He went up to the altar, genuflected toward the looming dark hulk, and made the sign of the cross. He really wasn't much of a Catholic anymore. His faith, he supposed, was like the love of an old divorced man who has long known that the reasons for the split were insubstantial and recalls his partner with wary fondness.
He became cold. The sensation warned him of how dan-gerous familiar places could be, transformed by dark and fear. Cops got killed as often as not on friendly ground. He could as easily imagine Patricia screaming on this altar as Harry saying Mass here, or altar boys pouring from cruets as blood running.
Progress was interrupted for the moment by an excep-tional blast of wind. Tonight's storms were not going to wait for dawn. As large as the old building was, it shook with the force of the gust. He grabbed Father's arm and stood a moment after the noise died down, listening for the extra little sounds that might be made if somebody had used the roar as a mask for getting closer to them.
But there were none of the rustles and shuffles that people made when, for example, they suddenly stopped running.
Harry, however, had made use of the disturbance and the dark. Mike first realized this when he felt a distinct tug at his shoulder holster. He jerked away-and his thirty-eight spe-cial ended up in Harry's shaking hands.
"I've got it! Don't move, I've got the gun!"
"Hell, Harry. Give me that thing back. You couldn't shoot me."
"Don't force me, Mike! You stand right there." Harry put a few feet between them by sliding along the altar rail. "Don't come near me. I'm not at all good with these things. If you startle me it's sure to go off."
Mike was more saddened even than surprised. With the loss of Harry he had only one thing left that was worth risking his neck for. "What about Patricia and Jonathan? What's happening to them?"
"That isn't your business."
The Night Church was just too strong. From the moment he smelled the paint, Mike had suspected something like this was about to happen. Harry marched Mike into the sacristy. "Mike, I'm sorry. There isn't anything else I can do. If you're cooperative they may spare your life. Please, Mike, play along. I've been playing for years." His voice became high and frantic. "They keep my church alive."
"You poor bastard." Even now, there might be some chance. He had always had clout with Harry Goodwin. "We can talk."
"No, we can't. I've already talked too much. Titus knew you were coming here. He even told me the time."
"So you were waiting for me."
"And wishing to God you wouldn't come."
"You're still on the side of the good. I can hear it in your voice. Give me the gun, Harry."
"Mike, please be quiet!"
"I'm your conscience. I can't be quiet."
"Don't try the sentimental approach. I'm finished with that. I don't care how good a friend you are. I've been tangled up in this mess for a long time, and you can't untangle me."
As Harry spoke there was a change in him. When you saw him like this, sharp and mean, you realized what tragedy was all about. "How long?"
"They've been using my church for years. If it weren't for them, the parish would have been abandoned in the seven-ties." The bitterness in his voice was almost shocking. This was an astonishingly angry man.
"What a joke to waste your precious life on a vocation!"
"I want you to give me the pistol. I want to forget I ever saw you pointing it at me. No matter how bitter you are, Harry, you aren't bitter enough to do something so evil to a friend. If you allow the Night Church to capture me-my God, you know, don't you, that they buried Terry Quist alive."
The gun wavered. Harry seemed about to hand it over.
"And that man who died in the fire across the street- Parker was his name-that was no accident. I'm now con-vinced they burned him alive because he apparently knew too much. And Patricia-remember what they did to her."
Harry groaned, took a step closer. Mike reached out his hand.
Just at that moment the sacristy door clicked and creaked open. A small, elegant old man in a raincoat and hat hurried in. He removed the hat to reveal a crown of wispy white hair.
Titus.
He smiled. "So our last problem has solved itself. Good evening, Mike. I gather you're here to see me give away the bride."
"Give me the gun, Harry! Now!"
With a growl Titus took the gun, trained it expertly at the center of Mike's chest. "Shall I shoot?" he asked in his soft, polite voice. "Or will you shut your poisonous mouth?"
Mike fell silent.
