City of Strangers (Luis Chavez Book 2)
Page 26
He’d prepared for this moment for months, ever since he’d heard Whillans’s diagnosis. It was inevitable. He’d watched the pastor weaken and fall, but now he was gone. He went over and over their last interaction together, their jokey pre-sermon chat about nothing with Bridgette in the pastor’s office. Luis had envisioned what their last interaction would be like—the pastor in bed, Luis praying by his side, a few words, a few last bits of wisdom imparted, and then a farewell.
But even as he’d stood in that office that Sunday morning, Luis had known and, he believed, Pastor Whillans had known it was to be their last meeting. So why hadn’t they said more? Why hadn’t that wisdom come? Why had they treated it as if it was nothing, that the more important moment was the sermon and who was coming to attend?
And if they’d known the night before, why hadn’t they spoken of important things instead of this ridiculous murder case, the ins and outs of which were already escaping Luis’s thoughts?
Because we didn’t need to, came the thought. Because we’d said it all already.
Luis allowed this phrase to repeat in his head hour after hour, day after day, until he realized it was true.
Though the archbishop had flown back from the Vatican to attend Pastor Whillans’s funeral, something Luis noted he hadn’t done for Father Chang, he had barely had time to greet Luis before having to move on to the several other members of the diocese waiting for an audience. So when the archbishop arrived at St. Augustine’s on Saturday morning, Luis was surprised that he was there to see him.
“Father Chavez,” the archbishop said, embracing Luis. “How are you doing?”
“I’m all right, Your Eminence,” Luis said. “I know that Father Whillans was suffering and was glad to soon be in the presence of God. That is a great comfort.”
“Of course,” the archbishop replied. “And amen to that. Will you come with me to the altar?”
Luis obliged as the archbishop guided him to the chapel. There, the archbishop knelt and indicated for Luis to do similarly.
“A few months ago Father Whillans made a request of me. It was something I knew right away I could not grant. It asked too much. I prayed on it, but the answer remained elusive. I didn’t understand but do now.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, Father,” the archbishop said. “Father Whillans told me of how the spirit moves within you. What a true instrument of God you’ve proven to be. And following his death, he wanted you to succeed him as the parish pastor of St. Augustine’s. I told him that was quite impossible, that you were far too young and inexperienced. That the congregation wouldn’t have it. But by all accounts I’ve been proven very wrong indeed and am humbled to be in your presence.”
Luis was stunned. He had never considered himself pastor material and even thought the diocese might reassign him to a different parish following Whillans’s death. This was a bolt from the blue.
“Pastor?” Luis managed to say. “Your Eminence, I don’t—”
“I know what you’re going to say and I agree with you a hundred percent. But I ask you to do what Father Whillans asked of me. Pray. God will then tell you what he told me. Then I will have your answer.”
Luis froze up. He had no idea how to respond. That’s when he noticed what time it was.
“Um, I’m sorry, Your Eminence, but I have an appointment. Can we revisit this topic?”
“Of course, Father. But don’t keep me waiting.”
“Pastor?” Susan laughed. “You’re going to be the guy in charge? Do they know you? Better yet, does their God know what you get up to, running around the city busting gangsters and all? They’re nuts if they think you’re suddenly going to be this choirboy for them.”
On the other side of the glass partition separating the two of them, Luis laughed. He knew of all people that Susan would see the humor in it.
“What did you say?” Susan asked.
“I told him I had to come here,” Luis said, shrugging.
“Here?” Susan said, indicating around.
“Well, not exactly,” Luis admitted. “I said I had an appointment.”
Here was the Mesa Verde Detention Facility in Bakersfield, a large campus for federal prisoners soon to be deported. Though thousands of deportees, generally those heading to countries in Central and South America, were housed in county, the lucky ones ended up in the federal facilities, away from typically more violent offenders. After several days of working with the CDC, Susan’s visa issues came to light. Rather than fight, however, Susan turned herself in to authorities with a plan, she told Luis, to plead “no contest.” Instead of the protracted court battle and endless delays she expected, however, she was arrested immediately and sent into federal detention to await a hearing.
