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seemed to be scurrying toward him. But that was absurd; it was a rat
tricked large by the light. Mike shook his head. Harry's rectory was
literally crumbling into the sewers. He reached out to grab the last three or
four journals and get the hell out of there. His motions were too quick; when
he brushed matted fur he jerked away.
Lightning flashed as his head knocked into a cold steam pipe. He
Page 145
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
sank heavily to the floor, cursing, holding his head, his penlight
rolling crazily away. That light was sanity and protection. Despite his
throbbing head he lurched after it, grabbed it, and cradled it like a candle
in his cupped hands. It was still working, thank God.
He had to get himself together. This was the sort of clumsy lack of
professionalism you expected from a wet-pants rookie. He scrambled to his feet
and scanned the bookshelf with his penlight.
The journals went back to the turn of the century, year by year, all neatly
numbered in gold embossing.
Mike took down 1963, 1971, and 1975. That ought to be enough, and long enough
ago for any records of connection between the day and night churches to be
clearly indicated.
Mike sat down on the bottom step with his penlight and began reading. He
found nothing of interest in
1963. By 1971 every third or fourth month ended with red ink. The records for
1975 told a more somber story. Now the red ink was constant.
In April of that year the Hamil Foundation had kicked in twelve
thousand dollars, earmarked for restoration of the portraits of the
apostles in the dome. Mike remembered the scaffolding. Father had said the
apostles were being revised to fit the discoveries of modern
scholars. Afterward they did not look inspired anymore. Now that Mike
thought about it, they looked ugly. In July the foundation had
donated new pews to add seating in the wings.
Additional seating in a dying parish?
Mike took down 1977 and 1978. January of 1977; $9,712 from the Hamil
Foundation to soundproof the windows.
July of that year: $1,270 for three hundred folding chairs.
Soundproofing and folding chairs? It was eerie, to find the records of the
growth of the Night Church this way, so hidden, yet so obvious if you knew the
basic truth that it existed.
Mike replaced the journals. All this foray had done was to confirm what he
had discovered upstairs. The parish re-ceived regular contributions from
the Night Church. But what about Harry? The answer to that question wasn't
here after all. It might lie somewhere in the records of the Hamil Foundation,
and might even be located given a few years of investigation. But the
quicker route to the truth lay in a direct confrontation with Harry
Goodwin. "Old friend," Mike whispered into the silence, "don't join the
guilty. Be different."
Using his much abused penlight Mike made his way back upstairs. He paused in
the front hall. He hated to do it, but he was going to have to play one hell
of a rough game with Harry. "Hey, Harry," he bellowed, "wake up and get
the hell down here! Come on, Harry, get moving!" That would scare him
thoroughly, get him good and vulnerable to unex-
pected questions. He unholstered his pistol.
From the distance there came hurrying feet. Then the hall was flooded with
yellow light and the tall figure of Father Harry
Goodwin came gangling down the stairs wearing grayed pajamas under a raincoat
liner.
"At least you remembered that pistol I gave you," Mike said from his position
in the doorway. As he had known it would, his voice caused Harry to throw up
his arms, and in so doing to hurl the little twenty-two almost to the ceiling.
"Mike Banion!"
"Good morning, Harry." Mike did not put his own pistol away. Not just yet. "We
have to have a discussion."
"Yes, Mike, certainly. By all means!" He was staring at the pistol. "Mike?"
"Let's go into the office, Harry. It's a couple of degrees cooler."
"I don't use the air conditioners. Out of the question."
"I understand." Mike followed the stooped, shaking man.
Page 146
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seemed to be scurrying toward him. But that was absurd; it was a rat
tricked large by the light. Mike shook his head. Harry's rectory was
literally crumbling into the sewers. He reached out to grab the last three or
four journals and get the hell out of there. His motions were too quick; when
he brushed matted fur he jerked away.
Lightning flashed as his head knocked into a cold steam pipe. He
Page 145
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
sank heavily to the floor, cursing, holding his head, his penlight
rolling crazily away. That light was sanity and protection. Despite his
throbbing head he lurched after it, grabbed it, and cradled it like a candle
in his cupped hands. It was still working, thank God.
He had to get himself together. This was the sort of clumsy lack of
professionalism you expected from a wet-pants rookie. He scrambled to his feet
and scanned the bookshelf with his penlight.
The journals went back to the turn of the century, year by year, all neatly
numbered in gold embossing.
Mike took down 1963, 1971, and 1975. That ought to be enough, and long enough
ago for any records of connection between the day and night churches to be
clearly indicated.
Mike sat down on the bottom step with his penlight and began reading. He
found nothing of interest in
1963. By 1971 every third or fourth month ended with red ink. The records for
1975 told a more somber story. Now the red ink was constant.
In April of that year the Hamil Foundation had kicked in twelve
thousand dollars, earmarked for restoration of the portraits of the
apostles in the dome. Mike remembered the scaffolding. Father had said the
apostles were being revised to fit the discoveries of modern
scholars. Afterward they did not look inspired anymore. Now that Mike
thought about it, they looked ugly. In July the foundation had
donated new pews to add seating in the wings.
Additional seating in a dying parish?
Mike took down 1977 and 1978. January of 1977; $9,712 from the Hamil
Foundation to soundproof the windows.
July of that year: $1,270 for three hundred folding chairs.
Soundproofing and folding chairs? It was eerie, to find the records of the
growth of the Night Church this way, so hidden, yet so obvious if you knew the
basic truth that it existed.
Mike replaced the journals. All this foray had done was to confirm what he
had discovered upstairs. The parish re-ceived regular contributions from
the Night Church. But what about Harry? The answer to that question wasn't
here after all. It might lie somewhere in the records of the Hamil Foundation,
and might even be located given a few years of investigation. But the
quicker route to the truth lay in a direct confrontation with Harry
Goodwin. "Old friend," Mike whispered into the silence, "don't join the
guilty. Be different."
Using his much abused penlight Mike made his way back upstairs. He paused in
the front hall. He hated to do it, but he was going to have to play one hell
of a rough game with Harry. "Hey, Harry," he bellowed, "wake up and get
the hell down here! Come on, Harry, get moving!" That would scare him
thoroughly, get him good and vulnerable to unex-
pected questions. He unholstered his pistol.
From the distance there came hurrying feet. Then the hall was flooded with
yellow light and the tall figure of Father Harry
Goodwin came gangling down the stairs wearing grayed pajamas under a raincoat
liner.
"At least you remembered that pistol I gave you," Mike said from his position
in the doorway. As he had known it would, his voice caused Harry to throw up
his arms, and in so doing to hurl the little twenty-two almost to the ceiling.
"Mike Banion!"
"Good morning, Harry." Mike did not put his own pistol away. Not just yet. "We
have to have a discussion."
"Yes, Mike, certainly. By all means!" He was staring at the pistol. "Mike?"
"Let's go into the office, Harry. It's a couple of degrees cooler."
"I don't use the air conditioners. Out of the question."
"I understand." Mike followed the stooped, shaking man.
Page 146
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]