Lest Ye Be Judged

By David C. Trimble

Widely viewed as a liberal, Dunstan Mitchell, bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Central Kentucky,has been aggressively pressing his agenda for the Episcopal Church, including ordination of openly gay clergy and the blessing of same-sex marriages. His actions have severely offended the more conservative elements of the Diocese. Mitchell also has some personal habits that his allies in the Church find distasteful, and it soon becomes apparent that he is a liability-one that the church may want to eliminate.

Six weeks later, the bishop's desecrated body is found in the covered swimming pool of one of his archenemies, crusty Circuit Judge James Chancellor. An extensive police and forensic investigation leads to many possible suspects,none of whom are in the least upset that Bishop Mitchell is gone, including his exwife, rival priests, and disgruntled former parishioners. Ambitious prosecutor Ron Gaither soon gets his way, however, and indicts Judge Chancellor, a conviction that will ensure Gaither's political future.The trial becomes a battle of wills between these formidable men that leads to a surprising and disturbing conclusion

Set against the backdrop of the theological and political turmoil plaguing the modern Episcopal Church, Lest Ye Be Judged is a compelling page-turner that escalates the tension all the way through the final page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 19, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595873302

David C. Trimble

David C.Trimble is an attorney and litigator in private practice in Lexington, Kentucky. He has previously published a biography of a Civil War ancestor and is a weekly columnist for his hometown newspaper, The Georgetown News-Graphic, focusing his attention on political and economic issues. Lest Ye Be Judged is his first novel.

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INTRODUCTION

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Writing a novel has been both a journey and a dream for me. I could not have taken the first step on that journey without some very important persons in my life and I wish to thank them all.

My wife, Corinne, has supported me in pursuing this and other writing projects even when they seemed to be far-fetched. She has been my sounding board, my story critic, a source of great ideas to advance the plot, came up with the final title of the book and most importantly, she has been my editor. Corinne has even been the model for a character in the book and approved my unflattering portrayal of that fictitious person. I could not have pursued this dream without her support and assistance.

Corinne’s brother, Cam Cantrill and his wife Janet were also invaluable in this story coming to life. Cam and Janet were my models for Judge James Chancellor and his long-suffering wife, Louellen. While Cam and Janet have not and did not do the nefarious things portrayed in this book, their personal investment in the lives of their fictional alter-egos brought a dose of reality to these pages. They questioned some of the moral, or immoral choices made by their characters in the book and were thus a priceless sounding board.

Cam has also been my muse from the inception of this project. From a discussion on the porch of Lexington’s Regatta restaurant in March 2005, Cam came to realize this was not a joke, but a serious work we could bring to light. Through many e-mailed updates as the chapters rolled out and many plot and story discussions, Cam has supported, edited, critiqued and contributed mightily to the creation of this story.

Corinne, Cam and Janet and my sister, Judy Van Steenberg, have labored through the manuscript as it grew and evolved and have contributed many items of key plot development and dialogue to this project. Judy has undertaken the difficult and laborious task of making the final edit on this book and did so beautifully. Without them, and their collective hours reading this work as it came to being, … Lest Ye Be Judged would not have happened.

Judy, my sister, has always been my creative model through life, beginning with teaching me to read at age four. Her creativity, in many forms and forums, has given me inspiration to seek similar avenues. She has given me the courage to allow the creative demons out of the cages in my mind, for better or worse. She also lead the way for me into the world of self-publishing, in a very real and substantial sense made this whole thing possible and showed me it could be done.

Two technical advisors also contributed much to this story. Ms. Terri DeAtley, an anthropologist by education, directed me to a mother lode of information for the forensics and autopsy scenes in … Lest Ye Be Judged. Deciding to tell a story in which a body is found in a covered swimming pool and then including critical discoveries in an autopsy is one thing; being able to describe it in any semblance of accuracy is quite another. Terri saw that I had the information to get these scenes right.

Christopher Platt was my primary source for the intricate details of the Episcopal Church and its Anglican-born liturgy and hierarchy. Chris also saw the future in a story set within the troubled bounds of the Episcopal Church and encouraged me in choosing that as a backdrop to a murder mystery.

