Confession Part 2 of 2
Jun. 4th, 2009 08:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hafoc
Cut in half because of LJ post size limits. Part 2 of 2. Mature audiences suggested because of violence and some implied nastiness.
Continued from Part 1
As he had when they left the convalescent center, Wouters gave her his arm and held an umbrella for her as they walked back inside.
"Goodbye. Thank you for a wonderful lunch and an interesting conversation," she said.
"Hey, it was my pleasure."
"Mr. Wouters, I am of the Plains People. We get feelings about things. And more and more, something tells me you aren't what you seem to be."
"Is anybody, Ms. Redcloud?" He smiled, bowed slightly, and walked back out into the drizzle.
She used her cane to go on into the lobby. Her favorite nurse was waiting for her with the wheelchair. "Good afternoon, Anna," she said. She nearly sang it out.
"My, you seem happy. Was Mr. Wouters such a wonderful host?"
"He was all right. But I'm happy because I'm not worried about that any more."
Anna's eyes brightened. "I told you that you had a lot of good years in you yet! So you decided your premonition was wrong?"
She turned and looked back out into the drizzle. The nondescript silver van was at the end of the driveway. Mr. Wouters was just a darker blot behind the darkened windows.
The van turned right, out of the driveway. It accelerated to traffic speed. It went behind a line of trees and was gone.
"No, I was right--just in a different way than I thought. You see, there's more than one way to meet Death..."
#
Somewhere down the flagstone corridor, somebody was running. Father O'Bannon heard rapid footsteps. Then a skidding sound. A door thumped closed, somewhere off toward the church office.
He gritted his teeth, not sure whether to be more amused or annoyed. Kids--at least they weren't afraid to come into the church, as so many seemed to be these days! But he really should check into it.
"Hello? Hello?"
There was nobody there. He opened the office door and poked his head inside. Mrs. Kranz wasn't in, but perhaps she had been; there was a warm, sweet electrical smell, as if the computer had been running.
He shrugged and headed back toward the sanctuary. It was quiet there. He really should stop wasting his time with Wednesday evening confession. Some people had come in when he'd first started it, but even busy people seemed to prefer Saturdays. Oh, well; maybe the idea of ‘convenient contrition' was a little bit silly.
But no, there was somebody in here after all! He was sure of it. The door to the confessional's left-hand compartment clicked closed just as he returned to the sanctuary.
He hurried to the confessional and got into the priest's compartment, the one in the center. He sat down and turned out the light. He couldn't see who was on the other side of the screen, nor could he smell them; the cedar incense prevented that. Good. God knew who they were, and only God mattered.
"Blessed be the Blood of the Martyr, who took away our sins. And blessed be the Creator and the Messenger, who with the Martyr are worthy of all praise and glory. Amen."
Nothing. No sound, no movement on the other side of the screen. Could he have been wrong? Was there anybody in the confessional at all? But no, there was. Somehow he could feel it, a presence in the dark, sacred silence. Someone listening, waiting.
Finally a voice came. It was deep, but soft. Not a whisper, but a low mutter almost too faint for him to hear. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been... ten years. Ten years since my last confession."
"Why so long, my son?"
"Because of a great sin. One that weighs on me so heavily that I couldn't bear to speak of it, even to the Creator who knows all. But... I can't be silent any more, Father. To save my soul, I must confess that one great sin, compared to which nothing else I have done, good or evil, seems to matter."
"Then speak."
"Thank you, Father." The penitent took a deep breath. He said nothing more for what seemed a long time.
"Ten years ago," he said, finally, "I needed some money. I thought it was for a good purpose. My parents and my aunt were scrimping for every brass they could save, to put me through the Community College. And yet there was never enough.
"I was going to do great things, things that would help so many people. If there wasn't more money, that wouldn't happen. All the work of my family, all the good I could have done in this life, would be lost. Gone forever, just because I didn't have a little bit of money."
Father O'Bannon swallowed hard. He tried to speak. "Go on, my son. Go on."
"I had three friends who were in the same boat. We talked about it. One of them, the guy who was usually our leader, said he had a solution."
