The Prodigal Son Page 16
He glanced down at the Bible that lay on the seat next to him. He saw the pieces of paper protruding from the pages of the book and began thinking about what Father Brennan wrote in his letter. I’ll make a deal with you, Padre. If I can’t sleep tonight, I’ll go ahead and read them. After all these years, I may just open that book again after all. Curiosity may get the best of me. After all, what can it hurt?He thought about the answer to that question.A lot, really. Look what it did to that cat.
CHAPTER 16
Jack pulled up to the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus at about five thirty in the afternoon. The parking lot next to the church was empty and he had plenty of spaces to choose from. He backed the Camaro into a spot that gave him a clear view of the front of the church, as well as the rectory next to it. He settled down in his seat, dreading the watching-and-waiting routine. From past experience he knew all too well this surveillance would likely spiral downward into boredom very quickly. He knew there was nothing much he could do about it, either; it came with the territory.
After two hours of observing only passing traffic on St. Charles he was reasonably certain nothing was going to happen for a while. He started the engine, pulled onto the street, and headed for the Pontchartrain Hotel. Mardi Gras week, which filled the hotels in and around New Orleans, had already come and gone and he thought he’d have no problem finding an available room there. If not, he’d simply drive closer to the city, maybe as far as Canal Street, to find a room for the night. He preferred to stay overnight in the Garden District and be as close to the church as possible, and as he entered the lobby of the Pontchartrain on St. Charles he was hoping he’d have to go no farther than this.
He walked up to the desk and rang for the night clerk. A young man, dressed in a freshly pressed, white long-sleeve shirt and a green vest was at the complimentary coffee and tea stand restocking it when he heard the bell. He quickly turned and walked toward the desk.
“Good evening, sir,” he said as he walked behind the counter and faced Jack. “How may I be of assistance?”
“I’d like a room for the evening, first floor if it’s available,” Jack replied.
“I have two available rooms, both with king beds, but unfortunately they’re on the fourth and fifth floors,” the clerk stated. “One is smoking, on the fourth. The other is nonsmoking, on the fifth. Will either of those be sufficient?”
“I’ll take the smoking on the fourth,” Jack replied as he reached for his wallet in his back pocket. He had transferred some of the cash from the envelope inside his jacket to his wallet to avoid the risk of anyone spotting the .45 he was wearing underneath the jacket.
“If you’ll fill this information out for me and provide me with your driver’s license, we’ll get started, sir,” the clerk said as he handed Jack a registration form and pen.
Jack handed the man his license and opened his wallet. The clerk examined the license briefly and asked, “What form of payment would you like to make, Mr. Brantley?” Jack had thrown caution to the wind and was using his own name now. The cat was out of the bag, so there was no need to hide under an alias any longer.
“I’ll pay in cash,” Jack replied as he reached into his wallet and pulled out two crisp bills bearing the likeness of Benjamin Franklin.The clerk made out a receipt for Jack and handed it to him with the change and a key to his room. “If you’ll give me a moment, Mr. Brantley, I’ll call for a bellman to assist you with your luggage, and a valet to park your car for you.”
“No need for that,” Jack said. “I’m going to get some dinner and take care of a few things. I’ll be back later tonight.”
“Feel free to call on me when you are ready, sir,” the clerk responded. “I’ll have someone assist you then. Enjoy your dinner, and thank you for staying with us at the Pontchartrain.”
* * *
Jack drove east along St. Charles until he found a small café nearby and parked in front of it. He was seated by the hostess at one of the outdoor tables, and when his waiter arrived, he placed an order for two bottles of Michelob, a plate of fried shrimp with a side of coleslaw, and a small bowl of jambalaya. When the waiter returned with it Jack ate ravenously, downing it all with the ice-cold beer from the bar. A gentle breeze stirred the humid night air and a faint scent of azaleas floated in with it, undoubtedly from one of the well-manicured lawns nearby. Jack thought about the events of the long day behind him and was tempted to hang around a while longer to relax and unwind with another beer or two. The waiter walked by and Jack considered ordering one, but decided against it; after all, it just wasn’t in his plan. What was in the plan he had made for himself was to get back to the church and the adjacent rectory for a couple more hours of surveillance. Just can’t wait, he thought. Friday night in New Orleans, and I have to park my butt in front of a church.
* * *
Jack drove slowly along the front of the church and the rectory, glancing at the front of both buildings as he did so. The church was darkened, and only a soft light shone through one of the first-floor windows of the rectory; they both appeared devoid of any signs of life. He pulled over to the curb, cut the engine, and slid the .45 out of the holster underneath his jacket. He laid it on the seat next to him and settled into his seat. From his vantage point he could clearly see the front of the priest’s residence, as well as the front entrance to the church next to it. He glanced down at his watch. Nine forty-five. I’ll give it ’til midnight, maybe a little longer, he thought. Then I’ve got to get some shut-eye.