My friend and fellow War Between the States reenactor, Bill Nordan, deserves thanks for helping me craft the ending. I was telling him, on a long trip back from Gettysburg, how I could not decide how to end the story. After a few moments’ silence, Bill convinced me I could combine my ideas into what you will read at the close of this story.

Many other people I know or have known in my life lent me their respective personas as I constructed the people who live in … Lest Ye Be Judged. While this novel is purely a work of fiction and no real person is portrayed in these pages, I still, as a writer, have had to draw on my own experiences to portray realistic characters. So, while I will not name them, if you think you see yourself in … Lest Ye Be Judged, in some way or another you may just be right. Thank you.

I must add one caveat on the writing of this novel. The fictional Bishop of Central Kentucky is, in more ways than one, the villain and victim of… Lest Ye Be Judged. I can unequivocally state that the real Bishop of Lexington, Kentucky, the Rt. Rev. Stacy F. Sauls, was not the source or model for that person and for that I thank him. I have had the honor and pleasure to work with

Bishop Sauls on several matters within the Church and am very glad to report that he and my fictional creation, Bishop Dunstan Mitchell, have little or nothing in common. Likewise, no other Bishop of the Episcopal Church was the model for Bishop Mitchell.

Lastly, to the many people who have read this manuscript when I stuck it in their hands and who have offered either comments or encouragement, I thank you. You are too numerous to list and I fear omitting anyone should I make the effort. That this is finally appearing in print is, in part, a tribute to your assistance.

INTRODUCTION

After years of disagreement and discontent among the ranks of the worldwide Anglican Communion and the Episcopal Church of the United States of America (ECUSA), both descendants of the original Church of England, there now exists an internal schism within the Communion and within ECUSA, which may approach biblical proportions for this proud, historic denomination.

A tradition of disaffection with the hierarchy of the English Church is often traced to December 1170 A.D., when Bishop Thomas A Becket was assassinated in his own Cathedral, for his criticism of the English crown. King Henry II, weary of Becket’s resistance of his judicial reforms, uttered the fateful words, who will rid me of this meddlesome priest? and four of his knights took him seriously.

The final separation of the English Church from Rome occurred under the infamous reign of Henry VIII, he of the six wives. The seminal event (if the reader will pardon the pun) came about after Henry determined that he needed a divorce and a new wife, which Rome strictly forbade. Henry, being King of England, was not used to anyone telling him No, and was incensed. In 1529, Henry declared himself Defender of the Faith, the titular head of the Church of England and forcibly banished Roman Catholicism from English shores.

Thus founded on a history of murder, confiscation, divorce and adultery, the Church of England sailed into modern times as a powerful force in the formation of the world we know today. Anglicanism was taken to the four corners of the Earth by English exploration and annexation of territory and soon gained a foothold on all of the major continents, not the least of which were the colonies in North America.

At the signing of the American Declaration of Independence in 1776, at least 2/3 of the signers were in some form or fashion members of the Church of England. Anglicanism, now known in the New World as the Episcopal Church, flourished and grew to the point where it was seen for a significant time as the primary Christian denomination in America.

The Episcopal Church was even well ahead of its time in recognizing African-Americans as part of the Church. St. Thomas African Episcopal Church was admitted to the Diocese of Pennsylvania in 1794 and its founder, the Rev. Absalom Jones, was ordained as the first black priest of the Episcopal Church in 1804.

This illustrates the interesting dichotomy in the Episcopal Church. On one hand, some American Episcopalians have prided themselves on a theology of inclusion, welcoming any and all, regardless of race, politics, gender or sexual preference, to worship at their Churches. On the other hand, the Episcopal Church was characterized by many Americans and rightly so, as a church of the more conservative portions of society. This dichotomy has led to many of the ongoing controversies that plague the Episcopal Church today.

