Gideon (2 page)

“I’d like you to open it now.”

She didn’t ask why. She just put the phone down, kept him holding for perhaps five minutes. When she came back on the line, she told him what she had seen.

And now he was face-to-face with the truth. There it was, inescapable and undeniable, and it took his breath away, doubled him over with pain. It not only left him speechless, it left him empty inside.

His mother knew him well enough to know she didn’t need to say very much more. She told him she loved him. She told him he shouldn’t worry too much. She told him that she would do whatever he needed her to do.

She told him she was sorry.

He hung up the phone and stood there, leaning on the marble counter for support, It was a full minute before he had the strength to step into the shower, where he let the hot spray sting his chest and then his back, let the steam swirl around him, fogging up the stall and the mirror. For a moment he felt as if he were back in the nightmare, he couldn’t breathe, so he yanked the handle and turned the water off. He slumped against the glass stall, breathing hard until the air began to cool back down and his head began to clear.

That’s when it came to him. A plan.

He stepped out of the shower, dried himself in a thick, white towel, put on deodorant, and splashed himself with cologne. All he was thinking about was the simplicity and ease of the plan

And he began to wonder: Could he really do it?

In his dressing room, his outfit was already laid out. Dark blue suit, white shirt, red and blue striped tie. His black socks were thin, mid-calf length. Wing-tip shoes, polished to a marine-quality sheen. Next to his clothes was his day’s agenda, neatly typed up. He had four morning meetings followed by a lunch with Wall Streeters. The lunch would be no problem. All they wanted was money. That was all anyone seemed to want these days. That had never been his motivation, not really. Money was not what drove him.

He had always been driven by fear.

Six-fifteen now. He had time before he started his workday. But he had to hurry.

He called for his driver and told him to get moving. He wanted to leave right now.

He raced downstairs. Suddenly every second seemed to count. He had many things to say. So many things.

Six-seventeen A.M.

And now he knew what he was going to do. He was going to make the dream go away.

Forever.

* * *

The sixth largest cathedral in the world.

Every time Father Patrick Jennings stood up at the pulpit, he couldn’t believe that he was spreading the gospel at the sixth largest cathedral in the world.

He also couldn’t help thinking:
I don’t deserve this. When they find out about me, they’re going to take it all away from me.

Father Patrick chewed at the cuticle of his right thumb. The skin was raw and broke, and now a thin trickle of blood appeared. He watched the blood seep toward his knuckle, and he shook his head sadly. Sadness was now a way of life for him.

Father Patrick was losing his faith, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

It was eating away at him. Tearing him up inside.

After six years at the seminary at Marquette, he’d graduated with the highest honors. Quickly gained a reputation as a forward-thinking theologian—able to argue logically and brilliantly for the strictest doctrines handed down from Rome, yet never alienating that great majority of modern-day believers, those seeking the comfort of the church but not the inconvenience. Most important, word spread that he was also a charismatic orator. He could hold his flock spellbound for even his longest and most intricate sermons. A baritone voice that rang out with strength and fervor, a soothing manner that rivaled the most solicitous doctor’s and a face as handsome as the most appealing television actor’s. He didn’t smoke. He didn’t drink. He’d been scrupulously celibate. Well, since he’d decided to become a priest he’d been scrupulously celibate. It was not long before word reached even the cardinal about his potential, and soon after that he’d been seized upon by both the archbishop and the bishop. They couldn’t wait to wine and dine him, transfer him to the nation’s capital, and quickly make him pastor.

Of the sixth largest cathedral in the world.

Several of the priests weren’t happy to have been passed over for the position. The bishop was getting on in years, and it wouldn’t be long before the time came to pick a successor. The young pastor was now clearly the front-runner and there was a certain amount of jealousy and bickering, but Father Patrick confronted it head-on and it didn’t take long for the petty grousing to stop. He was, after all, wonderful at his job. And he loved it so.

