay, I don’t trust him yet.”

  A dramatic sigh from Scott.

  “Look,” I said. “The place is absolutely dark. They’ve got to be holed up in some inside room. My guess is with all the construction crap still lying around, they’re in the middle of renovating. We could explore for a week and not run into anybody. We’ll hear them or see their lights long before they see us. Besides, Jerry could be in there. I’m going in.”

  “Alarm system?” Scott sounded resigned.

  “If it’s homemade, hopefully my training in Vietnam will be good enough to catch it before we trip it. If it’s built in, that’s why I have you along.”

  He’s a mechanical genius. He fixes the decrepit appliances at my place, does repairs, major and minor, on my old Chevette that I kept even after I bought the truck this year. One time he installed an entire burglar alarm system around my place. I have absolute faith in his abilities.

  We eased ourselves through the swaying bushes and hurried to crouch behind a stack of tarpaulin-covered two-by-fours. A short dash brought us to what must once have been the main entrance to the classrooms.

  He punched my arm and pointed up. “That’s the old alarm,” he said indicating a foot-square box in the dim light.

  I looked for holds for him to climb up. None that I could see.

  “Boost me up,” he muttered. He wound up standing on my shoulders. I braced myself against the side of the building to ease some of his weight. I’m six-foot-three and in great shape, but at six-four he’s not a light burden. My shoulders seemed to endure several hours of this agony, while the rest of the universe probably felt a half a minute pass.

  “Okay,” he finally whispered.

  I crouched down and he dismounted. He rubbed his hands on his jeans. “It’s still connected,” he announced, “but it hasn’t been functional in years. The whole inside is rotted out.” Around the building we crept, looking for an opening and more modern alarms.

  Amazingly enough I found the alarm and managed to render it dysfunctional, in an odd way, without any assistance from Scott. The outside of the building had numerous abutments, decorative buttresses, cornices, along with nooks, crannies, and cubbyholes. Peeking around one of these I lost my footing, stumbled over a board, and with a soft crunch put my foot through the top of a box. I managed to accomplish this with only a slight thump from the box as my foot caved in the top. That is, if you didn’t count the muffled laughter coming from immediately behind me. All right, it may have been funny, but was this the time to laugh?

  I examined the box. Lettering on the outside indicated it contained parts for an alarm system. After a quick inspection I discovered three other boxes with the same lettering. So they’d never hooked up the damn thing. I’d still wrecked a good part of it. I extricated my leg from its trap and melted into the deeper shadows next to Scott.

  “You’re a big help,” I muttered. Crouching in the shadows, I paused to reconnoiter. By this time we’d worked our way around three quarters of the building with no luck at finding an opening. I stood up and managed to bang my head on the bottom of an ancient metal stair-step fire escape. We’d seen several of them, although this was the only one that reached to within six feet of the ground. I whispered to him, “My bet is the place isn’t wired at all.”

  “Good thing,” Scott said. He tapped me on the shoulder and pointed. “While you were doing a ballet with the boxes, I found this.”

  In a dark recess behind a stack of bricks he’d found a boarded-up window.

  “So what?” I said.

  “It’s loose,” he said. He proceeded to ease the board back. We peered through the gap. No lights shone inside, but my eyes were fairly used to the dark by now. What I could see looked barren and empty. We slipped through the opening. It was the dim street-lights shining through all the wide new outside windows that made observation possible. An old blackboard on the wall told me this was a former classroom. As we crept forward we found openings, newly made, which would let at least two of the old classrooms, plus a washroom, become in the future one spacious and modern suite of rooms. The only appliances for the moment were the range, refrigerator, and dishwasher, all plunked in the middle of a soon-to-be-kitchen floor. We crept on. Heaps of two-by-fours, stacks of paint cans, and other construction paraphernalia lay in almost every room. We had to move carefully to avoid stumbling over it. We must have covered over half the building before we heard or saw anything indicating current habitation. The place was a warren of rehabilitation waiting for those wealthy enough to be able to burrow in. The nave and choir loft had been turned into one dazzling series of interconnected lofts and staircases, presumably separate apartments or condos still to be walled off from one another. The whole thing had an Escher-like effect, all bathed in a soft glow of light let in by a vast skylight cut into the former church’s roof.

  In broad daylight it would take a platoon of men hours to explore the entire structure. Even then there were mysterious dangers, and huge possibilities of missing secret hiding places. I whispered this to Scott.

  “Curb your imagination, big fella,” he whispered. “Let’s concentrate on what we can see and then get the hell out.”

  On the top floor of the back half of the building we encountered the darkest sections yet. No extra light leaked through to guide us. I listened intently but heard nothing. On hands and knees we crawled forward. I didn’t want anymore klutzoid tripping. We came across a tiled floor and wide opening. I entered the space and let my hand rove up the wall. I felt a metal fixture. I guessed we were in the shower room section of the old locker room. We found a door opposite the one we entered. I eased it open a crack. Light again but still faint, but now for the first time I heard voices.

