The Bear and the Dragon - Tom Clancy [256]
"No!" A female voice shouted in reply. "No!"
"What is it that we, we the people of God, the people of faith—what is it that we stand for? When the sons of Lucifer kill the faithful, where do you stand? Will you stand for justice? Will you stand for your faith? Will you stand with the holy martyrs? Will you stand with Jesus?" Jackson demanded of his borrowed white congregation.
And as one voice, they answered him: "Yes!"
"Jesus H. Christ," Ryan said. He'd walked over to the Vice President's office to catch the TV coverage.
"Told you my Pap was good at this stuff. Hell, I grew up with it over the dinner table, and he still gets inside my head," said Robby Jackson, wondering if he'd allow himself a drink tonight. "Patterson is probably doing okay, too. Pap says he's an okay guy, but my Pap is the champ."
"Did he ever think of becoming a Jesuit?" Jack asked with a grin.
"Pap's a preacherman, but he ain't quite a saint. The celibacy would be kinda hard on him," Robby answered.
Then the scene changed to Leonardo di Vinci International Airport outside Rome, where the Alitalia 747 had just landed and was now pulling up to the jetway. Below it was a truck, and next to the truck some cars belonging to the Vatican. It had already been announced that Renato Cardinal DiMilo would be getting his own full state funeral at St. Peter's Basilica, and CNN would be there to cover all of it, joined by SkyNews, Fox, and all the major networks. They'd been late getting onto the story at the beginning, but that only made this part of the coverage more full.
Back in Mississippi, Hosiah Jackson walked slowly down from the pulpit as the last hymn ended. He walked with grace and dignity to the front door, so as to greet all of the congregation members on the way out.
That took much longer than he'd expected. It seemed that every single one of them wanted to take his hand and thank him for coming—the degree of hospitality was well in excess of his most optimistic expectations. And there was no doubting their sincerity. Some insisted on talking for a few moments, until the press of the departing crowd forced them down the steps and onto the parking lot. Hosiah counted six invitations to dinner, and ten inquiries about his church, and if it needed any special work. Finally, there was just one man left, pushing seventy, with scraggly gray hair and a hooked nose that had seen its share of whiskey bottles. He looked like a man who'd topped out as assistant foreman at the sawmill.
"Hello," Jackson said agreeably.
"Pastor," the man replied, uneasily, as though wanting to say more.
It was a look Hosiah had seen often enough. "Can I help you, sir?"
"Pastor … years ago … " And his voice choked up again. "Pastor," he began again. "Pastor, I sinned."
"My friend, we all sin. God knows that. That's why he sent His Son to be with us and conquer our sins." The minister grabbed the man's shoulder to steady him.
"I was in the Klan, Pastor, I did … sinful things … I … hurt nigras just cuz I hated them, and I—"
"What's your name?" Hosiah asked gently.
"Charlie Picket," the man replied. And then Hosiah knew. He had a good memory for names. Charles Worthington Picket had been the Grand Kleegle of the local Klavern. He'd never been convicted of a major crime, but his name was one that came up much of the time.
"Mr. Picket, those things all happened many years ago," he reminded the man.
"I ain't never—I mean, I ain't never killed nobody. Honest, Pastor, I ain't never done that," Picket insisted, with real desperation in his voice. "But I know'd thems that did, and I never told the cops. I never told them not to do it … sweet Jesus, I don't know what I was back then, Pastor. I was … it was … "
"Mr. Picket, are you sorry for your sins?"
"Oh, yes, oh Jesus, yes, Pastor. I've prayed for forgiveness, but—"
"There is no 'but,' Mr. Picket. God has forgiven you your sins," Jackson told him in his gentlest voice.
"Are you sure?"
A smile and a nod. "Yes, I'm sure."
"Pastor, you need help at your church, roofing and stuff, you call me, y'hear? That's