15 AUGUST 1983.
MOST PRIVATE.
To: The Prefect of the Sacred Congregation for the Defense of the Faith From: The Chancellor for the Inquiry in North Amer-ica Your Eminence: I have prayed day and night over the request made in your last letter.
Is it morally right for me to go into a situation where my own death is a virtual certainty? I wonder. Or is this moral question spurious-a way of justifying my fear? And, Eminence, I can assure you I am afraid.
I keep thinking of Alex Parker and the blowtorch. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help it. The real issue is whether or not I love Christ enough to risk that.
Eminence, I am so afraid. Help me.
Sincerely yours, Brian Conlon Document Class: Urgent A, most private, Swiss Guards courier Destination: Paolo Cardinal Impelliteri, the Hidden Collegium, Prefecturate for the Defense of the Faith, Vatican City.
18 AUGUSTUS 1983.
FURTIVISSIMUS.
Ad: Cancellarius Inquisitionis in Septentrionalis Americanensis Cancellarius Inquisitionis in Septentrionalis Americanensis Ex: Ex: Prefectus Congregationis Defensioni Fidei Prefectus Congregationis Defensioni Fidei My dear young man, I only wish that I were not so aged and infirm, so close to the end of my time. I would count it an honor to suffer at your side.
Recall the gospel: "In His anguish He prayed with all the greater intensity, and His sweat became as drops of blood falling to the ground." And remember your consecration into the Holy Office, my boy.
You lay prostrate before the altar in the Chapel of St. Paul the Apostle here in the Hidden Collegium just eighteen years ago. Remember the words: "Oh, glori-ous St. Paul, sword and shield of the Church, conse-crate me to the service of our most holy Catholic and apostolic faith. Intercede for me in time of trouble, that I may not shrink from martyrdom, indeed, that I may give my life gladly, as thou gavest thine, for love of Him."
Let me be frank with you. When you asked me for a warrior-priest-a man who would die for love of Him-the only name I could come up with in all the Holy Office was yours.
You, Brian.
You are the last warrior-priest young and strong enough to carry out this difficult mission. All I have here are myself, laid up with my damn stroke, and a bunch of dry old historians.
Brian, it is not my way to beg, but now I do beg as I think Christ wants me to beg. Please, Brian, drink of the cup Christ holds out to you. My dear boy, pray for courage!
Holy Mother Church needs you now, and Our Lord needs you now. And I trust in you. I wish I could give Our Lord an army of Brians!
But all I can offer Him is my last, precious one. Go in grace to your duty. Man will not show you mercy, my son. But God will. You shall have mercy and love in endless abundance, and all the wonders of heaven besides.
I envy you. Paolo
Chapter Twenty-four.
HARRY STOOD FROZEN, listening to the echoing footsteps as Titus marched Mike off into the dark.
There came a creak of hinges, then the sounds dwindled as the two men descended into the crypt.
"Please, Mr. Titus," he said. His voice was so low it didn't even echo in the empty church. He swallowed."Please, Mr. Titus, don't hurt him."
There was no answer. From the depths of the crypt there came a loud, angry shout. Mike, protesting whatever indig-nity had greeted him there.
Mike, Mike. What is the sense of friendship? At our age it is a dance of mourning . . . and remembrance.
"Mike, do you remember-oh, Lord, there were great days!" Like the day he had married Mike to little Beth Herlihy. Jenny Trask was organist then, young, dedicated to music, capable of anything from Bach to Tantum ergo. Tantum ergo. She could do a wedding march of rousing splendor. She could do a wedding march of rousing splendor.
From the crypt there came a rush of argument, then the muffled slam of wood against wood.
Harry put his hands over his ears, screwed his eyes shut. As never before his church was oppressing him, the ghostly images in the dome mocking his faith, the vigil candle burning like an accusatory eye. He ran from the sanctuary, and across the muddy parking lot.
He came into his kitchen-and remembered how Beth would make them both dinner while he and Mike sat around that table drinking beer and talking.
