Read Online Strangers by Dean Koontz - Free Book Online Page B

filled him with exultation at the prospect of celebrating Mass. But now, as on most other mornings during the last four months, joy eluded him. He felt only a leaden bleakness, an emptiness that made his heart ache dully and that induced a cold, sick trembling in his belly.
        Clenching his jaws, gritting his teeth, as if he could will himself into a state of spiritual ecstasy, he repeated his petition, elaborated upon his initial prayers, but still he felt unmoved, hollow.
        After washing his hands and murmuring, "Da Domine, Father Cronin laid his biretta on the prie-dieu and went to the vesting bench to attire himself for the sacred celebration ahead. He was a sensitive man with an artist's soul, and in the great beauty of the ceremony he perceived a pleasing pattern of divine order, a subtle echo of God's grace. Usually, when placing the linen amice over his shoulders, when arranging the white alb so that it fell evenly to his ankles, a shiver of awe passed through him, awe that he, Brendan Cronin, should have achieved this sacred office.
        Usually. But not today. And not for weeks of days before this.
        Father Cronin put on his amice, passed the strings around his back, then tied them against his breast. He pulled on the alb with no more emotion than a welder getting dressed for work in a factory.
        Four months ago, in early August, Father Brendan Cronin had begun to lose his faith. A small but relentless fire of doubt burned within him, unquenchable, gradually consuming all of his long-held beliefs.
        For any priest, the loss of faith is a devastating process. But it was worse for Brendan Cronin than it would have been for most others. He had never even briefly entertained the thought of being anything but a priest. His parents were devout, and they fostered in him a devotion to the Church. However, he had not become a priest to please them. Simply, as trite as it might sound to others in this age of agnosticism, he had been called to the priesthood at a very young age. Now, though faith was gone, his holy office continued to be the essential part of his self-image; yet he knew he could not go on saying Mass and praying and comforting the afflicted when it was nothing but a charade to him.
        Brendan Cronin placed the stole around his neck. As he pulled on the chasuble, the courtyard door to the sacristy was flung open, and a young boy burst into the room, switching on the electric lights that the priest had preferred to do without.
        "Morning, Father!"
        "Good morning, Kerry. How're you this fine morning?"
        Except that his hair was much redder than Father Cronin's, Kerry McDevit might have been the priest's blood relative. He was slightly plump, freckled, with green eyes full of mischief. "I'm fine, Father. But it's sure cold out there this morning. Cold as a witch's-"
        "Oh, yes? Cold as a ' witch's what?"
        "Refrigerator," the boy said, embarrassed. "Cold as a witch's refrigerator, Father. And that's cold."
        If his mood had not been so bleak, Brendan would have been amused by the boy's narrow avoidance of an innocent obscenity, but in his current state of mind he could not summon even a shadow of a smile. Undoubtedly, his silence was interpreted as stern disapproval, for Kerry averted his eyes and went quickly to the closet, where he stowed his coat, scarf, and gloves, and took his cassock and surplice from a hanger.
        Even as Brendan lifted the maniple, kissed the cross in its center, and placed it on his left forearm, he felt nothing. There was just that cold, throbbing, hollow ache where belief and joy had once existed. As his hands were occupied with that task, his mind drifted back to a melancholy recollection of the exuberance with which he had once approached every priestly duty.
        Until last August, he never doubted the wisdom of his commitment to the Church. He had been such a bright and hard-working