The Episcopal Church, by now referring to itself as ECUSA, crossed a wide line in 1970 when its leadership approved the ordination of women as deacons and soon thereafter approved their ordination as Priests and Bishops as well. Conservative Episcopalians were apoplectic and decried this extreme departure from Anglican tradition. The second major event of change in ECUSA happened with the substantial change in the Book of Common Prayer in 1979, to what many orthodox Episcopalians consider a watered-down version of the traditional service.

The third and by far most grievous blow to Anglican unity perpetrated by ECUSA occurred on August 6, 2003, when the House of Bishops approved, at the Church’s general convention, consecration of the Rev. V. Gene Robinson as Bishop of the Diocese of New Hampshire. Bishop Robinson was the first openly gay Bishop, living in a same-sex relationship, having left his heterosexual wife and their children, in the entire Anglican Communion. ECUSA did so in direct defiance of Anglican pronouncements made a scant few years before which did not accept the gay lifestyle under the teachings of the Church and most particularly did not allow for ordination of gay clergy.

Because of these changes, thousands of Episcopal communicants have left ECUSA, either for other denominations, or in some instances taking entire congregations into more conservative Anglican organizations. ECUSA Bishops and Dioceses are facing potential litigation with dozens of parishes over ownership of Church property. And, ECUSA faces a threat of being forced out of communion with the worldwide Anglican Communion; in other words, being kicked out of the international organization. By the time you are reading this, such schism may already have happened.

It is from this background that we now enter into a fictional journey within the framework of 21st Century ECUSA, of murder most foul and of intrigue, conspiracy, judgment and retribution ostensibly in the name of God.

Chapter One

Stupid Anglos

Abandoned on the needlepoint kneeling cushion, the pair of highly polished black leather Gucci loafers reflected the jewel-toned light streaming through the stained glass windows.

Jorge Marquez danced in the aisle as he ran the floor buffer, his eyes closed and the iPod earbuds firmly in his ears. He was feeling the beat of Ricky Martin’s Tu Recuerdo in his hips. He snapped the machine off as he reached the front of the aisle, but finished reveling in the music before he looked around.

Jorge chuckled to himself as he saw the loafers lying akimbo on the cushion, stupid anglos. Can’t even remember to take their nice shoes.

Marquez, a wiry 61-year old from Honduras, had been Sexton of the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament for 31 anonymous years. He was used to Morning Prayer worshippers, who wore sneakers for their commute, leaving their work shoes, coffee cups and other paraphernalia in the pews.

Marquez opened the wooden door at the end of the pew and sat down. He kicked off a work boot and tried to slip on one of the buttery leather loafers. Damn. Too small. These are nice, too.

The Sexton noticed a prayer book lying open on the pew beside him and reflexively closed it and replaced it in the rack. He then grabbed the orphaned loafers and headed for the Lost and Found box in the Cathedral offices. Someone will miss these when they get to their fancy office, he thought.

Minutes later, the impeccable shoes were left atop the pile of detritus which had been dropped by worshippers and visitors to the Cathedral. No one who passed by in the Cathedral offices had any idea of the story these loafers might one day tell.

Jorge returned to his floor buffing and to his iPod. He never saw the odd stains picked up by the buffer pad that morning.

Chapter Two

Murder Most Foul

Earlier that morning, The Rt. Rev. Dunstan Mitchell, Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Central Kentucky, smiled and whistled softly to himself as he entered the sanctuary of the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament in Breckin-ridge, Kentucky.

Mitchell’s sense of self-satisfaction and accomplishment was evident on his face. After all, this level of fulfillment had eluded him for much of his adult life, first as an investment banker, and since then in his 26 years of priesthood in the Episcopal Church. Everything he had done, everything he had worked for so long, had come to fruition in the past few months, because he now wore the long-coveted purple of a Bishop in the Episcopal Church. The power and the glory were his.

As all Episcopalians have come to understand in one way or another, the Bishops of the Church are all-powerful within their particular Diocese. Of this singular fact, Dunstan Mitchell was most exquisitely aware.

Mitchell had just passed the one-year anniversary of his consecration as Bishop of the Diocese of Central Kentucky, and his first months in office had gone entirely according to plan. He had taken office and in short order consolidated his power over the Diocese by eliminating most of his serious opposition.

