Lone Wolves

by Chesbro, George C. ;

  “Brendan, may I speak with you?”

  “Of course, Father,” Brendan replied, smiling as he motioned for the priest to sit back down. Then he sat beside him. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like your advice.”

  Brendan turned to look at the other man, who was staring straight ahead of him at a crucifix affixed to the wall behind the altar. “I can’t imagine what useful advice I could give you,” he said quietly;

  “I’ve known you only a week, Brendan, but you still seem like a priest to me.”

  “I take that as a compliment. Thank you, Father.”

  “A very good priest. I can’t imagine why you were excommunicated.”

  Brendan did not reply;

  “Brendan, Craiggville is a very troubled town. Some of the things that have happened here aren’t good.”

  “No. Murder and suicide are certainly never good.”

  “Do you think miracles have really occurred here in Craiggville?”

  “I can’t answer that, Father.”

  “But you have an opinion?”

  “I’m not allowed to have an opinion on that.”

  “I don’t know what to do, Brendan. Things have gotten out of hand. I feel like I’m caught in the middle between very powerful opposing forces.”

  “The middle isn’t where you should be, Father. You have to lead. I think people are waiting to see what you say and do. Silence isn’t a viable option.”

  “I don’t know how to lead, Brendan. On the one hand I have a young priest who makes statues weep wherever he goes, and on the other I have a Church hierarchy which just wants the whole thing to go away; They’re scared to death that all this talk of miracles will blow up in the Church’s face. But what if these things are miracles, signs from God of His presence? How can we ignore them? Is it right to encourage people not to believe in miracles?”

  “I don’t see the point.”

  Now the priest turned to look at Brendan, frowned slightly; “I don’t understand.”

  “There are millions of weeping children all over the world, Father. I’ve seen more than my share of them. They’re not made of plaster. They weep from hunger, pain, disease, and terror.”

  “Then you don’t believe the things that have happened here are miracles?”

  “I didn’t say that, Father.”

  “You don’t seem impressed.”

  “On the contrary; I’m very impressed by the events in Craiggville. But if God were to send us a sign of His or Her presence, I would have preferred manna from heaven, food and medicine for those children, not tears on statues. I would have preferred She sent us a cure for AIDS.”

  The older man stared at Brendan for some time, and then his oval face broke into a smile. “I think you’ve given me the subject for next Sundays homily;”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be in town to hear it.”

  “I—”

  “Brendan Furie?”

  “Excuse me for interrupting, Father. I need to speak with this man.”

  Brendan looked up at the group of men who had suddenly appeared in front of them. The man who had spoken and who seemed to be their leader was in his late thirties or early forties, lean, just under six feet, with hard gray eyes. He wore boots and matching khaki shirt and trousers. He wore his hair combed and slicked over the bald patch on top of his head. He had thin lips, and the rosy nose of a heavy drinker.

  “Pardon me, Brendan,” John Reilly said in a low voice, then abruptly rose and walked quickly away without making any introductions.

  “You are Brendan Furie,” the man with the hard eyes said.

  “Yes,” Brendan replied evenly.

  “I’m Frank York. I’m a lay deacon of this church. These are friends of mine.”

  Brendan rose to shake Frank York’s hand; he glanced over the man’s shoulder to see that Marla had turned and was watching them. A little girl who was perhaps four or five sat very stiffly; hands clasped tightly in her lap, in the first pew across the aisle. The child was dressed neatly in a white dress and saddle shoes, but there were Band-Aids on both legs and a smudge on her left cheek that might be a bruise. “What can I do for you, Mr. York?”

  “I hear you’ve been asking people about the miracles that have been happening around here.” The man had a rasping quality to his voice that Brendan found unpleasant.

  “You heard right, Mr. York.”

  “Some people say you’re famous.”

  “Do they? I can’t imagine why;”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was talking to Father Reilly;”

  “I mean, what are you doing in Craiggville? Why are you asking questions?”

