Montgomery halted at the edge of the columbarium ditch. He couldn?t seem to decide whether to go around the site or through it.
?Stop, stop, please stop,? I howled, breathless from pain and exertion. I was twenty feet away from him.
He dropped to his knees and peered into the pit. I thought he was trying to figure out how deep the excavation was.
I gasped for breath and called out, ?No matter what happens to the blood tests, some people are going to believe.? I was at the bottom of the excavation. Montgomery jumped back up; his white hair looked eerily fluorescent. I yelled, ?You can?t stop people from wanting to think God was … working through Olson. Please. Please stop.?
?You want a miracle?? he shrieked. ?You?re going to need one to find Schulz.?
?Please don?t, please wait,? I pleaded as I started to scramble up the side of the hillock of dirt. Montgomery, watching me, backed away. ?Wait!? I yelled. He spun around and looked again into the ditch, as if trying to judge if he could jump across. ?This is an unstable spot,? I begged. ?Please don?t … ? He whirled back and stared at me, or at least in my direction. Snow fell softly all around him. His thin white hair and his clerical collar glinted in the light form passing cars.
?I?ll never, I?ll never … ? his voice boomed before he fell backward, into the deep, ark pit.
?No!? I screamed. My feet sank into mud as I clambered to the top of the embankment. Below, I could see a blur of clothing, Montgomery jerking, off-balance in the frigid water of the ditch.
?Wait for me to help you,? I yelled, already feeling helpless. I slid down the side of the bank. Damn Lucille Boatwright and her damn unapproved, uninspected columbarium project. I took a deep breath and waded into the water. It was like ice. I felt my legs for an instant, and then they were numb. I tugged at Montgomery?s clothing, at his heavy body. He had gone limp. How was that possible? Above us, on the other side of the bank, a car stopped. Someone had come in from the road. People who had seen us fall from the top of the embankment were yelling down at us.
I rolled Montgomery over and cried at the sight of his face, which had gone from red to an ominous white. ?Where?s Schulz? Where is he??
His eyes bulged, but there was no response. I shook him and tried to drag the water-logged body over to the side of the ditch, but he was too heavy. His hands gripped his chest. They were locked there. Damn it. I knew he?d had a heart attack. He needed CPR, and fast.
?Hey, lady, get out of that water. You?re gonna die of hypothermia!? A fat man in a plaid wool jacket grabbed my shoulder and pulled me up. His friend tugged on Montgomery.
?Aaugh,? I cried. I was so cold. Montgomery wasn?t going to make it. And no clue as to where Tom Schulz was. My love, my Tom, would die, wherever he was. The police would never find him. I would never see him again.
?Gotta get you into some dry clothes, gotta get you a blanket!? the man who had rescued me insisted. ?Hey, girl! What possessed you? I hate to tell you, but I think that religious guy is dead. At least he went fast.?
When we came through the church doors, only Doug Ramsey and Roger Bampton were praying in the back pew. I hadn?t seen Roger since the whole brouhaha over him had erupted. Now three people died ? Olson, Hartley, and Montgomery, because no one could accept what appeared to be unexplained.
?My heavens, what in the world, did you fall into the creek?? cried Doug Ramsey as he scrambled out of the pew. ?On your way to the vigil? Did you get lost??
?Just get her some dry clothes from the Outreach box,? ordered Roger Bampton, taking charge of me. He was a short bald man, with a wrinkled face and age spots on his hands. He seemed awfully ordinary looking to be the center of so much controversy. ?Take those clothes off right away,? he ordered, then handed me one of Agatha?s afghans from the library couch. As he walked out of the library, he said, ?They?ll chill you to the bone.?
I did as directed. I was shaking violently, too cold to cry. Doug Ramsey, whose inclination to exaggerate had thrown me off base (?The whole committee?s here!? when Montgomery had not been and ?Women waited for Olson,? when it was only Agatha), thrust his long, thin arm through the door of the library and dropped a man?s sweatshirt and some bell-bottom jeans. When I?d put them on, I came out, and Roger Bampton offered me a cup of tea. My rescuer had just been informed by his friend that Montgomery was dead. Roger Bampton had called the police.
