I could have done a retrospective of recent to-dos in the ecclesiastical world, but detailing the recent gatherings of the Southern Baptist Convention, the Anglican Church in North America, and the Presbyterian Church in America would cause a plank of wood to curl up. And that's with the ACNA provincial gathering being quality stuff (#gettingmynewbookofcommonprayersoon).
One item of note has been that throughout late 2018 into 2019, the Davis family has been enjoying the addition of Britbox to our television experience. The Brits have always gone head and shoulders above almost all of American production in writing quality episodes and developing believable characters. I've watched the lion's share or all of seven key series that I think deserve viewing. Technically, that number is nine, but I'm not going to review Newzoids or Rovers. The first show up for props is one of the better mysteries out there.
Shetland is based on Ann Cleeves' Shetland Island mysteries and the gumshoe gambits of Inspector Jimmy Perez. I know what you're thinking...what's a Spanish name doing in the remote islands beyond the Scottish Highlands? Turns out one of the inspector's ancestors was a shipwrecked member of the Spanish Armada who turned up on the shore of Fair Isle and the genealogical remainder is history. Douglas Henshall plays Perez's character, bring laser-like focus to the role that requires a hardy soul weathered by the Shetland geography and culture.
In spite of the remote location, the Shetlands turn out to be quite the bloody center of activity. The first two series track fairly well with Cleeves' novels [first series of two episodes; second series of three two-episode mysteries] before expanding to six-episode series that track singular murders all the way to completion of justice. Perez has to contend with islanders who engage in underhanded business on the mainland of Scotland, savage murders, and the disappearance of a young man on a ferry crossing, just to name several vexing encounters. DS Allison 'Tosh' Macintosh and DC Sandy Wilson provide assistance to Perez (and you'll come to appreciate the positioning of CCTV cameras throughout the British Isles; a libertarian like me did, as well!).
Perez is not a sulky detective who wiles away his off-hours with cigarettes, coffee, and beer. He is a widower, a devoted and loving single father to daughter Cassie, who is 18 going on 30. Managing a complex friendship with Cassie's biological father Duncan brings the kind of conflicted respect that only hard-nosed friends can have.
Moreso, the viewer falls in love with the Shetlands, a place that is hard to love, a locale where people carve out a difficult living of sorts, where natives are suspect of others nosing in and yet want justice and clarity. Often, to get that justice, Perez has to nose in more deeply than the residents might want.
But five series are already in the books with a sixth in the offing for 2020, I hope. Murder and evil can strike on rugged and remote terrain, and Perez is just the sort of steely angel of justice to bring a modicum of hope.
Sunday, June 30, 2019
Wednesday, June 19, 2019
Blue Reign
It's been a while, I know. You might think a major aberration in the zeitgeist could get me blogging again. You'd be right.
This is one week after the fact, but we citizens of the greater St. Louis area are basking in the glow of the Blues winning their first NHL championship and finally lifting the Stanley Cup. Fifty-two years after the team's provenance and the long-suffering fans in St. Louis have finally reached their blue heaven.
While not the equivalent of the suffering of Cubs fans before finally winning a World Series in 2016 to end a 108-year drought, the Blues were known as the Brooklyn Dodgers of the NHL. Wait 'til next year. Always having a decent team to make the playoffs, it seemed, but fizzling out each year.
It was such an energetic start for the franchise. Beginning with the 1967-68 season, when the NHL expanded beyond the Original Six (Montreal, Toronto, Chicago, Detroit, New York, Boston), the league doubled with the addition of the Philadelphia Flyers, Los Angeles Kings, the Pittsburgh Penguins, the Minnesota North Stars, the Oakland Seals, and the Blues. In the league's infinite wisdom, they put all the new teams in the same division, and the Blues thrived. If you call thriving as getting to the Stanley Cup finals their first three years and getting swept all three times: Montreal in 1968 and 1969, and Boston with flying Bobby Orr in 1970.
Since then, the Blues hadn't been back. But, despite being a Canadiens and Flyers fan, I did come to love the Blues when I moved to St. Louis in early 1993. In fact, the first Blues game I watched on old Channel 11 was a fist-slinger with the Detroit Red Wings that brought the goalies out to throw haymakers. Eighty-six penalty minutes doled out before a minute was gone in the game, won by the Blues over their division rivals.
Oh, it was glorious to be a Blues fan, yet painful as well. That year, the Blues finished fourth in the Norris Division and barely cracked the playoff field, taking on the Chicago Blackhawks in the first round. But miracle of miracles, Brett Hull, Craig Janney, and the crew pulled off an astonishing four-game sweep of the Campbell Conference-topping Hawks, sending goalie Ed Belfour into a smashing mood.
But the Cup never got to St. Louis' hands that year (my Canadiens grabbed it, thanks in large part to 10 straight overtime wins in the playoffs), and year after year dragged on without hockey's ultimate prize. The team moved out of the St. Louis Arena and the old barn on Oakland Avenue was taken down. Years at the Kiel Center, which became the Savvis Center, then the Scottrade Center, then now the Enterprise Center, brought many playoff games, but no Cup. The Blues got to the Western Conference finals in 2001, but the champion Colorado Avalanche pushed them aside.
I'd been to several Blues games over the years--Christy and I even went to an NHL exhibition game in Lafayette, LA, between the Blues and Avalanche at the Cajundome in 1998--but wondered if "next year" would ever come to St. Louis. The Blues were in the midst of a playoff drought when we moved back here and promptly started making regular playoff seasons upon our arrival. Yet still, we seemed to run into better teams along the way.
This year looked to be the absolute trench. The Blues were mired in last place in the entire league on January 2nd. Mike Yeo had been fired earlier, and interim coach Craig Berube had been gifted a newly promoted goalie from their minor league squad in San Antonio named Jordan Binnington. And that, folks, is when the team caught fire.
Yes, a team that barely got chosen over Baltimore in 1967 to have an NHL franchise. Yes, the same team that Ralston-Purina treated like a financial tumor in the late seventies and early eighties. Yes, the same team that was signed and sealed in cloak-and-dagger fashion to be headed to Saskatoon--I mean, Saskatoon!--in 1983. That team won 30 games, lost only 15, and lost four overtime or shootout games the rest of the way in the regular season before casting aside Winnipeg, Dallas, San Jose, and then the evil Boston Bruins.
Please don't say, "It's just hockey." Anyone who keeps an eye on St. Louis knows this city needed a moment like this. The death of Michael Brown and the following civic combustibility displayed St. Louis as a city marked by racial divides. Losing the Rams to Los Angeles under the shifty dealing of Stan Kroenke, who declared that St. Louis wasn't a great sports city, added to the malaise. City and county government bumbles along under the cloud of scandal.
One beautiful truth about sports is that it can be a great unifier. Yes, St. Louis has its problems, and they are legion. But the same people who deal with that darkness got behind this team, and many were at the victory parade last Saturday to celebrate the unthinkable. For "next year" has finally come to St. Louis. The Gateway to the West is now home to Lord Stanley's Cup.
This is one week after the fact, but we citizens of the greater St. Louis area are basking in the glow of the Blues winning their first NHL championship and finally lifting the Stanley Cup. Fifty-two years after the team's provenance and the long-suffering fans in St. Louis have finally reached their blue heaven.
While not the equivalent of the suffering of Cubs fans before finally winning a World Series in 2016 to end a 108-year drought, the Blues were known as the Brooklyn Dodgers of the NHL. Wait 'til next year. Always having a decent team to make the playoffs, it seemed, but fizzling out each year.
It was such an energetic start for the franchise. Beginning with the 1967-68 season, when the NHL expanded beyond the Original Six (Montreal, Toronto, Chicago, Detroit, New York, Boston), the league doubled with the addition of the Philadelphia Flyers, Los Angeles Kings, the Pittsburgh Penguins, the Minnesota North Stars, the Oakland Seals, and the Blues. In the league's infinite wisdom, they put all the new teams in the same division, and the Blues thrived. If you call thriving as getting to the Stanley Cup finals their first three years and getting swept all three times: Montreal in 1968 and 1969, and Boston with flying Bobby Orr in 1970.
Since then, the Blues hadn't been back. But, despite being a Canadiens and Flyers fan, I did come to love the Blues when I moved to St. Louis in early 1993. In fact, the first Blues game I watched on old Channel 11 was a fist-slinger with the Detroit Red Wings that brought the goalies out to throw haymakers. Eighty-six penalty minutes doled out before a minute was gone in the game, won by the Blues over their division rivals.
Oh, it was glorious to be a Blues fan, yet painful as well. That year, the Blues finished fourth in the Norris Division and barely cracked the playoff field, taking on the Chicago Blackhawks in the first round. But miracle of miracles, Brett Hull, Craig Janney, and the crew pulled off an astonishing four-game sweep of the Campbell Conference-topping Hawks, sending goalie Ed Belfour into a smashing mood.
But the Cup never got to St. Louis' hands that year (my Canadiens grabbed it, thanks in large part to 10 straight overtime wins in the playoffs), and year after year dragged on without hockey's ultimate prize. The team moved out of the St. Louis Arena and the old barn on Oakland Avenue was taken down. Years at the Kiel Center, which became the Savvis Center, then the Scottrade Center, then now the Enterprise Center, brought many playoff games, but no Cup. The Blues got to the Western Conference finals in 2001, but the champion Colorado Avalanche pushed them aside.
I'd been to several Blues games over the years--Christy and I even went to an NHL exhibition game in Lafayette, LA, between the Blues and Avalanche at the Cajundome in 1998--but wondered if "next year" would ever come to St. Louis. The Blues were in the midst of a playoff drought when we moved back here and promptly started making regular playoff seasons upon our arrival. Yet still, we seemed to run into better teams along the way.
This year looked to be the absolute trench. The Blues were mired in last place in the entire league on January 2nd. Mike Yeo had been fired earlier, and interim coach Craig Berube had been gifted a newly promoted goalie from their minor league squad in San Antonio named Jordan Binnington. And that, folks, is when the team caught fire.
Yes, a team that barely got chosen over Baltimore in 1967 to have an NHL franchise. Yes, the same team that Ralston-Purina treated like a financial tumor in the late seventies and early eighties. Yes, the same team that was signed and sealed in cloak-and-dagger fashion to be headed to Saskatoon--I mean, Saskatoon!--in 1983. That team won 30 games, lost only 15, and lost four overtime or shootout games the rest of the way in the regular season before casting aside Winnipeg, Dallas, San Jose, and then the evil Boston Bruins.
Please don't say, "It's just hockey." Anyone who keeps an eye on St. Louis knows this city needed a moment like this. The death of Michael Brown and the following civic combustibility displayed St. Louis as a city marked by racial divides. Losing the Rams to Los Angeles under the shifty dealing of Stan Kroenke, who declared that St. Louis wasn't a great sports city, added to the malaise. City and county government bumbles along under the cloud of scandal.
One beautiful truth about sports is that it can be a great unifier. Yes, St. Louis has its problems, and they are legion. But the same people who deal with that darkness got behind this team, and many were at the victory parade last Saturday to celebrate the unthinkable. For "next year" has finally come to St. Louis. The Gateway to the West is now home to Lord Stanley's Cup.
Monday, April 8, 2019
March Madness
Tonight, we will welcome to the college basketball championship pantheon a new champion. Not only a new titlist for 2019, but a school that has never before won a national title in basketball. Either Virginia or Texas Tech will climb their first summit of collegiate hoops' elite tonight in Minneapolis. (Granted, Virginia has won the 1980 and 1992 NITs behind Ralph Sampson and Bryant Stith, respectively, but I don't count those as national titles.)
