They laughed. Each of them was his own designated driver since each had come alone. Only Clete Bash would not be driving. And that only because he was already home.
As Del Young began shuffling cards with hazy determination, Koesler studied the group.
Three priests and a deacon. All four men were of a certain age, so they had much in common in addition to their vocation. They had each developed in the pre-Vatican II Church and all had been through the trauma of ensuing radical change. The only noteworthy thing about this group was how easily Quent Jeffrey had fit in with the priests.
The permanent deacon program produced deacons, not priests. With a preparation program of just a few short years, deacons were to priests what the ninety-day-wonders of World War II were to traditional military officers.
Added to that, the vast majority of permanent deacons were married. They quite naturally structured their lives around their families. Another sharply dividing feature from the celibate priests.
That had to be one of the reasons the Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey fit into this group far more snugly than the average permanent deacon. He had been married. Now he was a widower, his children grown and living their own lives.
Here they were-four bachelors. Three had consciously chosen the celibate life. One had backed into it unintentionally, as it were. A married clergy was on the Way for the Roman Catholic Church-indeed, it had already begun-once the law of celibacy became optional. Koesler was certain of this. He had no idea how the Church could possibly continue without a sacramental ministry. And you needed priests to do the sacramental things.
Even now, there were “no-priest” parishes. On Sundays a nun or a layperson would lead a prayer service during which Communion would be distributed. But sometime before that prayer service, a priest had to offer Mass and leave behind him those consecrated wafers that were distributed at the Communion service.
There was just no getting around it: Priests were the only ones who could confect the Eucharist. And the Eucharist was at the center and heart of Catholicism. Koesler simply could not conjure up his Church without the Eucharist and the priest to confect the sacrament.
But clearly the Church was suffering already from a dearth of those priests. The only logical move had to be to get more priests through the method most often suggested: optional celibacy-a married priesthood.
But how would these married priests blend in with the remaining celibates? Would there be many remaining celibates? Any?
Koesler fully expected this radical move in his lifetime. One more gigantic change. These were interesting times.
His daydream was broken off as Cletus Bash almost shouted at Del Young, “Are you going to shuffle the spots off those cards!?”
Young, who had been shuffling the cards interminably, was roused. “Ah, yes, poker. Gentlemen, we’ll play seven card stud; low in the hole is wild.” After thinking about it, he added, “Also wild are twos, nines, and … uh … one-eyed jacks.”
“Why don’t you have fifty-two wild cards!?” Bash bellowed. “I’m out!”
“Before I deal?” Young said.
“I’m out!” Bash insisted.
Jeffrey laughed out loud.
It was then that Koesler realized that Jeffrey was merely tolerating this peculiar poker company. Much as a scratch golfer might temporarily put aside thoughts of a serious match when teamed with duffers.
As it happened, they played what passed for poker on and off until just after midnight.
Quent Jeffrey had won a ton. Clete Bash lost a small sum. Bob Koesler lost a bit more than Bash. Del Young was the evening’s big loser, which surprised no one, including Young.
However, the monsignor had enjoyed himself, gotten a lot of gossip out in the open, and demonstrated once again his prodigious capacity for beer.
After convincing everyone that he was fully capable of driving himself home, Young proceeded to do so.
Monsignor Del Young was in residence at St. Benedict parish in Pontiac. It was a long drive from downtown Detroit. Fortunately, at that time of night, the Lodge Freeway and Telegraph Road, his thoroughfares of choice, were uncluttered. So his muchdiminished reactive powers were not tested. But his need to empty his bladder grew with each passing mile. He did not see any restaurants still open, and he thought it unseemly for a prelate to relieve himself along the highway.
Thus it was with a relieved sigh that he turned from Telegraph onto Voorheis and then onto Lynn. Home at last.
He parked. The biting cold-an eighteen-below windchill-hit him hard after the comfortable warmth of his late-model Olds.
He tried to walk quickly to the rectory, but found himself staggering slightly.
Then he saw him.
Young couldn’t be sure at first. He wanted to believe his eyes were playing tricks.
He advanced no further. Fear cleared his mind of all alcoholic fog.
It was a man. He could make out the outline now. Trousers, some sort of short coat, a hat-looked like some sort of baseball cap. Not dressed for the weather. Dressed for what? Dressed to kill?
The man made no movement. He stood on the sidewalk just outside the rectory, blocking Young’s access to the rectory, to safety.
Just where the others had been killed. Donovan on the steps of St. Leo’s convent; Hoffer just outside his home. On the sidewalk.
Young was unsure what course to essay. All he knew was that he had been selected to be the next victim. But why? What had he done?
Then, suddenly, he could. “NO!” he yelled. Then he ran. He ran as swiftly as he could. He didn’t dare look back. He gave brief thought to screaming for help. But what good would that do? It was near two A.M. Everyone in the neighborhood would be asleep. Besides, how eager would any of them be to come out into freezing cold in nightclothes. For what? To be killed for their trouble? He had to find safety.
The school! Somewhere on his key ring was a key to the school door. He hadn’t wanted it, but the pastor had insisted he have it. It just might save his life now.
He made it to the school. So far so good. Miraculously, out of all the many keys he carried, his fingers found the key to the school. He didn’t fumble. The key slid into the lock and turned smoothly.
He was inside.
For the first time, he dared look behind him. There was no one in sight.
Before anything else-he felt he was about to explode-he found the boys’ lavatory and relieved himself. Next he called the police.
The remainder of that early morning was an explosion of sound and light. There were sirens, questions, first from the police, then from the media. There were flashbulbs, of course, and the sun guns of the TV people.
He told his story over and over again. He walked it through just as he had earlier run it through. There would be no rest for him until late that afternoon.
He did not miss the sleep. After a while, he began to relax and enjoy the whole thing.
He was a celebrity. He had met the killer and escaped. Heady stuff.
Meanwhile, a stranger from out of town was one very bewildered man.
He had come up north from Florida. He’d been out of work too long. So, leaving his family behind, he hitchhiked to the Detroit area, certain he could find work here.
His first discovery was that he had badly misjudged the weather. It was so cold. He was nearly frozen. And he was in desperate need of shelter in a foreign land.
Good Catholic that he was, he was sure he would not be turned away by a priest. If only he could find one. It was late when he began his search for a friendly rectory.
A clerk in a twenty-four-hour gas station, where he’d been left off by his latest driver, directed him to St. Benedict rectory. He’d gotten there at about the same time as Monsignor Young.
He’d been surprised-happily-that he should be so fortunate as to have a priest meet him on the sidewalk-at