Soon the Bishop would take the final steps to push the conservative Diocese into the bright lights of the 21st Century Episcopal Church—the bright lights, that is, of its liberal Bishops. In his homily given at the consecration service a year ago, Mitchell had promised the Diocese that he would lead it beyond the day of simply the so-called radically inclusive theology which the Church had declaimed for years, to throw open the doors of the Episcopal Church to any and all regardless of their gender preference or sexual politics.

The last phrase, of course, tipped open the lid of the most recent controversies driven by gay and lesbian activists within the Anglican Communion and had caused more than a few grumbles of discomfort among the conservatives present for the consecration. That discomfort had only heightened during the first year of Mitchell’s tenure.

Renegade parishes, which had refused to knuckle under, had seen their Vestries removed and had been reduced to missions by the Bishop’s unilateral fiat, regardless of canonical requirements. These parishes were thus placed under the Bishop’s direct control. Priests who failed to fall in line had either been inhibited from the priesthood or were in the process of being defrocked.

On this Monday morning a year later, Bishop Mitchell paused at the opening in the altar rail and breathed deeply of the air perfumed by the incense from the previous days’ services. The scent of his power was intoxicating.

Most Bishops took Mondays off. The rigors of the Bishops’ duty of touring the Diocese, visiting at various churches nearly every Sunday, not to mention having their rings (and elsewhere) kissed by parishioners seeking favor, simply required a day off to recover.

On this Monday, however, Bishop Mitchell felt compelled to celebrate his own status and recent successes. Where better could he do so than at the seat of his own exalted power?

It’s all mine, he thought, as he took in the expansive spaces of the Cathedral—from the soft sheen of the dark slate floors, to the vaulted arches and ornate decoration of the ceilings. Muted jewel-like colors filled the room as morning sunlight poured through the stained glass. Rank after rank of aged wooden slip pews, still with their colonial-style doors at the aisles, stood in mute attention before the Bishop as if waiting to march forth and proclaim his leadership and wisdom to the faithful, far and wide.

Since the early days of his priesthood the Bishop had made a habit of celebrating Morning Prayer as part of his daily office, whether by himself or in the company of sycophantic followers. Morning Prayer, for the Bishop, was calculated to make him appear to be a good, pious and prayerful man. In reality it was the time he planned his day and basked in the glow of the attention he usually received, even while uttering, by rote memory, the ancient prayers and collects.

This morning, the brief service would be one of personal triumph and he chose to revel alone in the glorious Cathedral as part of his celebration. He had dismissed the usual sycophantic retinue as if he were doing no more than brushing an annoying flake of dandruff from his collar. Mitchell did not want to share the triumph of the morning, because, after all, in his view he had done it on his own and owed no one for his Bishopric.

Bishop Mitchell, on this day 57 years of age, was dressed in gray slacks, his Bishop’s magenta shirt and clerical collar, his large antique gold Celtic cross on a chain, and burnished black leather Gucci loafers. He strode down the center aisle of the nave, the heavy click of his heels echoing off the stone walls. His confident stride bespoke the power he felt.

Mitchell was a moderate man in girth, standing only about five feet seven inches, and weighing in, most days, at a healthy 165 pounds. His gray hair was thick and wavy on top and he complimented it with a full pepper-and-salt beard that he kept closely trimmed.

Mitchell thought the beard made him look scholarly and imposing. In reality, it covered a somewhat weak and very doubled chin. Earlier in his life Mitchell had been quite obese and although he had lost over 100 pounds, he still had a jowly chin and neck somewhat akin to a bulldog’s. Plastic surgery was in his future but he had not yet had time to allow for the recuperation he would need.

Mitchell entered the pew marked by the bronze plaque honoring Henry Clay, the famous Senator from Kentucky who had been a parishioner in the earlier days of the Cathedral.

