Bishop as Pawn by William X. Kienzle Page B

didn’t.
    “I certainly should have realized that life is going to get very complicated if I let a bishop look over my shoulder all the time. But … I didn’t.
    “I should have checked with some of the priests working in the Latino community and found out just what kind of guy this Diego was. But … I didn’t.” He looked directly at the motionless figure in the bed. “And there you have it, Herbert: I set myself up. But in my wildest dreams I couldn’t have guessed how bad it was going to get.
    “Oh, it’s not just that he’s not a good bishop … he isn’t even much of a Christian.”
    He stopped and sat in thought and then, as if shaking himself, continued. “But then, I’m not getting down to what I have to tell you, Herbert. Especially not when I talk about Diego in the present tense. It’s not that Diego isn’t much of a Christian; he wasn’t much of a Christian.
    “And this is what I want to tell you, Herbert: Bishop Diego is dead. Murdered. What do you think of that, Herbert?” He sat back in his chair. “Now I’m going to tell you what happened to him.”
    Carleson had been talking to Doners but for the most part not quite focusing on him. Now that he was reaching the essence of his story, the priest shifted in his chair and pulled it closer to the patient And, with this newly paid attention, he noticed something for the first time.
    Demers was moving his fingers. Almost imperceptibly, but there was some sort of movement. “You’re moving your hands, Herbert. Are you trying to tell me something?” Carleson was suddenly excited.
    Demers seemed to catch Carleson’s intensity and feed upon it. Now, unmistakably, Demers was making a motion with his right hand that clearly simulated writing.
    “I’ll be damned! You were listening to me after all! You want to write me something? A message?”
    But Demers appeared to be able to do no more than give the slightest indication that he wanted to write. Quickly, Carleson grabbed a white, disposable bag. It would have to serve as a pad. There was nothing else immediately available, and he didn’t want to waste a precious second. Propping the bag atop a small tissue box, he fitted the makeshift writing pad into Demers’s left hand. From his jacket pocket, Carleson took a ballpoint pen and inserted it between the thumb and forefinger of Demers’s right hand.
    The priest watched spellbound as Demers tried feebly to put pen to paper. There were a few wavering passes, but no contact. Finally, defeated, he let the pen fall to the sheet.
    This was not going to work.
    “Can you tell me, Herbert? Try! Try to tell me!”
    Demers let his head fall to the right so he was directly facing Carleson. His lips twitched faintly. Carleson placed his ear as close as he could without blocking Demers’s lips.
    Nothing.
    Carleson turned his gaze toward Demers. “Try to move your lips! I’ll try to read your lips!”
    He watched intently. There was a slight movement. “‘Heh … heh …’” Carleson spoke trying to articulate the expression forming on Demers’s lips.
    “‘Heh … hel … help …’ ‘Help? ‘Help’ … is that it?”
    “‘Help m … help me …’ ‘Help me’? ‘Help me’? Is that it, Herbert? Help you what? What do you want me to help you with? Another word, Herbert! Give me another word!”
    “‘D … da … die.’ ‘Die’? ‘Help me die’? You want to die?”
    Of course he does, stupid , Carleson told himself. Wouldn’t you in his condition?
    Demers, having delivered his message, relaxed. He seemed to sink back into the pillow as if he were part of the headrest.
    “I’ll tell the doctor what I just saw you do, Herbert. Maybe the doctor can help you die now that we know what you want. Hang in there. I’ll do everything I can.” Carleson took the man’s right hand and held the bony appendage firmly.
    He had serious doubts that anything would come of this. The doctor would have no proof of Herbert’s desire other than the