?Somebody needs to go check on Agatha Preston,? I stammered. ?She?s hurt. In the St. Luke? office in back of the church.? The man who had brought me into St. Luke? shook his head and took off in that direction.
?We were just here at the vigil, which I wanted to be sure was conducted in orthodox fashion,? said Ramsey, who was incapable of keeping quiet in moments of crisis, ?and we heard the racket in the parking lot, and then you came in, and then this news about Montgomery! Lord! I just don?t know what to say, don?t know what to do … In a way, you now, it?s like the original Easter vigils, when the catechumens were kept underground, naked, until they could come up on Easter morning and be baptized and get their new clothes, although this is hardly the right time of year to be baptized in a ditch, much less the ditch beside a columbarium site, and of course you were christened long ago, I?m just saying ? ?
?What?? I yelled. I grabbed Father Doug Ramsey by the lapels of his black suit. Kept underground. Father Doug would know this, he was an expert on the liturgy, as was Canon Montgomery, who always asked about the history of the Eucharist. Montgomery, who?d just happened to be close by Agatha and me when we were dialing on the church office phone. The church office, where there was a whole underground space being dug out for new plumbing. ?Quick!? I cried. ?Help me.?
Father Doug Ramsey pulled his chin into his neck. ?Now what??
?We have to go look at the church office, where they?ve been doing that renovation. Underground!? But I was already moving quickly, running to the hallway by the Sunday School rooms.
Doug Ramsey yelled after me, ?Do we have to do it right now??
Roger trotted along beside me as I dashed, barefoot, down the hallway past the choir room, through the side door, and up the icy steps to the bunkerlike office building. The man from the creek was helping Agatha up. She seemed to be stunned, but I didn?t stop to determine her condition. Instead of turning left to go into the office, I darted right and flipped the switch of the dim bulb hanging in the area that was being renovated.
I swallowed. The large space was dark, stripped to the walls. I walked across a board that had been put down across the subfloor to the far side of the room, then turned on another dim bulb in a room that was torn out to its framing. Beyond that was only a small tunnellike space where the pipes had all been ripped out.
?Here,? said a panting Roger Bampton behind me. Bless him, he seemed to be reading my mind. ?You?ll need this. I?ll be right behind you.?
I switched on the flashlight he thrust at me. My light flickered over a sleeping bag, and some provisions. I eased myself down to the entrance of the dirt tunnel. Earth fell on my face and got in my eyes. My clenched hands banged against the remaining shafts of pipe. I had heard that same noise when I was looking around Olson?s trashed office. I flashed my light ahead. I rounded a turn and sent the beam as far in as it would go.
It was another tunnel. My beam reflected off of something. Coming closer, I saw that it was the missing chalice, paten, and ambry from Olson?s house. I reached out to touch the cold metal, then lifted the lid on the ambry. But I already knew what I would see when I shone the light inside: the pearl chokers, glistening and lustrous in the narrow shaft of light. Only Montgomery would be able to figure out that Olson had kept the pearls of great value in something he valued equally: the sacramental vessels.
I slogged ahead into the blackness. There was another turn in the tunnel. I remembered placing my scrolled intercession in the hand of a statue. I prayed now, hard. I believe; help thou my unbelief. My flashlight beamed through the shadows.
There. At the end of the dark dirt cylinder, tied to a chair, was a motionless figure. Tom Schulz. Slowly, he lifted his head at the light and squinted. He was gagged.
I ran toward him and tugged the gag off.
?Goldy?? His voice was hoarse from disuse, and I could not see his eyes in the dim light. ?Is it really you??
?You bet,? I told him, and then I grasped him in a wordless hug.
22
We were married the next afternoon, after the church emptied from Father Olson?s funeral service. My parents flew in, joyful; Boyd and Armstrong met them at the airport. A small group from St. Luke?s came, including a fussy Lucille Boatwright. I called Zelda and said I needed her to play the organ, would she? She said that of course she would, I didn?t want that trash charismatic music, did I? No, just whatever she wanted; but I apologetically
