At the inquest, a Coast Guard officer testified to the extremely hazardous situation on the island when the volcano erupted. He said he did not know that someone had been left behind on the island, and in any case, it would have jeopardized dozens of lives to remain in the cove any longer. Although he had not actually seen the seaplane land in the cove, he testified that Father Murphy later admitted making the ill-fated attempt at a rescue. The Coast Guard officer somewhat reluctantly accused Father Murphy of reckless endangerment which cost the life of the Russian priest. It did not help that father Murphy had radioed that he was with the Geological Survey.
The hearing ended with a stern warning but no charges were brought against Steve Murphy. He believed the thing that saved him was the sympathy felt by almost everyone present stemming from his earlier rescue of the fishermen on the capsized trawler.
In the following days, going around town, Steve could tell that many people were upset about the death of Father Sergius, but he also detected some good feelings towards him after people learned that a Catholic priest had risked his life trying to save the life of a shaman.
*****
The metropolitan in Anchorage put down his newspaper and called his counterpart, Most Reverend McPherson, the Roman Catholic bishop. The metropolitan was not in a good mood. “Dear Brother,” he said to the bishop, “I have lost a wonderful priest. And I feel I have to count it as the fault of one of your priests that this tragedy happened. If you recall it’s the same priest who was involved in that offshore fishing boat rescue recently. But now he has gone too far. Who is this Father Murphy, anyway? Did you assign him to Unalaska? Were you aware that he flies around the islands as some kind of circuit rider taking native children up for airplane rides? Do you approve of this amusement park method for tending the flock? Let me assure you, I do not.”
Bishop McPherson was contrite but confused and not at all ready to bear the brunt of the criticism coming from the Russian-American Orthodox Church. He tried to cover up the fact that he had completely forgotten about a priest named Murphy to whom he had sent congratulations for the fishing boat rescue. He pulled out a newly revised roster of Catholic priests in Alaska and scanned it for one named Murphy. Still no listing of a Murphy. “Dear Brother,” he replied, trying to sound as authoritative as possible, “this Murphy is not one of my priests. He is not on my roster. In fact, despite the news accounts, he may not be a Catholic priest at all. You know how the press and TV get things mixed up. What do you expect me to do about this?”
“At the very least, you should call Murphy in for a meeting to explain himself. Frankly, Dear Brother, if he’s not on your roster, there’s something fishy about this priest.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have a current address for Murphy—he seems to be all over the place. And even if I did, how do I know he’d come?”
“Then send a query to your American cardinals in the lower forty-eight. Ask them if they have any information concerning a Reverend Steve Murphy in the Aleutians. Then, if they’ve never heard of him, he must be an imposter posing as a Catholic priest.”
*****
In the chancery of the Archdiocese of Washington, Cardinal Rhinehart perused the letter of inquiry from the bishop of Anchorage. “It is just possible,” he said to himself, “that the priest the notice referred to is Stephen Murphy, but I can’t be sure because the name is listed as ‘Robert Murphry’. Maybe the name became garbled. However, there is a way to find out.”
*****
Jonathon sat at his desk in the real estate office flipping his rotary address file. He looked for Steve’s P.O. Box number under M for ‘Murphy,’ then again under S for ‘Steve.’ Next, he went through every card in the file and finally concluded that the card with Steve’s Unalaska address had vanished. Could he have taken it out when he sent the address to Janet and absentmindedly forgotten to refile it? No chance. He never did that.
“Marge, I can’t find my brother’s address. Do you have it by chance?”
“Me? No.”
“Could anyone else have taken it? Anybody been going through my address file?”
“Not that I know of.” Marge walked over and stood at Jonathon’s desk, her arms folded with one hand curled under her chin. “Is it a real problem Jonathon? Maybe you saved an envelope from one of his letters with the return address.”
“I doubt it. But it’s puzzling. Has anyone been in the office... someone perhaps we don’t know?”