But the final NCAA game of the year brings back more than my Kansas Jayhawks winning it all in thrilling fashion in 2008, more than hearing the song "One Shining Moment" (by the way, how did CBS find enough highlights in 2011 to fill that video after UConn's 53-41 debacle win over Butler?). I remember 1986 and 2003.
And the scary connections between those two Final Fours. This gets weirder the more I research it.
For reference, in 1986, Louisville defeated Duke. In 2003, Syracuse topped my beloved Jayhawks. Those would appear to be two normal classics if not for the fact that there were so many connections between the two that--for the sake of the zeitgeist's balance--it had to happen.
Drum roll, please...
Case 1; semifinal opponents and sites: In the 1986 national semifinals, Louisville defeated a team from Louisiana (LSU) in the state of Texas (Final Four in Dallas). In the 2003 national semifinals, Syracuse defeated a team from Texas (Texas) in the state of Louisiana (Final Four in New Orleans).
Case 2; Semifinal point spread: In 1986, Louisville beat LSU by 11 (score of 88-77). In 2003, Syracuse beat Texas by 11 (95-84).
Case 3; Finals points spread: In 1986, Louisville beat Duke in the title game, 72-69, for a three-point victory. In 2003, Syracuse topped Kansas by a triple, 81-78.
Case 4; finals winners' points divisibility: In 1986, Louisville scored 72, which is divisible by 9. In 2003, Syracuse scored 81, which is divisible by 9.
Case 5; offensive rebounding: Both Louisville and Syracuse each had 11 offensive rebounds in each title game. Check out the stat line here for Louisville and here for Syracuse.
Case 6; flipped total rebounding margin: In 1986, Louisville had a plus-15 rebounding edge over Duke (38 to 23), while in 2003, Syracuse had a minus-15 rebounding deficit (34 to 49) against Kansas to balance things out between the Cardinals and Orangemen at zero.
Case 7; blocked shots: In 1986 against Duke, Louisville blocked seven Blue Devil shots. In 2003, Syracuse swatted away seven Kansas Jayhawk attempts.
Case 8; nicknames: Louisville has been the Cardinals for a long time. Even though Syracuse is now the Orange, that change wasn't made until 2004, so in 2003, the SU sports teams were still known as the Orangemen. Hmmm, "Cardinals" and "Orangemen"... both names are nine letters long.
Case 9; the coaches, exhibit A: Denny Crum coached the 1986 Louisville champs, while Jim Boeheim captured his only title with Syracuse in 2003. Each coach's name ends with the letter "m".
Case 10; the Most Outstanding Players, exhibit A: They were both freshmen. In 1986, it was Louisville's Pervis Ellison. In 2003, it was the Orangemen's Carmelo Anthony.
Case 11; the Most Outstanding Players, exhibit B: Both Ellison and Anthony have seven letters in their last names.
Case 12; combined shooting stats of the non-Most Oustanding Player starting teammates: This should seriously make your jaw drop. In 1986, the other starters other than MOP Pervis Ellison were Herbert Crook, Jeff Hall, Billy Thompson, and Milt Wagner. They shot a combined 15 of 27 from the field. In 2003, Anthony's fellow starters were Kueth Duany, Craig Forth, Gerry McNamara, and Hakim Warrick. And they shot a combined--you guessed it--15 of 27 from the field. [SERIOUSLY, WHAT ARE THE ODDS OF THAT HAPPENING?]
Case 13; the NIT connection: And lastly, the spookiest snippet of them all. The 1986 Louisville championship team had come off a disappointing 1984-85 team that was invited to the 1985 NIT. There they got to the final four of that hoedown, but stumbled toward the end. Finishing out their season in the third-place consolation game, they lost to Tennessee, 100-84.
The 2003 champion Orangemen were one season removed from the 2002 NIT, where they fizzled at the end and landed in the third-place consolation game, losing to Temple, 65-64.
Both teams.
Lost in the NIT consolation game the previous year before their NCAA title.
To teams that began with "T" and ended with "E" (Tennessee, Temple).
Cue Twilight Zone music in 3...2...1.
And enjoy the game tonight. Because you don't know what connections it might have to some other year.
But the final NCAA game of the year brings back more than my Kansas Jayhawks winning it all in thrilling fashion in 2008, more than hearing the song "One Shining Moment" (by the way, how did CBS find enough highlights in 2011 to fill that video after UConn's 53-41 debacle win over Butler?). I remember 1986 and 2003.
And the scary connections between those two Final Fours. This gets weirder the more I research it.
For reference, in 1986, Louisville defeated Duke. In 2003, Syracuse topped my beloved Jayhawks. Those would appear to be two normal classics if not for the fact that there were so many connections between the two that--for the sake of the zeitgeist's balance--it had to happen.
Drum roll, please...
Case 1; semifinal opponents and sites: In the 1986 national semifinals, Louisville defeated a team from Louisiana (LSU) in the state of Texas (Final Four in Dallas). In the 2003 national semifinals, Syracuse defeated a team from Texas (Texas) in the state of Louisiana (Final Four in New Orleans).
Case 2; Semifinal point spread: In 1986, Louisville beat LSU by 11 (score of 88-77). In 2003, Syracuse beat Texas by 11 (95-84).
Case 3; Finals points spread: In 1986, Louisville beat Duke in the title game, 72-69, for a three-point victory. In 2003, Syracuse topped Kansas by a triple, 81-78.
Case 4; finals winners' points divisibility: In 1986, Louisville scored 72, which is divisible by 9. In 2003, Syracuse scored 81, which is divisible by 9.
Case 5; offensive rebounding: Both Louisville and Syracuse each had 11 offensive rebounds in each title game. Check out the stat line here for Louisville and here for Syracuse.
Case 6; flipped total rebounding margin: In 1986, Louisville had a plus-15 rebounding edge over Duke (38 to 23), while in 2003, Syracuse had a minus-15 rebounding deficit (34 to 49) against Kansas to balance things out between the Cardinals and Orangemen at zero.
Case 7; blocked shots: In 1986 against Duke, Louisville blocked seven Blue Devil shots. In 2003, Syracuse swatted away seven Kansas Jayhawk attempts.
Case 8; nicknames: Louisville has been the Cardinals for a long time. Even though Syracuse is now the Orange, that change wasn't made until 2004, so in 2003, the SU sports teams were still known as the Orangemen. Hmmm, "Cardinals" and "Orangemen"... both names are nine letters long.
Case 9; the coaches, exhibit A: Denny Crum coached the 1986 Louisville champs, while Jim Boeheim captured his only title with Syracuse in 2003. Each coach's name ends with the letter "m".
Case 10; the Most Outstanding Players, exhibit A: They were both freshmen. In 1986, it was Louisville's Pervis Ellison. In 2003, it was the Orangemen's Carmelo Anthony.
Case 11; the Most Outstanding Players, exhibit B: Both Ellison and Anthony have seven letters in their last names.
Case 12; combined shooting stats of the non-Most Oustanding Player starting teammates: This should seriously make your jaw drop. In 1986, the other starters other than MOP Pervis Ellison were Herbert Crook, Jeff Hall, Billy Thompson, and Milt Wagner. They shot a combined 15 of 27 from the field. In 2003, Anthony's fellow starters were Kueth Duany, Craig Forth, Gerry McNamara, and Hakim Warrick. And they shot a combined--you guessed it--15 of 27 from the field. [SERIOUSLY, WHAT ARE THE ODDS OF THAT HAPPENING?]
Case 13; the NIT connection: And lastly, the spookiest snippet of them all. The 1986 Louisville championship team had come off a disappointing 1984-85 team that was invited to the 1985 NIT. There they got to the final four of that hoedown, but stumbled toward the end. Finishing out their season in the third-place consolation game, they lost to Tennessee, 100-84.
The 2003 champion Orangemen were one season removed from the 2002 NIT, where they fizzled at the end and landed in the third-place consolation game, losing to Temple, 65-64.
Both teams.
Lost in the NIT consolation game the previous year before their NCAA title.
To teams that began with "T" and ended with "E" (Tennessee, Temple).
Cue Twilight Zone music in 3...2...1.
And enjoy the game tonight. Because you don't know what connections it might have to some other year.
Thursday, February 28, 2019
Your J.I. Packer Encouragement for the Day
Justin Taylor gives us this gem from The Gospel Coalition
Sunday, February 10, 2019
A Prophet Raised Up For Such a Time as This
It has been some time since my last post, which underscores how truly draining a serialized novel on one's blog can be. My recovery time has thus delayed my review of one of the highlights of my Christmas reading. I set a goal of reading fifty books in 2018, and this unforgettable story was one of them.
Glynn Young and I share several things. We both love a great story, we yearn for literary heroes who never give up the fight, and we've both had four novels apiece published through Dunrobin Publishing thanks to the incomparable Mark Sutherland. Glynn's recent installment in the Dancing Priest series of novels was disclosed in the latter stages of 2018, and Dancing Prophet continues the saga of Michael Kent, Olympic cycling champion, ordained priest in the Church of England, and reigning King of England.
Young's first three novels track Michael's endeavors from university studies to the early days of an unexpected ascendancy to Buckingham Palace. All these stories, while gripping in their own right, prepare the reader for the most sober, darkest challenge facing the Christian monarch devoted to God and country in that order.
Through information brought to light through friends of his adopted son, Michael discovers a sexual abuse scandal that has poisoned the very deepest roots of the Church of England. The lion's share of the story is devoted to the battle against the sordidness and vile sin covered up in the C of E for far too long. The description is apt and fitting. Although many think of clergy sexual abuse as a "Catholic" problem, it is truly a multi-denominational problem, as recent disclosures in the Southern Baptist Convention have made clear. Young is writing for and ahead of his time.
The scandal is exposed, not contained, and Michael, with the dedicated support of his wife Sarah and his entire family, weathers some anguishing storms throughout the harrowing days of investigation. But the maturity gained in the previous three novels comes to bear on Michael's decisions in this one, all of which display that Dancing Prophet is a story about godly leadership.
First, leadership doesn't pick the situations from which it arises. Leaders must always be prepared to react in difficult times, toward difficult people, and despite their own difficulties. But Michael never responds with a complaint. From the moment he discovers that sexual abuse is roaring through the Church of England, he is willing to be an instrument of justice no matter how painful the journey might be. He also faces a thorny side issue as the City of London officials cannot agree on a budget and he is tapped to navigate that crisis when media fury swirls around any predicament. To slow down and even get a decent night's rest seems beyond his ken. Yet he plunges doggedly on.
Secondly, leadership never stands alone. One must trust in those who lead with you. At no point does Michael make decisions in isolation. No man is an island, and King Michael knows how proper leadership community is Donne (pun intended). For advice, he leans on Josh Gittings (his chief of staff), Jay Lanham (his communications director), Jonathan Crowe (his main speechwriter), and Trevor Barry (legal analyst for church/monarchial law). Michael reflects a key component of human activity: We need one another. Building a kingdom--whether of state or of God--takes the work of more than one person.
Also, true leadership demands transparency. Michael doesn't divulge every sordid detail of the sexual abuse scandal at every step of the way. But neither does he shirk from letting people know the depth of the crisis they face at personal and institutional levels. Whenever more discoveries are made and new details arise, Michael knows the foolishness of trying to defuse a bomb that has already gone off. And this leads to another corollary about godly leadership: In the pursuit of transparency, one often must confront toxic leadership that makes the poison of sin greater in depth and breadth. For Michael, that means taking on men in positions of power, some of whom would like nothing more than to tar Michael himself with the stain the church bears. And sadly for Michael, this also means confronting those he considers friends.