  We crawled through this opening into a room filled with old lockers stacked in piles eight feet high. We inched across the floor to the farther door. A slit of light shone under it, a welcome beacon after the total blackout of minutes before. No question but that the voices came from behind this door. I eased it open a crack.

  Soft lights in recessed sconces glowed around the old gymnasium. The half of the space closer to us was a wooden parquet floor. In places you could see the last flecks of paint marking the out-of-bounds lines. The low ceiling must have frustrated anybody trying to throw a full court pass.

  Six people sat at the far end on folding chairs around two card tables pushed together. Beyond them, on the floor just to the right of a pair of double doors, sat a seventh person. Her bulk rested on a mattress. Eight of these lined the far walls. Piles of clothing and shelves made of bricks and boards separated each person’s section. Cartons of what looked to
be Chinese take-out sat on the card tables around which the six clustered. They spoke animatedly and without hurry. The figure on the floor drew my attention. She read by the light of a desk lamp that rested on the floor. She was the ugliest person I’ve ever seen. Her reddish-brown hair hung in lank strands to her shoulders. It looked as if she hadn’t washed it yet this year. She wore a white sweat suit with frilly yellow flowers bursting on all sides. The sweat suit clung to the bulges of her figure in a very unflattering way. Her face had the requisite features but in the oddest shapes and sizes. Coke-bottle-thick glasses covered both eyes, over one of which she wore a black patch. Her lips were wide enough to drive a truck on. Her nose tilted off to the right side, as if it had been tweaked at an early age and left permanently off kilter. This had to be Stephanie, whom Monica had described when we’d talked to her after the break-in at the Gay Tribune.

  Priscilla sat at the table. On her right sat a slender young woman in jeans and sweater. She was the only one who was the correct size to be the person we had followed. Next to her and opposite me sat a small woman in her mid-fifties in a flannel shirt and jeans. The next two women looked to be about college age. Both wore University of Chicago sweatshirts and faded jeans. The one in faded blue had blond hair moussed into a lengthy flat-top haircut. The woman in faded gray wore her long brown hair in a very fifties pony-tail. I couldn’t make out the person whose back was toward me.

  The general topic of conversation was their next move. A judge in downstate Illinois had recently ruled against a lesbian in a child custody case. They discussed various acts of violence against her person and property. They switched to an antiabortion group, the leader of which they suspected of being behind the fire bombing of an abortion clinic. Again they coolly discussed possible means of wreaking violet revenge on them. Nothing about a kidnapped twelve-year-old.

  Suddenly the woman on the floor snapped her book shut and said, “Everybody stop.”

  Several people started to ask various forms of “What’s up?”

  “Hush!” the woman commanded. “We’re being watched. I can feel it.”

  Shit, I said to myself. I wanted to close the door but didn’t want to risk the slightest movement.

  Priscilla snorted contemptuously. “Stephanie, you’ve been to one too many tarot card readings. I can’t think of a safer place than this. We’re—”

  “There!” Stephanie screamed, pointing toward the door behind which we crouched. Chairs scraped back. Faces turned to us. In the instant before we turned to flee, I saw the face of the sixth person. I thought I recognized Prentice Dowalski, hustler extraodinaire.

  No time for a second look. “Run!” I said as they started toward us.

  We tried flying back the way we came. The abrupt appearance of a wall inches from my nose put an end to a mad dash. More cautiously but as quickly as possible we tried to move down and out.

  Within seconds we’d lost our way. We managed to get out of the locker room area and down to the third floor, but neither of us could remember where the exit was for the next descent. Sounds of those following came sporadically. The darkness hampered them as much as it did us.

  We came to a dead end and had to double back. We tried doors on every side. New apartments, dead ends with new appliances scattered around to bang into. The obstacles prevented anything like rapid progress. We came to the door through which we’d emerged from above. While Scott crept farther along, I listened a moment. The sound of squabbling voices came closer. I turned to realize I couldn’t see Scott. I started off down the corridor.

  “Here,” he called, about twenty feet ahead and on the right. A window at the far end of the corridor let in enough light for me to see a door sway in the corridor.

  “Come on,” Scott urged.

  I hurried forward. As I got to the door, I turned for a quick glance back. A female figure emerged from the staircase with a flashlight in her hand. The light crept toward us. We slammed the door and dashed forward. We found ourselves in another maze of passages. Sounds of pursuit nearing forced us to dangerous speed. Through the uncertain light we blundered and stumbled. Finally we emerged on a balcony overlooking a vast space. Above, the new skylight told me we’d entered the nave of the old church. We had sufficient light to see our way down from the balcony. Two sets of steps on opposite sides led into the abyss below. We heard feet pounding behind us. I glanced down. We could see each level of the unfinished lofts as they branched out. A quick look showed no sign of anyone below us cutting off our retreat. We’d have to descend into the maze.

