Punish the Sinners (31 page)

Peter Balsam, without thinking about it, sank into the chair opposite the priest “It isn’t only Karen, although what happened to her was the final straw. I feel responsible for her death.”

“You’re not” the priest said, almost too definitely.

“Well, it’s neither here nor there now, is it? But I do
feel responsible She wanted to talk to me yesterday, and I brushed her off. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have known how important it was to her. I’m a psychologist, after all. But I didn’t see. And I’m obviously not much of a teacher, either, am I? I mean, just look what’s happening to my students.” The feeble attempt at black humor failed even for himself.

“I’ve told you before, and I’m telling you again,” the priest snapped impatiently, “you aren’t responsible for Judy and Karen. You aren’t a priest.”

“But it isn’t just them,” Peter said softly. “There’s more.”

The priest’s head came up and his eyes bored into Peter’s. Peter hesitated, but forced himself to say what he’d come to say.

‘I’m going to talk to the Bishop about you,” he said, unable to meet the Monsignor’s eyes. “I’m going to see him as soon as I’m released from my position here, to tell him about the Society of St. Peter Martyr. What you and those priests are doing is grounds for excommunication.”

“Indeed?” the priest said incredulously. “Our prayers may be fervent, but they are still only prayers.”

Something snapped inside Peter; he leaped to his feet and stood towering over the priest.

“Prayers!” he thundered. “You call that prayer? You have no idea what you’re talking about. Fornication! That’s what you’re up to! You and all of them.”

“How dare you!”
the Monsignor roared. He was on his feet, his rage almost a palpable force in the room. “Have you any idea what you’re saying?” If it was meant to intimidate Balsam, it failed. The teacher stood his ground, and glared right back at the priest

“Cocksucker,” he snarled. The priest recoiled.

“What did you say?” There was a look of horror on his face.

“The truth,” Balsam said softly. “I called you a cock-sucker and it’s the truth. That’s what you do, all of you. You get yourselves stoned some way, and you start in. And the saddest part of it is that you don’t even know it.”

The priest sagged into his chair and stared at Peter. “So that’s what you meant last night?” he asked softly. “When you said we were depraved?” Peter nodded, and the priest shook his head gently. “Then it’s even worse than I thought. I thought you were telling us we were perverted in a religious sense. But it’s worse than that, isn’t it? It isn’t enough for you, is it? Now you have to accuse us of—of—” He broke off, unable to say the words. He stared balefully at Balsam. “Piero da Balsama,” he said softly, “you killed me once, and now you try to disgrace me. But you will not do it. This time I shall triumph.”

Now it was Balsam’s turn to sag into a chair.

The man was insane. There wasn’t any other word for it. But how should he deal with it? He tried to remember the books. The books had had the answers, but what were they?
Buy into the insanity
. That was it.

He remembered the technique. It was sometimes used in dealing with paranoia; Balsam was sure the priest was paranoid.

“What makes you think so?” he said now. “If I beat you last time, what makes you think I won’t beat you again? Why should this time be any different?”

The priest’s eyes flashed around the room as if he were looking for a hidden weapon.

“I know,” he said softly. “I just know.”

“Did God tell you?” Balsam sneered the word “God,” trying to make it sound tainted.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Monsignor Vernon said. “But why should you? I’d almost forgotten—you’re a heretic, aren’t you?”

“If you say so,” Balsam said evenly.

The priest continued to glare at him, but then something happened. It was as if a switch had been thrown, and the light suddenly faded from the Monsignor’s eyes. He shook himself slightly, as if waking up from a sleep.

“What were we talking about?” he said, totally puzzled. Balsam thought fast; the paranoid state could have passed, or this could be simply another manifestation of it. He’d have to be careful.

“My resignation,” he said. The priest still appeared to be puzzled, but then his face cleared.

“Ah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Of course.” He smiled genially, and leaned toward Peter. “Well, of course I can’t stop you, but Pm afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait a while. Oh, not long,” he said quickly as Peter started to protest. “Just a few weeks. You see, I spoke to the Bishop this morning.”

“The Bishop?” Peter said blankly.

