Vincent's Vengeance

PROLOGUE

St. Mary’s Catholic Church

Royal Oak, Michigan

June 6, 2010

1800 (6:00 p.m.)

GOD-FEARING CATHOLIC PRIEST, FATHER Aaron Jacobs, stumbled backward through the nave. Gasping for air, he fearfully clutched his injured chest. The fiery sensation pierced his upper torso like a burning arrow. The smell of burnt flesh was a scent his nares had never inhaled before—not till then.

The pain is excruciating. I wonder if this is what Hell feels like, he thought.

Then he bumped into the altar and fell to his knees. Throwing his hands up to shield his face, the sixty-seven-year-old priest pleaded for his life.

Please! In God’s name, don’t do this!

The thunder from the brewing storm rumbled through the church like a herd of charging bulls. But Fr. Jacobs’s fear prevented him from hearing it.

Then a male voice angrily spoke, Father, you knew the consequences.

To disguise his voice, the attacker lowered the pitch.

I am going to die, Fr. Jacobs thought. Have you no mercy? Why are you doing this?

You know why, said the attacker.

I don’t know why.

Then suspecting that a higher power might be involved, Fr. Jacobs believed the attacker was not acting on his own volition. So at the risk of angering the attacker and being shot again, Fr. Jacobs just had to take that chance—if he wanted to know the truth.

Who sent you here to commit this devilish deed? he asked.

The attacker refused to answer. Silence briefly engulfed the church.

Fr. Jacobs, still gasping, fearfully stared at his attacker who was wearing a black ninja suit with a black balaclava (ski mask) and holding a .38 Special. The revolver was so close to his face he could smell the smokeless gunpowder from the recently discharged handgun. Then he felt a warm, wet stream descend his inner left thigh.

He heard a click. It’s out of bullets.

Fr. Jacobs continued to stare at his attacker as the dark tunnel became apparent. He then repeatedly blinked in a frugal attempt to resolve the black, blurry vision.

Tell me who sent you … please!

While still aiming the gun with his right hand—which was pointing at Fr. Jacobs’s forehead—the attacker quickly reached inside his pocket with his left. He then whipped out a miniature replica of Vincent van Gogh’s painting The Diggers.

Next, as he slowly knelt in front of Fr. Jacobs, the attacker shoved the small canvas closer to the priest’s face and tightly squeezed.

You’ve kept this secret from the world long enough, he said. "People have a right to know the truth."

Then, he leaned in close to Fr. Jacobs’s frightful face and forcefully placed the canvas in his hand.

"And soon … they will know!"

What secret? Fr. Jacobs wondered. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Fr. Jacobs attempted to stand but the heaviness on his chest kept him down. Then he began gasping again.

The tall man with a thin build quickly stood.

And with the enthusiasm of a marathon runner who just won the race, he excitedly proclaimed, Soon the whole world will know the truth!

What are you talking about? What truth? Fr. Jacobs, now dazed, wanted to make sure the attacker was aware that he would never get away with this.

‘Vengeance is mine,’ says the Lord!

No! Vengeance … is Vincent’s! The attacker turned and proudly walked away.

You will regret this. Fr. Jacobs knew that God would extract revenge on anyone who harmed his beloved.

Please, someone help me. Fr. Jacobs’s plea went unheard.

I’m all alone.

While still clutching his chest, Fr. Jacobs stumbled to the back door. The blood dripping from his black clerical shirt left a noticeable trail.

With the little strength he could muster, Fr. Jacobs pushed open the door and fell to the ground.

The air was strangely calm.

Then, in the near-distant gray clouds, Fr. Jacobs saw a tornado swirling. And it was headed in the direction of the church.

CHAPTER 1

William Beaumont Hospital

Royal Oak, Michigan

REGISTERED NURSE SARA DAUTRY enjoys working at a Magnet-recognized Hospital—a hospital that has excellent nurses.

William Beaumont Hospital, Royal Oak (WBH-RO), was the first hospital in Michigan to receive this honorary distinction.

Sara hears a familiar ring. She fumbles through the right front pocket on her ceil-blue scrub top. She then answers her spectra link phone with the same greeting she has used since her first day on the unit six years ago.