St. Stephen’s Cathedral—even Father Patrick thought of it as such, though its official appellation was Washington’s St. Stephen’s Cathedral Church of the Apostles—was a magnificent Gothic church, rivaling its fourteenth-century counterparts anywhere in Italy, England, or France. The nave, flying buttresses, transepts, and vaults had been built stone by stone, and one had only to stand before them to feel the pride that had gone into the construction, the power that emanated from the structure itself.

When he’d first arrived, Father Patrick Jennings had felt his Savior to be in its very walls.

But lately he had not felt his Savior at all.

Six months earlier, Father Patrick’s younger sister had been killed by a drunk driver.

Sweet Eileen. Twenty-four years old, ten years his junior. So beautiful. So full of promise, with so much love to give.

She used to laugh at him for becoming a priest, for she had known him in his less holy days. She was never one to limit herself and never understood why he would not only accept such limitations but willingly place them there. He would explain he was throwing off the shackles. She would insist he was putting the padlock on and tossing away the key. But she recognized in him the desire to attain purity—a desire she greatly admired. He recognized in her an already pure spirit—a state he could only pray to attain. And underneath their difference was a layer of support and love that neither of them could equal elsewhere.

It was bright and sunny the day she died. She was meeting Father Patrick for lunch. A flat tire forced her over to the side of the road by Washington basin. Father Patrick could picture her standing on the road’s shoulder, her hands on her hips, her lips pursed in annoyance, shaking her head, which was what she did whenever she got angry. He was told that she had reached through the open window on the driver’s side, to grab her cell phone. He didn’t know whom she was calling—perhaps the restaurant to say she’d be late, perhaps AAA to come help her. But she never got to make the call. A station wagon veered across two lanes and hit her straight on, knocking her high in the air, up over the roof of her Honda. She landed face down on the pavement some thirty-five feet away. It could not have been a more deadly attack if it had been deliberate. Which it wasn’t. But the driver, who’d had thirteen citations and was driving without a license, was blind drunk and out of control. And Eileen just happened to be in the way.

At least she was out of pain. That’s what he told himself. But Father Patrick was alive and suffering. He was being tested. And he was forced to admit that he was failing the test.

Soon after the accident, he began to drink. Soon after that, he began to drink a lot.

He’d had a stiff vodka already this morning, minutes after he’d awakened.

Before the accident, he’d loved to come to the cathedral early, when all was quiet and he could hear his footsteps echo on the stone floor, could look up at the fanciful gargoyles, the most faithful—if silent—members of his congregation. Before the accident, he’d liked to sit in silence and revel in his faith. He still came early. Still sat in silence. But now he sat and prayed for that faith to return.

There were priests to take confession, but at this hour penitents tended to remain in bed. Father Patrick had begun to encourage his priests to begin their day later than the archbishop would have demanded. He needed to be alone, hoping, praying that God might appear and speak to him. He would sit in the confessional during this quiet time, thankful for the solitude and the peace, which was interrupted only occasionally by the sins of an early riser.

This morning there was such a sinner.

Father Patrick heard footsteps before he saw the man. He immediately popped a breath mint into his mouth to help disguise the odor of alcohol. But when the man sat in the booth, Father Patrick swallowed the mint in a gasp of surprise.

And thought:
Oh, yes, I am being tested.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. A terrible, terrible sin.”

“God will be the judge of that, my son,” the pastor said quietly. And thought:
The same God who judged that Eileen should no longer have life.

“Sometimes man must judge himself.”

“And sometimes,” Father Patrick said, “man is a much harsher judge than God.”

“Not this time, Father. Not this time. I’ve done things … and this morning I learned things … and for all of it, for all of us, there is no judgment that can be harsh enough.”

The priest looked at the familiar gray hair, the determined jaw, the piercing blue eyes that could charm one minute and turn brutally cold and immovable the next. The man with those blue eyes hesitated, as if gathering strength.

“I have a secret, Father. One I’ve kept even from you.”