The priest nodded. “He called me early, about Karen Morton. He’s very concerned about the situation here, as am I. He seems to think there’s something going on here, that whatever happened, first to Judy Nelson, and then, last night, to Karen Morton, are somehow connected.” The priest’s tone suggested that he didn’t agree with the Bishop’s assessment. “At any rate, he thinks it would be a good idea if we made the fullest possible use of your background in psychology. For some reason, he seems to think that of everyone here, you’re the best qualified to deal with whatever’ happening. Not, of course,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “that anything
is
happening here. However, under the circumstances,
we’re going to have to ask you to stay a while longer.”

Balsam thought it over. The Bishop, of course, was right. His resolution began to waver.

“And there’s something else,” the priest said somberly. “Were you aware that Karen Morton left a note?”

“A note?” No, Peter certainly wasn’t aware of it

“Yes,” the priest lied. “A very disturbing note. She said something about us—you and me—to the effect that she thought and I think I can quote it, ‘something is going on between them.’ Nonsense, of course, but if you left right now—well, I’m sure you can see my point. There would be talk, wouldn’t there?”

Peter Balsam felt defeat wash over him. Yes, he agreed to himself, it certainly would cause talk. Particularly since it was true. But that “something” had gone on only in the meeting of the Society of St Peter Martyr. How could Karen have known about that? Or did she? Maybe she had simply hit a nerve by accident Not that it mattered. Either way, he was caught Karen Morton was dead, and Peter Balsam was trapped. He looked up at his superior, and knew he was expected to say something.

“All right,” he agreed. “I’ll stay. But I’m still going to talk to the Bishop about the Society.”

“I assumed you were,” the Monsignor said coldly. “You’ll be wasting your time.” He stood up. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” Peter said, his voice as cold as the priest’s. And then something occurred to him. “Yes, there is,” he added, eyeing Vernon carefully. “I was wondering where I might find Sister Marie. There’s something I need to talk to her about.”

An odd look passed over the priest’s face, and Peter
felt a surge of triumph. He had shaken the man. But then the Monsignor’s face cleared.

“I’m afraid she’s not here,” he said smoothly. “Shell be away for a while.”

“Away?” Peter asked warily. “What do you mean, ‘away’?”

“Periodically, Sister Marie goes into retreat.” He smiled thinly. “Pm afraid her vocation isn’t always as strong as it might be, and we’ve found, both of us, that it helps her to get away from here now and then. Shell be back.”

“But she didn’t tell me she was going away,” Peter protested, his hopes suddenly fading.

“Of course she didn’t,” the priest said easily. “Why would she?”

The interview was over.

   “You should celebrate the Mass yourself,” Father Martinelli said. He was sitting in the study of the rectory with Monsignor Vernon, though only he was sitting. The Monsignor was pacing.

“It’s a sacrilege,” he muttered.

“I don’t see how,” Father Martinelli said emphatically. “Whatever people may think privately, we know tonight’s Mass is not for Karen Morton.”

“That isn’t the point,” Monsignor Vernon replied. “Of course we know the Mass isn’t for Karen Morton. How could it be?—she wasn’t in a state of grace when she died. The point is that the people intend to
make
it a Mass for Karen. And the only way we can prevent that is to cancel the Mass entirely.”

“And what will that accomplish?” the old man asked, tiredly. “We’ll only face the same thing at the next Mass. There is no way we can stop our parishioners
from praying for Karen Morton, and I’m not even sure we should try.”

“But it’s wrong,” Monsignor Vernon insisted. “There’s no other way of looking at it. When that girl killed herself she committed a sin beyond redemption. She has no rights within the Church whatsoever.”

Father Martinelli sighed, and his ancient mind tried to sort out the problem. Technically, the Monsignor was right, and yet there was more to the problem. In the church, the parishioners were gathering, expecting to hear Mass, needing to hear Mass. Shouldn’t their needs be met? He peered out the window of the rectory, and saw the people still streaming up the hill.

