Gradually, Augustine began to form a plan. The methodology was not far different from the way he had formed the plot for his novel: distractions during prayer-in both instances most practical distractions. It was a simple plan, based mainly on a few traits and habits he’d noticed in Krieg during their visit together.
By the time he arrived in Michigan for the workshop, Augustine’s plan had been refined to the utmost degree. His only question was whether he possessed-what was it: sufficient courage or malevolence? — to pull it off. For reinforcement, he brought with him some liquor. He fully expected that to carry out his plan, he would need a gigantic “attitude adjustment.”
Then came interference from that foolish David Benbow.
Just after his arrival at Marygrove, Augustine found a cryptic note slipped beneath his door. It was from Benbow. It contained a subtle suggestion that it would be beneficial to meet. The wording of the note was veiled. If one did not know what Klaus Krieg was up to, it would have been impossible to make any sense of the communication. However-and this was the single touch of brilliance to the note-if one knew what was on Krieg’s mind, the message was clear enough.
Thus, Augustine, whose signature on a book contract Krieg coveted, was able to recognize that Benbow was in the same fix. And from the wording, that, perhaps, so were the rabbi and the nun. In any case, if Winer and Marie were not among Krieg’s coveted few, the note would be harmless if unintelligible gobbledygook.
Absently, Augustine wondered whether Winer or Marie would rendezvous with Benbow. It didn’t much matter to Augustine. Benbow, as far as Augustine was concerned, was a fool. Conspiracies were like planned obsolescence. They had moving parts and so were destined to break down. It was better to work alone. But then he thought wryly that if anyone besides himself was out to stop Krieg, so much the better. It didn’t matter who stopped Krieg as long as Krieg was stopped.
Ah, but that was as of Sunday.
Monday evening, last night, saw the tragic death of Rabbi Winer. Now things had changed. It was a good thing, thought Augustine, that he had come prepared with more than one plan. There was more than one way to skin a cat. And more than one way to make sure that, like the third monkey, Krieg spoke no evil.
20
“The mass is ended. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
Koesler concluded Mass. Most of the crowd immediately filed out of the chapel, chattering to each other. A few stayed behind to peacefully meditate for a few minutes while the ruckus dissipated down the corridors.
Koesler returned the vestments and sacred vessels to their appointed places. Since boyhood he had always found something special in daily Mass. From the first grade in parochial school through the final year in the seminary-twenty years-daily Mass had been compulsory. So it was difficult to know whether he actually appreciated what he was obliged to do. But he had survived all those years with a special treasuring intact. In fact, Mass meant more to him now than ever before. If anything, morning Mass had become the focal point of each day.
And so it had been this morning. As he recited the so-familiar prayers, his personal prayer turned to the bizarre events of the past couple of days. All these talented people he had met for the first time-just hours ago, it seemed. Now, one of them was dead-a murder victim. A case of the mistaken victim, to boot. The intended victim: a charlatan or a genuine minister of the Gospel?
It was not clear yet in Koesler’s mind that three people of religion, an Episcopal priest, a Catholic monk, and a nun, were suspects!
None of his questions had been resolved during this morning’s Mass. But Koesler felt that contented quiet of the soul that he always did as he concluded the liturgy.
His soul did not remain unrumpled for long. In addition to the ruckus in the corridor, there was a young woman looking for him. Barely able to be heard over the noise, she was calling his name.
As he emerged from the chapel, she approached him directly. “Father Koesler?”
He nodded.
“The police want you,” she said, somewhat breathlessly.
“Wanted by the police,” he reflected. “I guess it had to happen one day.”
She missed the attempt at humor altogether. “Oh, no, Father. They just want to talk to you, I think. They’re in the private dining room.”
“Thank you.” For a moment he enjoyed a sense of self-importance in being needed by the police, as if they couldn’t do their jobs without his expert contributions. It was only momentary. He knew he had been included in this investigation only at the invitation of his friend, Inspector Koznicki. And the only possible contribution he might make would be in clarifying some religious question the police couldn’t be expected to understand fully. So it was with renewed humility that he hastened toward the meeting.
“Ah, here you are!” Koznicki greeted him expansively. “Good of you to come, Father. The case has developed a bit and we wanted you to be informed.”
Koesler was quite certain the Inspector’s “we” was a sort of editorial- maybe Papal-plural, and that the others were not that eager to include this outsider.
The others were Lieutenant Tully and Sergeants Moore and Mangiapane.
It was Tully who spoke. “We think we’ve found the secret that Krieg’s been blackmailing the monk with.”
“Oh?”
“Augustine’s been hitting the bottle hard for a long time.”
Koesler was not particularly shocked. By no means was it a problem of epic proportion, but he’d met his share of problem drinkers in the priesthood. “How bad is it?”
“Didn’t show up, it seems,” Tully replied, “until his later years at an ad agency”-he consulted his notes-“the William J. Doran Agency. Seems he got hung up on boozy lunches, and it went from there. Got so bad he was losing days at a time.”
“Was he fired?”
Tully smiled briefly. “Uh-uh. Seems no one cared as long as he brought in the business. And he brought it in pretty good. Well,” he backtracked, “someone cared: one of the other guys at the agency. We talked to him. Retired now, but remembers it like yesterday. Took pity on Augustine-Harold May then-and got him into AA.
“Then we got lucky. This source, a Robert Begin, volunteered that, funny thing, somebody from P.G. Enterprises had contacted him a while back. Wanted to know all about Harold May. Said they were researching for a tribute to prominent people who had conquered alcohol.”
“This is interesting,” Koesler said. “But what’s wrong with that? I should think somebody with a drinking problem ought to be issued a medal for joining AA. And then becoming a Trappist! Maybe P.G. Enterprises wasn’t kidding when they claimed they were going to honor him.”
“Could be. But it didn’t end there. This is a story that doesn’t have a happy ending.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll let Mangiapane take it from here. He’s the one who dug this up.”
The big officer reddened. “Well, not all by myself, Zoo. I mean, the team was workin’ on it.”
“Tell him.”
“Okay, sure. Well, Father, it seems that Father Augustine is sort of famous-make that notorious-with the Massachusetts State Police. They’ve got citations on him for DWI-that’s Driving While Intoxicated-long as your arm. And those are only the times he was written up. Most of them warned him, read him the riot act. Cops are sometimes reluctant to write up a priest. And the ones who did just saw the tickets squashed someplace up the line.
“Now, as far as we were able to tell, he’s pretty clean while he’s in the monastery. I guess the opportunity isn’t there. But we got a list of parishes from the. . uh. . procurator of the monastery. There are nearby places where he helps out on weekends.” Mangiapane looked at Koesler brightly. “That was my idea-checking into the possibility of weekend help.” He seemed quite pleased with his knowledge that weekend ministry was a phenomenon of Catholic ecclesial life.