  “I’m conducting a research survey of people’s reactions to the weeping Madonna.”

  Movement across the aisle caught Brendan’s eye, and he glanced in that direction and was surprised to see the little girl, unbidden, get up and walk over to where Marla was standing. She said something to Marla, and the blond woman picked the child up in her arms and began to gently caress the girl’s bruised cheek. York turned, flushed angrily; “Hey, you!” he shouted. “That’s not your kid! Put her down!”

  Marla hesitated, then hugged the girl and put her back on the floor. Clearly frightened, the child ran back to her place, where she sat and once again clasped her hands in her lap.

  “I want you to talk to me and my friends, Furie,” Frank York continued, turning back to Brendan. “We’ve got lots of stories to tell you about the miracles. As a deacon, I spend a lot of time here in the church. One time I actually heard the Virgin sob and call out my name.”

  “That’s very interesting, Mr. York. I’m sure all of you have fascinating stories to tell. There seem to be hundreds of people who live here or visited Craiggville who’ve seen the Madonna weep, or visions of the Virgin. I’ve already talked to a good number of them, and I have all the interviews I need. But I do appreciate your volunteering.”

  “You’re going to get the word out, right? You’ll be writing articles and telling reporters about the miracles that have happened here?”

  “No, Mr. York. That isn’t what I’ll be doing.”

  The puzzled expression on York’s face wrinkled into an angry frown. “Then what’s the point of talking to people?”

  “I’m involved in an academic survey,” Brendan replied, glancing at his watch. “Excuse me. I have to be going.”

  He caught Marla’s eye, and they walked quickly down the parallel aisles, meeting at the rear and exiting from the church together. Suddenly Brendan felt a hand grip his shoulder, and he was pulled around. He found himself staring into the angry face of Frank York, who was standing so close that Brendan could smell the morning beer on his breath. His friends were standing a few yards behind him, at the entrance to the church, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

  “You can’t just walk away from me like that, Furie! I wanted to tell you about the miracles I’ve witnessed! People around the world have a right to know what’s happening here, and you’re a big shot; people will listen to you!”

  “I did walk away from you before, Mr. York,” Brendan replied evenly; “and now I’m about to do it again.”

  Brendan started to turn away, and York grabbed the front of his shirt. “Listen, big shot—!”

  It was all he managed to get out before Marla abruptly stepped forward and gripped his elbow with her fingertips, pressing into the nerve cluster there. Frank York’s gray; angry eyes went wide with pain and surprise as his fingers, clutching Brendan’s shirt, opened of their own accord. York cursed and tried to shove Marla away with his free hand. Marla’s response was to grab that wrist and twist. Her face with its exquisite, chiseled features showed no emotion as York’s mouth dropped open. As he started to go down to his knees, Marla shoved him back.

  “Jesus,” York said, cradling his twisted wrist as his gaze shifted back and forth between Marla and Brendan. “What is she, your bodyguard?”

  “She’s my arbiter
of etiquette, and she doesn’t like it when people put their hands on me. Try to have a nice day, Mr. York.”

  They drove out of town for lunch at a restaurant overlooking a lake they had come to enjoy, and then returned to their motel. Marla went to her room, and Brendan to his. He took out his laptop computer and began the task of assigning codes to the names on the questionnaires, then transferring the answers from the forms into the computer. When he had finished doing that, he would start doing the same with the tapes. He hoped to have most of his work done by midnight, so that he could go on to his next assignment with the paperwork for this one almost completed.

  At four thirty there was a knock on the door. Brendan did not rise, for he assumed it was Marla, who would come in after she had knocked. When there was a second knock, Brendan got up and opened the door to find a man in a sheriff’s uniform standing outside. He was a burly man, heavily muscled, and his two-tone blue uniform fit him tightly; He wore a trooper’s hat low on his forehead, just above green eyes that were watchful but not hostile.

