Cry From The Grave (Chapter 28)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 28

     Father Rory Giles enjoyed assisting in any way he could at Emmanuel Episcopal Church, but his participation with Nick Fisher at the five-thirty service earlier that evening had been one part of a staggeringly full day. He had a late dinner with his wife and their friends James and Mona Clardy at Cyrano's Cafe, just a couple blocks from the church. He was rather hungry when they ordered, but by the time his lemon chicken and asparagus had arrived, he wished he had selected a salad as Karen had. The dinner conversation had lingered over drinks afterward, and by the time they had reached their cars, it was already nine o'clock. It was at that point that Giles remembered what he feared aloud this afternoon amongst his fellow staff members. His October report for the diocese was long overdue, and most of the material he needed was still at St. Matthew's Grove. That, along with planning out the week's services, would require well over an hour.

     "Why don't you let us take Karen home?" James asked as Giles bemoaned what was shaping up to be a late night. "It's only slightly out of our way, and we don't mind."

     "Nor do I," said Karen, "but I'm fighting the sleep fairy right now. Don't expect me to wait up for you. Be quiet when you come in."

     Giles kissed his wife's cheek and walked to his Pontiac Vibe. His feet ached from the walking and his head hurt from being in mental overdrive most of the day. That was nothing, though, compared to the weight on his soul. How could the shadow of death come to St. Matthew's? His hands fumbled for the key remote to unlock the driver's side door as a blast of wind cut through him and billowed his overcoat. The air was chilly, cruel, and possessed a sinister edge to it. It was when he started the car that a most distressing and unreasonable sensation gripped his heart like he was being watched.

     Reflexively, he stepped out of his car, looking all directions in the parking lot but finding no one suspicious. He shut the door and headed toward the hospice, satisfied his apprehension had been a fleeting, unjustified vapor. Turning west onto Lockwood Avenue, he failed to notice the car across the street keeping vigil over his movements. He neither noticed the iron bar resting on its dashboard nor imagined that he himself had only twenty-six minutes left to live.

His work went surprisingly quickly. In his office, he set out a couple of homily outlines for Holy Eucharist that week. There was no reason to sketch out a full manuscript, but Giles retained enough perfectionism that he needed a framework of order for homiletical conquest. Going into the chapel, he checked the prayer request box at the rear of the room and noticed it contained a single slip of paper. James Caple, the resident curmudgeon, had shocked the priest by asking prayer for his nephew stationed in Afghanistan. Giles paused for a minute, offering the Almighty an entreaty for the safety of Ryan Caple while also sneaking in a wishful rider that the entirety of American troops would hurry up and get home already.

     His labor was almost at an end, or so he thought. It was when he raised his head after his prayer he noticed the crumbs near the altar at the front. He went forward to scout the mess and saw the clutter was a pile of broken Communion wafers. He could scoop up many of the bearded shards, but there was also some finer dust that led him to believe the wafer had been crushed. he sighed. He had no choice but to get out the vacuum cleaner.

     He walked to the back of the chapel and opened a small closet where he kept a hypoallergenic Oreck upright. Procuring the cleaner, he had turned back toward the altar when the chapel doors opened and a familiar figure entered. He looked at the person, surprised to see anyone else in the chapel this time of night.

     "Sorry," he said to his nighttime visitor, turning back to the front of the chapel and completely confused at this turn of events. "I'm just...just getting this mess near the altar."

     "Ah, the altar," said the nocturnal interloper, who swiftly locked the bolt to the chapel doors and stretched one arm behind the head. "A nice place for a long rest."

     Puzzled by the response, Giles stopped and shook his head, as if the physical movement could dislodge the bewilderment he felt. And at that moment, the intruder took smooth, fleet strides toward him with a gloved hand sliding the iron bar out from behind and beginning the first of many wicked strikes.