He nodded to the plaque as if to acknowledge Clay and softly spoke to the late senator, "Henry, you once said you’d ‘rather be right than be President.’ What a damn fool you were—all that power kissed away for nothing. Not me, Henry, not me. I am the Bishop and that makes me right"

The Bishop slid into the well-worn seat of the pew, then knelt and opened a Book of Common Prayer to begin the liturgy of Morning Prayer. After all, should anyone wander in, it was important to maintain the appearance of seriously worshipping as per the liturgy of the Church. It served to keep him from being bothered.

At the narthex of the Church, the massive oak door leading to Maple Street slowly opened. The old brass hinges had been well-maintained and made not a sound. A dark-clad figure slipped into the narthex and gently let the door back into its frame. The Bishop was kneeling where he had expected him—pretending to be at prayer in the Clay pew as usual. The visitor knew that the appearance of piety was a fraud, as was much of this Bishop’s theology of inclusion.

The visitor entered a small alcove to maintain his concealment and lay a zip-up, full length nylon vestment bag on the floor. He opened the bag and withdrew a snow-white alb (a full-length, hooded vestment used in the Church) and slipped it on. He pulled the hood forward so that his face was concealed from anyone not close in front of him. Rubber surgical gloves already covered his hands.

The visitor last pulled from the long vestment bag the chrome-shiny chain-link tool with which he would accomplish his task on this cool Kentucky morning. He concealed the tool in his voluminous sleeve. He stuffed the empty bag into a pocket and moved back into the narthex.

Stepping lightly on rubber soles, the visitor slowly slipped into the nave and up the aisle, pausing every step or two to assure himself that he was not detected. No errors could happen now—the visitor was in the Church and if caught, he would escape, but the Bishop would thereafter be even more unapproachable than he already was.

Halfway up the aisle, the visitor froze—the Bishop was moving, going from kneeling to seated in the pew. Would he look around? Had he heard the door? No. He seemed to be engrossed in the Morning Prayer or his own thoughts, whatever they were, and did not seem to have heard.

The visitor finally reached the pew behind the Clay pew. There was no reason to chance entering the pew behind the Bishop—after all, the old walnut pew doors were all creaky and any noise so close behind would easily be heard.

The visitor reached inside the voluminous sleeves of the alb and withdrew the tool for the task at hand. It was time to strike and he did not hesitate. He moved deliberately, so no noise was made as he pulled the chromed metal between his hands to its full extension. Then, in one swift movement, the visitor reached over the head of the Bishop.

Mitchell at first thought it was strange how the thick, stiff white clerical collar he wore had tightened. The starched linen Pontiff III collars he wore were too expensive to just outgrow them. He had gained some weight from all of the dinners held at homes of prominent members of the Diocese but he did not remember the collar being that tight.

All at once, the sensation changed to one of exquisite pain, as the sharpened, hinged prongs of the dog training collar scraped upward and bit into the soft flesh of his neck. The Book of Common Prayer fell to the floor. Mitchell reached up to release the sharp agony that he now felt lifting him off the floor.

The Bishop’s fingers could gain no purchase on the heavy chromed links of the chain collar, so he started thrashing his arms to reach his assailant. Age had all but eliminated any meaningful range of motion, however; all he could reach was air. He tried to hold himself down to the pew with his feet, but the fine Gucci slip-on loafers came off on the lip of the pew and fell with a clatter to the ornate, needlepoint kneeler below.

The visitor lifted the Bishop with a power born of conviction and pulled him by the neck clear of the pew with a massive surge. The force of lifting the full-grown man over the back of the pew drove the collar’s 48 paired, sharpened prongs deeper into the Bishop’s throat and began to close off his windpipe. The heavy flesh of the Bishop’s neck started to bleed from the encircling, gouging wounds on his neck.

Bishop Mitchell felt himself crash to the floor over the back of the pew. His head cracked into the visitor’s knee, momentarily stunning him and stopping his resistance. As the fog cleared from the pain in his head and neck, he raised his hands again to the chain that gripped his neck. He felt wetness, and found to his horror when he lifted his hands before his eyes that they were stained with blood.

Mitchell’s weakening brain blared alarms—this was his own life-blood being spilled in his Cathedral! He craned his neck back to see who could be doing this to him and saw only the white alb. He grabbed at the white cloth but only succeeded in dragging a bloody handprint on the cloth.