"What... what species was he?"
"Does it matter?"
"No, no..."
"I worked for the owner of the student bookstore. She was nice enough, and she did pay me. A few brasses, a few crumbs off her table. But she had so much money, and what had she ever done to deserve it? While all I needed was a little bit of what she had. I'd use it wisely, for tuition, room, and board. She wouldn't miss it, right?
"So Trevor told me--"
"Trevor?"
"That was his name, Trevor. He said ‘Just let us know how to get in and give us the safe's combination. We'll do the rest. Maybe you can watch the door and tell us if anyone else's coming, but other than that, keep yourself clean. The cops will never know you were involved, and if they don't get you, they won't get us either.'"
Father O'Bannon could hardly breathe. "Go on."
"But my boss was in the store that night. They tied her up, they beat her, they broke her arm. Maybe they did worse things to her. I was across the street, watching the door. I told myself I didn't know what was going on, but I did know. I knew, but I just didn't want to. That's the truth of it.
"I took the money. I finished my degree, and I've tried, Father, I've tried so hard to live a good life. To do things to help people, to do what's right. But it's all based on that old crime. Oh, Father, what should I do? What can I do, after all these years?"
Father O'Bannon couldn't speak.
"Father?"
"It's all right, my son. One moment." He took a deep breath. "You have to make it right."
"But how? I can't unbreak an arm. I can't unbetray a person who trusted me."
"You can confess to them. You can tell them how sorry you are, and you can ask their forgiveness. Perhaps they can't forgive you. My... your crime is so great that forgiveness may be more than any mortal can give. But God can forgive all."
"So I should..."
"Confess to her. That is your penance."
A gasp, a long breath. "It's too late for anyone to send me to jail for it, but who can trust me once this truth gets out? I may lose my job. I may lose my family. Those who respected me will scorn me."
"What you say may be true," the priest agreed, "yet you must make it right. All that you gained by your silence is built upon a foundation of lies." He tried not to sob. He had almost forgotten, he had tried to forget, but God... God never forgot. "If your life isn't built upon the truth, then it's not your life."
"But--my friends! People might be able to figure out who else was involved. What if I ruin their lives too?"
"Your sin is yours, and your penance is yours. You don't have to mention anyone else's names. But you owe it to them to give them a chance to cleanse their own souls, as you are cleansing yours."
"It... will be hard, Father."
"I know, my son. But there is no other way."
"I will..." The penitent sobbed. "I will do as you say. But one other thing, Father. I have spoken with people about this crime, and I have lied about my involvement in it. What is my penance for that?"
"For that? Oh, that‘s a venial offense--say five Blood of the Martyrs. Making the crime right again, as best you can, that is your true penance."
"Thank you, Father."
"God forgives you, my son. Hail to the Creator, the Messenger, and to the Martyr whose blood took away our sins. Go in peace."
The confessional shook. Father O'Bannon heard the penitent's door open. He heard heavy footsteps walking away. He heard the sanctuary door hiss open and thump closed again.
He sat there for a long time, alone in the darkness.
He had tried to fool himself for years, but deep in his soul he'd always known what he had to do about his greatest sin. It was time to face the truth.
#
"Well, hello again, Mr. Clydesbank! Come in, sit down. What brings you here today? Did you find anything about the Fairweather case?"
"No, Lieutenant. Not that I should have expected to, when the professionals have had such little success. But I did have one new idea, silly as it may be. It's definitely clutching at straws."
"What is it?"
"When I was here last week, I thought I saw another Irish police officer. A large fellow--they're about as hard to mistake as I am myself. Someone told me that you have an Officer MacFaoil on the force. Would MacFaoil be the Irish officer? And if so, would he be related to the late Lieutenant Kelly MacFaoil?"
"Him? Yeah. That's Colin, the Lieutenant's son."
"You sound as if you disapprove of him, somehow. It's only natural that, having lost his father, you'd want to give the son a chance on the Force."
Briley barked a laugh. "We're professionals here, Mr. Clydesbank. We'd never let someone onto the force just because we felt sorry for him. Colin may not be what his father was, but he earned his place on the Force. He met all the qualifications."
