The whispers Ben heard over his shoulder grew louder. "No!" "Is he kidding?" "This can't be!"

  "The documented instances of misconduct by Father Beale are serious, however, and therefore we are directing Father Beale to take a two-week leave of absence from this church to be spent at the St. Michael's retreat, where he will undergo an extended period of meditation and, we hope, rededication to his vocation. We are also directing him to enroll in an anger management course at the earliest opportunity. But we will not remove him from his calling. What God has made, let no man rend asunder. This court is adjourned."

  Usually, after the rendering of a surprise verdict, there was such an upswell of noise and activity that Ben could hardly hear himself think. Not this time, however. After the initial shocked responses had been uttered, most of the audience sat in stunned silence, barely moving, not saying a word.

  "Congratulations," Ben said, clasping his client on the arm. "You've won."

  "Yes," Father Beale said gravely. "But what have I won?"

  "You've won your freedom," Christina answered. "If you want to stay at St. Benedict's, you can. If you'd rather start anew somewhere else, you can. Whichever path you follow, it will be because you chose to follow it, not because you were hounded by enemies or haunted by horrible accusations. The long nightmare is over."

  But Christina was wrong, as would become apparent to the three of them, and to the entire church, altogether too soon. The long nightmare was just beginning. One A Question of Faith

  Chapter

  1

  The Gospel According to Daniel I am not normally given to introspective writing, to self-immortalization, having throughout my career preferred to devote my time to others rather than myself. Moreover, given my current circumstances, this hardly seems a time conducive to starting new projects. I take this pen in hand now, however, at the urging of my attorney. He tells me I should write down everything, just as I remember it, from the very beginning of this protracted ordeal. For myself, I can think of nothing more dreadful, more unbearably harsh. But given my present situation, I must do what my counsel bids, no matter how unpleasant.

  I cannot conceive of why this has happened to me, what possible purpose it could serve. True, God tested Job, but Job was a great man, a true servant of God. I've been nothing but a parish priest in a midsize church, and at times, not a very good one. True, our Savior was tested for forty days in the desert, but he was the Son of God. Satan needs no elaborate ritual to tempt me; I have succumbed far too often, with no malicious imp to blame for my own failings. In the dark of night, I am still tormented by secrets, things I have told no one, and hope to God I never shall.

  Do I deserve the misery that has befallen me? I cannot believe that I do. I would not wish this on the vilest of sinners, the most heinous of infidels. I pray at night, when I am alone and no one is watching, as my Savior prayed before me, Father, let this cup pass from me. But I know in my heart that there will be no divine intervention. The sad truth is that my fate now rests in the hands of lawyers and judges-a considerably less divine and more fallible audience.

  I have titled this document, perhaps in a moment of self-pity or would-be martyrdom, "The Gospel According to Daniel." The word gospel, of course, was originally derived from Greek words meaning good news. It is familiarly linked with another important word-truth.

  I just pray to God that this is. I'm not sure I know what the word means anymore. Ben sat in the jailhouse cell facing his new client. "Eric, because you can't afford an attorney of your own, the court has appointed me to act as your attorney with regard to this criminal charge. You may rest assured that anything you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  Eric Biggers was a big man; he outweighed Ben two-to-one. His broad and brawny chest was so large it fairly rippled out of his prison jumpsuit. "Sure, I got ya."

  Ben laid three forms on the table between them. "If you're agreeable to having me represent you in court, then you need to sign these. That will demonstrate to the court that you have accepted me as your legal representative." And will also allow me to get paid-no small matter.

  "No problem."

  "Now, according to the information provided to me, you've been charged with assault and battery with a deadly weapon. Do you know what that means?"

  "Sure, sure. I know."

  "And it also says-that the victim was your father."

  Biggers hunched forward, his chin drooping, his eyes sad. "Mr. Kincaid, I want you to know, I really regret what happened."

  Ben found himself warmed by this honest expression of remorse-something he saw all too rarely. "I'm sure you do, Eric."

  "I mean that, truly. I really regret hitting my daddy over the head with that gun."