The visitor glanced at the red stain, and the contrast of crimson on white was pleasing to him.

Mitchell’s adrenaline surge at seeing his own blood was quickly blunted by the lack of oxygen reaching his brain. The visitor drew the choke-chain ever more tightly as he dragged the Bishop hurriedly down the aisle. The Bishop could see only the passing ceiling of the Cathedral, the magnificent stone arches lofting high above, and peripherally the ends of the pews marching past him.

He tried to kick and thrash to gain any advantage over his assailant but could gain no hold. His hands slipped across the smooth walnut bottoms of a few of the pews.

Soon, Mitchell felt no strength to resist and could only weakly try to tug at the biting chain collar. The Bishop’s will subsided, his fingers relaxed and his arms fell limply to his chest. His vision soon went blood red, then black. He ceased to struggle altogether as the Cathedral he had worked so hard to win faded from sight.

Finally, the visitor reached the narthex, spread out the vestment bag and concealed the Bishop’s body inside, careful to pull the zipper as far as it would close to hide his victim. The visitor lifted the Bishop’s body as if carrying no more than a heavy bag of vestments to the dry cleaners, gave one quick glance around the Church and rushed to a side door opening onto Payne Street—little more than an alleyway.

The back doors of an idling van opened and the visitor dumped the Bishop unceremoniously to the steel floor, jumped in behind, and closed the doors.

The driver asked, Any problems?

None, answered the visitor. The van sped off from the Cathedral.

As the van sped away from downtown Breckinridge, the visitor opened the zipper and rolled the Bishop’s unconscious body from the nylon.

The visitor pushed back the hood of the alb, and then slapped the Bishop twice across the face, open-handed and then back handed. He shouted at the prostrate form, Wake up you son-of-a-bitch!

Mitchell’s eyes flickered open. You! Mitchell screamed as he recognized the face hovering over him.

How could you, he started to demand, only to feel his voice cut into a viscous gurgle by another wrenching twist of the chain at his throat.

The visitor smiled down at him, Didn’t think I’d let you get away with it, did you? Besides, there’s people in high places who want you outta their way.

The Bishop again tried to speak, only to be again lifted and silenced by the cruel collar.

Keep fightin’, Mitchell, and I’ll keep treatin’ you like the dog you are, growled the visitor.

The visitor clipped the ring of the choker collar to a braided nylon horse lead dangling from the roof of the van, holding just enough pressure on the Bishop’s neck to keep him conscious but under control. The visitor then snapped a set of handcuffs on each of Mitchell’s wrists and chained them, crucifix-like, to steel rings attached to either side of the van.

Mitchell’s feet were then duct-taped together and taped to the rear door handles. After moving back into the middle of the van, the visitor slightly loosened the dog chain and jerked from the Bishop’s neck his clerical collar and the gold crucifix.

What d’you think you’re doing with those? croaked the Bishop.

They’re goin’ with you, for what little good they’ll do you in hell.

Look, reasoned Mitchell, no one needs to know about this. Let me go … you must want something from me … you know I’m powerful .I can make anything happen for you.

The visitor said nothing.

Mitchell, emboldened by the collar not tightening on his neck, whimpered on, Tell me what you want and I’ll make it happen. Just let me go.

All I want is you in hell, where you belong. The visitor backhanded the Bishop again. Like I said, others want you gone, too.

Who?

Think about it, Mitchell. You’ve pissed off plenty in your climb up the church.

Damn you, let me go, now!

Soon enough, you’ll be gone.

From another nylon satchel on the floor of the van the visitor withdrew a gleaming, folded Puma hunting knife and snapped open the blade. With a flick of his wrist he cut away the sweat-soaked magenta shirt that had signified Mitchell’s status as Bishop, revealing the pale, white, doughy and nearly hairless chest beneath.

What’re you doing? T-t-tell me right now! quaked the Bishop, as his eyes focused on the blade just inches from his face.

Where you’re going, you’ll need an appropriate inscription.