Neuro Progressive Care, this is Sara. How may I help you? Her straight, dark-auburn hair sweeps her left shoulder and crosses her chest.

The Neuroscience Department is divided into two units: Neuroscience Progressive Care Unit (NSPCU) and the Regular Medical Floor (RMF).

I’m bringing in a seventy-seven-year-old female with slurred speech, right-sided weakness and facial droop, says the paramedic.

She had a stroke. Are her vital signs stable?

No, he replies. Her blood pressure has dropped to seventy-two over thirty-six, and her pulse is in the one-eighties. She’s also having difficulty in breathing. We put her on two liters of o-two and started an IV

Room air contains twenty-one percent (21%) oxygen. Not very much oxygen when you think about it. The rest of the air is seventy-nine percent (79%) garbage. Yuck. Two liters has about twenty-eight percent oxygen.

Sara gasps. She’s in critical condition.

Sara, he says, she’s a nun from St. Mary’s Catholic Church. According to a bystander, her name is Sister Ruth Phillips. We found her on the ground at St. Mary’s next to Fr. Jacobs’s body.

What?!

Whose body did he say? refusing to believe that anyone close to her could be dead. Then it comes to her. No—not Fr. Jacobs.

Sara has been a member of St. Mary’s since the day she entered the world. And albeit she hasn’t been to mass in two years, she still considers herself a Catholic.

Further, Fr. Jacobs was like a father to her. Sara never knew her biological father. He had been killed in a car accident before she was born, and Fr. Jacobs stepped in and assumed the role.

Moreover, she truly admired Fr. Jacobs’s sweet nature. And as a result—and also due to his persuasion and influence over her—he’s the reason Sara chose nursing as a profession. In spite of the stress and the mentally—as well as physically—daunting task of caring for people, it’s a choice she has never regretted.

Overwhelmed with anxiety, Sara needs to know more.

What happened to Fr. Jacobs and Sr. Ruth?

It appears Sr. Ruth was knocked down by the storm we just had. She garbled somethin ‘bout being on Coumadin.

Oh no! A wave of dread washed over her like a tsunami because she knew that any trauma to the head—regardless of how minuscule—could cause bleeding in the brain for anyone on the blood-thinner warfarin (Coumadin).

Further, since the injury was secondary to trauma, she’s relieved that it’s not a cerebrovascular accident (stroke)—a.k.a. brain attack. Usually with a stroke there may be other things happening in the body that led to it (e.g. high-blood pressure, plaque in the arteries, irregular heart rhythms, aneurysms, and the list goes on). These can be very difficult to treat, and the stroke victim is at a higher risk of having another brain attack.

And as for the priest, well… the paramedic continues, he was shot in the chest and pronounced dead at the scene.

Sara quickly ends the call and frantically motions for Deirdre. Deirdre, please take my phone and cover for me. I have to go!

During her eight-week unit orientation Sara admired Nurse Deirdre Taite for her intelligence, her kindheartedness, and her extraordinary ability to remain calm during a crisis. And as a result Sara felt honored to be under Deirdre’s supervision and guidance.

And with her innate caring attitude, Deirdre, who’s in her late thirties, treated every patient with sincere respect and affection. Truly admirable traits for anybody—let alone a nurse, Sara thought. Florence Nightinggale would’ve been proud of her.

Further, she has always thought of Deirdre—with her sweet Irish accent, wavy brown hair and angelic beauty—as the epitome of Irish women.

After receiving report on Sara’s patients, Deirdre is worried. What’s wrong, Love?

I’ll explain later. She hands Deirdre the phone and hastily leaves.

CHAPTER 2

St. Mary’s Church

The Murder Scene

DETECTIVE ADAM BARNHILL, SHINING a flashlight on Fr. Jacobs’s lifeless body, is standing over his corpse when Sara arrives.

Det. Barnhill has been with the Royal Oak Police Department for twelve years. His intuition and experience with the Criminal Investigation Division has helped him solve numerous crimes. This crime, he hopes, will be quickly added to the list.

Feeling a sense of urgency and her love of architecture, she