  Ben nodded. This was good. The man had made a mistake, but wanted to make it better. This was why he was a defense attorney, Ben told himself. So he could help men of this caliber. "Well, Eric, I know sometimes temper gets the best of all of us-"

  "I mean, it was a real nice gun. I loved that gun."

  "Uh, what?"

  "It was a great little pistol, pearl-handled and everything. But I got blood and hair and guts all over it. Now it ain't worth a damn."

  Ben drew in his breath, then slowly released it. "Just sign the papers, Eric. I'm late for a wedding." Jones pushed back his French cuff to check his wristwatch for roughly the three thousandth time. "Where is he?"

  "Relax, he'll be here," Loving replied, glancing into a nearby mirror and adjusting his bow tie. "Doesn't the Skipper always come through?"

  Jones paced up and down the length of the small dressing room adjacent to the church sanctuary. "For petty criminals, yes. For his office manager, no."

  Loving spread his arms expansively. He was a big man, with a chest as broad as the Grand Canyon, especially by comparison to Jones's slight frame. "Now you're not bein' fair, Jones. Didn't Ben make all the arrangements for this weddin'? Didn't he get it all squared with the church and rent all the mornin' suits and everythin'?"

  "Yeah, yeah."

  "The Skipper always takes care of his own." Loving straightened the lie of his vest. "You know, there's a certain symmetry here, Jones. He's takin' care of your weddin', jus' like he took care of my divorce."

  "A charming comparison." Jones began wringing his hands. "I can't understand why Ben isn't here. The best man should be at the church on time. He's got the ring! We can't go on without him. You're a private investigator, Loving. Can't you go… sleuth around or something?"

  "He'll show up, Jones. Just you wait."

  "Wait until when? The honeymoon? He's supposed to be here now!"

  The door cracked open. Jones rushed forward-but it wasn't Ben. The white-bearded face of Father Beale appeared through the opening. "It's almost time. Has he arrived yet?"

  "No," Jones growled, looking even more agitated than before. "He hasn't."

  Beale frowned. "Keep me posted."

  As soon as the door was closed, Loving jabbed Jones in the stomach. "Was that him? Was he the one?"

  "The one that what?"

  "You know. The one they say killed that-"

  "Ben says he didn't do it. We won that case, remember?"

  "Yeah, but still. Kinda creepy, isn't it? Bein' married by a guy who-"

  "Would you stop already!" Jones looked as if he were on the verge of a total meltdown. "Where the hell is Ben?"

  Loving wrapped a burly arm around Jones's shoulders. "Don't fret, little buddy. I'm here. I've been through this before, and I know that you're not really worked up about Ben. You're worried about gettin' married, whether you're goin' to be happy or whether you're makin' the biggest mistake of your life."

  "Oh God, you're not going to get psychological on me, are you?"

  "Paula is a wonderful woman, Jones. You two are a perfect match. You're gonna be very happy together." He paused. "And if you're not, you know where you can get a divorce cheap."

  Jones removed Loving's hand from his shoulder. "Loving, you're supposed to be an usher. Go ush." At the opposite end of the sanctuary, in a small dressing room barely bigger than a closet, Christina and the bride-to-be, Paula Connelly, were huddled together with two elderly representatives from the ECW, Ruth O'Connell and her friend Ernestine Rupert. One of the women was adjusting the bride's headdress while the other was messing about with her train.

  "There, there," the woman with the big white bouffant said as she adjusted the headdress a micro-inch. "I think that looks better, don't you, Ernestine?"

  "Ever so much better, Ruth," replied the one with the blue hair and the expensive jewelry. "I'm having a bit of trouble with this train, though."

  "Here, dear, let me help." Both women grabbed an end of the white lace train and started tugging herky-jerky.

  Paula was staring straight ahead, her eyes wide and fixed. "I will not break down. I will not break down."

  Christina tried to intervene. "Excuse me, ladies, but I think it might be best if we left Paula alone for a bit."