Bail in those cases didn’t apply, as the detainee could legally be rearrested the moment they exited the facility.
“So, how’re you doing in there?” Luis asked.
“I’m bored out of my mind,” Susan admitted. “I met with my court-appointed attorney for all of five minutes two days ago. She said that if I can get any letters of support from Good Samaritan, from the CDC, and so on, I might be able to fight deportation, but I think I’m done.”
“I’d write you a letter,” Luis offered.
“Thanks, but I think I’m ready to go back,” Susan said, her attention seeming to drift. “My world here was the clinic, Father Chang, and Nan. All those things are gone now. What do I really have anymore?”
“What do you have in Hong Kong?”
“Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?” Susan shot back before softening a little. “To be honest, I don’t think I’ll end up staying in Hong Kong that long. I’ll probably wind down to Sydney or Melbourne. I’ve always heard Melbourne is just really fun and laid-back. From there the islands maybe? Fiji, the Carolines, Micronesia. I don’t know. Anywhere my education can get me in the door and my past is too far behind to kick me out.”
“I hear you,” Luis said.
“I’d been meaning to ask you,” Susan said. “How’d you track me down after the incident at Good Samaritan? It didn’t sound like Esmeralda Carreño gave you much to go on. Was that . . . God?”
“Not that time,” Luis said. “That was a young man I tried to help before. Miguel. He’s a good kid. But I can’t seem to reach him right now. I keep trying and nothing works.”
“The tests of this world are for the individual, right? Some people just need to get to wherever they’re going on their own two feet. Have a little faith, Father.”
Luis laughed. Maybe he should. “You want me to bring you any more books?”
“Absolutely!” Susan enthused. “My burn rate is about one a day. You don’t even have to drive out. Just drop them in the mail. When I’m done, I give them to the library here. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Luis nodded and eyed the young doctor, knowing he’d never see her again. Susan sighed.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she protested.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not a stranger you got thrown in with. I am. It’s an accident I was friends with a priest. An accident that we ended up having to fight back the triad and SARS and Father Chang’s murderous ex-boyfriend. Go with God, Father Chavez, and keep kicking ass. I am retiring from that particular sport, and if you think of me, picture me somewhere sunny. Okay?”
“Agreed. Can I pray with you?” Luis asked.
Susan laughed so loud, Luis was afraid the guards would come get her early. “No, Luis. That’s not me, either. I’m telling you. We’re strangers. And that’s okay. The earth’s full of them.”
“Okay,” Luis said, nodding.
Susan leaned up to the glass partition and kissed it. “Muah. Take care of yourself, Father.”
“Call me Luis.”
“Take care of yourself, Luis.”
Luis put his fist up to the partition, and Susan did the same. Then she walked away.
Luis sat for a beat befor
e rising. As he headed for the door, he heard a woman calling out to him. He turned and saw a very large man he thought might be Samoan speaking to a lithe Asian woman on the deportee’s side of the glass. She pointed at Luis and smacked her hand against the partition.
“Um, sir? You are a priest?” the large man said.
“I am,” Luis replied. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Archie Salapu. This is my friend, Jun Tan. We are missing a friend and are hoping you might pray for him.”
The carrel next to Archie and Jun was empty, so Luis borrowed the chair and slid it over.
“Is he in this facility?” Luis asked.
“We don’t know. He may be incarcerated, he might not be. I’ve heard rumors that, well, that he might’ve met an accident.”
“What’s his name?”
“Zhelin Qi. Tony to his friends.”
The man who saved us in the warehouse. The man who wanted five minutes to warn the triad leaders.
Five minutes was not enough.
“I will pray for him,” Luis said. “Absolutely I will.”
But when he turned back to Jun, he saw that her eyes had been boring into him since he sat. She saw everything he knew writ large across his face. She looked stricken.
“You know him,” she said in halting English. “You know Tony.”
“I met him,” Luis said, surprising himself. “He stopped the plague. He saved hundreds if not thousands of lives. It was him. He found the drug factory.”