In the midst of it all, godly leadership can demonstrate a principle of godly community, namely that a leader can help people belong to the process even if they do not yet believe in the hope the leader professes. The kind and manly gentleness exhibited by Michael has considerable drawing power in a growing professional and personal relationship with Trevor Barry. In his legal analyst, Michael has a trusted ally, but he also reaches out to Trevor in spite of the latter's agnosticism. Patient with Trevor's approach to faith or lack thereof, Michael demonstrates that as leaders influence others, sometimes belonging must precede believing.
And finally, godly leadership can involve radical solutions to devastating situations. In response to the breaches of trust from the clergy abuse, Michael believes that a leveling of leadership is the way to go. Selecting new leaders takes Michael's beckoning hand to Africa for a new archbishop and a belief that accountability must be disseminated leads him to the conclusion that presbyterian government by elders--thus jettisoning the spiritual direction of bishops in the episcopal system--will foster the healing and institutional sanctification the king desires to see in the Church of England. Although this maneuver might seem overly radical--and I say that as an Anglican who believes in the spiritual oversight of bishops--Young is well within the bounds of Anglican historical allowances. Richard Hooker, the great apologist of Anglican governance, allowed at points within his Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity there might arise times when the presbyterian system might be occasionally beneficial.
Through the story, we see King Michael--via anticipation, action, and reflection--grow even more in his capacity and ability as a godly leader. Told within the confines of a gripping tale, the plot enhances the king's character (and that of others) with Young's personal command of and deft movement throughout the rich, colorful setting of the heartbeat of Great Britain. The anguish of the story is that God's sheep will sometimes be terrorized by evil shepherds. But in such times as those, God also has a way of raising up prophets to lead them from darkness to light, and the truth that God will never let go of his sheep is the delightful hope at the heart of Young's novel.
Glynn Young and I share several things. We both love a great story, we yearn for literary heroes who never give up the fight, and we've both had four novels apiece published through Dunrobin Publishing thanks to the incomparable Mark Sutherland. Glynn's recent installment in the Dancing Priest series of novels was disclosed in the latter stages of 2018, and Dancing Prophet continues the saga of Michael Kent, Olympic cycling champion, ordained priest in the Church of England, and reigning King of England.
Young's first three novels track Michael's endeavors from university studies to the early days of an unexpected ascendancy to Buckingham Palace. All these stories, while gripping in their own right, prepare the reader for the most sober, darkest challenge facing the Christian monarch devoted to God and country in that order.
Through information brought to light through friends of his adopted son, Michael discovers a sexual abuse scandal that has poisoned the very deepest roots of the Church of England. The lion's share of the story is devoted to the battle against the sordidness and vile sin covered up in the C of E for far too long. The description is apt and fitting. Although many think of clergy sexual abuse as a "Catholic" problem, it is truly a multi-denominational problem, as recent disclosures in the Southern Baptist Convention have made clear. Young is writing for and ahead of his time.
The scandal is exposed, not contained, and Michael, with the dedicated support of his wife Sarah and his entire family, weathers some anguishing storms throughout the harrowing days of investigation. But the maturity gained in the previous three novels comes to bear on Michael's decisions in this one, all of which display that Dancing Prophet is a story about godly leadership.
First, leadership doesn't pick the situations from which it arises. Leaders must always be prepared to react in difficult times, toward difficult people, and despite their own difficulties. But Michael never responds with a complaint. From the moment he discovers that sexual abuse is roaring through the Church of England, he is willing to be an instrument of justice no matter how painful the journey might be. He also faces a thorny side issue as the City of London officials cannot agree on a budget and he is tapped to navigate that crisis when media fury swirls around any predicament. To slow down and even get a decent night's rest seems beyond his ken. Yet he plunges doggedly on.
Secondly, leadership never stands alone. One must trust in those who lead with you. At no point does Michael make decisions in isolation. No man is an island, and King Michael knows how proper leadership community is Donne (pun intended). For advice, he leans on Josh Gittings (his chief of staff), Jay Lanham (his communications director), Jonathan Crowe (his main speechwriter), and Trevor Barry (legal analyst for church/monarchial law). Michael reflects a key component of human activity: We need one another. Building a kingdom--whether of state or of God--takes the work of more than one person.
Also, true leadership demands transparency. Michael doesn't divulge every sordid detail of the sexual abuse scandal at every step of the way. But neither does he shirk from letting people know the depth of the crisis they face at personal and institutional levels. Whenever more discoveries are made and new details arise, Michael knows the foolishness of trying to defuse a bomb that has already gone off. And this leads to another corollary about godly leadership: In the pursuit of transparency, one often must confront toxic leadership that makes the poison of sin greater in depth and breadth. For Michael, that means taking on men in positions of power, some of whom would like nothing more than to tar Michael himself with the stain the church bears. And sadly for Michael, this also means confronting those he considers friends.
In the midst of it all, godly leadership can demonstrate a principle of godly community, namely that a leader can help people belong to the process even if they do not yet believe in the hope the leader professes. The kind and manly gentleness exhibited by Michael has considerable drawing power in a growing professional and personal relationship with Trevor Barry. In his legal analyst, Michael has a trusted ally, but he also reaches out to Trevor in spite of the latter's agnosticism. Patient with Trevor's approach to faith or lack thereof, Michael demonstrates that as leaders influence others, sometimes belonging must precede believing.
And finally, godly leadership can involve radical solutions to devastating situations. In response to the breaches of trust from the clergy abuse, Michael believes that a leveling of leadership is the way to go. Selecting new leaders takes Michael's beckoning hand to Africa for a new archbishop and a belief that accountability must be disseminated leads him to the conclusion that presbyterian government by elders--thus jettisoning the spiritual direction of bishops in the episcopal system--will foster the healing and institutional sanctification the king desires to see in the Church of England. Although this maneuver might seem overly radical--and I say that as an Anglican who believes in the spiritual oversight of bishops--Young is well within the bounds of Anglican historical allowances. Richard Hooker, the great apologist of Anglican governance, allowed at points within his Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity there might arise times when the presbyterian system might be occasionally beneficial.
Through the story, we see King Michael--via anticipation, action, and reflection--grow even more in his capacity and ability as a godly leader. Told within the confines of a gripping tale, the plot enhances the king's character (and that of others) with Young's personal command of and deft movement throughout the rich, colorful setting of the heartbeat of Great Britain. The anguish of the story is that God's sheep will sometimes be terrorized by evil shepherds. But in such times as those, God also has a way of raising up prophets to lead them from darkness to light, and the truth that God will never let go of his sheep is the delightful hope at the heart of Young's novel.
Thursday, January 24, 2019
Cry From The Grave (Chapter 51)
Cry From The Grave
Chapter 51
Hastily planned dinners were not normally the stuff of celebration, but Martin and Marie Ballack insisted the entire team come over for dinner that evening. Marie provided a Bavarian pork loin complete with dumplings, carrots, onions, and apples. She and Martin dodged around each other in the kitchen all through the late afternoon as he helped with the pumpernickel bread while also mixing an authentic German chocolate cake for dessert. Tori and a very slow-moving Paula arrived about five-thirty, while Crabolli ran late. But they soon discovered the ponderance was for good reason. She had picked up Hull, just released from the hospital and who was eager to have a home-cooked meal.
The victuals were delicious and satisfying, the conversation light-hearted and enjoyable, and the beer cold.
"You're going to be okay with this being your first meal back?" Martin asked Hull.
"You'd have to shoot me again to keep me out," laughed Hull, "and seeing how we're nowhere near Innsbrook, I'd say we're safe."
Paula Vaughan kept up with the conversation during the meal, but she excused herself to go to the bathroom just as Marie distributed generous slices of cake with scoops of ice cream around the table.
"She misses Jill," Tori said thoughtfully regarding her daughter, as if to no one in particular.
Marie passed her a fork. "Well, Jill comes home this weekend from her western swing. I'll make sure I tell her that." Tori's daughter and Ballack's sister had become good friends over the summer in the midst of their separate crises.
"When exactly is Paula due again?" asked Crabolli, her mouth surrounding a spoonful of ice cream.
"Any day now," replied Tori, "which is the same as last week. Just as long as it doesn't hap..."
A crash and a bleat of agony sounded from the hall bathroom. White-faced, Tori leaped into the front hall from the dining room and sprinted around the corner toward the sound. Marie followed her, telling her husband, "Get ready to go if it's the real thing."
"All the better," mumbled Hull out of his insanely full mouth. "I've missed the excitement."
"We can't leave the ice cream out, dear!" Martin groaned.
Ballack had left the table with his dessert and wheeled himself into the front hall when he heard Tori scream, "Her water broke!"
Marie came running out. "Martin! Everyone! Let's get them out of here! I'll get the towels and go with them! You follow."
"Right after we salvage this ice cream and put it away," Martin yelled as he searched for the keys to their Honda Odyssey. "Where are we headed?"
"Progress West!" barked Tori from the bathroom, earning a heavy sigh from the Ballack patriarch. "And Martin, don't go wandering off! I need you to help get Paula off the ground in here!"
Crabolli, Hull, and Ballack gathered in the kitchen as Martin blazed a trail into the hall bath and Marie rushed around.
"Mom, I can go with Dad in the Honda if you go with them. Missy and Zane can come with us."
"That's fine," gasped Marie. "I'll grab Tori's keys and start her car. Call Eddie, also."
There came a crash from the bathroom, followed by a loud and painful curse from Martin.
"You okay?" said Crabolli, running to the bathroom and peeking in around Tori.
"I'm fine," howled Martin. "I just slipped and landed on my rear end helping Paula up. My hand got mashed under my body weight."
"My water broke!" wailed Paula. "What do you expect?"
"That was no break," Martin grumbled. "That was an explosion. It's like Lake Huron in there. Let's get moving. Cameron, down the ramp and open the car and direct Missy and Zane how to lock you down. I'll help get Paula out there and then we'll follow them." He tossed the keys to Ballack, who noticed his father's index finger was bent at a slight angle.
"Oh, heaven help me," sighed Tori as Marie and Martin ushered Paula toward the garage door ramp. "I'm going to be a grandmother."
"You know, the sad thing is that we never stopped off for cigars," joked Ballack as they passed time in the waiting room outside the hospital's birthing area.
"The sad thing is actually trying to play poker with a dislocated finger," replied Martin. "It changes the whole approach to the game. At least someone had the sense to bring the cards and copper." He threw seven pennies on the table. "That's my two and I raise five."
"I'll see that," said Hull, placing five pennies down, followed by Ballack and Crabolli. "Missy's calling? Okay, I have two sixes and two kings."
"I have three of a kind," Ballack said hopefully, showing off his triad of fours.
"Full house, jacks high!" Missy Crabolli triumphantly whooped.
"And all of you just went down in flames," Martin announced, "because I have four of a kind!" He slapped his cards on the table.
"That's a full house with eights high!" Crabolli protested.
"Four eights!" Martin jokingly slapped her hand away. He pointed to the queen of spades. "We said before dealing the hand that the dirty lady was wild. That makes it four eights! I win."
"No news? I swear," wondered Hull. "It's been two hours.
"All the more reason why it was critical to salvage the ice cream," Martin deadpanned.
"Zane, it's labor, you Neanderthal," Crabolli complained. "And it's Paula's first. It's a crapshoot."
"That's true," said Martin. "From start of labor to delivery, Cameron held out for sixteen hours. All that time, and we ended up doing a C-section anyway."
"Dad," warned Ballack.