* * *
The rest of the evening turned out to be nothing more than a long, boring Friday night that slipped slowly into Saturday morning. Jack was exhausted from the long day behind him; the more he thought about it, the more he realized it had turned out to be another one of those bone-weary, dead-tired, can’t-make-it-another-minute days he all too often experienced. He knew the best antidote for it was sleep, and he was tempted to administer a very large dose of it to himself. Plenty of time to sleep when all this is over with, he thought. Until then, he knew he could recline the driver’s side seat all the way back and at the very least close his eyes for a brief nap. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent the night catnapping in front of someone’s house while conducting surveillance.
He was about to reach for the lever on the side of his seat and do just that when a black Lincoln Town Car turned off St. Charles and braked to a halt in the driveway of the rectory. A moment later Jack observed Father Edward Brennan stepping out on the passenger side of the vehicle. The priest turned back toward the car, leaned down, said something through the open door to the driver, and then closed it. He watched Father Brennan walk to the front door of the rectory, extract a key from his pocket, and unlock the door. Jack glanced down at his watch and saw it was twelve fifteen. Getting home kind of late tonight, aren’t you, Father?
Jack was disappointed when he saw that no uniformed officers had accompanied the priest. It really didn’t surprise him—he figured Sergeant Gillette at the New Orleans Police Department decided it wasn’t important enough to send two of his officers to look after a priest when they could be more useful somewhere else. A minute or two later he saw one of the upper floor lights go on and he figured Father Brennan had made his way upstairs to his bedroom. Another fifteen minutes passed by and the light was turned off. Looks like everybody has turned in for the night, he thought. About time I did, too. Everything’s just going to have to wait a little while longer, I suppose.
He turned over the ignition and the Camaro’s engine came to life again. As he pulled onto St. Charles and turned toward the Pontchartrain Hotel and the bed that beckoned him, he looked toward the darkened rectory and said, “Sleep tight, Padre.”
* * *
Jack drove past the Pontchartrain a few minutes after one in the morning, turned off St. Charles, and found one of the hotel’s reserved parking lots on Carondelet. He slid the .45 back in the leather holster under his jacket, got out, and walked to the back of
the Camaro and popped the trunk. He covered the shotgun and the .38, closed the trunk, then walked back to the door of the car and reached in and grabbed his duffel bag. He placed the Bible and shaving kit inside it and walked the block and a half to the hotel.
He entered the lobby and noticed the night clerk was manning the desk. The clerk looked up from whatever he was doing at the desk and smiled, but Jack avoided eye contact altogether with him. He really didn’t want to talk to anyone at this ungodly hour, so he ignored the young man and walked over to the elevator and punched the button on the wall. He took the elevator to the fourth floor, got out, and followed the signs directing him toward his room. He unlocked the door, flipped on the light, looked around the room, and smiled. Not quite the Monteleone, he thought, but it’s pretty darn close.
After a quick shower, he walked over to the small bar in the room and looked at the selection in front of him. He chose a mini bottle of Jack Daniel’s, found a can of coke and some ice in the small fridge underneath the bar, and mixed himself a drink. He picked up the Friday edition of the Times-Picayune from the desk in the corner of the room, pulled the covers back on the bed, and leaned back against a couple of the pillows and opened the paper. He turned to the sports section and scanned the first page as he sipped his drink. There was nothing about the Saints, but there was plenty of coverage of the major league baseball teams around the nation. He didn’t follow baseball, and finding nothing else of interest in the rest of the sports section or any of the other sections, he folded the paper, tossed it on the bed beside him, and got up. He walked over to the bar again and made a second Jack and Coke. He laid back down, flipped on the television, and quickly scanned through the channels while nursing the drink in his hand. Finding nothing of interest on the television set, either, he turned it off, downed the rest of the drink, and stretched out on the bed. Within minutes he was sound asleep.
He awoke at seven thirty, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and walked over to the small bar and flipped the switch on the coffee maker that sat next to the tray of whiskey bottles. After a quick visit to the bathroom he laid back in the bed, thought about turning on the television, but decided to leave it off instead. He was quite surprised at the decent night’s sleep he got—even if it was only five hours or so—and his mind was already racing. He wasn’t ready yet to get dressed and go downstairs to the hotel’s café for their pecan waffles and freshly squeezed orange juice; he’d hoped reading would help fill the time until he did. It might be a little while before someone on the staff would deliver the Saturday morning’s edition of the paper to his door, however. Until then what else was there to read? He looked around the room and spotted the duffel bag and the Bible protruding from it and recalled the letter Father Brennan had tucked into the book. Okay, Padre, he thought. Let’s see what you have in there for me. I’ll give it a shot. I guess I can at least look it over until the paper arrives.
He got up, pulled out the Gideon’s Bible, went back to the bed, and leaned back against the pillows. He found a piece of paper marked “1” protruding from the pages of the book and flipped it open to the third chapter of Romans. A brief handwritten note from Father Brennan directed him to read verses 23 through 26. He scanned down the page, found them, and read, “‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace, through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus. God presented him as a sacrifice of atonement, through faith in his blood . . . ’”
Old news, Father, he thought. I’m quite familiar with all that. Remember, I grew up in the Church.