  “This way,” we told each other. Seconds later I realized he’d gone down the other steps. Before I could try retracing my way, the door we’d come through burst open. I turned and flew down the stairs. On the second level I almost boxed myself in, taking a wrong turn into a master bedroom. I reemerged and glanced quickly around. On the level above me and across the gaping chasm, I saw a flashlight bobbing erratically from side to side. For an instant the light caught Scott.

  “Get him!” a voice screamed.

  The vast room echoed now with shouting voices and thundering footsteps. Above me on my side, I heard slower pursuit. No light shone on this side.

  I rushed to my right and found a grand staircase. I hurried down, then paused at the bottom. I couldn’t see an opening that led up to meet up with Scott.

  “Run!” I heard him shout. He was on a series of steps a level and a half above me. “I’ll meet you outside.” He gestured frantically and disappeared. Despite his words I tried desperately to find a way to get up to the other side. In the precious moments I used on this task my pursuers closed in.

  “Hold it, asshole.”

  I turned. The heavy-set woman who’d been reading on the floor stood at the head of a contingent of three, ten feet in front of me. They blocked the way to a series of steps down. “We got one,” she called out.

  I dashed straight for the closest woman. She flinched for a second, but her foot darted out in a well-aimed karate kick. I’d had similar training and managed to deflect the blow with my right arm. It still hurt like hell, but I managed to shove her as I dove past. She fell into the other two, and I rushed for the flight of stairs behind them.

  On the ground floor now, I looked for any kind of exit. The doors were locked tight. This section had all new windows. Each had double-thick safety glass that you’d need a truck to burst through. I was far too lost to be able to find the way we’d come in the first time. Behind me I heard several loud screams and a yodel of triumph. Had they captured Scott? I turned a corner and came upon a pile of window casements. I’d stumbled on the spot where the workmen had stopped putting in new windows that day. I gave the old window a swift look-see. Old and opaque. I picked up a board and smashed the glass. Only rusted metal grating stood between me and freedom. Bracing my arms on the window sides, I pounded my foot against it. It gave on the second thunk; with the third, it clattered to the ground. I jumped through; dropped three feet to the ground, and ran. I didn’t go far; I stopped at the hedge to look back. The wind howled around me, but as yet no rain or snow fell.

  A face appeared at the opening I’d created. After searching looks left and right she disappeared. I stayed still and caught my breath. Then light appeared at the window. I saw Priscilla’s face as she flashed the beam around the building’s exterior. I crouched unmoving in my hiding place. The beam couldn’t penetrate the thick evergreen hedge. Moments later the light disappeared.

  I spent the next thirty minutes in two painstaking circles around the outside of the building, looking for Scott. I halted when I realized he could be doing the same thing. We could circle each other endlessly. I waited. Time crept by at an achingly slow pace. No sounds came from inside or outside the building. After fifteen minutes, I decided to go back in. Scott could be captured, trapped, hiding, anything. So far they hadn’t called the cops. Assuming they were the Lesbians for Freedom and Dignity, they’d be reluctant to draw police attention to themselves, especially if
they were in residence illegally. For similar reasons, I wasn’t eager to call the cops.

  Carefully I returned to our original point of entry. Slowly I eased back the board and listened intently. No sound. I crawled through the opening and jumped the two feet to the floor. Instantly bright light shone in my face. Powerful hands gripped me from all sides. Wrenching my arms painfully behind me, they dragged me through the complex. We met Priscilla in the center of the old church under the massive skylight.

  She took the flashlight from the one called Stephanie and shone it in my face.

  “Macho Mason,” she sneered. She waved the flashlight at the two others gathered on her right. “I told you he’d come back for his pal.”

  “Where’s Scott?” I asked.

  She pointed. “Up. We’ve heard him, but we haven’t been able to catch him. We’ve got the exits covered. He can’t get down without getting caught. We figured you’d be back to look for him. We found your entrance and waited.”

  They led me back to the ground level of the loft room. One of the women pulled the belt from her pants and used it to secure my hands behind me. She stepped back. Priscilla placed the flashlight ten feet away on the railing for the first flight of stairs to the first loft. The diffused light showed three women and no Prentice.

  “What’d you hear upstairs?” Stephanie said.

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  She kicked me in the nuts. I doubled over and slumped to the ground, groaning in agony.

  “Answer or you get more of that,” she commanded.

  Gasping for breath, I waited for the waves of pain and nausea to subside. Breathing under control I asked, “Where’s my nephew?”

  Stephanie had a gravelly whiskey voice, whether natural or acquired, I couldn’t tell. She said, “We ask the questions.”

  “We took him,” Priscilla said.

  I struggled to my feet. “If he’s harmed in any way, I’ll kill you.”

  “Do that,” she said calmly and gave a ripple of laughter. “We’ve been calling your place to give you a message, but you haven’t been home. Leaving a kidnap message on an answering machine is stupid, and Carpenter’s number is unlisted.”