Shadow of Death

by William Kienzle

  And then followed that peculiar rustling sound that is heard almost exclusively in church as everyone tries to find a comfortable position in which to sit or, if unlucky, to stand.

  Archbishop Bell, who remained at the microphone, began to speak. He spoke movingly, if predictably, of the longing in Christian hearts for the reunion of all Christianity.

  As he had feared, Koesler’s attention wandered, as past ecumenical experiences came to mind.

  Archbishop Bell was speaking of the many recent attempts to tear down the barriers that still divided the various Christian sects.

  At that point, Koesler recalled an Irish missionary priest, who had spent many years in Africa. Koesler could see him in memory: a large, white-haired, ruddy-faced man, who told countless stories about his years as a missionary! One of his stories he prefaced by explaining that he had received a rather liberal training in the seminary. Not, he stressed, like the training given priests just a generation older.

  It was with just such an older priest he had been assigned to work in one of the more populous cities in what was now Tanzania. The older man, he explained, as a result of his uncompromising training, could not stand the sight of a Protestant missionary. “Why,” he said, “when Father O’Brien would even catch sight of a Protestant missionary, the very hairs on the back of his neck would stand on end.

  “It was not that way with me. I was never thus affected by the sight of a Protestant minister. Of course,” he added, “I knew they were all goin’ to hell . . .”

  Koesler had laughed. But, on reflection, he had wondered why, in a small Third World country, missionaries representing various Christian sects and working more or less the same territory never considered their work redundant.

  Here was an entire world, most of which was considered heathen, or at best not Christian, and the various sects spent their lives criss-crossing each others’ paths, preaching roughly the same general doctrine with their peculiar sectarian shadings.

  How much time, he thought, was wasted on sectarian idiosyncracies. He recalled a friend, a dedicated nun, who was returning to her mission in Japan in the company of a very elderly priest who was to become chaplain to her order.

  The two had encountered a Japanese couple, who expressed surprise and sympathy to the nun, the only one of the two who understood Japanese. They assumed that the priest and nun were married—why else would a couple travel together?—and they also assumed the marriage had been “arranged”—why else would a pretty young lady marry an old man?

  In the time it took for the nun to explain the concept of celibacy and virginity, she could have gotten in quite a few plugs for Christianity. As it was, the Japanese couple found the concept so incredible and mind-boggling that there was neither time to get into the matter of Christianity, nor any use in attempting to do so.

  As Archbishop Bell continued to speak, he noted some of the differences between the Churches that realistically continued to delay the reunion that theoretically everyone desired.

  Koesler’s attention returned to the Archbishop’s speech just long enough to note the topical turn he had taken. Then he was off again: Of course it was simplistic to overlook the significant differences that had accumulated over a 400-year separation between Protestantism and Catholicism. A thousand years, when one considered the separation between Catholicism and Orthodoxy. And when one considered the ultimate separation—for Christianity unquestionably flowed from Judaism—two thousand years.

  Koesler recalled the night years before when he had gone to Mercy College to hear the rabbi who had been widely and wildly touted as “the rabbi who was only one step away from being Catholic.”

  Two very satisfied and relevant nuns had shared the stage with the rabbi. One introduced him. In his address, he touched on certain elements in both the Old and New Testaments. His main objective that evening had been to demythologize all the miraculous events of the New Testament. If it happened in the Old Testament, it may have been by divine intervention, he opined. If it happened in the New Testament, God had nothing to do with it.

  With each destroyed miracle, the two nuns appeared more smug and more relevant. Koesler recalled thinking at the time that if this was the rabbi who was only one step removed from Catholicism, it had to be a giant step indeed.

  Archbishop Bell had concluded his speech. Once again, Henry Beauchamp held the open book to enable the Archbishop to read the prayer.

  The congregation stood.

