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The bagels were stacked in the Lucite display awaiting the businessmen and young family travelers that had chosen the Harrison Inn as their place of repose for the night.
Paul grabbed one and sat in the corner of the breakfast area, popping open a coke from the vending machine he passed in the hall on the way from his room.
He looked once more at the church bulletin from St. James he had picked up yesterday on his reconnaissance run. Masses, 7:30 am, 9 am, 11 am. He was going for the 7:30, figuring people would be a little sleepier for that one. He could do his deed, get back to the hotel, check out and be on his way before half that world had even had their first cup of coffee. And it would still impact the other two masses after, if he was lucky. He knew those Catholics like to run their churches like clockwork.
He washed down the last of his bagel, squelched a burp, and checked for his balaclava in the front pocket of his hoodie. Check, check, and check. He headed for the door.
A few minutes later, he had loosely chained his bike to the iron fencing around a scarred old locust tree in front of the church and was headed for the door. The crowd was a mixed bag of old people shuffling in and young families with little ones wiggling to get away. He tried to avoid contact with the deacon at the door. Blend in. Blend in. That was his mantra.
He warmed a pew through the now-familiar service – The Liturgy of the Word … “Hear us, O Lord” … “Hear us, O Lord” … “Hear us, O Lord” … Okay, okay, he either hears you by now or he ain’t listening! The Liturgy of the Eucharist. The Our Father … the holy handshake … sheesh, I don’t know these people, and I certainly do not wish peace on them.
Buck up, soldier; your mission’s almost complete.
As the Holy Communion drew near, he was glad he had chosen a seat toward the back. That way most of the people would be back in their seats before he walked forward, gulped down the wafer–he hoped it didn’t gag him like yesterday, almost blew his cover — and made his announcement.
“The body of Christ” the priest mumbled for the hundredth time. Down it went, with extra saliva churned up for the purpose. Paul had carefully avoided making eye contact with the priest as he neared the moment, though that was hardly an issue as the priest himself did not seem to be very present in the Eucharist this morning. So Paul deftly swept his mask down over his face as he spun round in a maneuver he had practiced almost 50 times in his hotel room the night before. One-Two-Three … He was in place before anyone could react.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, as those around him recoiled slightly at the interruption to their silent ritual. This wasn’t in the mass …
“I have a special announcement … I should say, a special warning.” He darkened his voice on that last word.
“Those of you who choose to return to this house of worship to repeat your oh-so-meaningful ritual, do so at your own peril. For you see, me and my friends — all trained killers — will be waiting for you. And if you so much as darken the doorstep of this archaic old building, you will pay with your blood. Have a good day!” He enjoyed throwing that in at the end, like wearing a clown mask to scare children.
He made his hasty retreat down the center aisle, dodging a couple of white-hairs in wheelchairs, and was out the door before anyone even moved to intercept him. He unhooked his bike lock — it was only looped over the wheel — and headed up the street to his waiting SUV, also unlocked. He hoisted his bike into the back and, within 10 minutes, was headed east through the city on highway 40. Then 15 minutes later, waving to the Gateway Arch in his rearview, he crossed the Mississippi — the state line — into Illinois. That was his first mistake.
# # #
Back in Kansas City, Paul Yahn’s online accomplices had stayed up late, working on plans of their own. One had purchased three cans of bright red Krylon the day before at the local Ace Hardware. Another had been more gruesome and had actually caught and killed a small dog from his neighborhood. It was always a yappy little beast anyway, he thought. He kept it–along with its blood–in a plastic jumbo freezer bag. The third participant was just along for the ride, serving as both driver and lookout.
The neighborhood the church was in was a quiet, affluent one. And at 3:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, no one was up yet, the milk man wasn’t making his rounds yet and the business men, usually preparing their weekday trek into KC to start the trading day, weren’t stirring this morning–except possibly with dreams of an early tee time. The weather would be perfect for that.
The weather would also be perfect for these three young soldiers to make their brave, pre-dawn attack in their self-styled war on religion, their local target being this Grace Community Church of Olathe. The building stood sleeping in the dark, an artless brick box with colonial finials pasted on the front. Its wide, green front lawn was surrounded a couple hundred yards away by McMansions, sprouted just recently from the formerly agricultural landscape.
As their old Chevy Caprice wagon turned toward the front of the low building, each occupant turned his head in different directions to check for traffic or any other movement visible in the early light. They were secretly glad that the land across from the entrance was totally vacant–old farm land still standing oddly empty, awaiting the loving touch of a developer’s hand.
The driver, deciding to scout the property before letting his comrades out, flicked off the headlights and continued slowly down the long driveway. The pavement led across the front of the building, past a portico sheltering the glass doors of the front lobby, to a side parking lot. He noticed a small playground along the back of the church building, apparently for some type of pre-school. The side lot spanned the length of the building, with striped spaces receding into the distance, and rejoined a side road by way of a sidewalk and a narrow driveway. It was perfectly designed, allowing an easy exit for Sunday morning visitors — and late Saturday night intruders.