Harry snapped off the light, sank down at the table, and wept for his betrayal.
To keep from doing it aloud he bit his lips. His mouth began to taste sharply of blood.
Yes, and who were all the histrionics for? Our Lord?
The traitor deserves a traitor's death. Iscariot, send your-self to Hell. His mind went to his twenty-two pistol. It must still be lying on the stairway where he had dropped it. If he took that pistol and pointed it at his stomach and fired, he would die in deserved agony. Unconfessed, he would sink for all eternity into Hell.
A worthy end for a coward. He went to the staircase. But there was no pistol. Harry moaned. Even his suicide was going to be denied him.
"Do you want this?"
Standing in the doorway of his office was a small, mousey sort of man. Harry had never seen him before, but that meant nothing. The Night Church was well supplied with people. The man held Harry's pistol in his hand. The barrel was trembling.
"I'm a priest," the man said in a rushed whisper. "My name is Brian Conlon." A haunted expression passed across his face, but he blinked it away. "I am here to appeal to you to return to Our Lord, and help me in His cause against the Night Church." He stepped forward into the hall to show himself more clearly.
His pants were torn and dusty, his gold-framed glasses were bent. With his free hand he brushed some dust from his suit. He was wearing a Roman collar. "Father Goodwin, I am a secret agent of His Holiness."
Beads of sweat, which had been collecting on his hairless pate, began to roll down his wide forehead, making trenches in the dust. He smiled weakly. "I'm a bit of a mess, I'm afraid. I shouldn't have attempted the window."
Harry was far too amazed by the mere appearance of another priest to care about the state of his attire.
"You mean His Holiness knows? Rome knows knows about the Night Church?" about the Night Church?"
"Rome knows. And Rome has sent me to help you."
"Father-Father-" Harry couldn't go on. Hopes he had given up for dead were soaring as they hadn't in years. He simply stood, wordless, trying to keep himself from breaking down completely.
Father Conlon came and embraced Harry. He was short; Harry found himself looking down at his hairless scalp. Then Father Conlon met his eyes. "Rome knows everything, Harry."
"Even-you know that I'm-" Harry couldn't say it. A traitor to Our Lord. A traitor to Our Lord.
"You're a participating member of the Night Church."
"No-that's stretching a point, isn't it? I never go over there. I just let them use it, you know."
"I know. And they pay you."
"It keeps the parish afloat! Without that money-"
"Yes, I see. Now I know exactly where you stand, Fa-ther." He put the gun into his pocket. "We have work to do this night." He glanced at his watch. "The Rituale Rituale will begin at midnight. That gives us less than an hour. We've got to work fast. Tell me, are they about yet?" will begin at midnight. That gives us less than an hour. We've got to work fast. Tell me, are they about yet?"
He thought of Titus and Mike in the crypt. "One of them is, and he's holding a friend of mine, a police officer, prisoner in the crypt. I think he's killing the policeman." As he said these last words the utter moral corruption of his own soul was agonizingly apparent to Harry. He was letting Mike die!
"And you're up here, looking for a gun? To help whom?"
Harry could hardly bear to answer. "For me," he man-aged to mutter.
Conlon smiled wearily. "I see. In your opinion you're beyond absolution."
"I don't want it! Absolution is the last thing I deserve!"
"But you regret your sins-your apostasies, your lies, your sacrilege, your cowardice?"
No man who was free of them could know what it felt like to bear such sins. "I regret them," Harry said.
How small, how hollow were those words!
"May Our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you, and by His authority I absolve you from every bond of excommunica-tion and interdict to the extent of my power. I absolve you from your sins in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
For a moment Harry was furious. Then an enormous relief spread through him. He could feel Conlon's words as truly as a tonic in his blood. They filled him, revitalized him, gave him immediate help. And he said, "Amen."
Father Conlon looked up at him. "You're still very much the priest, you. You've just been frightened up to now."