In just-as-unsure Mandarin, Archie translated this back to Jun. But Luis could tell from the look on her face that she knew exactly what he’d said. Her face contorted, and it looked as if she might cry. Instead, she forced a smile and put her hand out to Luis.
“Pray for him, won’t you?” she said. “Won’t you?”
“I will,” Luis said. “And I’ll pray for you, too.”
Jun smiled again, but this time couldn’t stop the tears. Archie patted Luis’s arm.
“God is great. He put you here to see us,” he said, though his words were unsteady, as if two days later he might question if this conversation had even happened. “Thank you.”
“God bless you and Ms. Tan,” Luis said, then made the sign of the cross.
Archie nodded and mumbled something. Luis didn’t think he could meet Jun’s eyes again and walked away.
The air around St. Augustine’s was fraught with tension the next day. So much had happened in such a short amount of time that Luis wondered if anyone would even show up for Mass. The death of Pastor Whillans was almost a tragic afterthought to the demise of Pastor Siu-Tung at the end of last Sunday’s homily. What on earth would serve for an encore?
But this was the very nature of the priesthood. It was not about him. He was there to be God’s vessel on earth, and the parishioners were just as distraught by the passing of their shepherd as he was. If he couldn’t minister to them now in their time of need, when could he?
With a heavy heart Luis prepared for his first Mass as the new pastor of St. Augustine’s Church. The announcement was to be made during the sermon, ostensibly a remembrance of Pastor Whillans that included stories sent in by congregants throughout the week. It only amplified to Luis what he already knew. Whillans was beloved and he touched the lives and hearts of so, so many.
Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.
But as he looked out the rectory window, he saw the parking lot filling up. The tables of those selling food or religious icons lined the sidewalk, and everyone was talking and laughing and shaking hands and congregating around each other. A couple of older women even carried with them framed photographs of Pastor Whillans, but even they didn’t look so much like mourners as celebrants. This was true fellowship.
He was seized with the desire to be out among them. He knew that the pastor was meant to maintain some reserve, some distance, from the parishioners, but maybe he could do that next Sunday.
He put on his cassock and hurried out of the rectory to the parking lot. He was greeted warmly but noted the surprise on the face of several. He was younger than so many of them. He couldn’t be aloof if he tried.
So instead he introduced himself to everyone, committing new names and faces to memory, thanking people for coming, and blessing those who asked. Eventually, he was joined by several other priests, and the word spread. Parishioners who had already gone into the chapel returned to the parking lot. Members of the choir and even the laywoman who played the organ came out a few minutes later. The talk was not of Pastor Siu-Tung or Pastor Whillans but of God. How God would be with Luis and he would lead them. Luis said again and again that he would try.
But the doubt that had plagued the archbishop was absent in the eyes of everyone around him. Luis smiled and shook as many hands as he could. Someone brought up a chair and set it behind him. He stood on it and made a joke that some of the men were still taller than him.
People asked questions that he couldn’t hear, made requests he couldn’t fulfill, but he reached back to them regardless. There were so many people that no more cars could park, and traffic was backed up a quarter mile down the street. There were so many that Luis knew they wouldn’t all fit in the chapel.
He raised his hands above his head. Everyone went quiet. When even the angry car horns were silenced and the air was still, Luis’s voice echoed out over the crowd.
“Let us pray.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to gratefully acknowledge the contribution of the many people whose time and talent went into putting this book together, including his editors at Thomas & Mercer, Jacquelyn BenZekry and Kjersti Egerdahl; his developmental editor, Charlotte Herscher; his agent, Laura Dail; and his Chavez comrade-in-arms, Lisa French, who is always the first eyes on anything he writes. He would also like to thank his wife, Lauren, and children, Eliza and Wyatt, for putting up with him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Morna Ciraki
Born in Texas, author Mark Wheaton now lives in Los Angeles with his wife and children. Before writing his first Luis Chavez novel, he was a screenwriter, producer, and a journalist writing for the Hollywood Reporter, Total Film, and more.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CONTENTS
PART I
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
PART II
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
PART III
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR