The Sacrifice Read Online Free Page A

Episcopal priest had a wife to see to it or at least remind him that he be well groomed. Catholic priests, generally, had no such buffer.
    As Koesler continued to study his companion, the man grinned broadly. Clearly he had no intention of identifying himself.
    Koesler hated that. Life held too many needless games without playing Guess Who I Am. So he broke the ice by extending his hand in greeting. “Am I supposed to know you?”
    The grin widened. “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby … you don’t remember me.”
    The statement was rhetorical. Of course Koesler didn’t remember him.
    The grin metamorphosed into an expression of fake solicitude. “No need worrying that you’re having a ‘senior moment.’ It’s been twenty-some odd years.”
    Perhaps it was the proffered date … twenty-some years. Or maybe that miracle of memory which even at his advanced age occasionally kicked in. But the scales began to fall. “Joe …” Koesler reached for a last name. “Joe Farmer! Son of a gun. Has it been that long?”
    â€œYou probably thought I’d died.”
    â€œNot really. The truth is, I haven’t been thinking of you at all.” No reason Koesler should have been thinking of Farmer. Still, there was a semblance of guilt.
    â€œBut you remember me now?”
    â€œYes.” Koesler had known Farmer briefly many years ago. Joe belonged to a religious order: the Society of the Precious Blood, sometimes known by the casual sobriquet Precious Bleeders. The aim of their founder was to establish a missionary order. In time many in the society served in parishes much the same as diocesan priests such as Father Koesler.
    Father Farmer had carved out a life somewhere between that of a secular priest and a missionary. He traveled around the Ohio/Michigan territory generally conducting one-to-two week spiritual crusades in various parishes.
    He’d been at this occupation for these twenty-five years and more. Koesler guessed that in all that time Farmer had not radically altered his presentation. His guess was correct.
    Still portraying God as a vengeful being just waiting for some poor soul to sin grievously so he could be plunged into hell. Farmer would then get graphic about the pain fire can cause, especially when it does not consume.
    â€œAnd how long does hell last? Imagine, my dear sinners”—Koesler could in his imagination hear Farmer’s summation—“a solid steel ball, larger than the earth. Every thousand years a small bird flies by, just brushing that ball with its wings. Well, my dear sinners, when that little bird has worn down that ball to nothingness …” Pause for effect. “… eternity has not even begun!”
    Confessions usually were pretty heavy after that no-holds-barred threat.
    The exhortation had lost a lot of its punch with the passing years. Catholics of today were more apt to appreciate God as infinitely compassionate and merciful. But it had worked in Farmer’s heyday. Back then one could never lose by overestimating a Catholic’s capacity for guilt.
    As he stood there recollecting, Koesler remembered that Joe Farmer had a penchant for gadgets, practical jokes, and funny if occasionally vulgar stories. The stories regularly lost a lot of their effect since Joe always broke himself up, effectively smothering the punch line.
    Now, giving Farmer his full attention, Koesler asked, “What brings you to town, Joe?”
    â€œThis!” A sweeping gesture encompassed everything and everybody in the church.
    Koesler feared a reprise of the confrontation he had just concluded with Reichert and Morgan.
    â€œAn abomination!” Farmer judged it.
    â€œJoe, why do you do this to yourself? You must be retired by this time.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œOne can’t retire from the priesthood.”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œYou may have taken leave of the active ministry. But