“There was a man in here one day last week. He wasn’t from around here I know. His accent sounded like somewhere south of South Ipswich, you know, down where they fought the Civil War.” Marge smiled. She frequently assumed a deprecating air towards people who did not have a New England accent. “The man said he was looking to buy some property in Wayland. But when he heard the prices, he walked out in kind of a huff.”
“What did he look like? How was he dressed?”
“Nothing special. He was wearing a black suit as I remember.”
“Roman collar?”
“Heavens, no,” Marge said in surprise. “Why would a priest be looking for land around here? The churches have already gobbled up all the available land.”
“Well tell me this. Do you recall if he was ever alone in the office—even for a few minutes?”
“It’s possible, Jonathon. Maybe I went in the back to get something. But look, there’s nothing here anyone would want to steal. We don’t keep cash here. And it’s not likely he could walk out with one of our PCs, for heaven’s sake.”
“I suppose not. Anyway, thanks Marge. Let’s just forget it, shall we?”
“That’s all right by me, Jonathon.”
*****
Bishop Hernandez was pacing the floor and occasionally stopping to gaze out of the window of his office in the Tucson chancery. His gaze scanned the long rows of headstones in the huge Catholic cemetery across from the chancery. But he thought not of the dead, he was worrying about problems that had begun to loom large in recent years. The court cases and huge settlements from charges of molestation brought by former altar boys against several of his priests had brought his diocese to the point of bankruptcy. Although the offenses had happened many years before, he learned there was no statute of limitations when an adult was accused of molesting a minor. Bishop Hernandez was certain the errant priests had repented hundreds of times in the ensuing years, but in the eyes of the law, it was not enough. The prison terms associated with the crimes were substantial but had no direct effect on him other than as an embarrassment. What struck him as grossly unfair were the huge financial settlements that his diocese and essentially the faithful in the diocese, had to make. These things had happened, twenty, twenty-five years before at a time when he was only a parish priest and wasn’t even in Arizona. He and the Catholics in the Tucson diocese were innocent parties—unfortunately with a kind of reverse inheritance: they inherited millions in debts. He had to admit to himself that he had transferred a few priests from one parish to another, but these were done based on spurious and unconfirmed cases of inappropriate behavior. The claimants never pursued the issue at the time, so the matter was forgotten and it was part of a planned rotation that every diocese practiced.
The office intercom rang. “Your Grace, Cardinal Rhinehart is on the phone.”
Bishop Hernandez suddenly remembered that Archbishop Rhinehart had recently been elevated to cardinal by the pope. He nervously picked up the phone wondering what that arrogant Rhinehart wanted now. If it was to send him another errant priest, he would have no choice but to agree and he smiled as he realized that the stipend for the priest would be accompanied by a payment. “This is Bishop Hernandez speaking....“
“How are things in Arizona?” came a voice that was trying to be pleasant, trying to smooth over old wounds. “Not too hot out there this time of year, I suppose.”
“No, we’re having monsoons now, Your Excellency. The problem now is flash flooding.”
“Fine. By the way, Bishop
, I’ve received information that one of our errant priests, a Father Murphy, has turned up in the Aleutian Islands. We’ve discussed him before, if you recall. We don’t have his actual address—just a P.O. Box number in a place called Unalaska. And the name on the report isn’t quite correct but can you send a couple of Brother Berard’s monks up there to check it out? It would be nice if the monastery could send a different pair of brothers than those you used before.”
“Your Excellency, Brothers Michael and John may have failed before but I have great confidence in Brother Berard’s judgment, and he will likely find they are still the preferred monks to take on the task. I would like to notify him right away but....”
“But what?”
“But, it’s going to be expensive.”
“I know all that. We’ll send funds to cover the airfare, hotel and all that.”
“No, Your Grace. It’s going to be more expensive than that.”
“Why, may I ask? How much more?” Cardinal Rhinehart’s attempt at a smooth pleasant tone was quickly vanishing.