  “You Brendan Furie?

  “I am.”

  “I’m Sheriff Warwick. I’d like to talk to you. Would you mind coming back with me to the station house?”

  “Actually, I would mind,” Brendan said, moving out of the doorway and pointing to his computer and the forms and tapes piled beside it. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow, and I have a great deal of work to finish up. What’s the problem?”

  “There’s been a death.”

  Brendan frowned. “Who?”

  “Father Reilly; It looks like a suicide. I understand you were among the last people to talk to him, which is why I’m here to talk to you.

  Brendan felt his stomach muscles tighten as a wave of sadness washed through him. Something cold touched his heart. “Come in, Sheriff,” he said, opening the door wider. The sheriff entered the room, and then turned when Marla suddenly appeared behind him in the doorway; “This is my associate, Marla,” Brendan continued. “She’s mute, but she’ll answer any questions you may have in writing. As for me, I don’t believe Father Reilly committed suicide. First of all, he’s Catholic, and suicide is a mortal sin. When I last saw him, he was in a good mood and looking forward to preparing his homily for Sunday.”

  The sheriff took off his hat and nodded to Marla, then turned back to Brendan. “I don’t believe he committed suicide either.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “The coroner’s guess is somewhere between eleven thirty and one thirty, just after you finished talking with him. You mind telling me where you were then?”

  “Marla and I were having lunch at the Lakeside Inn. We got there about eleven forty-five. We were just leaving about one thirty.

  “Witnesses?”

  “Sure. There were about a dozen other diners, and the owner knows us. We’ve been eating lunch and dinner there all week.”

  The sheriff sighed, then reached up and ran a hand back through his short-cut brown hair. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think there was much chance you did it, but I have to touch all the bases. You two are the only strangers in town.”

  Brendan pulled the chair out from under the tiny desk and motioned for the sheriff to sit down. The other man hesitated, and then did so. He looked tired. Brendan asked, “How was he killed, Sheriff?”

  “He cut the end off an extension cord and stripped the wires. Then he plugged in the cord and put the wires in his mouth. Or it was made to look like that’s what he did.”

  Brendan winced. “Why would you think there was any possibility that I killed him?”

  “There was a note.

  “Handwritten and signed?”

  “Nah. Written on a typewriter. Whoever wrote it can’t spell, and Father Reilly was a literary man. He didn’t write it.”

  “What did the note say?”

  “It kind of rambled, but the gist of it was that he’d been wrong to choke off publicity about the miracles. It said he’d been cooperating with the Antichrist and woman demon who’d come to town—which I assumed referred to the two of you. It said he understood now what God’s purpose had been in providing the miracles, that God wanted Craiggville to become the Lourdes of America so that people from all over the world would come to Craiggville to be healed. Lourdes was spelled wrong, by the way;”

  “It sounds like whoever killed Father Reilly may have a strong economic interest in getting a new wave of publicity for Craiggville.”

  The sheriff grunted. “That would include just about everyone in town. What were the two of you talking about this morning?”

  “Father Reilly was very concerned about the atmosphere that has developed and events that have transpired since these so-called miracles started taking place.”

  The other man narrowed his eyes. “So-called?”

  “Poor choice of words. I should have said apparent.

  “How can they be ‘so-called’ or ‘apparent’? Man, you’ve got statues all over town crying tears by the bucketful, people whose palms start bleeding spontaneously; and the healing of sick people through prayer. If these aren’t miracles, what are?”

  Brendan looked at Marla, who was leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over her chest, listening. She raised her eyebrows slightly and shrugged.

  “You aren’t one of the people I interviewed, Sheriff, so I can be a little more forthcoming with you. There are any number of ways to make a statue weep”.

  Now it was the sheriff’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “You don’t say?”

