Ghosts of Their Fathers

Mack R. Hicks

Description

A Jewish Holocaust survivor connects with an unhappy Catholic priest, and they now must fight evil forces to save an ancient church and themselves.
Abe is a Holocaust survivor who suffers from post-traumatic stress. His visions and dreams recount his loving father who was killed by the Nazis during the Holocaust. Now he believes the ghost of a martyred priest is asking him to protect a certain cathedral and its pastor.

Monk, the pastor, is haunted by his failure to fulfill his mother’s expectations. He has memories of a father who abandoned him. He questions his “marriage” to the Church and blames his father for his alcoholism and other moral lapses. This homeless Jewish man and despondent Catholic priest share their spiritual values and establish a deep connection.

Juanita, a Mexican psychologist-combatant and undocumented immigrant, complicates their efforts. She works for Special Forces at Homeland Security and uncovers a plot to cripple the Catholic Church and destroy an ancient cathedral. Now, Abe and Monk have two weeks to combat malevolent forces and save the Church. Can these anguished souls, with the help of ghostly protectors, save themselves, or will their suffering drown them both?

Sujets

• Religion
• Christianisme
• Jewish
• Literary
• Holocaust
• Suspenso
• Jews
• Literature
• The Holocaust
• Ecumenism
• Catholic
• Christian
• Suspense
• Fiction
• Holocauste

Informations

• Publié par: LifeRich Publishing
• Date de parution: 05 juillet 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781489747426
• Langue: English

Extrait

Ghosts of Their Fathers
 
 
 
 
 
MACK R. HICKS
 
 
 
 
 
 
Copyright © 2023 Mack R. Hicks.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
LifeRich Publishing is a registered trademark of The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc.
 
 
LifeRich Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.liferichpublishing.com
844-686-9607
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-1-4897-4743-3 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4897-4742-6 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023908193
 