Father Patrick was suddenly very, very sad.
Who among us does not need help?
he thought.
Who among us does not have a secret strong enough to destroy us?
His own secret was that he knew he could help no one, least of all himself. Certainly not the man kneeling before him. What kind of sins had he committed? What kind of guilt was stored up? What kind of penance could possibly be paid? It made little difference. For what could he, Father Patrick, a man whose weakness was slowly devouring him, possibly do for such a man?

The man in confessional began to talk now, softly, urgently. His pleasing southern accent gave the sentences meter and a soothing, singsong rhythm. But the words themselves were anything but soothing.

“My sin goes back a long time, Father. To when I was very, very young. I wish I could say that I was so young I didn’t know the difference between right and wrong. But that would be another sin, for it would be a lie …”

The man never hesitated, never stumbled, as if this was a confession he had been rehearsing, perfecting, for years and years. Listening, Father Patrick began to sweat. First his palms, then his neck. Then he felt the back of his shirt soak through. And as the words poured out, as the years of sin were revealed, Patrick Jennings was no longer filled with sadness. Or curiosity. Or self-pity.

He was filled with terror.

July 13

Ever since he’d finished his confession and walked out of the cathedral, an eerie serenity had taken hold. His physical surroundings had seemed vague and cloudy. His mind felt clear, but his thoughts were unstructured and jumbled, leaping almost randomly from past to present, from person to person and idea to idea. He was still pleased with himself for going to the priest that morning five days ago. It had been a long time since he’d done something so spontaneous. And even longer since he’d made such a crucial move with no wifely input.

For years she had made him feel safe. for so long he had wondered what he’d done to deserve such a wonderful woman. She had protected him fiercely, resolutely, not just from his enemies but from himself. But no one was strong enough to protect him any longer. Safety was now a fantasy. Power was meaningless. The future was … nonexistent.

His eyes were closed now. There was a roaring noise; at first he couldn’t tell where it was coming from, then he understood it was coming from inside his head. That wasn’t all. There were other noises, and he realized that people were talking to him. Jabbering, carping, asking questions, shouting out answers. Where was he? He opened his eyes, stunned to find he was in a meeting. How had he gotten there? And why was everyone arguing?

Then he remembered. It was a budget meeting. He had left her an hour ago. She had pressed him relentlessly: Was he all right? Was he sure he could manage his regular schedule? He had only nodded and smiled sadly. She kissed him gently, on the lips, then again on the cheek. She said he had to keep going. Act as if nothing were wrong. They would find a solution, she said.

He almost felt guilty. Yet at the time he was giddy. For he had a real, honest-to-goodness secret he was keeping from her. He already
had
a solution.

He looked around the room, at all the familiar people. Why did they all think they had the right answer? They didn’t. He knew that much. They were bean counters. Every single one of them. They were small. Insignificant. And he realized now, with genuine surprise, that he hated them.

He sat there, watching their mouths move, hearing nothing except the roaring noise that was inside his own head. He reached for the glass of water in front of him and his hands shook. He wondered if anyone noticed, but of course they did not. They were too small to notice.

He was no bean counter. Never had been. He was an idea man. That’s what he was good at. “I like to think of myself as an idea man”—he’d said that at his very first job interview. How long ago had that been? A hundred years? Two hundred? A million? Yes, a million years ago, when it was all going to be okay. Only it wasn’t going to be okay. Not ever.

Unless he made it okay.

That’s what he finally understood.

He stood up from the table, startling everyone, and left the room without a word, heading down the corridor to his office. The hallway felt tilted; he was bouncing off the walls. His legs were rubber, and yet he had never felt this strong. This big. This powerful.

His secretary smiled at him, confused. What was he doing out of the meeting? It was too early. She spoke to him, but he couldn’t hear what she said. The roaring drowned out everything.

He was in his office now, and he sat at his desk. He looked around, tried to make some kind of connection to what he saw surrounding him, but he couldn’t. He hated this room and everything in it. This room had always felt as though it belonged to someone else. To someone better.