worshipful of nature than cathedrals.
And he could see many of the same attitudes of loving rebellion in the young Irish priest here in London. It took a rare and unflinching courage to speak and act upon one’s conscience, especially while adorned in the robes of the Holy Roman Empire. Chabot could use such passionate commitment in his own search for truth.
Evan had been both flattered and frightened by Pierre’s offer join his team. He prayed and contemplated the matter for a week. But, to Chabot’s surprise, the young priest decided against it, and the Frenchman returned to India, where he would be excommunicated three years later. From that point on Evan Connor fell into the party line and abandoned his idealistic challenges to official doctrines.
It took the passage of many seasons for Connor to admit to himself that he had been afraid. To have gone off to work with Chabot would have placed him forever at odds with the political favorites of Rome. For the first time in his life, he had allowed his selfish interests to dominate his decisions. It was a habit he soon became comfortable with. And his once-powerful relationship with the Divine began to wither like a neglected flower.
A few months later, he accepted a safe and comfortable position in Boston. From there he would be able to see clearly to the rank of Cardinal. But the anticipated call had never come. And the once feared and dynamic Evan Connor had aged and grown weak in his own service.
Now, some fifty years after his first meeting with his one remaining friend, Father Connor was on the threshold of meeting his maker. The test results had been confirmed to him yesterday. Eight months to live, maybe less. And wasn’t that a cosmic kick in the pants? He wondered if, after all this, he would ironically burn in Hell now that his faith was gone.
He stepped into the darkened interior of the confessional, looked back once more at the missed opportunities of his life, and sighed deeply. Then he slid back the screen and received the first of many, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…”
*
Isaac finished up his article at home with six hours to spare on his deadline. The phone had rung every hour since his return, but his machine had fended off the anxious pleas of his editor until his work was complete. With the paying job accomplished, Isaac was free to concentrate solely upon the mystery that he had uncovered in Atlanta. He still could not guess at how long the murders had been taking place. His data only went back five years, but it seemed to him that the pattern was well in place even then.
For the next couple of weeks, he pored over his files and his notes, establishing the boundaries and the pattern to a point that would leave few questions as to its validity…at least in his own skeptical mind. As he did so, an uneasy awareness settled upon him. There would be another murder in Biloxi in approximately ten days.
Isaac began to tremble. It had been relatively easy to keep his emotional distance from this thing, to look at it as a sort of amateur detective game until now. But here was a black and white prediction of where and when another innocent life would be taken. This kind of knowledge had to be passed along to someone with resources and manpower. Someone who didn’t have the uncomfortable feeling that it was more than mere coincidence that he had been in Atlanta that night. Someone who didn’t feel trapped by the circumstances, and by the urgency of his own ghosts.
Like a reflex, he reached for the phone and dialed 911.
“Emergency services. How may we help you?”
Isaac stared at the receiver for several heart-pounding moments, then lowered it until it dangled from the end of his arm. The voice coming from the device asked questions regarding his health and safety. What could he tell her?
“A mass murderer will strike in Biloxi in less than two weeks, and I know this because I have done my homework. But I don’t want you to think
And he could see many of the same attitudes of loving rebellion in the young Irish priest here in London. It took a rare and unflinching courage to speak and act upon one’s conscience, especially while adorned in the robes of the Holy Roman Empire. Chabot could use such passionate commitment in his own search for truth.
Evan had been both flattered and frightened by Pierre’s offer join his team. He prayed and contemplated the matter for a week. But, to Chabot’s surprise, the young priest decided against it, and the Frenchman returned to India, where he would be excommunicated three years later. From that point on Evan Connor fell into the party line and abandoned his idealistic challenges to official doctrines.
It took the passage of many seasons for Connor to admit to himself that he had been afraid. To have gone off to work with Chabot would have placed him forever at odds with the political favorites of Rome. For the first time in his life, he had allowed his selfish interests to dominate his decisions. It was a habit he soon became comfortable with. And his once-powerful relationship with the Divine began to wither like a neglected flower.
A few months later, he accepted a safe and comfortable position in Boston. From there he would be able to see clearly to the rank of Cardinal. But the anticipated call had never come. And the once feared and dynamic Evan Connor had aged and grown weak in his own service.
Now, some fifty years after his first meeting with his one remaining friend, Father Connor was on the threshold of meeting his maker. The test results had been confirmed to him yesterday. Eight months to live, maybe less. And wasn’t that a cosmic kick in the pants? He wondered if, after all this, he would ironically burn in Hell now that his faith was gone.
He stepped into the darkened interior of the confessional, looked back once more at the missed opportunities of his life, and sighed deeply. Then he slid back the screen and received the first of many, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…”
*
Isaac finished up his article at home with six hours to spare on his deadline. The phone had rung every hour since his return, but his machine had fended off the anxious pleas of his editor until his work was complete. With the paying job accomplished, Isaac was free to concentrate solely upon the mystery that he had uncovered in Atlanta. He still could not guess at how long the murders had been taking place. His data only went back five years, but it seemed to him that the pattern was well in place even then.
For the next couple of weeks, he pored over his files and his notes, establishing the boundaries and the pattern to a point that would leave few questions as to its validity…at least in his own skeptical mind. As he did so, an uneasy awareness settled upon him. There would be another murder in Biloxi in approximately ten days.
Isaac began to tremble. It had been relatively easy to keep his emotional distance from this thing, to look at it as a sort of amateur detective game until now. But here was a black and white prediction of where and when another innocent life would be taken. This kind of knowledge had to be passed along to someone with resources and manpower. Someone who didn’t have the uncomfortable feeling that it was more than mere coincidence that he had been in Atlanta that night. Someone who didn’t feel trapped by the circumstances, and by the urgency of his own ghosts.
Like a reflex, he reached for the phone and dialed 911.
“Emergency services. How may we help you?”
Isaac stared at the receiver for several heart-pounding moments, then lowered it until it dangled from the end of his arm. The voice coming from the device asked questions regarding his health and safety. What could he tell her?
“A mass murderer will strike in Biloxi in less than two weeks, and I know this because I have done my homework. But I don’t want you to think
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