"I assume there's a story behind this?" Hull sat up, greatly intrigued.
"Dad!" Ballack shot his father a dirty look.
"The first case he couldn't solve," Martin chortled, "was how to get out of the womb. Cameron's head was positioned sideways instead of down, so he was trapped. Absolutely trapped."
"Hilarious," Ballack muttered.
Suddenly, Marie Ballack burst into the waiting room. "Sorry," she panted breathlessly. "But I wanted to make sure everything was okay! We're done! It's a girl!"
The foursome exploded in cheers. Martin leaped toward his wife and embraced her, kissing her forehead.
"Everyone okay?" he asked.
"Fine, just fine. They are checking her out and Paula's in a maternity suite now. Tori and Eddie are with her. It's just off another hall. We can go back there, but Tori has to give the go-ahead if all of us can crowd in."
"Go ahead," said Crabolli, pulling Hull back. "Martin and Cameron, go ahead with Marie. We'll wait."
"Details?" asked Martin as Ballack rolled next to them.
"Nine pounds, one ounce. Exactly twenty and one-half inches long. Her hair is sandy and her eyes are ocean blue," said Marie. Stopping, she blinked her eyes and then collapsed into her husband's arms, weeping quietly.
"I know, honey," Martin whispered. "Too many memories. But he's safe. He has been for some time." And nothing more was said.
"Where is the room?" asked Ballack.
"Right here, two doors down," Marie pointed as she wiped her eyes, and they entered the suite, decked with pink balloons and ribbons. "Once Eddie recovered from nearly fainting, he ran down to the gift shop and bought out the place."
"There goes his paycheck," Martin sighed.
Tori hugged all of them. "Where's Eddie?" asked Marie.
"Out making calls to everyone and probably running out of time on his cell since he won't do unlimited minutes," Tori replied. Ballack looked at Paula, who held a small bundle wrapped in a cozy blanket.
"Come here," she beckoned, and they all crept forward. The bundle squirmed and emitted a little cry.
For minutes, no one spoke. There was no need for comment. All the danger and fear and evil of the past four days diffused away at the sight of the precious child before them. Marie bit her lip and smiled, Martin holding her hand. Ballack turned to Tori.
"She looks like you, Granny," he said.
Tori rolled her eyes. "She'd better. If she looked like Eddie, she won't have a prayer of true love."
"Well," said Paula, free of both labor and the weight of a womb-enclosed cherub, "I wanted to let all of you know her name." Her strawberry blond hair had fallen around her shoulders, and a cow lick dangled into her eyes. "I don't know where Dad is, but he can always get the news later."
Tori covered her chin with both hands.
"Mom," Paula began, "I wanted to say this privately, but this will probably be the best moment I get. I want to thank you for being there for me. Not much about the last nine months was ideal, and I've been scared out of my mind for a while. And I know you worried about how responsible I could be and still couldn't stop giving me advice..."
"Oh, come on, baby," Tori wept. "This isn't making it any easier."
"But Mom, here's the thing. You might have clashed with me, but at least you never rejected me. I couldn't count on my friends. I guess it's good Dad isn't here, because he wasn't one hundred percent dependable all the time, either. But for all the pain and all the arguments, you were always there."
Tori didn't respond. She couldn't. The tears were flowing like a waterfall at flood stage.
"And Marie," Paula continued, "you and your family have always been good to us. You always made food when we were pressed for time and you took me to more ultrasound and other OB appointments than I can count whenever Mom was swamped with work. You both have done so much for me, I'd like my daughter to have a part of you."
No one moved.
"So, I've decided to name her Victoria Marie."
Ballack smiled. Whereas Beverly Overton's solo the day before had brought a shaft of hope, this was an explosion of joy. Tori hugged him and then turned to Ballack's father.
"Martin," she said, "Could you pray a blessing over her? Our own priest will christen her, but I'd like to have this moment while we're all here. Could you do that?"
Martin assented wordlessly, releasing Marie's hand. He drew beside the bed and leaned toward Victoria Marie's wriggling, exhausted body. Heads bowed around the bed as he murmured a brief prayer, placing his fingers on her forehead and making the sign of the cross.
Ballack looked up and peered through the window, far into the distance of the overcast night. Amongst the clouds, he beheld the sacred imprint of this natal moment--a solitary and brightly twinkling star.
The victuals were delicious and satisfying, the conversation light-hearted and enjoyable, and the beer cold.
"You're going to be okay with this being your first meal back?" Martin asked Hull.
"You'd have to shoot me again to keep me out," laughed Hull, "and seeing how we're nowhere near Innsbrook, I'd say we're safe."
Paula Vaughan kept up with the conversation during the meal, but she excused herself to go to the bathroom just as Marie distributed generous slices of cake with scoops of ice cream around the table.
"She misses Jill," Tori said thoughtfully regarding her daughter, as if to no one in particular.
Marie passed her a fork. "Well, Jill comes home this weekend from her western swing. I'll make sure I tell her that." Tori's daughter and Ballack's sister had become good friends over the summer in the midst of their separate crises.
"When exactly is Paula due again?" asked Crabolli, her mouth surrounding a spoonful of ice cream.
"Any day now," replied Tori, "which is the same as last week. Just as long as it doesn't hap..."
A crash and a bleat of agony sounded from the hall bathroom. White-faced, Tori leaped into the front hall from the dining room and sprinted around the corner toward the sound. Marie followed her, telling her husband, "Get ready to go if it's the real thing."
"All the better," mumbled Hull out of his insanely full mouth. "I've missed the excitement."
"We can't leave the ice cream out, dear!" Martin groaned.
Ballack had left the table with his dessert and wheeled himself into the front hall when he heard Tori scream, "Her water broke!"
Marie came running out. "Martin! Everyone! Let's get them out of here! I'll get the towels and go with them! You follow."
"Right after we salvage this ice cream and put it away," Martin yelled as he searched for the keys to their Honda Odyssey. "Where are we headed?"
"Progress West!" barked Tori from the bathroom, earning a heavy sigh from the Ballack patriarch. "And Martin, don't go wandering off! I need you to help get Paula off the ground in here!"
Crabolli, Hull, and Ballack gathered in the kitchen as Martin blazed a trail into the hall bath and Marie rushed around.
"Mom, I can go with Dad in the Honda if you go with them. Missy and Zane can come with us."
"That's fine," gasped Marie. "I'll grab Tori's keys and start her car. Call Eddie, also."
There came a crash from the bathroom, followed by a loud and painful curse from Martin.
"You okay?" said Crabolli, running to the bathroom and peeking in around Tori.
"I'm fine," howled Martin. "I just slipped and landed on my rear end helping Paula up. My hand got mashed under my body weight."
"My water broke!" wailed Paula. "What do you expect?"
"That was no break," Martin grumbled. "That was an explosion. It's like Lake Huron in there. Let's get moving. Cameron, down the ramp and open the car and direct Missy and Zane how to lock you down. I'll help get Paula out there and then we'll follow them." He tossed the keys to Ballack, who noticed his father's index finger was bent at a slight angle.
"Oh, heaven help me," sighed Tori as Marie and Martin ushered Paula toward the garage door ramp. "I'm going to be a grandmother."
"You know, the sad thing is that we never stopped off for cigars," joked Ballack as they passed time in the waiting room outside the hospital's birthing area.
"The sad thing is actually trying to play poker with a dislocated finger," replied Martin. "It changes the whole approach to the game. At least someone had the sense to bring the cards and copper." He threw seven pennies on the table. "That's my two and I raise five."
"I'll see that," said Hull, placing five pennies down, followed by Ballack and Crabolli. "Missy's calling? Okay, I have two sixes and two kings."
"I have three of a kind," Ballack said hopefully, showing off his triad of fours.
"Full house, jacks high!" Missy Crabolli triumphantly whooped.
"And all of you just went down in flames," Martin announced, "because I have four of a kind!" He slapped his cards on the table.
"That's a full house with eights high!" Crabolli protested.
"Four eights!" Martin jokingly slapped her hand away. He pointed to the queen of spades. "We said before dealing the hand that the dirty lady was wild. That makes it four eights! I win."
"No news? I swear," wondered Hull. "It's been two hours.
"All the more reason why it was critical to salvage the ice cream," Martin deadpanned.
"Zane, it's labor, you Neanderthal," Crabolli complained. "And it's Paula's first. It's a crapshoot."
"That's true," said Martin. "From start of labor to delivery, Cameron held out for sixteen hours. All that time, and we ended up doing a C-section anyway."
"Dad," warned Ballack.
"I assume there's a story behind this?" Hull sat up, greatly intrigued.
"Dad!" Ballack shot his father a dirty look.
"The first case he couldn't solve," Martin chortled, "was how to get out of the womb. Cameron's head was positioned sideways instead of down, so he was trapped. Absolutely trapped."
"Hilarious," Ballack muttered.
Suddenly, Marie Ballack burst into the waiting room. "Sorry," she panted breathlessly. "But I wanted to make sure everything was okay! We're done! It's a girl!"
The foursome exploded in cheers. Martin leaped toward his wife and embraced her, kissing her forehead.
"Everyone okay?" he asked.
"Fine, just fine. They are checking her out and Paula's in a maternity suite now. Tori and Eddie are with her. It's just off another hall. We can go back there, but Tori has to give the go-ahead if all of us can crowd in."
"Go ahead," said Crabolli, pulling Hull back. "Martin and Cameron, go ahead with Marie. We'll wait."
"Details?" asked Martin as Ballack rolled next to them.
"Nine pounds, one ounce. Exactly twenty and one-half inches long. Her hair is sandy and her eyes are ocean blue," said Marie. Stopping, she blinked her eyes and then collapsed into her husband's arms, weeping quietly.
"I know, honey," Martin whispered. "Too many memories. But he's safe. He has been for some time." And nothing more was said.
"Where is the room?" asked Ballack.
"Right here, two doors down," Marie pointed as she wiped her eyes, and they entered the suite, decked with pink balloons and ribbons. "Once Eddie recovered from nearly fainting, he ran down to the gift shop and bought out the place."
"There goes his paycheck," Martin sighed.
Tori hugged all of them. "Where's Eddie?" asked Marie.
"Out making calls to everyone and probably running out of time on his cell since he won't do unlimited minutes," Tori replied. Ballack looked at Paula, who held a small bundle wrapped in a cozy blanket.
"Come here," she beckoned, and they all crept forward. The bundle squirmed and emitted a little cry.
For minutes, no one spoke. There was no need for comment. All the danger and fear and evil of the past four days diffused away at the sight of the precious child before them. Marie bit her lip and smiled, Martin holding her hand. Ballack turned to Tori.
"She looks like you, Granny," he said.
Tori rolled her eyes. "She'd better. If she looked like Eddie, she won't have a prayer of true love."
"Well," said Paula, free of both labor and the weight of a womb-enclosed cherub, "I wanted to let all of you know her name." Her strawberry blond hair had fallen around her shoulders, and a cow lick dangled into her eyes. "I don't know where Dad is, but he can always get the news later."
Tori covered her chin with both hands.
"Mom," Paula began, "I wanted to say this privately, but this will probably be the best moment I get. I want to thank you for being there for me. Not much about the last nine months was ideal, and I've been scared out of my mind for a while. And I know you worried about how responsible I could be and still couldn't stop giving me advice..."
"Oh, come on, baby," Tori wept. "This isn't making it any easier."
"But Mom, here's the thing. You might have clashed with me, but at least you never rejected me. I couldn't count on my friends. I guess it's good Dad isn't here, because he wasn't one hundred percent dependable all the time, either. But for all the pain and all the arguments, you were always there."