It had begun an hour ago. Ordinarily the turnout for a mid-week Mass was next to zero, even in a parish as devout as St. Francis Xavier. But today was different, and there could be only one reason. The people were coming because of Karen Morton. It had been this way all day. As the word of the girl’s suicide spread through Neilsville, the people had begun drifting in and out of the church, praying briefly, and leaving only after silently lighting a candle.

And then, half an hour ago, they had begun arriving for the evening Mass. They kept arriving, until the church was as full as it ever was on Easter Sunday. Two things can fill the church, Father Martinelli reflected—the hope of eternal life, and the fear of unexpected, and inexplicable, death. He had watched them stream into the church, and been pleased; Father Martinelli didn’t really care about why people came to church. He only cared that they came. But with Monsignor Vernon it was different.

For the Monsignor, it wasn’t enough that they were there; they had to be there for the right reasons. And to pray for Karen Morton wasn’t, in Monsignor Vernon’s
strict religion, a suitable reason. And so they were discussing the possibility of canceling the Mass entirely.

“I’ll have no part of it,” the Monsignor said in a tone that told Father Martinelli the discussion was over. But then he relented. “If you want to conduct it yourself, I won’t stop you. However, the consequences are your responsibility.” Abruptly, the Monsignor left the room.

As he made his way to the church and began the vesting processes, Father Martinelli wondered what consequences the Monsignor could be talking about.

   Peter Balsam dipped his fingers in the font, made the sign of the cross, and slipped into one of the back pews. In front of him, he saw Leona Anderson turn and glare. He pretended not to notice, and picked up his prayer book.

He glanced around the church, recognizing some of the people, just as the organ music surged out of the loft, and the service began.

The first disturbance came when the congregation saw that Monsignor Vernon was not conducting the Mass. They buzzed and whispered among themselves as the stooped figure of Father Martinelli moved unsurely up the aisle. Peter quickly searched for the face of the Monsignor, and was not surprised when he didn’t find it.

The Mass began, but it was soon apparent that something was happening. Tonight, the responses, which normally brought only a few garbled murmurs from the congregation, came full-throated from the entire body of the church. Father Martinelli appeared to be unaware of anything unusual, and his quavering voice droned steadily on with the Mass. But Peter tried to locate a focal point for the phenomenon. He found it almost immediately.

Tonight, all of Karen Morton’s friends, instead of sitting with their families, were knotted together near the center of the church. All of them—Judy Nelson, Janet Connally, Penny Anderson, and several others. Apart from them, sitting by herself, was Marilyn Crane.

   Marilyn had come alone to the evening service, as she always did, and had taken her usual place near the statue of the Blessed Virgin. She had been engrossed in her prayers, begging the Sorrowful Mother to forgive her for the cruel thoughts she had had about Karen Morton in the past, and asking the Queen of Angels to intercede on behalf of Karen, when she had become aware that the church was filling up around her. Yet no one sat next to her. Suddenly she felt conspicuous, and found it difficult to concentrate on her devotions.

   Then it began.

It was soft at first, a barely discernible murmur against the full tones of the organ, but then it began to grow, and, as the last chords of the organ died away, the church was filled with a different kind of music, the music of the human voice.

It was the girls.

They were clustered together, and clasping each other’s hands, though otherwise it didn’t seem that they were aware of each other’s presence. Except for Judy Nelson, all of them were wailing, tears streaming down their faces, their heads tilted upward toward the church ceiling, as if they were searching for something in the heights.

Father Martinelli tried to ignore them and raised his voice to continue the mass over the growing wail.

But the sound continued to grow, and suddenly the girls were on their feet, swaying together, and crying out
in a voice that seemed filled as much with exaltation as grief.

Father Martinelli faltered in the service, then stopped altogether. He glanced around for help, but there was none. Instead, he saw only troubled faces looking to him for leadership. Immediately he went into the brae-diction, and the organist picked up his cue.

As the girls’ keening rose, filling the church, the organ blared out, mixing with the high-pitched lamentations and creating a chaos of sound that made the final words of the benediction inaudible.

It didn’t matter. Already the congregation was beginning to move nervously toward the doors, embarrassed to be in the presence of such clearly expressed grief, unnerved by the adolescents’ display of emotion.