Mission of Honor

Chapter Twenty-Two

The door of the church living quarters did not have a lock. There was no need for one. As Father Bradbury used to say, "Lions cannot turn knobs, and human guests are always welcome."

Tired from their journeys, Deacons Jones and Canon had retired at ten. Jones had spent over two hours on the telephone discussing his call from Father Bradbury. He had reported it, first, to a priest in Cape Town. Then he recounted the conversation to Archbishop Patrick himself. A few minutes later, he was telephoned by a security officer from the Vatican. After that, the deacon missionary received a call from a man named Kline in New York. Deacon Jones was glad for the many years he had spent memorizing lengthy passages of scripture. He was able to repeat the conversation accurately, word for word, to each man with whom he spoke. Yet except for the first priest in Cape Town, no one seemed to share his delight at having heard from Father Bradbury. The archbishop and especially the two men from the Vatican acted as if he had been phoned by the devil himself. Deacon Jones could not figure out why. Nor would anyone explain it to him. The conversation was brief, and it had seemed innocent enough.

The men from the Vatican both told him not to speak to anyone else about Bishop Max. He agreed.

Jones did not let the confusion trouble him. Ignorance was determined by how much information one had. It was not a measure of intelligence or character. At peace with himself, he went to the washroom, brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas, and returned to the sleeping quarters. He and Deacon Canon took linens from the closet.

There were four twin beds in the long, sparsely furnished room. Two of the beds were situated near windows. The deacons made those and opened the windows. Jones took the bed away from the veranda. Canon was a heavy sleeper. If any of the tourists took a late-night stroll, he would not hear them.

Jones knelt beside the bed and said his prayers. Then he gently parted the fine-mesh mosquito net and slid inside. The window was to Jones's right. The breeze was warm but soothing. It was good to sleep on a mattress with a clean, white sheet. In the field they usually slept on bedrolls, canvas cots, or patches of grass.

Deacon Jones fell asleep quickly.

There was a sharp prick at the top of the clergyman's throat. It felt like the bite of a female deerfly, which slashes the flesh and drinks the blood. Jones did not know if minutes or hours had passed. He did not want to know. He was groggy, and all he wanted to do was get back to sleep. He kept his eyes closed and went to brush the fly away.

His hand struck metal.

Jones opened his eyes with a start. It was not a fly at his throat. It was a knife. Behind it was a big, dark figure. The mosquito net had been neatly pulled aside, and the intruder was standing holding the tip of the knife firmly under Deacon Jones's chin. From the corner of his eye, Jones could see that the door was slightly ajar. He also saw someone standing over Deacon Canon.

"Have you ever met the American bishop?" the intruder asked in a low, rough voice.

"No," Jones answered. His mind was still fuzzy. Why did the man want to know that?

"What are your names?" the intruder pressed.

"I am Eliot Jones, and he is Samuel Canon," the deacon replied. "We are deacons at this church. What is going on?"

"Where is your cell phone?" the intruder went on.

"Why do you want to know?" Jones asked.

The intruder pushed down slightly on the knife. Jones felt his flesh pop as the tip of the blade punched through it. Blood seeped around the metal and trickled down both sides of his neck. He could actually feel the sharp steel against the top of his larynx. Instinctively, the deacon reached for the man's hand to push it back. The intruder twisted the knife blade so that it could cut sideways now. He gave a tug to the side. The pain caused Jones's entire body to tense. His arms pulled back in the same reflex.

"The next thrust sends it all the way through," the intruder said. "Once again. Where is your cell phone?"

"Go ahead, cut my throat!" the deacon said. "I have no fear of death."

"Then I will kill everyone at this facility," the intruder said.

"That sin would be yours, not mine," replied the deacon. "And whatever you do to their bodies, their souls will be with God."

The intruder removed the knife. The next thing the deacon felt was a sharp sting, then a blazing pain in his right thigh. Even as the deacon reflexively sucked down air to scream, the intruder put the blade back at his throat. It took a moment for the deacon's brain to realize that he had been stabbed. His mind shifted from disbelief to shock to defiance.

"Where is your cell phone?" the intruder repeated. 'Tell me, or I'll let your soul out in pieces."

"The soul cannot be harmed," the deacon whimpered. " 'Though I walk through the valley of death-' "

The knife pierced his forearm. The deacon screamed. The blade was worked around in a circle, digging into bone. This pain was not like the other. This one did not stop but kept going deeper into his body, as though molten lead had entered his veins. His head shook violently. His feet kicked on the bed. He could not control his body. Or his mind. Or his will.

"The phone!" the intruder said. "We don't have time-"

"It's inside my jacket!" the man screamed. "Behind the door! Oh God, stop! Take the phone! Take it!"

The intruder did not remove the knife. He continued to drive it down. Jones could feel his blood seeping into the sheets, along his leg.

"What time are you meeting the bishop from America?" the intruder demanded.

Deacon Jones told him. He would have told him anything he asked. How did the Savior bear it? It was incomprehensible.

The intruder removed the knife from the deacon's wrist. The deepest pain abated instantly, like waves pulling back from the shore.

A moment later, the intruder put the blade to his throat and pushed down hard. Deacon Jones heard a scream from somewhere in the distance. It was not his own voice. He knew that because he could not move his mouth. He felt an electric pain in the base of his tongue. He lurched. An instant later, the pain struck the roof of his mouth. That one hurt worse as the hard palate offered resistance to the blade. Jones was still trying to speak, but all that came from his mouth were guttural grunts and gagging. Then the man reversed his hold on the hilt so that his thumb was on top. He pushed the knife to the left, as though it were a paper cutter. The deacon's carotid artery was severed. Then he tore the blade back to the right. The internal and external jugular veins were cut.

The pain was intensely warm and cold at the same time. Jones heard gurgling from somewhere. It took a moment for him to realize that the sounds were his. He was trying to breathe. The deacon reached for his throat, but his hands were weak, his fingers tingling. He let his arms drop to his sides. His eyes sought his attacker. But by then he was unable to see anything. His vision swirled black and red. His head felt extremely light.

An instant later, Deacon Jones saw nothing at all. The heat and chill blended into a dreamy neutrality.

He went back to sleep.