  “O God, the Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ, our only Savior, the Prince of Peace; give us grace seriously to lay to heart the great dangers we are in by our unhappy divisions. Take away all hatred and prejudice, and whatsoever else may hinder us from goodly union and concord; that as there is but one Body and one Spirit, and one hope of our calling, one Lord, one Faith, one Baptism, one God and Father of us all, so we may be all of one heart and of one soul, united in one holy bond of truth and peace, of faith and charity, and may with one mind and one mouth glorify Thee; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

  Again, the congregation responded with a hearty “Amen.”

  Both Cardinals Whealan and Boyle were scheduled to respond to the Archbishop’s remarks. Whealan was first.

  By and large, Koesler thought, it was not the people in the pews who formed the barriers to reunion. It was the people at the top. It was as Pope John XXIII once noted: As much as he desired and prayed for Christian unity, he recognized that it was he and his position in the Catholic Church that was most responsible for the continued separation.

  Koesler recalled ecumenical services he had attended. One, in particular, during a Lenten season in St. Anselm’s, his own parish.

  A number of neighboring ministers had joined Koesler in the sanctuary; the congregation comprised a mixture of their parishioners as well as some from St. Anselm’s. All of those in the sanctuary were men, which in itself was a statement, while, as was usual during a weekday, the congregation was composed entirely of women.

  In the sanctuary, there was an almost palpable feeling that everyone there was most conscious of the identity of each and every doctrine and principle that separated each from the other. In the congregation, on the other hand, was an equally palpable yearning for reunion.

  And when, during that service, the time came to solicit prayers led by volunteering individuals from the congregation, the Catholics, if they did not already know it, learned that their Protestant counterparts were extremely skilled in informal public prayer.

  One other, but one very pleasant thing Catholics would learn from their Protestant neighbors when unity became a reality—how to pray extemporaneously. As one Catholic lady had remarked after that service, when each Protestant lady launched in prayer, it seemed that she would never see shore again.

  Both Whealan and Boyle had concluded their remarks and still Toussaint had not arrived. There was very little time now before the reception. Koesler was definitely and extremely worried. Only a meditation hymn was left to precede the reception. Hymn announced, the congregation stood.

  And did those feet in ancient time,

  Walk upon England’s mountains green?

  And was the holy Lamb of God,

  On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

  Irene Casey raised her chin and vocalized very loudly. Joan Blackford Hayes stepped as far away as possible.

  Bring me my bow of burning gold!

  Bring me my arrows of desire!

  Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!

  Bring me my chariot of fire!

  In the sanctuary, preparations were being made for the reception.

  One of the ushers, in reality a police officer, or bobby, as were most of the plainclothes attendants and ushers, approached Henry Beauchamp. “There’s a bit of a run on coloureds out there,” he said directly into Beauchamp’s ear, though he had to almost shout rather than whisper. “But not a bloody one of ‘em is wearin’ dreadlocks.”

  “Not going to make it easy for us then, are t
hey?” Beauchamp passed the news to the other officers in the sanctuary.

  The tableau began to be formed by the Master of Ceremony. Beginning at the pulpit and extending across the sanctuary just above the step leading to the chancel the lineup was as follows: a C.I.D. officer. Archbishop Bell, a C.I.D. officer, Commissioner Beauchamp, Cardinal Whealan, Superintendent Somerset, a C.I.D. officer. Cardinal Boyle, Inspector Koznicki, Father Koesler. All the police were disguised as acolytes.

  The two images of black fists had been left where Koesler had discovered them so that whoever had put them there would not become leery.

  Koesler looked again at the two impressions. They were imposed one directly in front of where Whealan now stood, the other before Boyle.

  Some clue! Koesler thought. All they prove is that someone had advance knowledge of the ceremonial setup.

  In retrospect, it had not been worth it; bringing the information to Inspector Koznicki had meant leaving Toussaint. If they had not gone their separate ways, he would at least know what had happened to Ramon as well as his whereabouts. Koesler glanced at the doorway leading to St. Faith Chapel. Not a sign of Toussaint. Koesler forced himself to pay attention to the proceedings. Events now could take on literally vital importance.