Tori didn't respond. She couldn't. The tears were flowing like a waterfall at flood stage.
"And Marie," Paula continued, "you and your family have always been good to us. You always made food when we were pressed for time and you took me to more ultrasound and other OB appointments than I can count whenever Mom was swamped with work. You both have done so much for me, I'd like my daughter to have a part of you."
No one moved.
"So, I've decided to name her Victoria Marie."
Ballack smiled. Whereas Beverly Overton's solo the day before had brought a shaft of hope, this was an explosion of joy. Tori hugged him and then turned to Ballack's father.
"Martin," she said, "Could you pray a blessing over her? Our own priest will christen her, but I'd like to have this moment while we're all here. Could you do that?"
Martin assented wordlessly, releasing Marie's hand. He drew beside the bed and leaned toward Victoria Marie's wriggling, exhausted body. Heads bowed around the bed as he murmured a brief prayer, placing his fingers on her forehead and making the sign of the cross.
Ballack looked up and peered through the window, far into the distance of the overcast night. Amongst the clouds, he beheld the sacred imprint of this natal moment--a solitary and brightly twinkling star.
THE END
Luke H. Davis is the author of Cry From The Grave, officially the fourth volume in the Cameron Ballack Mysteries. He is also the author of The Merivalkan Chronicles series of novels. He serves as Bible department chairman at Westminster Christian Academy in St. Louis. He lives in St. Charles, Missouri, with his wife Christy, son Joshua, daughter Lindsay, and their retriever Gretel.
Books by Luke H. Davis
Litany of Secrets
The Broken Cross
A Shattered Peace
Cry From The Grave
The Burning Glow (forthcoming)
in The Merivalkan Chronicles
Joel
Bjarna (forthcoming)
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
Cry From The Grave (Chapter 50)
Cry From The Grave
Chapter 50
Grateful that she had traded in her previous car for her present Hyundai Accent, Dana Witten steered the vehicle into her parents' driveway in Chesterfield, just near the intersection of Baxter and Clayton Roads. Drained from a long day of managing her students' attempts to grapple with Victorian literature, she was glad to be free and clear with no quizzes or papers to grade, thanks to her industrious push over the last few days. Dinner out with her parents for her twenty-eighth birthday was as good a thing to enjoy as any. She had stopped by her apartment long enough to change into jeans and a red sweater, put her hair into a neat ponytail, and to grab a pile of mail in her box. She had thrown the envelopes in with her collection of mail from school, and it was with some difficulty that she gathered the postal sheaves in her arms as she got out of her car.
She noticed a cluttered pile of lumber in the garage, which explained why her parents' cars were parked by the curb but not why the wood lay there. Skipping over a pair of two-by-fours, she trapsied into the kitchen where her father sat looking over a copy of that day's Post-Dispatch. An accountant for Dierbergs, Sam Owens made a special point to leave work early this day.
"Hi, Daddy," she said, bending down to kiss the top of his head.
"Welcome back, darling," he said, straightening up in his chair. "You must have made good time or there was no faculty meeting today."
"None, thank goodness," Dana replied. "Not enough to talk about, so we got the afternoon off." She laid her mail on the table and began sifting through it. "Is Mom home?"
"She's getting ready. My car's having trouble today, so we'll take hers tonight."
"We could take mine. I don't mind. It's not like we're going across the state." She continued to peruse the envelopes and bills while considering the mouthwatering meal she would enjoy later at Annie Gunn's, her birthday dinner staple for a number of years.
"Suit yourself," said her father, "as long as I get to stretch out in the back." He got up to head back to the master bedroom.
"Dad? What's with the lumber in the garage?"
"You didn't trip over it, did you?'
"No, but what's it for?"
Sam Owens sat down, folding his hands. "It's been a long time in making this decision, but your mother and I believe it's time for Mimi to come live with us. She can have one of the two spare bedrooms. Two falls in the last month are two falls too many. But as you can see, our home isn't really set up for her, so we're having a ramp built in the garage going up to the door. Don Peterman said he could build it. He gave me two quotes: one if I bought the wood myself, and one if I didn't. I made a run to Home Depot yesterday and what you saw when you arrived is the result."
Dana barely heard her father's news about her grandmother. She was looking wistfully toward the garage.
Sensing the emotional shift, her father got to his feet. "It's worth it, Dana. No matter how long or short she is with us. And you never know," he said, laying the front page of the Post-Dispatch next to her. "You never know who might use it in the future."
She watched her father take his slow, intentional steps to the back of the house. Trying to wrench herself from his doubletalk, she looked at the newspaper he had just placed on the table and her heart nearly stopped.
The picture splashed across the page was an icon she knew well. Even before looking, she had a premonition what this vision would be.
A headline screaming "HOSPICE MURDERER HALTED" topped the picture, but Dana was drawn to the subtitle below. SID detectives collar St. Matthew's Grove employee for recent triple murder. She read on through John Rearden's crisp, lyrical prose.
"...and when the siege dropped around Beverly Overton, there directing the tactical movement was the expert team from the Special Investigative Division. Commander Stu Krieger was effusive in praising his detective team: Tori Vaughan, Missy Crabolli, and the wheelchair-bound Cameron Ballack. Krieger credited Detective Ballack with synthesizing the case's hieroglyphic data into a logical path which led to the arrest at Emmanuel Episcopal Church on Tuesday afternoon..."
Dana's eyes softened and she felt her tear ducts release the first of their salty discharges. Desperate for any distraction, she pulled out one envelope, then another, finally settling on the collection of birthday cards she had recently received. And then she saw the front of the one red envelope, with the unmistakable and memorable script she knew well. It belonged to the young man pictured on the front page of the newspaper. She tore open the envelope and looked at the card.
The gift of pain and memory was too much for Dana Witten, and--letting the birthday card fall to the table--she pitched forward, face in her arms, and loosed the wail of a heartbroken soul.
She noticed a cluttered pile of lumber in the garage, which explained why her parents' cars were parked by the curb but not why the wood lay there. Skipping over a pair of two-by-fours, she trapsied into the kitchen where her father sat looking over a copy of that day's Post-Dispatch. An accountant for Dierbergs, Sam Owens made a special point to leave work early this day.
"Hi, Daddy," she said, bending down to kiss the top of his head.
"Welcome back, darling," he said, straightening up in his chair. "You must have made good time or there was no faculty meeting today."
"None, thank goodness," Dana replied. "Not enough to talk about, so we got the afternoon off." She laid her mail on the table and began sifting through it. "Is Mom home?"
"She's getting ready. My car's having trouble today, so we'll take hers tonight."
"We could take mine. I don't mind. It's not like we're going across the state." She continued to peruse the envelopes and bills while considering the mouthwatering meal she would enjoy later at Annie Gunn's, her birthday dinner staple for a number of years.
"Suit yourself," said her father, "as long as I get to stretch out in the back." He got up to head back to the master bedroom.
"Dad? What's with the lumber in the garage?"
"You didn't trip over it, did you?'
"No, but what's it for?"
Sam Owens sat down, folding his hands. "It's been a long time in making this decision, but your mother and I believe it's time for Mimi to come live with us. She can have one of the two spare bedrooms. Two falls in the last month are two falls too many. But as you can see, our home isn't really set up for her, so we're having a ramp built in the garage going up to the door. Don Peterman said he could build it. He gave me two quotes: one if I bought the wood myself, and one if I didn't. I made a run to Home Depot yesterday and what you saw when you arrived is the result."
Dana barely heard her father's news about her grandmother. She was looking wistfully toward the garage.
Sensing the emotional shift, her father got to his feet. "It's worth it, Dana. No matter how long or short she is with us. And you never know," he said, laying the front page of the Post-Dispatch next to her. "You never know who might use it in the future."
She watched her father take his slow, intentional steps to the back of the house. Trying to wrench herself from his doubletalk, she looked at the newspaper he had just placed on the table and her heart nearly stopped.
The picture splashed across the page was an icon she knew well. Even before looking, she had a premonition what this vision would be.
A headline screaming "HOSPICE MURDERER HALTED" topped the picture, but Dana was drawn to the subtitle below. SID detectives collar St. Matthew's Grove employee for recent triple murder. She read on through John Rearden's crisp, lyrical prose.
"...and when the siege dropped around Beverly Overton, there directing the tactical movement was the expert team from the Special Investigative Division. Commander Stu Krieger was effusive in praising his detective team: Tori Vaughan, Missy Crabolli, and the wheelchair-bound Cameron Ballack. Krieger credited Detective Ballack with synthesizing the case's hieroglyphic data into a logical path which led to the arrest at Emmanuel Episcopal Church on Tuesday afternoon..."
Dana's eyes softened and she felt her tear ducts release the first of their salty discharges. Desperate for any distraction, she pulled out one envelope, then another, finally settling on the collection of birthday cards she had recently received. And then she saw the front of the one red envelope, with the unmistakable and memorable script she knew well. It belonged to the young man pictured on the front page of the newspaper. She tore open the envelope and looked at the card.
The gift of pain and memory was too much for Dana Witten, and--letting the birthday card fall to the table--she pitched forward, face in her arms, and loosed the wail of a heartbroken soul.
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
Cry From The Grave (Chapter 49)
EPILOGUE
The Altar of Grace
November 13-14
Cry From The Grave
Chapter 49
No amount of frustration could tamper the enthusiasm Ballack felt from closing out the St. Matthew's Grove case. Isabel Andrews accosted him promptly after the funeral was over, posing more questions than Ballack had the patience to answer. Recognizing her indignation at being used as the ruse to snare Beverly Overton, he finally told her they would provide more detail after they got a proper statement from Beverly and her lawyer. More than anything, he wanted to go home and sleep for two days straight. Adrenaline had kept him going and he could sense the torque rapidly leaving his body. But he knew he had a promise to keep. He first texted John Rearden about the arrest, seconds before a KSDK news van slid to a halt in front of the church.
"No interviews," he snapped, rolling toward the Sprinter, content to allow Crabolli and Krieger handle the press. But they were not to be denied, and it was another ten minutes before they could extract themselves. He preferred Rearden's professionalism instead.
"Detective Ballack?" a voice sounded behind him. He turned to face Reverend Fisher. "Sorry to keep you. I do want to thank you--and you also, Detective Vaughan--for your handling of this. Dean was a friend, and even though this doesn't bring him back..." His eyes misted.
"It's what we're designed for, Reverend Fisher," he replied.
"I hope the service wasn't spoiled on our account," said Tori.
Fisher shook his head. "On the contrary, I thank you for being as silent and unobtrusive as possible. Your justice was clear enough to catch the guilty yet quiet enough to honor Dean's memory."
"Justice isn't in the bank yet, sir," reminded Ballack. "That's what the county prosecutor is for. But we'll keep you posted."
"He looks like he knows the hospice will crumble for good," said Tori as they moved toward the van.
"It's been a pillar of destruction the last few days," replied Ballack. "And the rot was there for a long time before. At least now, the patients--wherever they are--might feel a bit safer."
Just as they pulled away from the scene, Rearden called him.
"I'm on my way to the station," he said. "Webster?"
"Yes," said Ballack, "and you can go by the church and snoop around as well, once things calm down. Let Krieger know I've promised you first interview with him."
"I'm on my way."
"Are you going to leave your back door unlocked?"
"No, but there's an empty planting box there, covered by plywood, in case you need to deliver something."
"Which is what we're doing."
"You keep promises. I like that in any profession."
"Just drink it slowly, John. I don't have the salary to perpetually finance your assistance."
