thinking she was her sister. And the guilty party is still at large, probably looking for an opportunity to attack Sister Joan.”
“It’s hard to hide, particularly in this day and age.”
“I’ve talked to her about going away. A vacation, study, virtually anything to get her away from here, somewhere where she could be safer.”
“She won’t go?”
Boyle shook his head. “She’s politely refused every offer. I get the impression she feels some sort of debt to her sister. She is certain the killer was looking for her and that her sister was in the wrong, place at the wrong time. With Sister it is the whole thing. That her sister was dressed in Joan’s habit. There’s a sense of desecration in a religious being attacked. In many ways, Joan feels that in death if not in life she is her sister’s keeper.”
Foley was tempted to fiddle with something, anything: spoon, knife, whatever. But having had his subconscious raised, he deliberately interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on the tabletop. “But, why?” he asked. “What possibly could be the connection between Larry Hoffer and Sister Joan-given the assumption that she was the real intended victim?”
“I’ve thought about that a great deal. Almost obsessively.” Boyle sipped his coffee. It was excellent; Mrs. Provenzano had experimented with the blend until she was satisfied. “I keep returning to the recent staff meeting- the last time they were together. Sister Joan as one who had escaped the grave, and Larry Hoffer at his final meeting-though none of us knew it at the time. I’ve even seen it in a dream. I can hear the angry voices, most of them directed at Larry. And I wonder: Could anyone at the meeting … a staff member … could any one of them …? But then I dismiss the questions as impossible speculation. Besides, such questions are better asked-and answered-by the police.”
“They need help!” Foley’s tone was forceful, urgent.
“Help? The police? From whom?”
“Us!”
Boyle looked startled. “You’re not serious.”
Foley was very serious. “These are officials of the archdiocese of Detroit. If there were only one victim-Larry Hoffer-we might suppose his enemy could have been … anyone. It’s not hard to suppose that he’s made enemies during his long career. He was, after all, a financier, and money is a common enough motivation for enmity, hatred, violence … murder.
“But that is true only if Hoffer were the only victim. It does not in any way address the selection of Sister Joan as a designated victim by the same killer. Whoever is doing this is doing it for some religious reason. Oh, I know to the police that might sound like a contradiction in terms. But we could list hundreds of examples through history when people were murdered for reasons connected to religion.”
“Well, I can assure you, Lawrence, that I am not going to volunteer my services, such as they are, to the Detroit Police Department.” A smile threatened to break through, but Boyle held it well in check. “Of course, if you …”
“Come, come, Mark,” Foley interrupted, “you know I wasn’t referring to a couple of old fogies like us! I meant one of your priests. You must have someone who could guide the police through the morass of Church bureaucracy.”
Boyle’s smile did break through. “There is someone. I don’t think you’ve met him yet. Father Robert Koesler.”
“He has some special training?” Foley was surprised that any priest would spring immediately to mind as a liaison with a homicide department of a major city such as Detroit. If anyone had challenged him to come up with such a priest in Cincinnati, he would have been hard-pressed to do so.
“Not training, Larry; experience.”
“This … this Koesler: He’s done this sort of thing before?”
Boyle nodded. “It’s uncanny, but it certainly has happened before. I’ve had occasion to speak with him about it, of course. I’m convinced a good deal of his involvement is not by design. He certainly is not in any way trained in criminology. But he has been called upon by the police to do just what you suggested: help them find their way through Church avenues and paths that seem to be an added mystery to the police.”
“Do you … assign him to this duty?” Foley found this difficult to comprehend.
“He seems to gravitate to this role quite independently of anyone’s commissioning him.”
“Well,” Foley said, “he certainly seems made to order for what I had in mind.”
“Shall we repair to the study?” With the meal ended Boyle thought Foley would be more comfortable in the well-upholstered study
Boyle rose from his straight-backed chair fairly spryly. Foley had a considerably more challenging time of it. But he managed. Boyle did not offer assistance. He knew Foley would prefer to be independent.
The study was exactly that. Just about every inch of wall space was lined with books that were read, consulted, treasured. Cardinal Boyle spent many a contented evening alone with his books, studying.
The two settled into comfortable chairs. Boyle offered a selection of liqueurs. Foley, claiming an advanced stage of fatigue, declined. They sat in silence for several minutes.
Foley was first to speak. “Have you given much thought to the future … to the future of our Church?”
“Certainly. It won’t be long.”
“No, it won’t. Pretty soon all the priests-even the Pope,
“I’m not inclined to be that pessimistic, Larry.”
“God will provide?” Mockingly.
“Yes …” Boyle drew out the word, “but not magically.”
“A married clergy?”
“I think it inevitable. We already have the beginnings of it with the sizable number of married Protestant clergy that have converted and are now functioning.”
“The transition is going to be difficult.”
“No doubt. But it has to happen.”
“There are going to be some angry Catholics. Some very angry Catholics.
“There are already some very angry Catholics.” Cardinal Boyle had had firsthand experience.
“But it works.” Foley resettled himself in the chair as if fighting off tiredness. “We’ve known it all along. Martin Luther, among others, was right. It is not only possible but beneficial to have a married clergy. The Protestant clergy-just about every sort of clergy but Latin Rite Catholics-have proven the naturalness of a married clergy. And now the converts among ministers and Protestant priests, they’re doing all right. And I almost forgot that other phenomenon, our brother priests who marry and then become Protestant-even Orthodox-priests. Quite a display of proof there. It is as you yourself just said: inevitable. Yes, yes, yes: We are going to have optional celibacy-the day after I die.”
Boyle chuckled. “Thus saving some poor woman from becoming Mrs. Lawrence Foley.”
“‘Mrs. Foley ” Even the name sounds peculiar. In that context,” he clarified. “The first and almost the only Mrs. Foley that comes to mind is my mother.”
“Besides, Larry, it is not as smooth a picture as you paint.”
“Oh, I don’t know”
“There’s the problem of divorce among the clergy:”
“I suppose,” Foley admitted, “You don’t have divorce when you have an unmarried clergy. But then, divorce seems to be part of life-a tragic part of life. Something we would better understand if some of us had to go through it.”
“You’re mellowing, Larry.”
“I’ve mellowed, Mark.”
“Another problem you’ve skipped over: the convert clergy with their wives and families, many of them, are not being accepted by all parishioners, even though the parishes they are assigned to are carefully selected.”
“Transitional, Mark, transitional. Our people are so used to the unencumbered priest that it’s going to take a while for them to adjust.” Foley cocked his head toward the Cardinal. “What is it with you, Mark? Are you merely playing
