Lethal Expedition (Short Story) Read Free Page A

really—in 1967 and never left. He could have delegated the chore to an underverger, but the idea had never occurred to him. The cathedral was God’s house, and it was also Backer’s. Medieval vergers lived in their cathedrals, and so did Backer, down on the crypt level in a neat, clean room with bed, table, chair, and bookcase.
    He was perched atop that spindly ladder, dusting Saint Benedict’s head, when someone called up, “Henry, may I speak with you, please?”
    If it had been anyone else, he would have snapped at them to wait until he was finished. But the Most Reverend Bishop could not be ignored. He climbed down, brushed dust from his gray hair and black suit, and stood before Suzanne Newberry.
    “How may I help you, Bishop?”
    “There have been complaints about the Resurrection Chapel downstairs.”
    “What kind of complaints?”
    “Reverend Chase can give you specifics.”
    “You asked me to climb down off that ladder for this? I have my hands very full preparing for the president’s visit.”
    People did not speak to the Most Reverend Bishop that way. She resisted the urge to snap back and instead thanked God for testing her patience. “I was passing and didn’t want to shout. The chapel will open for visitors soon.”
    “I’ve been taking care of it for forty-five years. I know when it opens. It will be ready for visitors, rest assured. Is there anything else?”
    “No, that’s all. Thank you.”
    He started back up, and Newberry was alarmed by the old ladder’s creaks and shakes. “Henry, would you like me to steady this thing?”
    Without looking down, he said, “No need. I’m quite used to it.”
    “Well, please requisition a new one. I don’t think this is safe.”
    Newberry sighed and walked on. She had come to preside over the cathedral just this year, and was still learning about her people there. Despite his long service, Backer’s file was one of the thinnest, revealing that he was an orphan, had some kind of learning disability, was a high school dropout, and had worked at the cathedral forever.
    They were so different. Backer was old, and she was young. He was uneducated; she held a Princeton doctorate. He took his Bible literally, and she believed that God bestowed brains for thinking. Probably most important, though: he was a man, and she was not. He did not—or could not—conceal his dislike. At first, she thought it might have been just her as a woman bishop, but in the passing months she had seen that it was women, period.
    As long as he did his job well, she could accept Backer’s manner. But recently she had seen him talking to himself while working. Perhaps he was praying—Backer was the most obsessively devout man she had ever met. He would have made a good flagellant, when that wasstill allowed. Sometimes, though, he also made strange faces and gestures. Or perhaps it was early Alzheimer’s, though he was a bit young for that.
    Still, she could not fault his work, and the undervergers seemed happy enough, though she suspected they might be too afraid to complain about him. Ultimately, she decided, patience was the lesson here. Time and death would purge women haters like Henry Backer from the church. Until then, she could only pray for them and goad gently when they strayed from the Path.

4

    “Next item on the agenda,” President Justine Laning said. “National Cathedral, Easter Sunday service. In at eight, out by nine-fifteen.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” said press secretary Blair Lee. “The Service assures a smooth visit. In and out under two hours, guaranteed.” Laning looked up from her chair at the Oval Office coffee table. Journalists called her striking and severe. She had been an All-American lacrosse player for Stanford before taking her JD degree from Columbia, and at fifty-two she retained a spare and athletic beauty. Like a diamond, Justine Laning was arresting to behold but had edges that could cut clean and deep. She rarely raised her voice, but