Ballack was taking the next day off, having slept in until nine o'clock. Rhoda graciously stayed past her staggered shift by fifteen minutes and gave him a shower in his accessible bath. His father left several made-from-scratch biscuits on a cookie sheet next to the kitchen stove, with the squeeze jar of honey nearby. Rhoda also got him a hard-boiled egg and a root beer out of the refrigerator. Ballack reasoned he was close enough to lunch to justify the soft drink choice. Using a knife as a wedge, he cracked it open and took a long gulp.
The doorbell rang and his mother checked the window before answering.
"It's Scotty," she announced.
Ballack rolled into the front hall and took one look at Bosco's ashen face as the lieutenant entered the house.
"Back deck?" he said, not even greeting Marie.
Ballack nodded. "Let me get my chow if you don't mind carrying the drink. Want one yourself?"
Scotty graciously declined the offer and less than a minute later, they were sitting outside enjoying a rippling breeze and an occasional break of sunshine.
"Well, congratulations," said Bosco after they got past the obligatory male small talk. "Stu called me last night and told me everything. I swear you should donate your mind to science. Brilliant." He spoke with pride, but the huskiness in his emotion revealed pain rather than joy.
"Thanks, Scotty. But don't forget it takes a great man to recognize talent. I couldn't have had this opportunity if it wasn't for you sticking your neck out in the first place."
"What's the latest on the perp?"
"She confessed everything to us when we made the arrest, but of course, once her lawyer showed up at the station, Krieger said she withdrew everything. There's a considerable legal battle ahead, but isn't that the risk we take as detectives? We solve the puzzle and make the arrest. We don't prosecute the accused. Our little gamble."
"Still...success. You earned it, is all I can say."
"Seriously, Scotty, why did you come over today?" Ballack asked as the breeze trebled in speed and the air dropped in temperature. He was glad he was dressed in his royal blue windpants with the full-length in-seam snaps with his Duke University turtleneck pullover.
"You're averse to a chat?"
"No, but when have you ever dropped by in the middle of the day? Either you have absolutely nothing to do, or St. Charles County is all sweetness and light and kum-ba-yah utopia, or something has just detonated in your personal life. Given how you looked when you walked in, I'd say we are looking behind door number three."
"Debra and I are getting divorced."
"And there it is."
"That's a hell of a reaction. What gives?"
"Come on, Boss. I have ears and eyes. You can't tell me you were about to keep this covertly to your death. Last April when I called you from DaySpring? That wasn't Debra's voice all giggly drunk in the background, and I dare say that splash of water sure wasn't you draining potatoes in the sink."
"It was the hot tub," Bosco confessed.
"And why are you telling me?"
"Just something I needed to say, a kernel of honesty between fellow detectives. I'm headed down to Defiance to meet my girlfriend and then scope out a spot for lunch. Since I happened to be coming this direction, I thought I'd stop in."
"Glad you did. That's a long way out to meet your woman. Does she live down there?"
"She works in Washington, lives in Augusta. We make do."
"Why do I get the sense you're telling me this for more than male bonding?"
Bosco swallowed. "Because it's a professional issue, too. I've been letting things slide, and the negotiations for the divorce might get ugly. When I spoke to Stu last night, he said I could be working through my issues, or I could be first up for some potentially front-and-center SID matters. But not both. He's right, of course. I can't be dabbling in two worlds. As a result, I'm going inactive from the SID for now and will focus solely out here until all this blows over. Once that gets done, I'm back with the SID."
Ballack chewed the final bite of his first biscuit. "I'm sorry. Look, I'm sorry about all this, and I was a little flippant when you mentioned it just now about you and Debra. I wasn't trying to give the impression this is all on you."
"No sweat. No offense taken. I'd better get going because Lauren's going to get there before me and I can't delay. I took the day off, although you have the look of someone who's earned his. I'll see myself out down the steps here. Thanks for listening. And I know you don't pray, but could you ask your parents to do so?"
Ballack shook his hand. "You know I'll ask them."
"Thanks, Cameron."
A lump formed in Ballack's throat, weighted with sorrow for his mentor and friend. He held his grip with Bosco. "You're still the best, sir. I am what I am because of you."
Smiling, Scotty Bosco nodded his thanks before descending the stairs.
Ballack was taking the next day off, having slept in until nine o'clock. Rhoda graciously stayed past her staggered shift by fifteen minutes and gave him a shower in his accessible bath. His father left several made-from-scratch biscuits on a cookie sheet next to the kitchen stove, with the squeeze jar of honey nearby. Rhoda also got him a hard-boiled egg and a root beer out of the refrigerator. Ballack reasoned he was close enough to lunch to justify the soft drink choice. Using a knife as a wedge, he cracked it open and took a long gulp.
The doorbell rang and his mother checked the window before answering.
"It's Scotty," she announced.
Ballack rolled into the front hall and took one look at Bosco's ashen face as the lieutenant entered the house.
"Back deck?" he said, not even greeting Marie.
Ballack nodded. "Let me get my chow if you don't mind carrying the drink. Want one yourself?"
Scotty graciously declined the offer and less than a minute later, they were sitting outside enjoying a rippling breeze and an occasional break of sunshine.
"Well, congratulations," said Bosco after they got past the obligatory male small talk. "Stu called me last night and told me everything. I swear you should donate your mind to science. Brilliant." He spoke with pride, but the huskiness in his emotion revealed pain rather than joy.
"Thanks, Scotty. But don't forget it takes a great man to recognize talent. I couldn't have had this opportunity if it wasn't for you sticking your neck out in the first place."
"What's the latest on the perp?"
"She confessed everything to us when we made the arrest, but of course, once her lawyer showed up at the station, Krieger said she withdrew everything. There's a considerable legal battle ahead, but isn't that the risk we take as detectives? We solve the puzzle and make the arrest. We don't prosecute the accused. Our little gamble."
"Still...success. You earned it, is all I can say."
"Seriously, Scotty, why did you come over today?" Ballack asked as the breeze trebled in speed and the air dropped in temperature. He was glad he was dressed in his royal blue windpants with the full-length in-seam snaps with his Duke University turtleneck pullover.
"You're averse to a chat?"
"No, but when have you ever dropped by in the middle of the day? Either you have absolutely nothing to do, or St. Charles County is all sweetness and light and kum-ba-yah utopia, or something has just detonated in your personal life. Given how you looked when you walked in, I'd say we are looking behind door number three."
"Debra and I are getting divorced."
"And there it is."
"That's a hell of a reaction. What gives?"
"Come on, Boss. I have ears and eyes. You can't tell me you were about to keep this covertly to your death. Last April when I called you from DaySpring? That wasn't Debra's voice all giggly drunk in the background, and I dare say that splash of water sure wasn't you draining potatoes in the sink."
"It was the hot tub," Bosco confessed.
"And why are you telling me?"
"Just something I needed to say, a kernel of honesty between fellow detectives. I'm headed down to Defiance to meet my girlfriend and then scope out a spot for lunch. Since I happened to be coming this direction, I thought I'd stop in."
"Glad you did. That's a long way out to meet your woman. Does she live down there?"
"She works in Washington, lives in Augusta. We make do."
"Why do I get the sense you're telling me this for more than male bonding?"
Bosco swallowed. "Because it's a professional issue, too. I've been letting things slide, and the negotiations for the divorce might get ugly. When I spoke to Stu last night, he said I could be working through my issues, or I could be first up for some potentially front-and-center SID matters. But not both. He's right, of course. I can't be dabbling in two worlds. As a result, I'm going inactive from the SID for now and will focus solely out here until all this blows over. Once that gets done, I'm back with the SID."
Ballack chewed the final bite of his first biscuit. "I'm sorry. Look, I'm sorry about all this, and I was a little flippant when you mentioned it just now about you and Debra. I wasn't trying to give the impression this is all on you."
"No sweat. No offense taken. I'd better get going because Lauren's going to get there before me and I can't delay. I took the day off, although you have the look of someone who's earned his. I'll see myself out down the steps here. Thanks for listening. And I know you don't pray, but could you ask your parents to do so?"
Ballack shook his hand. "You know I'll ask them."
"Thanks, Cameron."
A lump formed in Ballack's throat, weighted with sorrow for his mentor and friend. He held his grip with Bosco. "You're still the best, sir. I am what I am because of you."
Smiling, Scotty Bosco nodded his thanks before descending the stairs.
Monday, January 21, 2019
Cry From The Grave (Chapter 48)
Cry From The Grave
Chapter 48
For reasons Ballack could not fathom, one of the prescriptions in Dean Hibbler's will was for a full memorial service complete with Holy Communion. While the atheistic doctor's maneuver baffled Ballack, it at least gave he, Tori, and Crabolli time to sneak off to their places in the church during the prayers. Tori took over on the Beverly Overton watch, escorting the nurse to the front pew in the right transept and sitting down behind her. From across the way, Missy Crabolli kept her hateful vigil firmly fixed on their target. Ballack joined Krieger in the back, looking out over the congregation of about one hundred, heads bowed as Nick Fisher's melodious voice carried offerings of peace to their waiting hearts and tuning their cadenced responses.
"For our brother, Dean," began Fisher, "let us pray to the Lord Jesus Christ who said, 'I am Resurrection and I am Life.' Lord, you consoled Martha and Mary in their distress; draw near to us who mourn for Dean, and dry the tears of those who weep."
The congregation murmured their affirmations. "Hear us, Lord."
Ballack turned to Krieger. "By the way, I promised Missy that she could cuff her."
"You and your promises," Krieger smirked. "But okay. She's earned it."
Fisher continued to intone the liturgy. "This is never easy," Ballack whispered to the commander.
"What?" replied Krieger, in a response so soft that Ballack had to strain to hear it. "Making an arrest in church or going to a funeral?"
"I'd rather make a thousand arrests on holy ground than attend another one of these," said Ballack.
"It comes for everyone, Detective. It's coming one day for my dear wife. The wound that will never completely close."
Ballack had no response. Fisher continued the responsive prayer, finally concluding with "Comfort us in our sorrows in the death of our brother Dean. Let our faith be our consolation, and eternal life our hope. Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to you our brother Dean, who was reborn by water and the Spirit in Holy Baptism. Grant that his death may recall to us your victory over death, and it might be an occasion for us to renew our trust in your Father's love. Give us, we pray, the faith to follow where you have led the way, and where you live and reign with the Father and the Holy Spirit, to the ages of ages. Amen."
Despite the incongruity of the prayers when matched with Hibbler's lack of faith, Ballack could not deny the beauty of those words.
The mourners came forward for the Eucharist, and as they did so, the organist softly played a pedestrian version of "The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, Hath Ended." Ballack kept a firm eye on Beverly Overton as the last of the congregation drifted back into the pews, Suzanne Lamotta being one of them. She looked back into the open doors to the narthex and gave Ballack the briefest of waves as she took her seat.
The organ ceased and Fisher gave the slight nod to Beverly, who arose from her pew, crossing the nave to a solitary microphone near the altar. Ballack noticed the organist had moved, as well, to a piano set up near Crabolli's location. The first dampered notes rang delicately throughout the church, a comforting melange. He couldn't calculate why, but the moment Beverly approached the microphone, Ballack was overcome with a sense of peace. For closing this case? Because of what she would sing? He could not tell.
He closed his eyes and the one only they knew as Bowie gave her final euphonic statement.
The sands of time are sinking,
The dawn of heaven breaks,
The summer morn I've sighed for,
The fair sweet morn awakes;
Dark, dark, hath been the midnight,
But dayspring is at hand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel's land.
