The Prodigal Son Page 17

  For the first time in years he began to pray.

  * * *

  An hour and a half passed and the two men had not moved from their seats in the Grand Marquis. It would be midafternoon before long, and he thought it was unusual for there to be so little activity at the rectory and at the church entrance, as well. He knew things should be picking up soon—confession was scheduled to begin at three-thirty, the Mass at five. He had seen only one New Orleans Police patrol car so far this afternoon. Apparently on routine patrol, it rolled right past the rectory and the church without even slowing down.

  He had been counting on the New Orleans PD to be here; that was a big part of his plan. He recounted his conversation with Sergeant Gillette on the phone yesterday, how he had been very clear and very specific in telling him of his involvement in the abduction of Father Brennan and how he had hidden him, and that his life was in grave danger. He knew there’d be the chance they wouldn’t take him seriously, but when he told Gillette exactly who and what he was and when he gave him his client’s name, he figured they would have little choice but to protect the priest. The Russo brothers were well known throughout New Orleans for their mob connections and it should be no surprise to the NOPD they were involved in something of this nature. The question was, would they take him at his word that he was hired to kill Father Brennan? When he hung up the phone at the welcome center he had the sinking feeling he was being labeled as just another raving lunatic. This is not good, Jack thought as he sat in his car. I need the police to be here.

  * * *

  Another hour passed. He saw that the two gunmen were still sitting in their car. He glanced at the front of the rectory again and saw the front door swing open. He saw Father Brennan step through the open doorway, then stop and turn as if he was going to go back inside. But he only stood in the doorway, and it appeared to Jack the priest was speaking. Was he saying something to someone inside? It was too far away for him to be certain.

  Jack turned back to watch the men in the Grand Marquis, and saw they had exited the vehicle and were walking across the road to the church entrance. He saw them pull their guns out from under their jackets; he quickly got out of the Camaro, pulled out his .45, and darted across the street to confront them.

  “Father, get back inside!” Jack yelled in the direction of the priest as he ran onto the sidewalk.

  “Jack?” Father Brennan yelled back. “What—what are you doing?” he asked as he began walking forward. A stocky, heavyset New Orleans Police officer emerged from the doorway, saw the two men charging toward the priest with weapons drawn, and ran forward and pulled him to the ground. A second uniformed officer, taller and thinner than the first, quickly emerged from the rectory, drew his service revolver, and darted toward Jack and the other two men. The first officer arose and left Father Brennan lying on the ground as he ran forward to assist his partner. Suddenly, both officers stopped, crouched, and aimed their Smith & Wesson .38s at Jack and the two gunmen. “Freeze!” they yelled.

  Jack ignored their commands and instead kept his eyes fixed on the two men in front of him. He continued to run toward them and saw each of them level their handguns at him. He aimed for the gun hand of the one to his right and fired; the impact of the bullet shattered the man’s right hand and he immediately dropped his weapon. The second hit man, seeing what had just happened, aimed at the upper torso of Jack and got off two quick rounds. The bullets from his .357 Magnum slammed into Jack’s chest; he staggered forward and fell hard to the ground. The wounded gunman bent down, picked up his gun with his left hand, and aimed it at the shorter of the two officers. The second gunman also took aim, pointing his gun at the taller officer. As he lay face down on the ground, clutching his chest, Jack heard both officers yell for the shooters to drop their weapons, but he knew those commands would be ignored.

  Several shots rang out as the men in front of him fired their weapons and the police officers behind him fired theirs, as well. Jack raised his head to watch the two gunmen get hit and fall forward to the sidewalk. He heard his name called out from somewhere behind him. He recognized the voice of Father Brennan. Thank you, God. He’s all right, he thought as he closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Father Brennan arose from the ground and began running toward the men lying on the ground in front of him. As he drew closer the heavyset cop reached out and grabbed him, stopping him. The tall cop cautiously approached the three men lying on the ground in front of him. He kicked aside the weapons of the two gunmen and leaned down and checked each of them for a pulse.

  “This one’s gone,” he called out. Then, “So’s this one.”

  The heavyset cop then said, “Wait here, Father, while I search the other one.” He knelt beside Jack and rolled him over onto his back and heard his labored breath. He did a quick search of him, then scanned the ground around him until he located the .45. “This one’s alive. Just barely,” he said to his partner. Then with a puzzled look on his face, he added, “He only fired to wound the first guy. Why didn’t he just waste him instead?”

  “I don’t get it, either,” the taller cop said. “It’s almost like he was wanting us to do it for him.”

  Father Brennan moved forward and knelt beside Jack. Blood was running out of the corners of Jack’s mouth, forming thin, crimson lines as it trickled down his cheeks. Father Brennan reached into his coat pocket and drew out a white handkerchief. He cupped the back of Jack’s head with his right hand and lifted his head slightly; with his left hand, he gently wiped the blood from Jack’s mouth with the handkerchief. “Jack, what were you thinking, running at those men like that?” he said. “That was a foolish thing for a man like you to do.”

