Tracer Bullet and the Smoke of Libville. Episode 7: The Threshold of No Return

Continued from Episode 6 – HERE

I pulled the Charger up into chancery lot just as the rain tapered from its sulky drizzle. The building loomed in the evening fug, concrete and glass stacked like a columbarium of forgotten ideals. I killed the engine and let the quiet settle over me, the last drag of my cigarette glowing in the rearview.

A black sedan crept up behind me and stopped. The door swung open, and out stepped Fr. Tommy, cassock flaring in the damp wind. His eyes found mine.  No nod. No sign. Just the tacit acknowledgment of two men who’d chosen the same battlefield trench.

I flicked the cigarette onto the pavement. We fell into step without a word, shoes scuffing over slick concrete.

Father Tommy took us to a little used side entrance, the one diocesan staffers pretended not to know about. Fr. Tommy was a step in front me.  He knew the place after his years of work there.  The hall smelled of mop water and bureaucratic decay, stale air that stuck to your tongue. A flickering exit sign threw jittery shadows across the corridor.

We moved quickly through the hallways, down a stair, and into a corridor lined with framed photos of past bishops grinning beside donors and minor celebrities, all teeth and no sincerity. Tommy’s cassock whispered across the tiles. My coat felt heavy from the backup printouts tucked inside, a dossier turgid with liturgical grift and sanctimonious double-dealing.

At the end of the hall, a pair of double doors stood half-open. A sign was taped to the door Council for Inclusive Liturgy Innovation. C.I.L.I.  There was an intermittent surge of clapping, drumming, and something that sounded suspiciously like a didgeridoo.

Inside, we could seen a “discernment tapestry” hanging behind a deconstructed altar made of recycled IKEA press-board and driftwood from the diocesan Eco-Pilgrimage led by Fr. Warmflannel.  Fr. “Just call me Bruce” Hugalot was leaning into a little performance about “new paradigms of parish engagement,” his voice as greasy as Oil of the Sick left too long in the sacristy cabinet.

Fr. Tommy shot me a look that said he’d had enough. I nodded back.

Time to lay the cards on the table before they printed more glossy brochures about the future they were busy gutting.

The priest squared his shoulders. I checked the weight of the folder in my coat.

We went in, Father first, me just behind.

The door swung shut behind us with a click that sounded like a trap snapping on a rat that thought it was in charge.

TO BE CONTINUED…

[Cue sultry saxophone and crackling static]

ANNOUNCER (rich world-weary baritone):

Tonight’s episode of Tracer Bullet And The Smoke of Libville was brought to you by Sanctus Blend Incense Company, purveyors of the finest liturgical resins this side of the Tiber. When your parish needs to chase away the smell of compromise, heresy, and give praise to the Almighty light up a thurible full of Sanctus Blend. Accept no imitations.

And don’t miss tomorrow’s episode…

[low, suspenseful vibraphone chords]

…when Tracer and Father Tommy, in the depths of the the chancery, unmask the labyrinth of trickery and liturgical skullduggery for a befuddled bishop Francis Atticus McB.  It’s the episode they’re calling…

[echo effect]

SPIES, LIES AND A BARK IN THE DARK

Same frequency. Same smoke curling under the door. 

Smoke by Sanctus Blend, that is.  Because the truth should smell sweeter than lies.

[Cue fade-out sax riff]