  While the choir sang softly, most of the congregation, in turn, began forming lines leading to the three prelates. Once they arrived, each person paused a moment in silence before his or her bishop, who would trace a sign of the cross over the worshiper’s head. Then, each would either return to his or her place or exit the abbey.

  “How about it,” said Joan Blackford Hayes, “want to go get an ecumenical blessing?”

  “I think I’ll just pass this time,” said Irene Casey. “These feet are tired from having walked all over London.” Joan’s feet are probably in excellent shape, thought Irene.

  “Well, I think I’ll get one,” said Joan. “You only go around once, you know.”

  And few of us go around flawlessly, thought Irene.

  Koesler carefully watched each person who approached each Cardinal for a blessing. It was not that he was uninterested in the Archbishop of Canterbury, only that he considered Archbishop Bell to be not in harm’s way.

  The congregation certainly was a mixed bag. Wealthy, poor, black, white, British, American, African, Indian; Koesler thought he could even distinguish some Pakistanis. As they approached the prelates for a blessing, there was no uniformity whatever in the formula. Some stood, some knelt, some genuflected, some curtsied, some bowed, some stood upright.

  It put Koesler in mind of his seminary days many years before. One of the Michigan bishops had come to St. John’s for an ordination ceremony. Back then, to receive communion, one was expected to kneel. When the priest arrived with the consecrated wafer, one tilted one’s head back and extended one’s tongue whereon the priest placed the wafer. Except when the priest happened to be a bishop. Which happened rarely if ever in the lifetime of most Catholics.

  With a bishop as the minister of communion, one was to kneel, as usual, and when the bishop arrived, one was expected first to kiss the bishop’s ring, which he wore on the third finger, right hand. Only then did one extend one’s tongue for the wafer.

  The bishop as minister then, occasioned a considerable change in the Catholic’s familiar communion routine. Seminarians would rehearse the variation the day before, be very conscious of it during the ceremony and, usually, carry it off quite well. Not so the lay relatives who were guests at the ordination. After long lines of seminarians had successfully consummated this altered form of communion, it was amusing to watch the laity, most of whom had no idea what was going on except for what they had witnessed the seminarians doing.

  Having had no instruction or rehearsal, most of the laity did not do well. And so what usually resulted was a convoluted mishmash of bishop presenting ring to communicant who had tongue out, followed by bishop presenting wafer to communicant who now had lips pursed to kiss ring. And so on.

  Koesler recalled with especial glee that day’s final lay communicant. It was a young girl, who, as was the case with almost all the laity, went through the mixed-up tongue/lips routine, until, in final frustration, she licked the bishop’s ring, then extended her tongue. The bishop gave her communion, then, in manifest disgust, spent several minutes wiping off his ring.

  But enough of that. Koesler forced his ever wandering attention back to the business at hand.

  “How about it, lover,” said Pat Lennon, “do you want to accompany me up there and get your agnostic self blessed?”

  “Let me clarify this before I get into a situation I can’t get out of,” Joe Cox responded. “If I get in this line with you, there’s no way I can get out of being blessed, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then I’ll just sit here and watch you. I could do worse . . . lots worse.”

  “You may be making a mistake. It couldn’t hurt.”

  But Cox maintained his seat while Joan Blackford Hayes stepped back to allow Lennon into the line.

  Koesler was trying to be vigilant, but it was not easy. The combination of the soft choral singing, the endless shuffling of the crowds approaching and leaving the chancel, the soporific heat generated by all those bodies had a tendency to dull the senses. Still, he tried to pay close attention.

  If only Toussaint were here! Ramon would have been single-minded in his concentration. And his reflexes were still fast and keen. He had proven that in the Rome confrontation.

  Koesler’s preoccupations swept him back to the occasion when he had first become aware that he was slowing down, even if barely perceptibly. It had been during a make-up touch football game. Koesler had been an average to slightly-better-than-average athlete. At least he had loved to participate in almost all sports.