“I’ll be direct. I have an urgent need for fifty-thousand dollars.”
“By all the saints, that’s highway robbery.”
“Yes, I know,” Bishop Hernandez replied. The line grew silent. He thought he could hear the angry tapping of fingers on a desk coming over the phone. He thought he heard the snap of a pencil being broken.
“The check will be in the mail tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency.”
*****
After an arduous journey that did little to improve their normally unpleasant dispositions, Brothers John and Michael landed at Unalaska airport and took a shuttle to the Dutch Inn. Inquiring at the front desk while attempting to appear as circumspect as possible, they learned the sad news that many in the town of Unalaska were in mourning. The beloved priest was dead. Killed in the volcanic eruption. A terrible tragedy.
Later, before sitting down to dinner in the dining room of the inn, Brother John placed a call to Brother Berard at the monastery outside of Tucson.
“Yes, he’s dead,” Brother John told his superior as he related how Murphy had died in a volcanic eruption, all the while having difficulty disguising his pleasure that the mission had been accomplished so easily.
Brother Berard, obviously pleased, said he would relay the information to Bishop Hernandez who would then call Cardinal Rhinehart with the news. Brother Berard felt sorry for Murphy and the horrible way he died, but he couldn’t help thinking there was now one less thorn in the hide of the Catholic Church.
On the following day, Steve passing through the lobby of the inn, caught his breath as he got a glimpse of two monks in gray robes having lunch in the dining room. Within an hour, he had packed his few belongings and was at the Unalaska airport where he had left the Otter for cleaning, minor servicing and fueling. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the monks although he knew they would try to kill him if they couldn’t muscle him back to Tucson. What bothered him was the dogged perseverance of the church and its agents that would keep him from any meaningful ministry. He would be forced to spend his days looking over his shoulder. He knew they would try to sabotage his airplane, steal his vestments, possibly even attack him while he was saying Mass—in short whatever they could to carry out what they perceived as the Lord’s work. He could, of course, report them to the local authorities, but they would find his complaint incredible with the end result that it would only serve to scandalize the church. It was over. He made up his mind to leave.
*****
Brothers John and Michael, who had spent the morning luxuriating in the hotel’s sauna and whirlpool bath after a lavish breakfast, decided after further inquiry, that one of the priests involved in the rescue attempt was indeed Stephen Murphy. In the confusion over the death of a priest and a religious leader, they jumped to a conclusion that promised a quick easy solution to their mission. Apparently, Murphy was dead and it might be helpful to know where he was buried, and on behalf of the church, they considered laying claim to his remaining possessions. These, of course, would be turned over to Bishop Hernandez. It never occurred to them that Murphy might have a living relative who could lay claim to his belongings.
Based on their unfortunate experience in New Hampshire, they knew Murphy was a pilot. It seemed like a good idea to go to the Unalaska airport and find out if he had kept a plane hangared there. If so, when he died the plane would have been lost as well.
At the airport terminal, the brothers talked to the general aviation agent. Brother John asked if Father Murphy had a plane hangared there.
“He doesn’t hangar it here,” the agent said. “It’s a seaplane and he usually keeps it over in Dutch Harbor at a dock right near the Russian Church. You know, the church with the young Russian-Aleut priest who was killed in that volcanic eruption.”
“We learned from the hotel desk that there were two priests killed on the island.” Brother Michael said.
“Not exactly,” the agent said. “The Russian priest was killed but the other man was the village shaman. Father Murphy escaped. He flew out in the nick of time.”
”Where is he now?” Brother Michael asked. “It’s important that we find him,” he said, shocked at the news that Murphy was alive.
“You see that dark blue Otter just taking off from the main runway? That’s him. That’s Father Murphy.”
“We thought you said it was a floatplane stored in Dutch harbor.”
‘It has wheels. He can take off from a regular runway He just had it here for service.”
“But where’s he going? When is he coming back?”