  Jack coughed as he spoke. “I couldn’t let them kill you, Father. . .and I. . . I’m just glad those cops were here.” His breath was labored, and his blood soon saturated the white handkerchief. “After what we talked about yesterday, and. . .” he coughed again. “. . .after what I read in that Bible I. . . I couldn’t do it anymore.” He drew in a breath, then added, “That part, about. . .dying for a good man. . .I don’t mind at all. . .for you.” His coughing was hard now, and he drew a deeper, more ragged breath. More blood flowed down his cheeks. He gripped the priest’s arm tighter, and looked directly into his eyes as he said, “I asked God to forgive me today, Father. I wanted to talk to you about it. . .but. . .it didn’t work out. . .the way I planned.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Jack. But I’m here now. For as long as you need me.”

  “That’s good. Do you think. . .God can. . .forgive someone like me, Father?”

  “If you are truly sorry for your sins then, yes, Jack, He can. And He will.”

  Jack gripped Father Brennan’s left arm even tighter with his hands. “I am sorry, Father. I’m so very sorry for what I’ve done,” he replied. After another ragged cough, and more blood oozed out of the corners of his mouth, Jack asked, “Will you hear my last confession, Father?”

  Before the priest had a chance to answer, Jack coughed once more. He drew in a final breath, then released it slowly. Father Brennan felt the pressure on his arm lighten; he noticed that Jack’s eyes stared vacantly into the cloudless blue sky overhead.

  “There’s no need to, my friend,” Father Brennan said aloud. “God has heard it. He has forgiven you of your sins.”

  The two policemen who had been standing nearby watched as the priest knelt over the dying man who was lying on the ground in front of them. They knew the man was bleeding out and there was nothing that could be done to save him. They watched the priest comfort him, and after the man had taken his last breath they watched the priest gently lower his head to the ground. They saw him reach his hand inside his coat and remove a long, thin piece of purple cloth; the priest pressed it to his lips and then draped it around his neck. The taller of the two policemen watched as the priest made a motion with his right hand in the form of a cross over the man lying on the ground. He leaned in and listened intently to th
e priest as he spoke.

  “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he heard him say.

  The taller policeman leaned in toward his shorter partner. “Al, you’re Catholic, aren’t you?” he whispered. “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s administering the Last Rites of the Church, Jerry,” Al replied.

  “Oh,” Jerry replied. After a brief pause he asked, “Why’s it done?”

  “I’ll explain it later. Just be quiet for now. Show some respect,” he told his partner.

  They continued to watch as the priest placed his left hand on Jack’s chest and held his right hand up. They stood motionless as they heard the priest speak again.

  “May the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the Grace of the Holy Spirit, and may the Lord who frees you from your sins save you and raise you up. Amen.”

  The two policemen stood motionless, waiting for the priest to speak again. A minute passed in awkward silence; when another went by it was obvious nothing more was forthcoming from him.

  “I’ll go call this one in,” Jerry stated.

  “Yeah. You better go ahead and do that,” Al replied. “Three dead. There’s gonna be an awful lot of paperwork on this one.” When Jerry turned in the direction of the rectory and the patrol car that was parked beyond it, Al added, “Tell Dispatch there’s no need to rush on the ambulances. No doctor’s gonna help them where they’re goin’.”

  A gentle breeze blew in and stirred the heavy, humid air. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and a mockingbird sang from a nearby Dogwood tree. Al leaned over and placed a hand on the priest’s right shoulder.

  “Father, why don’t you go with Officer Mitchell?” he said. “He’ll see to it that you get inside the rectory there before he goes to the squad car and calls this in. “I have to stay here until my shift sergeant gets here with the investigating team. Nothing more any of us can do for them.”

  Father Brennan clutched the blood-soaked handkerchief in his hand as he walked toward the rectory. He stopped, turned toward Al, and asked, “What time is it, Officer?”

  Al looked at his watch. “It’s a little after two, Father,” he replied.

  “That’s good,” Father Brennan said. “I still have time to get ready for this afternoon’s confession and Mass.” Then he continued walking toward the rectory.

  Al called after the priest. “You did all you could, Father. He’s in God’s hands now.”

  “Yes, he is. He is in God’s hands,” Father Brennan said to himself as he continued to walk toward the rectory.

  EPILOGUE

  New Orleans

  April 2011

  Father Thomas Poncelet, the newly appointed pastor of St. Patrick’s Catholic Church on Camp Avenue, concluded the second reading of the Mass from the Epistle of Paul to the Galatians, leaned forward, and lightly kissed one of the open pages of the Bible that lay on the podium in front of him. He turned and stepped off the raised dais. He stopped, bowed toward His Excellency the Most Reverend Edward J. Brennan, and walked toward the altar to join him there. He took his seat to the right of Bishop Brennan, who nodded and smiled at him as he did so. Bishop Brennan then turned to his left, nodded, and smiled at Father James O’Connor, the long-time pastor of the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. After the Gospel Acclamation was completed by the audience, Father O’Connor rose from his seat, walked down the steps of the altar, and stepped up onto the dais.

