Before Andrew could respond, a young man in a green hospital scrub suit motioned for Ben to follow him. “The patient wants to see you, Father. You may be inclined to give last rites; I don’t think he’s going to make it. By the way, did they get the guys that did it?”
Ben shook his head. “No,” he said slowly, “but downtown it happens, and many are not caught.” He stood up and moved to follow the doctor paused and turning to Andrew, standing with his hands in his pockets, “You come too. He was asking to see you.”
Andrew’s eyebrows went up. “Me? Why, Ben? How did he get my name?”
Ben shrugged while wondering the same thing and waved Andrew to silence. As they approached the bedside they could hear irregular, strained breathing. Ben bent over and gently touched the man’s arm saying, “This is Father Lee from the Seamen’s Center, and I have Andrew Kincaid here with me. Can you hear me?”
The man looked into Andrew’s face, “Kincaid?” he rasped.
“Yes,” responded Andrew, “why did you want to see me?”
“They tried to kill me…”
Andrew interrupted, attempting to reassure him saying, “No one is going to kill you, we’ll see that you’re protected.”
The man’s anxiety level was rising, “Kincaid… the packet, don’t open it—don’t open!”
Andrew looked confused, the man continued, “I’ve got to tell you,” he coughed and struggled to speak, “listen to me, I’ve got to tell you… letters, I sent letters to keep you safe. Kincaid, don’t give packet to police. Don’t…” then, “Father,” the man spoke weakly while trying to raise his bandaged hand toward Father Ben.
“Shh,” Ben tried to calm him, “Friend, what is your name? Is there someone I can call? Do you have family I should notify?” The man reached into his depths for strength to reply, “Letters will tell. Kelshaw, George Kelshaw is my name,” he gasped, “CIA, work for… no one left to tell… no one left to te…” his voice faded and it was over.
Andrew bowed his head as Father Ben prayed and anointed the body of George Kelshaw. Andrew’s mind was racing with questions not the least of which was why Kelshaw had asked for him. What was this packet he was so worried about? And the CIA? “Do I even want to know?” he wondered. Time had run out for George Kelshaw before he could explain.
A Seattle police officer stood by the desk waiting as Ben concluded business with the hospital then stepped forward asking Father Ben about the stabbing and what connection he had with the dead man. What was his name? Did he come in on a merchant ship?
Ben reported on his and Davey’s rescue of the man from his assailants and gave the man’s name and yes, he had come with a group of seamen from a ship that had docked a day or two ago. Andrew was amazed at how little information Ben had regarding the man but how much less he shared with the police.
Claiming weariness, Ben said, “Officer, please forgive me, it has been a very long day and I still must return to the Center. I will be there tomorrow if you should have more questions. Right now I seem to be out of answers. “Come, Andrew, give me a ride back to the Center, please. I realize I came with the ambulance.” Out of earshot of the policeman Ben continued, “Besides, I am sure you would like to know what else I know—not much. Oh, I almost forgot, here,” Ben laid the oilskin packet and letter in Andrew’s hand, “Mr. Kelshaw wanted me to give this to you, and Andrew will you see that this letter gets to Mrs. Thayer?” Father Ben was glad he could say George Kelshaw’s name.
As Andrew and Ben walked out of the hospital into the dark night air, Andrew looked at Ben with dismay. “Why don’t you give her the letter, Ben? I don’t know her!”
“Because,” Ben ventured, “you are better at explaining things… all that has happened… and…”
“What are you talking about, Father Lee?” Andrew used Ben’s surname when he wanted to make a strong point. “You’re the only one who really knows what happened,” Andrew exclaimed. He was tired and slightly irked. Finally, yielding slightly he said softly, “Okay, Ben, what’s going on?” he tried to say it calmly.
“Well, Andrew,” Ben paused, sighing heavily, “I would just rather you gave Mrs. Thayer the letter,” adding, “I do not really have a good reason.”
Andrew was silent for a moment; “All right, I’ll do it, I don’t know how, but I’ll do it,” Andrew agreed surrendering to Ben’s plea, adding, “now I know why they call you Chinese inscrutable.”
“Hmmn,” Ben said. Andrew smiled slightly to himself.
It was after midnight, the end of a very long day. As they left the hospital, the men were so deep in conversation they did not notice two men watching them from the shadows.
12:15 AM
The drive to the Center was brief. Neither man spoke until Andrew broke the silence. “Ben, do you mind if I ask a question?”
“Of course not, what do you want to know?” Ben replied.
Andrew was cautious. “You know I’m Catholic so my question comes from that perspective, and I didn’t think, well, what I mean to say is… doesn’t it bother you to anoint and give last rites—to a guy who might not even believe in God?”
Ben studied a moment before answering, “Andrew, years ago when I became a minister for the Lord, I promised God I would do everything I could do for His Kingdom on this side of life. Loving, consoling and caring for His people is all that I know how to do. A little comfort, a kind word and a touch is sometimes all it takes to draw a person into the Kingdom. It didn’t cost me anything to anoint that poor soul, Andrew. The rest is up to God.”
“Thanks, Ben,” Andrew said softly, “I appreciate your answer.” He was thinking how glad he was to have Ben as a friend.
He left Father Ben at the Center, but instead of going home Andrew went back to the Times. Sleep was out of the question. The ordinarily noisy city room was devoid of clacking typewriters and the hustle of midday. Here and there two or three desk lamps glowed in the semidarkness giving evidence of reporters working late on some special story.
Wide awake, sitting at his desk he looked at the stained envelope and studied the oilskin packet. “Why me?” he said to himself. “What did Kelshaw say?” “Don’t open it and don’t give it to the police. What could be in it?” he mused. Touching it and turning it over he toyed with the idea of finding out what it contained.
Questions flew through Andrew’s mind. This guy was CIA, an agent, a ‘spook’. Was he knifed on purpose or was it just a random robbery.
Andrew knew the answer. Of course it was on purpose, someone was trying to kill him; but who, and why at the Center? Was Ben safe? Suddenly very weary, Andrew locked the letter and the packet in his desk drawer, turned off his desk lamp and decided the questions could wait for the next day’s mail.
Alone at the Center, Ben was also wide awake. He went through the motions of straightening his desk and checking the lock on the rear door all the while thinking of George Kelshaw. As he prepared to leave, he stopped by the table where the man had been writing letters earlier. Wondering half out loud, “Why did he come to the Center? What was his connection with Mrs. Thayer?”
Father Ben was aware that many people knew that he ran the Center on a shoestring. Charlene Thayer, as a key member of the Episcopal Diocese Budget Committee, was one of those people. It was said throughout the Diocese that Father Ben could stretch money farther than many of the other more handsomely endowed ministries. Mrs. Thayer and others who staunchly supported the Center also knew that much of Ben’s own resources were spent helping the sailors with their needs often providing basic items such as a pair of socks or a toothbrush.