“Can’t answer about where he’s going because since the weather’s so good, he went out VFR—visual flight rules, and didn’t file a flight plan. As to your second question, he told me goodbye. He said he loved the islands, but he didn’t think he’d be coming back.”
*****
His Excellency, Phillip Cardinal Rhinehart, Archbishop of Washington, while seated at his desk in the chancery, reread the query and a copy of a newspaper article from a paper in Anchorage. He remembered that Bishop McPherson had sent the query to all of the North American cardinals in an attempt to identify the man named Robert Murphry who may well have been impersonating a Catholic priest. Slowly, the error dawned on Rhinehart. The dead priest was the Russian-American Orthodox priest; the Catholic priest had narrowly escaped the volcanic eruption. The paper reported that after giving an explanation to the local authorities, Father Robert Murphry had apparently left Alaska, leaving no forwarding address. “Newspaper accuracy seems to be seriously lacking,” he said to himself. The cardinal threw the papers on his desk. He was so angry and disgusted, jaw clenched, he almost drove his teeth further into the jawbone. “Fifty-thousand dollars, fifty-thousand dollars,” he kept repeating over and over, “and for what?”
He pressed the button on his intercom. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“I’d like you to call the bank and stop payment on a check in the amount of fifty-thousand dollars made out to the Diocese of Tucson.”
“I’ll do it right way, Your Grace.”
Ten minutes later, the intercom buzzed back. “Yes?”
“Your Grace, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but the bank said the check has already cleared and it’s too late to put a stop on it.”
*****
Steve brought the Otter in for a landing at Juneau and taxied up to the dock. Totem helped tie up the plane. In the office, Steve paid the balance on the lease, had one final drink at the Red Dog Saloon with Totem and took a charter flight to Anchorage where he boarded a commercial flight to San Francisco. Wanting to leave an erratic trail that would confuse any followers, he decided to get lost in Europe. He boarded a flight to Miami, then flew to London and finally to Paris. He selected Paris because he wanted to see more of the city that he had visited years before when returning from the Gregorian University in Rome. His plan was to spend a few weeks in Paris and then go on
to the Holy Land. He thought that seeing the land where Christ walked and died would be a pilgrimage to help restore his faith and especially his faith in the church. But, after that… what?
35
Steve couldn’t believe the tiny elevator for two at the Royal Saint-Michel Hotel. The quaint old hotel was situated on the Boulevard St. Michel at one of the entry points to the Latin Quarter on the left bank of Paris. No room for my suitcase, Steve thought, as he squeezed into the small cylindrical tube and closed the door. I’ll get it later after I check out the room. He had to laugh at the sign over his shoulder on the wall of the elevator that said in English: IN THE LIFT—ONLY TWO PEOPLE AT A TIME IN ORDER TO PREVENT BEING STUCKED. I sure don’t want to get stucked, he laughed to himself. On the fifth floor he was delighted to find his room was a simply furnished but very comfortable garret with a modern bath and a balcony overlooking several intersecting streets of the Latin Quarter. He stepped onto the balcony in the bright sunshine and leaned over the railing, watching the hustling crowds of students, shoppers and tourists below. The students, he knew, were hurrying to and from classes at the world famous Sorbonne. Steve had been to Paris only once before, having stopped off on his way home from the university at the Vatican. But his earlier visit had been brief—too brief to see the wonder of the ancient city that dated back to prehistoric times.
The Royal Saint-Michel Hotel was ideally situated. From there it was a fairly short walk to the Louvre following the banks of the Seine. And best of all, it was only two blocks from Notre Dame, reached by passing over a short bridge covering one channel of the Seine to the cathedral located on the Isle de la Cite. He figured that the proximity to Notre Dame and the Louvre was the reason for the shockingly high room rate that would have discouraged anyone without a substantial income or a trust fund like he had. In fact, the concierge seemed surprised that a clergyman could afford to stay there.