  But the game he was now recalling had occurred almost five years after his ordination. It had been played on the football field at the seminary between some seminarians and some priests. Koesler had been in the priestly defensive backfield and, on a pass, his mind had told him where the play was heading—but his legs had refused to take him there.

  It was a peculiar experience he had never forgotten: there he was, not yet thirty, on the verge of being forced to take golf more seriously.

  “Death—!”

  The assailant had been cut off in mid-shout.

  Koesler looked over in time to see the flash of an upraised knife poised to strike Cardinal Boyle. Before the weapon could descend, Koznicki’s bulk lunged over the assailant, and the two men, as well as nearly everyone else in the vicinity, were tumbled into a pile of struggling, panicky humanity.

  A fraction of a second after Koznicki’s lunge, Beauchamp and Somerset had tackled and overwhelmed the assailant who loomed up before Cardinal Whealan.

  Cardinal Boyle had reeled backward unharmed. Cardinal Whealan had not been as fortunate. He was bleeding. Koesler could not tell where the blow had struck, but the Cardinal’s hand was covered with blood.

  Koesler considered it vital that he somehow get involved, although by now the police had things pretty much under control. However, he could not see what was happening at the bottom of the pile for all the squirming humanity at the top of the pile. So he stepped down from the sanctuary and bent over to help sort out the mess. Instantly, his feet were swept out from under him and Koesler joined the pile.

  The choir had stopped singing; many of its members were shouting and shrieking. The congregation was a mass of pandemonium. The organist, thinking that music might soothe the savage beast, opened up the sforzando and added to the din.

  Irene Casey hopped onto her chair. She wanted to be able to report this for the Detroit Catholic, but there was no way she was going to get close to that pile.

  Her first concern was Cardinal Boyle. She was greatly relieved to see that he appeared to be all right, albeit apparently dazed. His eyes were opened wide and his mouth agape as he regarded the tangled mass before him.

  Then she saw her.
Joan Blackford Hayes being assisted to her feet by one of the acolytes. Not a hair mussed. She didn’t even have to readjust her clothing; it hung perfectly. She looked about with only the slightest air of involvement, as if watching a movie.

  Irene seldom used the word, but it seemed appropriate. “Damn!” she muttered. She wished Joan no harm. Only that for once in her life, just one hair might be out of place.

  Joe Cox, reportorial senses aquiver, pushed to the edge of the pile. Like a hockey referee, he was determined to stay close to the action so he could assess it without becoming enmeshed in it.

  He noted that Cardinal Boyle appeared unhurt. But Cardinal Whealan, obviously shaken, was ashen-faced. A clergyman was wrapping a cloth of some sort around the Cardinal’s hand. The cloth was already sodden with blood.

  Then Cox heard a familiar voice. Even above the full organ and the tumult of the congregation, Cox clearly heard a most familiar voice.

  “Let go of me, goddammit! You goddamn sonofabitch mother! Take your filthy rotten hands off me, you male chauvinist pig!”

  Pat Lennon was struggling to get to her feet from roughly mid-pile. A hairy male hand was firmly grasping her bottom.

  6.

  “Didja telex your story?”

  “Uh-huh. ‘you?”

  “Yeah,” said Joe Cox, “I suppose you wrote it as an eyewitness.”

  “Eyewitness, my rear! I wrote it as a victim.”

  “Victim! Hell, you were just closer to the action than I was.”

  “What do you mean ‘closer’? I was attacked!”

  “So the News will award you the Medal of the Purple Butt.

  “That English Cardinal was lucky,” Cox continued, returning to the point. “If those cops hadn’t been as fast as they were—”

  “Not as fast as Koznicki,” Lennon said. “I didn’t think a man that big could move that fast. And he’s no spring chicken, either.”

  “I guess I’d like to have him on my side in a fight. I’d sure as hell hate to see him among the opposition . . .

  “By the way, did you tumble that all those altar servers were British cops?”