Catholicism was not in need of reform. It was the pervasive ignorance of Catholics about their religion that was in need of attention. Father Wosak also hoped that his writing would be read by the clergy of other religions. He wanted other Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus and even atheists to understand, to be informed by his scholarship, not to get them to embrace Catholicism but to get them to understand what the religion really means. He expected very little success. It was enough that God had set him to his task and given him the intellect to undertake it.
William Wosak's parents were immigrants from Poland. Both were dead. Father Wosak had no siblings, only an aunt and uncle who had never left a small town outside of Warsaw.
He had volunteered, both as part of his research and to strengthen his faith, to fill in for Father Cabrera at St. Martine's in Brooklyn for a year. He was in his fifth month at the church and it had turned out to be even more than he had hoped.
Most of the congregation spoke Spanish. No problem for Father Wosak, who spoke fluent Spanish, Italian, Polish, German, Hebrew and rather rusty Latin. He conducted mass and services in Spanish.
In his second week at St. Martine's, Father Wosak had made an appointment with Rabbi Benzion Mesmur, whose synagogue was six blocks from St. Martine's. The thirty-eight-year-old priest had introduced himself with respect for the eighty-one-year-old rabbi. Rabbi Mesmur had planned to make the meeting brief and remain in the small lobby of the synagogue.
Father Wosak had spoken in Hebrew and Rabbi Mesmur responded in kind. It struck him that no one in his congregation spoke better conversational Hebrew than this priest. The smiling priest seemed to have no accent, while Rabbi Mesmur was well aware of the tinge of Crown Heights that clung to his Hebrew and would always be there.
Within three minutes, the two men had spoken of the priest's interest. In his three file drawers, the rabbi knew he had at least forty sermons and as many as fifteen speeches on the misreading of the Scriptures and the Talmud.
It was clear that the priest's interest in the Talmud and its teachings came close to that of the old rabbi.
They moved to the rabbi's office and spoke for two hours. The priest returned on a weekly basis. Rabbi Mesmur looked forward to the meetings and their arguments over interpretation of holy writings. They never met at St. Martine's. Father Wosak never suggested it. He knew the rabbi would have to refuse. The moment would be awkward.
They had not had their usual meeting this week, but today Father Wosak felt that with two days passing, he could stop by briefly and give his condolences.
Rabbi Mesmur looked frail, his age increased by tragedy.
Rabbi Mesmur had insisted that the priest join him in his office. For reasons neither man could explain, they spoke in English.
"My congregation prayed for you and your loss," said Father Wosak. "I hope that was acceptable."
Rabbi Mesmur lifted a hand from the arm of his chair and said with almost a smile, "It can't hurt. And the misguided young dead boy who believed in Joshua's rantings?"
"We prayed for him too," said Father Wosak.
In the past, both men had spoken of the Jews for Jesus and Joshua. Both men had rejected the passionate overtures of Joshua and his followers to accept them. Rabbi Mesmur had refused to engage in discussion with Joshua, but Father Wosak had gladly allowed himself to be engaged in discussion with the man. It wasn't a matter of Joshua and his people trying to convert the Catholic priest as it was with Rabbi Mesmur's congregation. The Catholics already accepted Yeshua as their savior. But, like Rabbi Mesmur, Father Wosak did not believe one could be a Jew and a Christian at the same time.
Father Wosak had realized early in the conversation with Joshua that the man was only superficially knowledgeable about both Judaism and Christianity. But it was not just the man's ignorance that caused the priest to stop engaging in any further confrontations or discussions with Joshua. Fanaticism had been in the eyes of Joshua, a burning fanaticism. Joshua had wide-open eyes that couldn't stay focused for more than a few seconds.
With great reluctance, but with an understanding that he must do it, when Father Wosak left the synagogue he would walk the two blocks to the Jewish Light of Christ and express his condolences.
Half a block away, plastic cup of tepid coffee in one hand and a copy of the Post in front of his face, the man leaned against a wall next to a small kosher Chinese restaurant. His eyes seemed focused on the stories of mayhem, corruption and tragedy. He turned a page and took a sip of coffee without looking up. He had checked the thermometer in a resale shop window on the way here. The temperature was one hundred and one. The sky was clear, but the air moist. It had been the same for the past two weeks. People moved slowly, people who had to be outdoors or had a high tolerance for heat and humidity. Perspiration formed a beaded rain forest around his hairy chest.
The man he was waiting for came out of the building he was watching on the other side of the street and started down the sidewalk.
The man across the street would be the next to be symbolically crucified.
It would have to be done soon. One more death and it would be finished. He pushed away from the wall, dropped the coffee cup in a trash basket, tucked the newspaper under his arm and felt the weight of the bolts in one pocket and the heft of the hammer in the other.
The priest walked briskly. On the opposite side of the street, the man followed.
9
"YOU KNOW WHERE JACOB IS, DON'T YOU?" asked Kyle Shelton, who spoke slowly, drained.
Mac sat in the chair in the Vorhees living room, a cell phone to his ear. His temporary partner sat silently as darkness fell.
"Yes," said Mac.
"Then I'm going to disappear," said Shelton.
"Not possible," said Mac.
"Then you'll catch me," he said. "I'll tell you then what I tell you now. I killed them, Becky, her mom and her father. My prints are on the knife."
Mac was silent.
"You there, Taylor?" Shelton asked.
"I'm here."
"You think I'm a monster, Taylor?"
There was a touch of pleading in his voice.
" 'He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster,' " Shelton went on. "Friedrich Nietzsche. I stabbed three people to death."
"What monster did you fight?" Mac asked.
Kyle Shelton said nothing. After a long pause, he hung up.
Almost immediately the cell phone in Mac's hand began to vibrate quietly. Mac and Rufus went to the front door and stepped out. When the door was closed, Mac answered the call. Danny told him what he had found on Shelton's blog.
"I followed up and guess what I found?" said Danny.
Mac guessed. He was right.
"You want me there?" asked Danny.
"I want you to get at least eight hours of sleep," answered Mac.
Mac closed his cell phone and said, "It's time, Rufus."
Stella's cell phone rang and someone buzzed her apartment at the same time.
She popped her phone open and moved to the door to buzz her visitor in without asking who it was. She knew who it was.
Before he got up the elevator and to her door, Aiden had filled her in.
"Warrant?" asked Stella.
"This late?" asked Aiden. "It'll take too long. Let's hope he feels like being cooperative. If not, I'll wait there while Flack tracks down a judge who's awake and having a good day. You going to meet us there?"
Now there was a knock at the door.
"It's yours," said Stella. "Someone's knocking at my door."
She hung up, checked the pocket of her loose jeans, resisted the urge to tuck in her blue blouse, and opened the door.