Shadow of Death

“Sorry.”

“Oh, that’s all right. It’s just that I’ve told the story to the police so many times I’ve grown tired of it. Besides, I’ve had nightmares practically every night since.”

“Sorry again.” Intent on changing the subject, Koesler inclined his head toward a series of spires in the area. “I guess there’s no mystery about why they call this Church Street.”

Ouellet’s gaze followed in the direction of Koesler’s nod. He smiled. “They also call it ‘Redemption Street.’”

“Oh? Because of all the churches?”

“No.” Ouellet directed his companion’s attention across the street. Koesler laughed. Almost every other establishment was a pawnshop.

The clerical procession wound its serpentine way from Church Street, down Shuter to Bond along a tall, black, wrought-iron fence. The first segment of the procession was mainly in a black and white motif as the priests marched in their black cassocks, white surplices, and a white or golden stole over their shoulders. They were followed by the red uniforms of the monsignors. Then came the impressive purple of the bishops. Finally, there was the breathtaking crimson of the Cardinals.

Bystanders who had gathered outside the cathedral earlier and were now standing two and three deep on the sidewalks had anticipated a memorable pageant. They were not disappointed.

“By the way,” Ouellet turned to Koesler after a pause in their conversation, “I suppose congratulations are in order on your archbishop’s getting the red.”

Koesler smiled. “Yes. We’re very pleased and proud of him.”

“It’s about time!”

“What?” Koesler seemed nonplussed. “Why do you say that?”

“Anybody who can run the Archdiocese of Detroit can run anything—and ought to be a Cardinal.”

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that. Rumors of Detroit’s ungovernability have been greatly exaggerated. Of course,” Koesler reflected, “it’s not Philadelphia or Los Angeles.”

“Philadelphia . . . is that bad?”

“I’ve heard they’ve just begun saying the rosary facing the people.”

Ouellet laughed. “All kidding aside, there is some talk of the new Cardinal Boyle’s being papaile.”

“Yeah, I know. We’ve heard it too. I suppose there’s some truth to it. But it’s hard to get used to. I just can’t get comfortable with the idea of actually knowing a Pope personally. I’ve never even met a Pope, let alone knowing one as well as I know Archbishop Boyle.”

“All I can tell you,” Ouellet sighed, “is that, given half a chance, the idea can grow on you. I used to feel the same way. Who, besides a few Vatican monsignors, gets to know a Pope personally? But then the rumors started about our Cardinal Claret. And after a while, you get used to it. To paraphrase that Yank football coach, just remember: The Pope puts his pants on one leg at a time just like everybody else.”

“Yes, except the Pope usually changes his clothes in a phone booth.”

They both laughed, as they turned the corner of Shuter onto Bond Street.

Koesler noticed a historical marker set back from the iron fence, near the cathedral. He squinted, trying to read it. “Principal Church for Largest English Speaking Diocese in Canada.” His lips silently formed the words. But something seemed out of place.

“I see you have vandalism problems even in Toronto . . . or is that supposed to be part of the marker?” Koesler gestured at the clenched black hand painted at the base of the marker.

“Isn’t that odd; I don’t believe I’ve ever noticed that before. And I’ve seen that marker hundreds of times.” Ouellet shook his head. “Just goes to show how familiar things can get.”

With that, they entered the cathedral and joined in the hymn the choir had already begun.

“Keep in mind that Jesus Christ has died for us and is risen from the dead. He is our Saving Lord. He is joy for all ages.”

“There he is. That’s the one.”

“No, it isn’t; he’s too tall.”

“No, that’s how tall he is. I’ve seen his picture that many times. He’s the one.”

Archbishop Boyle knew the bystanders were referring to him. He was aware that his photo had been in the papers a great deal lately, especially in the Detroit Free Press and the News, not to mention the Detroit Catholic. He had not been aware that he had been featured in the Toronto papers as well. But, then, one does not become a Cardinal every day.

Being elevated to the Sacred College would be the culmination of his ecclesiastical career, Boyle mused. It was not entirely an unexpected honor. He would not be Detroit’s first Cardinal. The late Edward Mooney’s red hat hung from the ceiling of Blessed Sacrament Cathedral. At least part of the naming of a Cardinal was precedent. And, several years ago, Boyle had been elected by his peers to a term as president of the United States Conference of Bishops.

But he had enemies, and he knew it. His reputation with Rome was that of a crashing liberal. Whereas nothing could be further from the truth. Mark Boyle was a churchman to his very marrow. And above all else, he was loyal to Rome and the Pope. But the Curia, viewing what it considered the uncontrolled liberal experimentation of Detroit, had fought against his elevation. It was a wonder that the Pope had been able to fight off his advisors and name Boyle a Cardinal.

He, of course, had heard the rumors concerning his possible accession to the Papacy. Those who believed or spread those rumors, Boyle was certain, must be unaware of the invisible but effective opposition he faced in the highest echelons of the Vatican.

But, in the end, it did not matter. All he had ever wanted to do was to serve his Church. He would be more than content to finish out his days serving as a Cardinal.

He turned the corner from Shuter to Bond. He did not notice the historical marker. As he entered the cathedral, the Twenty-third Psalm was being sung. It was Boyle’s favorite. He joined in.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

The procession ended when the last of the Cardinals took his place in the sanctuary.

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen.”

As the familiar liturgy began in this unfamiliar setting, Father Koesler’s mind cruised off on a flight of distracted musing.

It truly was an impressive sight. Bright sunshine illumined the huge stained glass Gothic window above the substantial off-white marble altar. The green of the carpet, laid throughout the cathedral, contrasted nicely with the gold, red, purple, scarlet, and white vestments of the varying ranks present.

Koesler glanced over his shoulder. There were two confessional boxes tucked against either rear wall. How typical. The priest had a theory that nobody ever planned for confessionals. Each pastor, he surmised, had a church built, then as an afterthought, stuck confessionals in some out-of-the-way corner. The result was that the average confessional could qualify as a torture box. Cramped, dark, and cold in the winter; hot and airless in the summer. Even recent renovations of the compartments involving dismantling the barrier between priest and penitent, enabling them to confer face to face, hadn’t done much to improve the situation.

“The Lord be with you,” Cardinal Audette intoned.

“And also with you,” everyone responded.

Ten Cardinals attended Cardinal Audette, five on each side. Koesler could not recall seeing so many Cardinals together at one time. At least not live and in color. And yet, when there would be need to elect a new Pope, no pundit ever mentioned any of these eleven as a possible candidate. Though one of the College of Cardinals