Prodigal Son

CHAPTER 78

Father Patrick Duchaine, shepherd to the congregation at Our Lady of Sorrows, took the phone call in the rectory kitchen, where he was nervously eating sugar-fried pecans and wrestling with a moral dilemma.

After midnight, a call to a priest might mean that a parishioner had died or lay dying, that last rites were wanted, as well as words of comfort to the bereaved. In this case, Father Duchaine felt sure that the caller would be Victor, and he was not wrong.

"Have you done what I asked, Patrick?"

"Yes, sir. Of course. I've been all over the city since we had our little conference. But none of our people has seen one of us acting… strangely"

"Really? Can you assure me there isn't a renegade among the New Race? No… apostate?"

"No, sir, I can't absolutely assure you. But if there is one, he's given no outward sign of a psychological crisis."

"Oh, but he has," Victor said coolly.

"Sir?"

"If you'll turn on your radio or watch the first TV news in the morning, you'll get quite an earful about our Detective Harker of the Homicide Division."

Father Duchaine nervously licked his lips, which were sugary from the pecans. "I see. It was some policeman, was it? Do you… do you feel that I've failed you?"

"No, Patrick. He was clever."

"I was exhaustive… in my search."

"I'm sure you did everything that you possibly could."

Then why this call? Father Duchaine wanted to ask, but he dared not.

Instead, he waited a moment, and when his maker said nothing, he asked, "Is there anything more you need me to do?"

"Not at the moment," Victor said. "Perhaps later."

All the sugar had been licked from Father Duchaine's lips, and his mouth had gone dry, sour.

Searching for words that might repair his maker's damaged trust in him, he heard himself saying, "God be with you." When only silence answered him, he added, "That was a joke, sir."

Victor said, "Was it really? How amusing."

"Like in the church-when you said it to me."

"Yes, I remember. Good night, Patrick."

"Good night, sir."

The priest hung up. He plucked fried pecans from the dish on the kitchen counter, but his hand shook so badly that he dropped the nuts before he could convey them to his mouth. He stooped, retrieved them.

At the kitchen table with a water glass and a bottle of wine, Jonathan Harker said, "If you need sanctuary, Patrick, where will you turn?"

Instead of answering, Father Duchaine said, "I've disobeyed him. I've lied to him. How is that possible?"

"It may not be possible," said Harker. “At least not without terrible consequences."

"No. I think perhaps it's possible because… my programming is being rewritten."

"Oh? How can it be rewritten when you're not in a tank anymore or hooked up to a data feed?"

Father Duchaine looked toward the ceiling, toward Heaven.

"You can't be serious," Harker said, and took a long swallow of communion wine.

"Faith can change a person," Father Duchaine said.

"First of all, you're not a person. You're not human. A real priest would call you a walking blasphemy."

This was true. Father Duchaine had no answer to the charge.

"Besides," Harker continued, "you don't really have any faith."

"Lately, I'm… wondering."

"I'm a murderer," Harker reminded him. "Killed two of them and one of us. Would God approve of your giving me sanctuary any more than Victor would?"

Harker had put into words a key element of Father Duchaine's moral dilemma. He had no answer. Instead of replying, he ate more sugar-fried pecans.