  Ruth was not deterred in the least. "Oh, my-no, dear. This is Paula's special day. We want everything to be perfect."

  "I want to be left alone," Paula muttered.

  "Seriously," Christina said, gently tugging at the ladies' elbows. "Let's give Paula some quiet time. Let her meditate a bit, so she can get in a serene and bridelike state of mind."

  "Oh, very well." Ernestine brushed her hands together. "Do you have something blue, dear?"

  Paula blinked. "Excuse me?"

  "Blue. You must have something blue."

  "I thought white was the traditional bridal color."

  "Well, of course it is," Ruth explained. "But a bride needs more than just a dress. You need something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue."

  "Why?"

  "Well… you just do. It's traditional. All the great brides of literature did it. Don't you ever read?"

  "I'm a librarian," Paula said. Her voice had acquired a decided edge. "I have, on occasion, read a book, yes."

  "Well then, you must understand. Most brides come equipped with something new-their dress. And they usually have something old, even if it's just their skivvies. Something borrowed is easy to come up with, but something blue can be tricky. So I wanted to make sure you had something."

  "Well, I don't. We'll just have to do without."

  "Nonsense." Ernestine opened the door to the sanctuary a crack. "Bruce!"

  A moment later, Ernestine's nephew, Bruce Ashour, entered the tiny room, decked out in a gray pinstripe with a red carnation on the lapel.

  "Bruce? We need something blue. Quickly."

  Amazingly, Bruce appeared to have no problem comprehending this request. "Are you wearing your turquoise necklace, Ruth?"

  The elderly woman shook her head no.

  "Aunt Ernestine, what about that cerulean lapel pin?"

  "Not wearing it."

  He turned his attention to Christina. "What about you? Are you wearing anything bluish?"

  "Sorry, no."

  "Are you sure? What about undergarments?"

  Paula's face grew taut. "I am not wearing someone else's underwear!"

  Ruth snapped her fingers. "Hair ribbon." She reached inside her purse and removed a blue bow.

  "Look," Paula said, trying unsuccessfully to maintain some semblance of composure, "I've just spent three hours at the beauty shop getting my hair fixed. It is perfect. Impenetrable. Bulletproof. I am not messing it up with a blue ribbon!"

  "I'll pin it to the underside of your dress," Christina said. "No one will ever see it. Now please, ladies, I think we should all-"

  The door opened again. A mustached man in his mid-thirties leaned in. "I need to talk to someone about the music."

  "Who is he?" Paula said, fairly ranting now.

  "Organist. Choirmaster," Christina whispered. "Paul Masterson."

  Masterson entered the room. As soon as he did, Christina saw Ernestine remove a small book from her purse and rifle through the pages.

  Masterson was a tall man, thin and ascetic in appearance, but when he entered the tiny dressing room everyone was forced practically nose-to-nose. "I've seen the play list that was submitted, and I have some serious objections to some of these music selections."

  Paula's eyelids closed. "What's he talking about, Christina? I don't know what he's talking about. I can't take much more of this."

  Christina grabbed Masterson by the shoulders. "Look, you're going to have to find Ben Kincaid. He chose all the music."

  "I looked for him in the other dressing room. They said he hasn't arrived yet."

  "He hasn't arrived?" Paula squealed. "The best man hasn't arrived?"

  Christina tried to calm her. "That's just Ben's way, Paula. He's never early. But he'll be here. I'm sure…"

  As if on cue, the door opened again. Ben stepped through the opening. "Is this where-?" An instant later, he realized he had stumbled into the women's dressing room. His cheeks turned bright pink. "Oops. Excuse me." He ducked back out again.

  All six people crowded into the dressing room spoke at once. "Wait!"

  Ben reopened the door a crack. "Ye-es?…"

  Christina yanked Ben in, stuffing the tiny room to its limit.

  "Can you breathe?" Paula asked, her face ashen. "Because I can't really breathe…"

  "Ben," Christina said, "the music dude has problems with your play list."