  Bishop Brennan was thinking how wonderful it was that his two closest friends were here to concelebrate his retirement Mass, and was grateful that the archbishop had granted him special permission for it to be held here at the Church of the Sacred Heart, his former parish, instead of requiring him to say it at the St. Louis Cathedral in the Quarter. He scanned the crowded church and recognized many of his former parishioners were in attendance, along with a number of officials and dignitaries from the archdiocese. He then looked to his right and watched as Father O’Connor turned the pages of the Bible to begin his reading of the Gospel. Father O’Connor led the congregation in the sign of the cross and then spoke.

  “The Lord be with you,” he said.

  “And also with you,” the audience responded.

  “A reading from the Holy Gospel according to Luke,” Father O’Connor stated. “Jesus said, ‘There was a man who had two sons. And the younger of them said to his father, Father give me the share of the property that is coming to me. And he divided his property between them. Not many days later the younger son gathered all he had and took a journey into a far country. And there he squandered his property in reckless living. . .’”

  As Father O’Connor continued reading from the Gospel of Luke, Bishop Brennan again scanned the faces of those in the congregation, and tears began to form in the corners of his eyes. This was a day long in coming—he had reached the mandated retirement age of seventy-five and was now here to officiate at his last Mass; now that it was upon him he wished he had more time. I’m too young to be forced into retirement, he thought. I don’t want to be like one of those cowboys who just goes and rides off into the sunset, never to be seen again. There are other ways I can still serve the Lord.

  He looked over at Father O’Connor and smiled as he listened to his friend concluding his reading of the Parable of the Lost Son.

  “‘. . .It was fitting to celebrate and be glad, for this your brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found.’ This is the Gospel of the Lord.”

  “Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ,” the audience replied as Father O’Connor stepped down from the dais and returned to his seat at the altar.

  His Excellency the Most Reverend Edward Brennan then arose from the center chair, turned to his right, walked down the steps of the altar, and then up the short steps of the dais that faced the congregation. He steeled himself, fought back more tears, and spoke.

  “Thank you for coming here this beautiful spring day,” the retiring auxiliary bishop of New Orleans and vicar-general said. “Before I begin my homily on what you have just heard—the Parable of the Lost Son—I would like to say to so many of you in attendance that it has been my privilege to have served you as your associate pastor, then your pastor, not so long ago at this very church. I recognize so many of you today, and I see you have retained your youthful vigor, as have I.”

  There was a ripple of laughter throughout the audience and he waited a moment before he spoke again.

  “But there comes a time in every man’s life when, to borrow a well-worn phrase, he has to ‘hang up his spurs,’ and so it is that I come before you to do just that. It is with both sadness and joy that I leave all of you now, having so faithfully served our Lord Jesus Christ and you in my present capacity under the direction of our beloved archbishop. Please be assured that, even though I must step down from my role as auxiliary bishop and vicar-general for the archdiocese, I will continue to serve our Heavenly Father and you during my retirement years.”

  He scanned the crowd and gathered himself. He knew he had to be steady and calm, that he would have to work hard just to keep his emotions in check for what he had to say in his message to them.

  “Now, if you will, please allow me to give you my humble interpretation of this wonderful parable as told by our Blessed Savior; in so doing, please allow me also to take you back in time with me, to an April day thirty years ago. In so doing I will tell you of an encounter I had with one of those lost sons, a man by the name of Jack Brantley. If you will be patient with me, I will tell you the story not only of how this prodigal son saved my life, but more importantly, I will tell you how Our Heavenly Father saved his.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are a number of people I want to express my sincere appreciation to in the writing of this novel. I especially want to thank my wife, Lee Anne, and my daughters, Caroline and Emilee, for their advice, encouragement, prayers and reading of the initial and final drafts of the manuscript. A special thanks goes out to Katherine Wiggins, a young lady Lee An
ne and I had the privilege of teaching for a number of years in Sunday School at McDonough Road Baptist Church in Fayetteville, Georgia; Katherine, I always looked forward to hearing you ask, “How’s the book coming along?” Other thanks go out to members of McDonough Christian Church in McDonough, Georgia: Andy Daugherty, for your advice on the publishing process; Michael White, for your enthusiasm and prayers for the publication of this novel; and to the guys in my “Joshua’s Men” group, David Langford, Eddie Starrett, Jim Rast, and Robert Williams—many thanks for your prayers for me each time we met. Most of all, a special thanks goes to Royce and Ann Aultman for their friendship to my wife and me, for their continual encouragement and prayers, and for their support in getting this book published.