The driver tested out the narrow back exit, pulling out onto the side street, then casually circled the wagon back around the corner to repeat his approach to the church’s front entrance. This time his accomplices pulled on their masks and grabbed their bags, one containing the spray paint, the other the bloody remains of one lost family friend. He slowed and let them out, inching forward to shield them from view as they took their places.
In the dim light cast by distant street lamps their work was done. Die Christians Die! and God is Dead and So Will You! dripped from the glass, aluminum and brick front façade. The other spread the canine entrails–minimal as they were–across the walkway in front of the door and wiped the blood remaining in the bag on the lower part of the door, above where he left the small carcass itself. He had even attempted to position the little corpse with legs splayed and mouth open, as if it were snarling at the soon-to-arrive morning attendees. But rigor had started to set in and the results were comical at best.
They both grabbed up their stuff and jumped back into the still-open side doors of the Caprice and the driver nearly laid a patch before realizing he would only draw attention and slowed his departure from the property. As they headed back northeast toward Kansas City proper, sunrise was just appearing over the horizon. A job well done, they each thought. Time enough to catch some Zs, then log-on with their report later.
# # #
The pastor was the first to arrive at the church building; his family would come in the second car a little later. Elder Ben pulled in to the drive close behind. They both circled around the building and found their usual spots in the way back, leaving more room for visitors and members up front.
“How you doing this morning, Ben?” Pastor Eastham called out, grabbing his duffle from the back seat.
“Doing well, considering,” was Ben’s usual response. This morning that phrase was more poignant.
“Yeah, I can agree with you there.” They shook hands and headed to the front of the building. They both had an unquiet feeling that they should approach their house of worship from around the front this morning, instead of simply unlocking the side door and heading directly down the hallway to the offices.
The walk skirted the corner of the educational wing, then curved slightly and headed across the front walk. Three handicapped spots were positioned directly in front of the door. The first odd thing Jeremy noticed was a large zip-lock bag stained dark brown, flapping loosely around the base of one of the no-parking signs. His eyes began to scan the rest of the property in the new morning light. Ben Jenowski was doing the same. They were both still walking and both stopped and drew breath at the same moment. They had each seen the front door–the front wall, actually.
“Oh, my…” Ben said under his breath.
Then the pastor’s eyes fixed on the messy lump of whatever at the threshold. He approached slowly, Ben trailing a few paces behind. Then they both stopped again.
“That … will be the first thing to remove,” he said, casting around and spying an old salt bucket left in the corner from the winter.
“I’ve give Carlos a call,” Ben said, reaching for his phone. Carlos was the church custodian.
“Don’t bother to call, he’s usually here about this time anyway.” And as Jeremy found a large stick among the nearby bushes and forked the small corpse into the bucket, they heard Carlos’s pickup pull into the front driveway.
“Ay Dios Mio” Carlos exclaimed as he walked up and spotted the blood, guts, and paint. “Sorry, pastor,” embarrassed at his outburst.
“My feelings exactly.” Jeremy responded. “I just hope this is all we’ll experience this morning. Speaking of which, I better call this in to Officer Jenkins and confirm when his people are arriving.”
“I’ll help Carlos fire up the pressure washer,” Ben called over his shoulder, headed for Carlos’s truck.
# # #
The Kelloggs family was rising with the sun to get ready for church. Mrs. Kellogg poured cereal for the two younger ones, while her husband and her oldest son were showering and shaving. As the two girls bent over their bowls, Karen Kellogg dialed the phone.
“Hi, Karen…” Cheryl answered, though without her usual cheerfulness. “How are you…” she asked. Something in her tone sounded strange.
Karen usually called on Sunday about this time, to confirm whether Cheryl’s family needed a ride to church, as her oldest had a job at the local hospital and sometimes needed the car to get to an early shift.
“Hi, Cheryl. You gonna need us to swing by this morning?”
“Um, well, you see … Mark and I have been talking … and …” Karen stepped into the side mudroom with the phone as her girls started acting up at the table. She had a feeling she needed to hear what was coming next.
“Uh huh,” she responded, making sure the signal was still strong in the little room.
“Well, after last week, we … uh … well, we … We’re going to take a little break … just for a while … until things, you know, calm down a bit.”
“Oh. Okay …” Karen obviously wasn’t expecting that of Cheryl. Cheryl was always pretty active at Grace Community, in Bible studies, with meals, the nursery, and such.
“I, um, okay. Well, then I’ll … uh … try you again next week, to see how things are going.” She was trying her best not to make Cheryl feel bad. She had been hearing of conversations in families throughout the congregation about how to face this threat. She and her husband Andy had been discussing it themselves late into the night and had not felt totally confident of their own decision even yet. She wondered whether they were going this morning simply out of habit or out of real conviction and faithful bravery. Then she wondered whether that even really mattered either.
None of them was ready for this whole situation.
Read more in Chapter Three…
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