Bad Faith Read Online Free

most of the other rooms in the former farmhouse, had been converted to fit the needs of their cloistered order. The nuns who’d taken a vow of enclosure were separated from the priest and the faithful who came from the community by a grille that took up one side of the church.During communion, the nuns walked single file to an opening in the grille and, there, received the host.
    As extern nuns, Sister Bernarda and Sister Agatha came to Mass but remained outside the enclosure. Afterward, they’d stay and visit with the parishioners, though usually only a few came to daily Mass, like today.
    After several minutes had gone by, she realized that Father Anselm seemed to be having a problem. His face was pale and he was swallowing repeatedly, as if sick to his stomach and fighting to keep from vomiting. Sister Agatha glanced over at Sister Bernarda, who also seemed worried.
    Mass continued, but as Father began to consecrate the bread and wine, he staggered back. He swayed slowly for a moment and fell to his knees, retching violently. Then, clutching his chest, he began to gasp for air.
    Sister Agatha rose and hurried to the end of the pew to go help him. Father Anselm was trying to stand up by leaning against the altar, but the effort was too much for him. He collapsed, dragging the cloth and the vessels on it down to the floor with a crash.
    When Sister Agatha reached him a second later, her heart sank. Father lay on the red brick floor, his body racked by convulsions. His face was contorted in pain, and his hands grabbed at his chest. He was shivering in the eighty-degree room as if freezing to death, yet his brow was wet with perspiration.
    “Everything hurts,” he whispered in a broken voice. “But the bells are… comforting. They’re ringing nearby. Can you hear them? It’s a beautiful sound.”
    As she knelt by the fallen priest, Sister Bernarda joined her. “I ran to the parlor and called nine-one-one.”
    Sister Agatha nodded. Father’s face was rigid, as if all his facial muscles had stopped working. Then he lay perfectly still.
    “He doesn’t have a pulse. Is he breathing?” she asked Sister Bernarda, who was crouched low, her ear against his chest.
    “No. We need to start CPR now.” Sister Bernarda loosened Father’s collar, then wiped the saliva away from his mouth with a handkerchief and checked that his throat was clear. “I’ll give him some air, Sister, you start with the heart massage.”
    Sister Agatha nodded grimly, remembering their drills with the practice dummy months ago.
    They began to work, but deep down Sister Agatha knew it was too late. Father Anselm’s eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling, looking only at the face of God.

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    B y the time the primary response team arrived, the priest had no vital signs. They worked quickly, trying to restore a heartbeat with the drugs their protocols called for, but the priest failed to respond. After thirty minutes, the physician monitoring their work via radio link told them to call the code—signifying they were to stop their efforts. The district medical investigator, also a physician, would be sent to certify the death. Father Anselm’s body now lay shrouded with a blanket awaiting the arrival of county authorities.
    Sister Agatha stood near the altar, her throat constricted with grief, her face wet with tears. She believed in the afterlife with every fiber of her being, but to see death come so quickly, up close, like this … Father Anselm had been like a breath of fresh air at the monastery. His irreverent humor had always been tempered by his deep and abiding devotion to God. He’d served the Church with his whole heart, and brightened his ministry with a touch of laughter. She couldn’t think of a more fitting homage for the young priest.
    Hearing heavy footsteps at the back of the chapel, she looked up and saw the sheriff approach. She’d thought she’d never be able to feel anything through the mind-numbing grief that