The driver had glanced in the rearview mirror at the sound of ripping cloth and watched with widening eyes as the visitor began with the shining blade to leave the calling cards of Mitchell’s demise. The driver knew what ultimate fate awaited the Bishop but did not know what the visitor had in mind. Watching it come to fruition was not something the driver was prepared to do.

The visitor slapped Mitchell again, then grabbed a handful of his thick hair to hold his head still, while the razor-sharp blade inscribed a large number 6 on his forehead.

The Bishop roared as his flesh was flayed, Damn you!

The visitor only paused in his work to smile at the Bishop, and tell him, That’s it, holler, fool. Nobody can hear you.

He pulled the Bishop’s head to the side, and with a flick of his wrist a second large 6 was formed on the Bishop’s jowls.

The van sped on through the outskirts of Breckinridge. The driver hunched down to muffle the pitiful cries of the visitor’s victim, as the now-dripping blade continued its work.

Chapter Three

Friends in High Places

The headquarters of the Episcopal Church of the United State of America (ECUSA) is located in one of the high-rent districts in Midtown New York, at 815 Second Avenue. The palatial brass, glass and marble offices, known colloquially within the Church as 815, include the suite of the Presiding Bishop, The Most Rev. Dr. George Bryant, with its view of the United Nations complex. The offices also house the assorted mid-level clerics and lay minions who operate the Church at the national level.

No visitor would have suspected that ECUSA had not prospered in the months and years after the outcry over the Bishop of Oregon. This bishop, the Rt. Rev. Thomas Becker, was openly gay and living with another man and had declared that he would seek to join in a civil union once his state passed laws allowing for such marriages. Once he had been approved for office by ECUSA, the church lost hundreds of members. Even whole parishes and a few Dioceses had defected to more orthodox Anglican organizations.

On this Tuesday morning, however, all was at peace within 815. In one of the executive offices on the highest floor, a private line rang.

Hello?

This is Kentucky.

Yes?

It’s done.

Mitchell?

Yes.

Did you handle it as we discussed?

Of course.

In detail?

Of course. You got what you wanted.

Good. When do you think he’ll be found?

Not my problem. It’ll happen when it happens. I’m not touching anything else. My hands are dirty enough and I’m through with this.

We’ll see.

I’m even. Whatever you think you have on me, I’ve more than paid in full. Leave me alone or I’ll blow this whole thing sky-high.

You can’t do that and you won’t, the soft voice from 815 said with confidence.

Don’t push me.

Goodbye, Kentucky.

Goodbye, and don’t call me again.

You’re still on my speed-dial. I may need you.

Forget it.

The connection was broken. At 815, at least one person reclined in his chair with a very satisfied grin on his face. As he reached for the mahogany humidor to claim a victory cigar, he knew that Dunstan Mitchell’s personal issues would no longer be a problem.

Chapter Four

Where, Oh Where

Bishop Mitchell’s absence that Monday from his office at Martyr’s House, the exquisitely restored mansion that housed Diocesan headquarters, went little noted.

The staff there well knew that when the Bishop had been visiting a parish, which he usually referred to as his tiresome duties of pressing the flesh with the faithful, he would typically not appear at the office the following day. This time he had been visiting the parish church, St. Francis in the Moors, in Craigsville, a small city to the northwest of Breckinridge.

His staff also knew the Bishop found his visits to Craigsville particularly difficult. The largely conservative parish was always cordial, but the tension was palpable due to open dislike between parishioners such as Winfield County Circuit Judge James Chancellor and his wife Louellen, and the Bishop, whose election they had vigorously opposed.

Erin Hartley, the Bishop’s personal secretary, was an engaging young lady of 28. With short blond hair, green eyes and a ready smile, most visitors to the Bishop’s offices at Martyr’s House came away thinking of Erin as perky, particularly in contrast to the gruff pomposity with which the Bishop usually greeted them.

At about 5 feet 6 inches, with the trim body of youth and taut, full breasts that made most men think of things other than Church business, Erin was an attractive vision to greet those who came for an audience with the Bishop. Erin was also one of the few on the Diocesan staff who genuinely liked Bishop

Mitchell. But then again, Erin, who was as innocent as a baby duck in her outlook on life and assessment of people, liked almost everyone.

