On the Third Day Read Online Free

the commitment required to make it work.
                It worked, and it had continued to work wonderfully for both Father Thomas and the parish, right up to the preceding April.  Right up until the moment that his world, and theirs, had canted over on one side and poured things over and around them that they could not understand.
                Now Father Thomas stood, as he did every Sunday morning, evening, and at each Mass during the week, his feet planted firmly on the top step of the wide stone stair leading out and down toward the small courtyard below, greeting his parishioners as they arrived.
                In the parking lot below, two black and white San Valencez Police cruisers sat, parked at forty-five degree angles to one another.  There were four uniformed officers lined up across the base of the stairs leading up to the cathedral, but on Thomas’ insistence, they were not accosting his parishioners. Their job was to insure that the press did not slip cameras or broadcasting equipment into the cathedral, and Thomas had promised to give the nod to any suspicious or unknown worshippers, making a search of each individual unnecessary.
                This day was different from any in his memory, but he didn’t want to pass this presentiment on to those attending Mass, though he was aware that they felt it as well as he.  He saw it in their eyes.  Father Thomas knew those eyes, knew their expressions and their questions, and knew many of their hidden secrets and dreams.  He stayed by the door as long as he could and still leave himself time to prepare.  Of all days, he wanted this one to be as much like any morning Mass as possible, even more normal than normal.  With the police guards and the other oddities he knew were to come, the task was very likely not possible.
                The congregation knew it as well.  They watched him, as they filed past.  When they spoke, their voices were too polite, or too concerned.  None of it felt real.  Many had brought friends and relatives who would not regularly have attended, even on Easter.  It was going to be a large crowd – the largest he’d faced since coming to San Marcos.   There were faces he’d never seen before, and as these passed, feeling as if he were somehow betraying a trust, he nodded toward the police below.
                For one brief moment, Father Quentin Thomas considered not giving them a show to write home about.  He could tell the Bishop he didn’t feel up to it, take the weight of that man’s accusations onto his shoulders, and turn away.  Bishop Michaels could perform Easter Mass.  It hadn’t been that long since the man had presided over this very parish.
                The moment passed as quickly as it had come, and Father Thomas returned to shaking hands and smiling, asking after children and sick grandparents, ushering them in one and all to the Church.  San Marcos swallowed them hungrily.
                Down the coast road, a long black Cadillac wound it’s way upward.  It slipped in and out of sight as it rounded curves, one moment glittering in the sun, the next obscured by the cliffs, or overgrowths of small trees. 
                Father Thomas turned to watch it approach.   He knew the car, knew who was leaning back into the leather of the back seat, eyes stern and mouth set in a grim line.  Father Thomas knew what was in the trunk, as well, and what was planned.
                He hadn’t fully recovered from the moments in the Bishop’s office.  He hadn’t fully regained the composure and confidence he’d had when he believed that there was someone a step closer to God to turn to – someone with compassion and knowledge.  He’d seen things in Bishop Michaels’ eyes, but compassion wasn’t among them.  He’d seen confusion, fear – even a mild hatred.  He’d seen disbelief and scorn.  Now those eyes