He got up, poured a cup of coffee, stirred in some cream and sugar, and walked back to the bed. Show me something new, he thought as he laid back in the bed and picked up the Bible again. He read on. “‘He did this to demonstrate his justice, because in his forbearance he had left the sins committed beforehand unpunished—he did it to demonstrate his justice at the present time, so as to be just and the one who justifies those who have faith in Jesus. . .’”
Don’t recall that, he thought. I like how it discusses the issue of justice.
He found the paper marked “2” protruding from the pages of the book. Keeping Jack in Romans, Father Brennan’s note directed him to verses 12 and 13 of chapter five. Jack read, “‘Therefore, just as sin entered the world through one man, and death through sin, and in this way death came to all men, because all sinned—. For before the law was given, sin was in the world.’”
Jack read the note from Father Brennan written at the bottom of the piece of paper.
Jack,
I’m going to jump you around a bit now, but bear with me. There is a method to my madness. Read Romans 6:23, then go back to chapter 5, to verses 6–8. The apostle Paul laid it all out for us in Romans; all we have to do is pay attention to what God is telling us through this man.
With his interest piqued, Jack did as he was instructed. He flipped the pages and read, “For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
I know that one, too, he thought. Learned it, along with all the other kids at St. Michael’s. Father De Marco drilled it into our heads time and time again!
Then he read on. “‘You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.’”
Jack closed the book and held it in his left hand, sandwiching his index finger between the pages to hold the place where he left off. He stared at the back cover of the book, subconsciously rubbing it with his thumb. So much there to chew on, he thought, especially all that about dying not for the righteous man but for a good man. He flipped the book open again, and found Father Brennan’s note on the bottom of the piece of paper marked “5,” directing him next to Romans 10:9–13. He read them, then found number “6” for Romans 6:4, then 8–12. As he read those passages he thought that although they, too, sounded familiar, he felt he was actually reading them for the very first time.
He saw Father Brennan’s note directing him to Romans 12:2 and also 21 and wondered what could be next. He found the chapter, and read Father Brennan’s additional note tucked between the pages.
Jack,
This is where it begins to come together. Pay attention to what the Holy Spirit, through the writing of Paul, is urging you to do. It’s so simple, yet we make it so complicated. After you’ve read it, there’s something else I want you to read that Paul wrote. You’ll find it in his second letter to the church at Corinth—it’s Second Corinthians 5:17. It is my wish, my prayer, for you, Jack.
Take care, my friend!
Father Edward Brennan
Jack read, “‘Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will. . .Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.’” He flipped several pages forward until he found the second book of Corinthians. He immediately went to chapter 5 and scanned down the page until he found verse 17.
“‘Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!’”Jack closed the Bible and placed it on the bed next to him. There were so many passages pointed out to him by the priest and he couldn’t remember if he had read them or not as a boy. He picked up the Bible again, flipped it open, and began reading them once more. That led him to read many others, as well, and as he did so he lost track of time altogether.
* * *
He was lost in the passages, thinking deeply about them as he read, when something urged him to look over at the digital clock on the nightstand: 10:30. He looked at it again, thinking perhaps his eyes were playing a trick on him: 10:30. Oh, my God! he thought. He dropped the Bible on the bed and quickly headed for the bathroom. He needed to shave and ge
t dressed, pack up and check out as quickly as he could. He chided himself for not paying attention to the time, for letting it slip by him as it did.
As he was shaving he formulated a quick plan. He figured it would be forty-five minutes, maybe even an hour, before he’d be at the church. He knew he’d have to skip the waffles at the café downstairs. Instead he would just get a couple of their blueberry muffins and a cup of juice and take it with him. He’d have to hustle over to his car and make his way through any Saturday morning traffic on St. Charles in order to get to the church as soon as he could. He was hoping against hope that Sal and Gino’s men would take their time; maybe he’d get lucky and they’d eat a late breakfast wherever they were and get to the rectory and the church well after he arrived. He needed to beat them there, as the plan he was now running through his mind required time—to walk up to the front of the rectory and ring the doorbell until someone opened the door, then tell whoever answered he needed to speak with Father Brennan immediately. What he had to discuss with the priest just couldn’t wait. He had far too many questions to ask him and he needed some answers right away.
CHAPTER 17
Jack arrived at the seven-thousand block of St. Charles Avenue at eleven thirty and drove slowly in front of the rectory next to the church. He immediately spotted a dark-grey Mercury Grand Marquis parked less than a block away from the church. There were two men in black suits sitting in the front seats, and Jack didn’t figure them to be undercover cops. They appeared to be just the opposite, the kind he was most familiar with in his line of work. Professionals, plying their trade. No need to have split up after all, he thought. It’s Saturday, The Catholic Charities Office is closed. You’re right where you should be, fellas. And so am I.
Jack settled back in his seat, watching and waiting for the inevitable. Sooner or later they would make their move. He reached into the bag sitting on the seat next to him and pulled out the Bible and held it a moment in his hands. He had time to think. Time for other things, as well.