The Bishop and Erin had formed an unusually close relationship, entirely, of course, above board. Bishop Mitchell’s aggressive management had made few friends in the Diocese and more than a few enemies, and despite his basically arrogant nature, he did like to have someone in whom he could casually confide. Mitchell was also not so foolish as to risk a sexual harassment suit in his new position.

Most of the rest of the Diocesan staff were cloying favor-seekers, but Erin seemed to want nothing more of him than to do her job and get along. He thus had taken to occasionally conversing with her about subjects that were not often broached between Bishop and employee. Erin, for her part, saw the Bishop as sort of a kind uncle of whom she was quite fond.

Erin had called the Bishop late the previous Sunday afternoon to check on how things had gone at Craigsville. Her call found the Bishop at home, in his den nursing a Glenlivet and soda and hoping that his tension headache would subside.

After Mitchell’s grumpy greeting, Erin chirped, So, Bishop Mitchell, how did it go at the Moors today?

As well as could be expected, with the Chancellors and their ilk glaring at me from the front pews. I know they didn’t like my sermon much—I told the story again about the exclusive club Gloria and I once went to in New York, where Jews weren’t allowed, and how that affected my being called into the priesthood. Chancellor actually rolled his eyes and sighed out loud at that point—the man makes no secret how he feels about my being here, but I don’t care. As long as he keeps putting his contributions in the plate at ‘the Moors’, he’s otherwise obnoxious but harmless. At least they had the sense to remember to put name tags on the kids we were confirming.

That was good of them. How’d you get along with Father Wilkinson?

Wilkinson was fine. He has the sense to keep his mouth shut and do the job. He gritted his teeth and played the host Rector like he was supposed to.

Did you cover the part about Bishop Becker in your sermon? Erin had typed the Bishop’s notes and knew what he had intended to address in Craigs-ville.

Sure did. I thought old Chancellor was going to have a stroke when I quoted Tom Becker about Jesus having had an alternative lifestyle, and a special relationship with John.

You don’t think Jesus was gay, do you Bishop?

No, and I don’t think he was married to Mary Magdalene. But it was worth it to mention Becker, and especially the ‘gay Jesus’ statements, in front of Chancellor and his cronies. It made the whole visit worthwhile for me to see them squirm in their own pews.

Erin never understood the Bishop’s apparent delight in angering certain Episcopalians, but then again, Erin tried to avoid all notions of Church politics.

Well, Bishop, I won’t keep you from your scotch and your rest.

Erin?

Yes, Bishop?

I sure wish you could be sitting here keeping me company.

You know I can’t do that, Bishop.

Yes, I do. I’m sorry. I know that sounded wrong. I just meant that sometimes I feel like you’re my only real friend.

Erin’s heart cracked a little at the older man’s self-pity but she was resolute to not ever go there with an employer. She answered as brightly as she could, Now, Bishop, you know that’s not true. You’ve got plenty of friends in Kentucky.

Sometimes it’s hard to figure out which ones like me, and which ones just want something.

I know. Will we see you Tuesday?

Maybe. I might be around tomorrow, but if so it won’t be for long.

It was thus little noted that Dunstan Mitchell was not in his office on this Monday, it being to all appearances no different than any other first day of the week. The staff knew not to bother the Bishop on Mondays except in an abject emergency. Waiting for a decision, or for his advice, was far preferable to the thunderstorm of his anger when disturbed on his day off.

Even when away from the office on other days, Bishop Mitchell was not, particularly by 21st Century standards, accessible. He carried a cell phone, of which few had the number, but he usually did not turn it on. The staff had

heard him say more than once, "If I want to speak to , I will call them

myself!" It seemed that the cell phone for the Bishop was one of the trappings of power, not a tool to be used.

Mitchell, a single man since his divorce from first wife, Gloria Van Duyck, kept his home telephone unlisted and, again, few were privy to the number. (The last thing I need is pissed-off parishioners bitching to me about their priest.) Even if he