The King there in His beauty
Without a veil is seen;
It were a well-spent journey,
Though sev'n deaths lay between:
The Lamb with His fair army
Doth on Mount Zion stand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel's land."
Without knowing why, even Ballack could sense something had gripped him. Something about the words, the music, had penetrated his heart. It had not loosed his unbelief from its moorings, but there was something in the tundra of his soul that had mysteriously thawed by a trace.
"O Christ, He is the fountain,
The deep, sweet well of love!
The streams on earth I've tasted
More deep I'll taste above.
There to an ocean fullness
His mercy doth expand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel's land."
The key change came, as expected. Ballack, eyes shut, heard every word. He traveled back nearly twenty years. And the solitary wish rose from within, that his brother might be--against all hope--in a place like that of which Beverly Overton sang. Like waves from the ocean upon the rocks on shore, the words thundered within the walls of the church as she finished with a crescendo.
"The bride sees not the garment
But her dear bridegroom's face;
I will not gaze at glory
But on my King of grace;
Not at the crown He gifteth
But on His pierced hand:
The Lamb is all the glory
Of Immanuel's land!"
And with the final note, Beverly Overton put her head down, looking neither to the left nor the right. With Tori and Crabolli shadowing her from the far aisles, she made her way to the rear of the church where Krieger held the doors open and Ballack waited beyond them.
"There's no press?" she asked him.
"I'll text the journalist later," Ballack replied as the women approached. He looked at Krieger.
"Detective Crabolli?" The commander said. "Go ahead."
Surprisingly calm now, Crabolli produced a pair of handcuffs and secured the wrists with her one good arm. "Beverly Overton," she said with a pacific voice, "you are under arrest for the murders of Dean Hibbler, Rory Giles, and Helen Smith." She paused before continuing. Beverly had opened her mouth to speak to Ballack.
"Do you believe, Detective?" she asked.
He looked up at her from his wheelchair. "I don't, but I can hope, can't I?" He smiled. "Thank you, though, I'm glad you were able to sing."
"Why do you enjoy the words when you don't believe them?"
"I was wondering the same about you, Mrs. Overton," Ballack replied. "But truthfully, you caused me to remember Pascal. 'The heart has its reasons that reason cannot know.' A fleeting ray of hope, but hope nonetheless."
With a sweater thrown over the handcuffs to block them from view, they walked toward the street, where Krieger's car was waiting in front of the hearse. Crabolli continued to drone the Miranda rights in Beverly's ear as Ballack and Tori stood at a distance.
"Hope from someone like her?" Tori quietly asked him.
They watched as Krieger eased their captured Bowie into the back of the car and Crabolli followed.
"A singing killer. It's possible, just not probable," Ballack responded, "and not the first option if you're looking for illumination and peace."
Saturday, January 19, 2019
Cry From The Grave (Chapter 47)
Cry From The Grave
Chapter 47
Beverly Overton let go of the doorknob, shocked at the presence of the seated sleuth barring her path to Isabel's purse.
"How did you get in?" she asked.
"Same as we just did," said Tori, who entered the room with Missy Crabolli. "Walked straight through the door. Detective Ballack just happened to get access from Reverend Fisher."
Ballack moved toward Beverly, never taking his eyes off her. When he was within four feet, he looked at her hand.
"I can guess the story behind that wound, Mrs. Overton. I can tell you or you can tell us."
He gestured toward the table. Beverly sat down, her eyes flicking from side to side, assessing her situation. Crabolli walked to the other side, sitting down and lifting her arm sling onto the table. With a blistering glare, she opened the right side of her jacket to disclose her firearm. Tori slowly covered the distance to the door and locked it from inside. She came back to Beverly's left side and showed her piece under her jacket as Crabolli had.
Beverly suppressed a cough and looked meekly at Ballack. "The service will begin soon. I am singing. You can't keep me here."
"Oh," Ballack said, stretching his arms over his head, a casual move that belied the saturnine atmosphere. "I've seen the order of the service. You're not due to come up for some time. At least until the commendation of the body. And don't you think it's pathetically ironic?"
"What?"
"You, singing at this, an event designed as the eternal homegoing of a man whose neck you skewered with a hunting knife just a little over one hundred hours ago?"
"When did you know?"
"I had an idea when you didn't know the correct version of twelve o'clock."
"Excuse me?"
Ballack released his stretch. He reminded himself to be professional and not act like he was enjoying this sequence.
"When you told me you'd been to see Lincoln, and I said that quote," he said more calmly.
"The one about the chimes?"
Ballack nodded. "Hearing the chimes at daybreak, I said. I changed Falstaff's quote. Both Shakespeare's version from King Henry the Fourth and what was said in the movie were 'We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.' I figured you either failed high school English or else you were lying about having seen the movie."
"I went to see my neighbors Sunday night when they returned from the movie," Beverly said. "It was late, but I had already taken care of Rory Giles, so I needed an alibi. When Mandy excused herself to go to the bathroom and her husband was changing in their bedroom, I looked in her purse and found the ticket stub. But thinking up a trap like that on the spur of the moment, Detective. I'm somewhat impressed." Beverly burned him with a wicked, glazed look.
"I figured it was worth a shot," Ballack replied. "Of course, I didn't tell my partners anything about my impressions. I didn't want to be or have them distracted by a non sequitur if it came to that. I'm sure they didn't like being kept in the dark for so long, but I believe they might find it in their hearts to forgive me."
"Happens rarely," said Tori. "I forgive you."
"How about you, Missy?" Ballack asked.
Crabolli kept her eyes rooted on Beverly Overton. "We're cool, C.B."
Ballack leaned his right elbow onto his armrest. "Let's go back. You go by Beverly Overton now, but your first name is Jennifer. Beverly is your middle name. Your second middle name, to be exact. Born Jennifer Ella Beverly Trafford."
"How did you discover that?"
"A little trip up to Clayton to look at records. Divorced from Howie Dunnigan, you kept his surname until you married Lawrence Overton. You performed a nice little trick with 'J.E. Beverly' on your marriage certificate. We compared that with everything we found at the Recorder of Deeds and drew the right conclusion. It was a partial guess, but given that I nailed you on the Lincoln quote, we were riding a hot streak."
Beverly, stone-faced, said nothing in reply.
"Of course," Ballack continued, "upon your marriage to Howie Dunnigan, you were eighteen months removed from the tragic death of your brother, which you and your parents blamed on Dr. Dean Hibbler. The lawsuit reaps your family over three million dollars, a portion of which I'm thinking you believed should have been yours."
"Trust fund," Beverly snorted. The organ music reverberated through the hallway. "It became my parents' hoard."
"You must have believed with all your heart you'd get it eventually. You might not have been the best sister to Dave, but his death caused you to suffer, right?"
"I suffered, yes. But how and how much is my story. You have no right to it."
Ballack clenched and released his right hand. "No, you're right. I have no right. Maybe it was guilt, wondering if you could have been a better sister. Perhaps it was bearing this weight of anger for years and years and not having a true outlet." He drummed his fingers on the table. "No, maybe it was taking your rage into a marriage that never had a chance. Or it could be something more."
Tori spoke for the first time in several minutes. "Like missing out on the money."
"Here you are," said Ballack. "Frustrated beyond belief that your parents put their war chest from a Phyrric legal victory into a trust fund. Untouchable. Unreachable. Sure, your second husband might have made a fine living for you. That combined with your nursing created a nice nest egg. But it wasn't enough, was it? Always wanting more, were you."
"It explains quite well how you could be in possession of your parents' two Rugers," Crabolli barked.
"Settle down, girl," Ballack murmured softly. "Settle down. But Detective Crabolli makes a fine point. The insurance company found there were several items missing from your parents' house after the fire, but two of note were the guns."
Tori shook her head. "Cold. Absolutely cold to torch your own parents alive."
"They took away the money! I deserved my money!" screamed Beverly Overton.
"Bound them, too."
"Oh, for God's sake!" Beverly was shaking now. "That trust fund was to go to me upon their death, and then they call out of the blue one day. The typical accusations. I was ungrateful, I lacked compassion, I avoided them, all my concern was wrapped up in myself. They practically accused me of wanting to leave Lawrence at the time. That's when they dropped the news they had gone to Dean and gave him the money back! Gave it to him! The person who killed my brother! All for the sake of setting themselves free from sadness by forgiving him. Well, if they weren't going to hand the money over to me later, they didn't have to live a long life rejoicing in their philanthropy."
"But it didn't end there, did it, Beverly?" asked Ballack. "Evil only begat more evil, and the thirst for revenge was never assuaged. You noticed that Hibbler had signed on with St. Matthew's Grove, and that's when you made your move."
"That was to be a burr in his saddle as much as possible," Beverly said, "but of course, once we found out that closure was possible--if not inevitable--that was too much for me."
"A knife in his neck," agreed Ballack. "You obviously went in through the copy room?"
"The idiot might have hated me, but even he fell for the excuse that I needed to cut through to the library. He never saw the knife I cupped in my hand, the blade going right up against the underside of my arm." She stopped, rubbing her wrist as if to resurrect the memory. "I stole it from him, by the way."
"No doubt. And it was you who ambushed us at Hibbler's lakehouse.
"I was lurking around St. Matthew's last Saturday night. I had a tendency to take Isabel's messages, anything to help. I caught your voice mail and knew I couldn't have you on my trail. I put my car about a half-mile away on foot and put myself in a thicket about thirty yards away, on the other side of the service road running the far side of the house. I wasn't expecting to have the chance I did."
"The chance?" Crabolli exploded. "You shot my partner and nearly killed him! You shot me clean through the shoulder!" She launched herself out of her chair and glared so angrily at the killer that Ballack immediately put decent odds on Beverly never walking out of the room alive.
"Missy, for crying out loud. Let's wrap this up before Tori has to sit on you," groaned Ballack. He looked back at Beverly. "But the deaths of Father Giles and Helen Smith? I assume it's because you suspected they knew something."
"For Rory, I had to. He practically cornered me after he met with you Sunday when you questioned us about our alibis after the lakehouse shooting. He never accused me bluntly, but he took me aside and said, 'Beverly, perhaps you know by this point that the truth is the only weapon for this present battle.' He thought he was being clever, but even I saw through it. I couldn't give him time to consider going to you. I stalked him that night and when he went back to St. Matthew's after dinner, I followed him there."
"And you couldn't do with merely killing him," said Tori. "You had to use the altar."
"That's when your whole world started collapsing," Ballack remarked. "The next day. Not just the Lincoln quote bungle, but you also had a new bandage and your wound was as fresh as when I noticed it Sunday. Begging it off as a burn from the copier was a bad idea; I saw it was a blister between your thumb and index finger. Firing the Ruger that often that quickly makes for a lot of heat, and your hand couldn't take it."
"You sure have taken your time piecing the puzzle together, Detective Ballack," Beverly hissed.
"And you haven't seen him at his best," said Tori.
"That brings us to Helen Smith," Ballack said, wanting to complete this arrest, "and we spoke to David already today. You must have been on the roof, listening to Helen telling him about her dark ghost schussing up Eden way. So you had to get rid of her."
"Not that anyone there would have thought her babbles were anything more than the eruptions of an elderly mind. But I couldn't take the chance and have the rumor mill snare James, Daryl, Verna, and the others."
"Thus, you park at Eden for the second time in two days and made the same run. You strangled her in her room, went out the staff door, shot across the lawn, and drove around for an hour before coming in to work."
"You know I parked at Eden?"
"We discovered your parking ticket," Tori smiled.