  "It's the wedding march. From A Midsummer Night's Dream," Masterson said, sniffing. "It's an offensive piece of music, inappropriate to the sacred sacrament of marriage. I won't play it."

  "What's he talking about?" Christina asked.

  "He's talking about 'Here Comes the Bride,' " Ben explained. "The wedding march everyone knows and loves is Mendelssohn's incidental music for the play. It's used in a farce wedding scene-some people say it makes fun of the marriage ceremony. So highbrows and snobs refuse to play it. But the reality is, almost everyone expects to hear this song when the bride walks in, and as long as we're not making fun of the marriage ceremony, what does it matter what music we play? Most people don't know where the tune came from."

  "I know," Masterson said. "I find it offensive. How can I pour my heart into a performance when I find the music reprehensible?"

  "I can't take it," Paula muttered, pounding her head against the wall. "I just can't take it anymore." She would surely have fainted, if there'd been anywhere to faint.

  Ben started to speak, but Christina intervened. "If you don't mind, Ben, I think this is more up my alley." She stood on her tiptoes-it was hard to appear commanding given that she was barely five foot one-and revved up the volume. "Now listen up! All of you! Paula needs some quiet time before this wedding starts, and she's going to get it." She turned toward the two older women. "You've been very helpful. Now scram." She jabbed a finger into Masterson's bony chest. "You're going to play the Wedding March, and you're not going to give us any grief about it."

  Masterson tucked in his chin. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Now get lost! All of you!"

  Ben raised a finger. "Christina, I still need-"

  "After the wedding, Ben. Go!" Ben walked in circles around the narthex, trying to remember where the other dressing room was. Sad to say, even though he'd been going to this church for months, he still got lost sometimes. Not that the church was so large-it wasn't. But Ben's navigational abilities were severely limited. Christina said he needed a GPS navigator just to get from his living room to the kitchen.

  As he passed down the large corridor that flanked the Sunday school classes, he heard a commotion at the far end.

  "I'm telling you, this is not the place!" he heard a familiar voice say.

  "It never is with you. You're always trying to buy time."

  "I'm performing a wedding, Kate. It's not appropriate-"

  "I've had it with your excuses! This has got to end! I can't go on like this anymore. It's wrong. It's-it's evil!"

  Ben peered around the corner. Father Beale, decked out in his ministerial robes, was staring at a woman in her mid-thirties-Kate McGuire, he thought. She was the senior warden and had been in attendance during the ecclesiastical trial.

  "It is not evil. You need to open your heart, broaden your mind-"

  "Don't lecture me, you sixties throwback."

  "It is not evil."

  "Well, let's see what the bishop says about that, shall we?"

  Beale's eyes hardened. "Are you threatening me?"

  Ben glanced over his shoulder. By now, the fight had attracted an audience of five or six parishioners. He needed to break this up and fast.

  "Excuse me," Ben said, strolling toward them as if nothing unusual had been taking place. "Can you tell me where the men's dressing room is?"

  Beale slowly took a step back from the woman. "This isn't over," he said. Then he turned and escorted Ben to the proper door. Against all odds, the wedding was beautiful. Even Ben was moved by the formal yet warm Episcopal ceremony. Father Beale gave a lovely homily about the meaning of the marriage covenant and the service concluded with a full Communion, although Ben did not participate. Cynical as he might be about the "blessed sacrament of marriage," as Ben watched his longtime office manager stroll off with his librarian sweetheart, he couldn't help but feel a certain tugging at his tear ducts.

  The reception was held in the parish hall, which was decked out with streamers and wall hangings following a fuchsia and lime green color scheme. Undoubtedly Christina's design, Ben mused. Still, it was a pleasant contrast to Ben's last visit to the parish hall, when he'd been handling Father Beale's trial.

  Ben skipped the reception line and scored a piece of the groom's cake-chocolate, not white, thank goodness-and a cup of some pink, ginger ale-based punch.

  At a table in the corner, Ben spotted the two teenage girls he had met during the trial. What were their names? Judy and… Maura, that was it. They appeared to be industriously cutting the bride's cake and pouring punch.

 

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