  “I do say; You can smear cold grease, oil or lard, on the eyes, and the grease will begin to drip as it warms to room temperature. Calcium chloride will cause water vapor to condense. If you’re mechanically minded and want to get fancy, you could run a tube up the inside of the statue, attach it to a small water pump behind a wall or under floorboards, and have your Madonna weep on cue. If you’d like, I’ll introduce you to a physicist who’ll explain to you in detail how he can make anything in sight start to shed water the moment he enters a room. A simple squirt gun will do the trick, especially if you’re good at using the magician’s trick of misdirection. Stigmata are easily faked—all you need is something sharp and a tolerance for pain, or even fake blood from a theatrical supply shop. There have been verified cases of actual stigmata and spiritual healings, but psychiatrists and other doctors will tell you these are examples of a phenomenon called psychogenesis, not miracles.”

  “Jesus,” the other man said quietly;

  “Jesus has nothing to do with it, Sheriff.”

  “How the hell do you know so much, Furie? Who are you working for?”

  Once again Brendan glanced over at Marla, who this time gave him a nod of encouragement. Brendan turned back to the sheriff, said, “We work for a private foundation made up of scientists, philanthropists, sociologists, and maybe one or two retired intelligence agents. These people think they have good reason to believe the human race will become extinct within the next few decades, probably before the middle of the next century”.

  “What? That’s crazy;”

  “Let’s hope so. They base their opinions on a mathematical model that can track and project human behavior on a global scale—something like long-range weather prediction. According to their data, large masses of people all over the world will become increasingly anxious, tense, and irrational as the millennium nears. This spreading neurosis could, if their supercomputer knows what it’s talking about, lead to mass hysteria and a sort of global nervous breakdown that will lead to mass destruction and death, most likely from new plagues that will ravage the planet when medical facilities break down. My job is to collect data from places where some form of mass hysteria has already taken place, or where lethal belief systems have taken shape. Their hope is to gather enough data to feed the equations, which in turn may spit out some solution to the problem, say a finely tuned psychological and educational program that can be used by national and world health organizations. That’s the nickel tour of what I do
and who I work for.”

  The burly sheriff sighed heavily, shook his head. “Well, you’ve certainly got a lot of craziness here—statues crying, the sun spinning, sightings of flying saucers, people killing each other, and kids killing themselves. And it seems to be getting worse, not better. People thinking and acting nutty because they believe God’s rented a condo here, Or something. The other day I overheard two of my deputies talking about how maybe we didn’t need law enforcement any longer because Jesus is coming back any day. How can I trust them to do their jobs? I’m afraid Father Reilly’s death could lead to a lot more bad stuff, and I’m not sure how I can deal with it. I can’t stay on duty twenty-four hours a day.”

  “If this town has a fever, maybe you have to lance the boil that’s causing it,” Brendan said carefully;

  The other man blinked slowly; “What do you mean?”

  “The fever started with the weeping Madonnas. Maybe you should look into that as a public health issue.”

  “You mean prove they’re phony?”

  “If they are phony;”

  “But you believe they’re phony;”

  “I’ll stand by what I said.”

  “You really think Father Gary has been faking all these weeping Madonnas? In case you didn’t notice, he’s not the brightest bulb in the hardware store. He grew up in this town, and he never much impressed anybody—not even when he came back here as a priest. Before this weeping Madonna and stigmata business, most people thought of him as a kind of joke in a clerical collar.”

  “I’m not offering up any suspects, Sheriff It’s possible there’s more than one person involved, and they’re all operating independently of one another. They might even have different motives, but the majority, most likely, would have a vested interest in seeing Craiggville become the Lourdes of America mentioned in that suicide note we both agree is fake.” Brendan paused, then continued. “Look, Sheriff, you’ll never convince some people—sincere people—that every one of the incidents isn’t a miracle, and these people will continue to be enraptured and unpredictable. But you might convince enough that what’s happened here is earthbound, and the results demonstrably dangerous to the mental health of the community. They could convince others, and then the heated atmosphere around here might cool down.”