An unexpected lull fell upon the room, at which point the opening hymn burst forth through the wall, and the initial strains of 'Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer' pressed upon their ears.
"All for revenge?" asked Ballack.
Beverly returned his stare. "Revenge was my fuel, but not my destination. I hoped for St. Matthew's to continue on. It should have, under Isabel. Hibbler's death was my gift to her."
"But you were sounded out by two others," replied Ballack, "making their deaths necessary. And the river of blood washed away any chance of Isabel receiving your gift."
"She deserved it," Beverly sighed. "It should have been her."
"It seems as if you love her," remarked Tori.
"Yes. Yes, it was love."
Ballack gritted his teeth. He had seen enough of the twin poles of love, the redemptive and destructive extremes. This was just too perverse to take.
Beverly Overton placed her hands on the table. "I'm going to jail?"
Missy Crabolli had reached her limits of patience. "If it was up to me, you heartless broad, you're going to die."
"Missy, please!" Ballack snarled. "But yes, Mrs. Overton, we are going to arrest you."
Her eyes grew soft and she placed her head gently in her hands. A minute passed before she lifted her face, tears glistening in her eyes. The hymn had ended.
"I know I don't deserve this, but I have one request," she stated.
Ballack shifted in his wheelchair. "Go on."
"I have no right to ask, but in a few moments, it will be time for me to sing. This may be my last time to do so. I...could I?"
Ballack rolled toward her, stopping a yard from her.
"You're right," he retorted. "You don't deserve it, and you truly have no right. But I don't want Dr. Hibbler's funeral to be a time when confusion reigns. He at least deserves an orderly memorial." He signaled his partners to move toward the door. He continued, wagging his finger at her, "I will allow you to sing. But you listen and you listen well. I will have Detective Crabolli stand at the far transept and Detective Vaughan at the near transept. I will be at the back of the church, joining Commander Krieger. You will sing your solo, and when the music stops, you will come up the center aisle toward Commander Krieger and myself. Missy, Tori, you will keep abreast of Mrs. Overton's pace coming up the side aisles. Any questions, Mrs. Overton?"
"I have none."
He moved another foot closer and their eyes locked. "One final thing, Mrs. Overton. Don't try any funny business or try to escape. These ladies are excellent runners and will outpace your attempt. And they are excellent shots, even if one of them is one-handed right now."
"I understand," Beverly said, then, as if addressing a monarch, she mouthed a quiet "Thank you."
"Detective Crabolli, please escort Mrs. Overton to the back door of the nave."
As soon as they left the vestry, Tori let loose a deep breath. "Do you think that's wise, Cam?"
"It's the ultimate defeat for her," Ballack replied, "even if she doesn't recognize it. She kills Hibbler, and now she will honor his life before being arrested for his murder."
"And if she tries to resist?"
Ballack thought for a moment. "She won't." He moved toward the rear of the nave. "She won't."
Ballack leaned his right elbow onto his armrest. "Let's go back. You go by Beverly Overton now, but your first name is Jennifer. Beverly is your middle name. Your second middle name, to be exact. Born Jennifer Ella Beverly Trafford."
"How did you discover that?"
"A little trip up to Clayton to look at records. Divorced from Howie Dunnigan, you kept his surname until you married Lawrence Overton. You performed a nice little trick with 'J.E. Beverly' on your marriage certificate. We compared that with everything we found at the Recorder of Deeds and drew the right conclusion. It was a partial guess, but given that I nailed you on the Lincoln quote, we were riding a hot streak."
Beverly, stone-faced, said nothing in reply.
"Of course," Ballack continued, "upon your marriage to Howie Dunnigan, you were eighteen months removed from the tragic death of your brother, which you and your parents blamed on Dr. Dean Hibbler. The lawsuit reaps your family over three million dollars, a portion of which I'm thinking you believed should have been yours."
"Trust fund," Beverly snorted. The organ music reverberated through the hallway. "It became my parents' hoard."
"You must have believed with all your heart you'd get it eventually. You might not have been the best sister to Dave, but his death caused you to suffer, right?"
"I suffered, yes. But how and how much is my story. You have no right to it."
Ballack clenched and released his right hand. "No, you're right. I have no right. Maybe it was guilt, wondering if you could have been a better sister. Perhaps it was bearing this weight of anger for years and years and not having a true outlet." He drummed his fingers on the table. "No, maybe it was taking your rage into a marriage that never had a chance. Or it could be something more."
Tori spoke for the first time in several minutes. "Like missing out on the money."
"Here you are," said Ballack. "Frustrated beyond belief that your parents put their war chest from a Phyrric legal victory into a trust fund. Untouchable. Unreachable. Sure, your second husband might have made a fine living for you. That combined with your nursing created a nice nest egg. But it wasn't enough, was it? Always wanting more, were you."
"It explains quite well how you could be in possession of your parents' two Rugers," Crabolli barked.
"Settle down, girl," Ballack murmured softly. "Settle down. But Detective Crabolli makes a fine point. The insurance company found there were several items missing from your parents' house after the fire, but two of note were the guns."
Tori shook her head. "Cold. Absolutely cold to torch your own parents alive."
"They took away the money! I deserved my money!" screamed Beverly Overton.
"Bound them, too."
"Oh, for God's sake!" Beverly was shaking now. "That trust fund was to go to me upon their death, and then they call out of the blue one day. The typical accusations. I was ungrateful, I lacked compassion, I avoided them, all my concern was wrapped up in myself. They practically accused me of wanting to leave Lawrence at the time. That's when they dropped the news they had gone to Dean and gave him the money back! Gave it to him! The person who killed my brother! All for the sake of setting themselves free from sadness by forgiving him. Well, if they weren't going to hand the money over to me later, they didn't have to live a long life rejoicing in their philanthropy."
"But it didn't end there, did it, Beverly?" asked Ballack. "Evil only begat more evil, and the thirst for revenge was never assuaged. You noticed that Hibbler had signed on with St. Matthew's Grove, and that's when you made your move."
"That was to be a burr in his saddle as much as possible," Beverly said, "but of course, once we found out that closure was possible--if not inevitable--that was too much for me."
"A knife in his neck," agreed Ballack. "You obviously went in through the copy room?"
"The idiot might have hated me, but even he fell for the excuse that I needed to cut through to the library. He never saw the knife I cupped in my hand, the blade going right up against the underside of my arm." She stopped, rubbing her wrist as if to resurrect the memory. "I stole it from him, by the way."
"No doubt. And it was you who ambushed us at Hibbler's lakehouse.
"I was lurking around St. Matthew's last Saturday night. I had a tendency to take Isabel's messages, anything to help. I caught your voice mail and knew I couldn't have you on my trail. I put my car about a half-mile away on foot and put myself in a thicket about thirty yards away, on the other side of the service road running the far side of the house. I wasn't expecting to have the chance I did."
"The chance?" Crabolli exploded. "You shot my partner and nearly killed him! You shot me clean through the shoulder!" She launched herself out of her chair and glared so angrily at the killer that Ballack immediately put decent odds on Beverly never walking out of the room alive.
"Missy, for crying out loud. Let's wrap this up before Tori has to sit on you," groaned Ballack. He looked back at Beverly. "But the deaths of Father Giles and Helen Smith? I assume it's because you suspected they knew something."
"For Rory, I had to. He practically cornered me after he met with you Sunday when you questioned us about our alibis after the lakehouse shooting. He never accused me bluntly, but he took me aside and said, 'Beverly, perhaps you know by this point that the truth is the only weapon for this present battle.' He thought he was being clever, but even I saw through it. I couldn't give him time to consider going to you. I stalked him that night and when he went back to St. Matthew's after dinner, I followed him there."
"And you couldn't do with merely killing him," said Tori. "You had to use the altar."
"That's when your whole world started collapsing," Ballack remarked. "The next day. Not just the Lincoln quote bungle, but you also had a new bandage and your wound was as fresh as when I noticed it Sunday. Begging it off as a burn from the copier was a bad idea; I saw it was a blister between your thumb and index finger. Firing the Ruger that often that quickly makes for a lot of heat, and your hand couldn't take it."
"You sure have taken your time piecing the puzzle together, Detective Ballack," Beverly hissed.
"And you haven't seen him at his best," said Tori.
"That brings us to Helen Smith," Ballack said, wanting to complete this arrest, "and we spoke to David already today. You must have been on the roof, listening to Helen telling him about her dark ghost schussing up Eden way. So you had to get rid of her."
"Not that anyone there would have thought her babbles were anything more than the eruptions of an elderly mind. But I couldn't take the chance and have the rumor mill snare James, Daryl, Verna, and the others."
"Thus, you park at Eden for the second time in two days and made the same run. You strangled her in her room, went out the staff door, shot across the lawn, and drove around for an hour before coming in to work."
"You know I parked at Eden?"
"We discovered your parking ticket," Tori smiled.
An unexpected lull fell upon the room, at which point the opening hymn burst forth through the wall, and the initial strains of 'Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer' pressed upon their ears.
"All for revenge?" asked Ballack.
Beverly returned his stare. "Revenge was my fuel, but not my destination. I hoped for St. Matthew's to continue on. It should have, under Isabel. Hibbler's death was my gift to her."
"But you were sounded out by two others," replied Ballack, "making their deaths necessary. And the river of blood washed away any chance of Isabel receiving your gift."
"She deserved it," Beverly sighed. "It should have been her."
"It seems as if you love her," remarked Tori.
"Yes. Yes, it was love."
Ballack gritted his teeth. He had seen enough of the twin poles of love, the redemptive and destructive extremes. This was just too perverse to take.
Beverly Overton placed her hands on the table. "I'm going to jail?"
Missy Crabolli had reached her limits of patience. "If it was up to me, you heartless broad, you're going to die."
"Missy, please!" Ballack snarled. "But yes, Mrs. Overton, we are going to arrest you."
Her eyes grew soft and she placed her head gently in her hands. A minute passed before she lifted her face, tears glistening in her eyes. The hymn had ended.
"I know I don't deserve this, but I have one request," she stated.
Ballack shifted in his wheelchair. "Go on."
"I have no right to ask, but in a few moments, it will be time for me to sing. This may be my last time to do so. I...could I?"
Ballack rolled toward her, stopping a yard from her.
"You're right," he retorted. "You don't deserve it, and you truly have no right. But I don't want Dr. Hibbler's funeral to be a time when confusion reigns. He at least deserves an orderly memorial." He signaled his partners to move toward the door. He continued, wagging his finger at her, "I will allow you to sing. But you listen and you listen well. I will have Detective Crabolli stand at the far transept and Detective Vaughan at the near transept. I will be at the back of the church, joining Commander Krieger. You will sing your solo, and when the music stops, you will come up the center aisle toward Commander Krieger and myself. Missy, Tori, you will keep abreast of Mrs. Overton's pace coming up the side aisles. Any questions, Mrs. Overton?"
"I have none."
He moved another foot closer and their eyes locked. "One final thing, Mrs. Overton. Don't try any funny business or try to escape. These ladies are excellent runners and will outpace your attempt. And they are excellent shots, even if one of them is one-handed right now."
"I understand," Beverly said, then, as if addressing a monarch, she mouthed a quiet "Thank you."
"Detective Crabolli, please escort Mrs. Overton to the back door of the nave."
As soon as they left the vestry, Tori let loose a deep breath. "Do you think that's wise, Cam?"
"It's the ultimate defeat for her," Ballack replied, "even if she doesn't recognize it. She kills Hibbler, and now she will honor his life before being arrested for his murder."
"And if she tries to resist?"
Ballack thought for a moment. "She won't." He moved toward the rear of the nave. "She won't."
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