 
LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 06/22/2023
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
DEDICATION
Dedicated to Paul Johnson,
Ze’ev Jabotinsky, Leo Strauss,
St Maximillian Kolbe,
St. Pope John Paul II, Pope Benedict XVI
Acknowledgements
Doug Hicks, Andy Hicks, Clint McKnight, Susan Hicks, Philip Hicks, Margaret Dawson, Shari Watson, Stephanie Gr aham.
Editors: Tom Bostock, Steve Keteltas, Jack A dler
Chapter 1
THURSDAY, JANUARY 17, 2008, 3:05 P.M.
Martin (Monk) McIntyre’s timer buzzed. Still groggy, he yawned and stretched his arms. His rumpled shirt contrasted with the stiff, white Roman collar. His mother had insisted he take a nap every day, even as a teen. Her boy would be well rested –– and, unlike his father, ready for the rigors of manhood. He rarely missed his 22-minute nap. He kept her old couch close by for just that purpose.
Monk pushed himself up with a grunt and shuffled to the room’s only window, a 3-foot-by-8-foot jalousie. Adjustable panes allowed air to flow into the room, especially when the office door was open. Now, even though screwed tight, a steady stream of moist air blew through rusted grooves in the glass panels. Who said Florida didn’t have seasons? He thought.
National weather advisories and emergency bulletins on Channel 10 predicted high winds, freezing weather, and the possibility of snow. The Hillsborough County sheriff’s office warned residents of frostbite and hypothermia, directing them to stay inside and postpone travel plans. Power outages and fuel shortages were expected. Letting the icy air sting his face, he focused on a group of street people hovering in a circle. These weren’t ordinary street folks, he thought, not at all.
No, these were soldiers in Abe’s army. Sister Mary and monsignor kept Monk up to date on their adventures. An elite corps selected by Old Abe; the vagrants clung to the cathedral. It was a sturdy anchor in their confused and aimless lives. The church would protect them. They would protect mother church.
He smiled. They were Saint Benedict’s Junior League, the crème de crème. There was something different about each of them: Sometimes it was their clothing, or posture. Sometimes they almost resembled ordinary folks out there.
One lady, Blue Sophie, spent her days circling a dozen parked cars just north of the cathedral. Wearing a red pillbox hat with blue netting, she would guard the area for hours, seeking money from anyone who dared invade her territory. No one asked why she circled the small area, perhaps because they were afraid or sensed that it was none of their business. We all harbor our own demons, Monk thought.
Sir Alex spoke with a distinguished British accent and claimed to have attended Eton College. He recounted stories of his mother’s close friendship with Sir Winston Churchill. A tall, thin man, with square shoulders, his walk was a heavy-footed march, much like soldiers at the Queen’s birthday review.
Others doubted his story because of a yellow “Viva Le France” tattoo on his neck He exhibited it with solemn pride, saying it was part of his initiation rite at Eton. Sir Alex had a penchant for root beer cans. He could be seen pushing his baby carriage through streets and alleyways, searching for his elusive prey. Nonetheless, next to Old Abe, he was the most trusted of the group.
In his early forties, Utah had thick blonde hair any woman would envy. Cheerfully naive and dressed in a ragged Union soldier’s uniform with tiny American flag pins on the collars, he spoke in a squeaky, high-pitched voice.
Let’s face it, Monk thought, Old Abe’s soldiers were more than a little strange. But surely, they were unique souls with value in the eyes of God. The need for this improbable security force reflected the sorry state of the cathedral.
The bishop would end it all in just a few days. Financing and loans had suddenly dried up. The historic church would go down to make room for condos. He would then be headed to the Church’s psychiatric center in Washington D.C., a place for oddball priests with nervous breakdowns.
A brushing sound against his door got his attention. What was it? He wondered. Monk left the door cracked, except when he took a serious nap because he didn’t schedule counseling sessions on Friday afternoons. The whisking noises sounded again, like wooden branches scratching against the surface of the door. If he believed in ghosts, the old cathedral would be the perfect setting. But he didn’t. He stepped to the door and eased it open. No one was there.
Leaving it ajar, he sat in his desk chair and picked up his Breviary. Worn from use, the Liturgy of the Hours contained psalms that rotated in a four-week cycle. He looked up. There it was, the odd scratching noise again. Maybe it was a penitent soul, afraid to come in. A few seconds later, he heard more brushing sounds and a hoarse cough.
Finally, a bony nose and bulging eyeball stuck out from the edge of the doorjamb. Well, well, it was Old Abe! Monk had seen him from a distance, but never inside the church. Old Abe of St. Benedicts’. Sister Mary Justine had mentioned him just yesterday. Monsignor knew him, too. When Monk arrived at the cathedral in May, he learned about Old Abe before he had even unpacked his bags.
His frame was almost skeletal, and his gaping mouth hid a narrow, bony chin. He held a plastic tablecloth over his head with his right hand. He reached his other hand across the threshold to the door frame to steady himself. Loose pallid skin showed beneath a quilted coat, faded orange Bermuda shorts, and white knee socks.
“You are the one who helps sick people. It is what I have heard.” Abe spoke with an Eastern European accent. His stilted, formal speech showed surprising strength. Unmoving, Abe stood in the doorway, holding the door frame while rainwater dribbled down the tablecloth and darkened the faded carpet.
His eyes said it all. Goggle-eyed, filled not so much with fear as amazement, as though in shock. They seemed to look in two directions at once, searching for the source of his confusion. Monk had seen that spellbound expression on the street many times. The old man had undoubtedly suffered abuse during his lifetime, but wasn’t that true of all the others out there?
“Do you mean confession?”
“No, Father . . . I am a Jew. I want to be inside . . . like inside this building . . . inside anywhere, even for a while. I want to stay, but I am sick. The tents in the park are good, but I can’t go there. I just want to feel safe. I am feeling them again, in the streets. This is big for me, Father, just to be here now. I have thought for a long, long . . .”
“Them?”
“As when I was a boy, these streets feel rough. They catch my feet. They scare me all over again. But inside scares me more. I do not bear it well. When I am outside, I feel pain, but inside, I suffocate, I cannot breathe.”
“So, they scare you?”
“Yes, Father, but it is a very long story. I thought to come when Father Hawkins, the Black priest, was here. He was kind, but I was afraid . . . then I saw you over there.” Abe peered at the window. “At the tent city. You look just like him. A twin, so much like the priest I knew as a boy. The Polish priest. You can help me. When inside, the walls come together. I have bad dreams, very bad dreams, I have.”
Abe turned his head to his right, his gaze fixing on the Irish Crucifix near Monk’s mother’s picture. Then he looked back at Monk. “That is special for you. I know it.”
Monk shifted in his chair. It had belonged to his mother and sat atop the casket at her funeral Mass.
“I have great fear to be inside. I run out. I do not want that, not in my place. This is my place, Father. My church. I live here in its shadow. I protect this church, and I cling to it. We cling to each other. It is my home. Me and my friends, we protect you, too. You and monsig