"I see. That includes a degree in criminal justice these days, does it not?"
"Yes. Colin has his degree. From Carillon College, too. They're good."
"They are indeed. Rather expensive, though. The younger Officer MacFaoil must be very glad that his father left enough life insurance to pay his way through Carillon. Even back then, it would have cost fifteen thousand a year. But I didn't come here to ask about Officer Colin MacFaoil. I came to ask him questions. After all, he was very close to his father. Perhaps he overheard something that might be of use to us."
"I don't think they were really that close."
"Is something wrong, Lieutenant Briley? You look troubled."
"Nothing at all," Briley said. Mary MacFaoil's mobile home was decent, but it didn't look like Kelly had left her very much money. It was confusing. "It's... nothing. Nothing at all."
"You're sure?"
"I am." Briley sniffed the air. "Colin MacFaoil's been around the building some time today. He's on his beat now. I suppose I could call him in if you want to question him."
Clydesbank coughed. He pulled a Campho-Rub inhaler out of his pocket, inhaled the fumes into each nostril, made a face, fumbled the cap onto the inhaler, and tossed it in the wastebasket. Briley could smell the sharp stink of the camphor. "Foul stuff, that," Clydesbank said. "I don't think I'll ever buy it again. No, that's all right, Lieutenant. Maybe I'll come by and ask him about it, with your permission, some time in the future.
"But I can't think of any other leads to pursue. I consider my investigation of the case to be closed. It's a pity nobody was able to find and punish the guilty parties."
"Yes. A true pity."
#
Seven lousy years walking a beat... At least he had enough seniority to work days, now. But it made him sick, thinking about how much of his life he'd wasted out here.
A trio of youngsters--probably ferrets, although it was hard to tell with the loose clothing they wore--saw him and ran away from the car they'd been trying to steal. He pretended he hadn't seen them. He was almost back to the station, and he didn't want to work late filling out paperwork on a theft arrest.
Seven years. And how many more until...
"Colin?"
He stopped and blinked at the mutt who stood before him, wearing a clerical collar. "Presley? What are you doing here? You crazy, man?"
"Colin, I can't live with my part in what happened. I must confess. It will be my ruin, but I have to speak anyway. I'm sorry."
Colin reached for his revolver. But--shooting a priest? How could he justify that? He hustled Presley O'Bannon aside, into the shadows of a doorway, instead. "It will be my ruin, too, mine and Trevor's. We're your friends, the best friends you ever had. We trusted you! Do you ever think of that?"
"Every day. You don't need to worry about me; I'll never betray you or Trevor. But you should confess, too, Colin. You and Trevor both, for the good of your souls."
Colin almost laughed in the priest's face. But Trevor wouldn't like that. He forced the laugh down. He put on a serious look. "Shouldn't we meet and talk things over, before you do anything rash?"
"I have to do what's right. Finally, after all these years, I know that."
"But I don't know what I should do! I'm confused. Let me think, and let's talk again before you say anything. Please? We could meet at the old coffee shop where we used to go. Say, 11:00 tonight?"
"All right. All right, Colin. I'll pray for you."
"Thank you, Father."
He walked the rest of the way to the station in a daze. He walked up the steps and into the lobby, then around and back toward his locker. He tried to greet the people he met as he always did, but he was sure they could smell the guilt on him.
Briley had gone home for the evening, thank God! There was something in the air he couldn't identify; a medicinal sharpness that filled him with guilt, somehow.
Thank God he didn't have to talk to Briley, thank God that--
There was a message slip in his slot. With a trembling hand, he picked it out. He unfolded it and read:
MacFaoil--Want to discuss w/ you anything you know & can remember re: Fairweather kidnapping case. Pls meet, my office start of shift tomorrow.--A. E. Briley
Somehow he got into his street clothes. He wobbled out of the station house, hardly smelling or seeing anything around him. Someone called out to him, but he kept going, out into the early darkness.
#
Alderman Trevor Goodwill had found it was often useful to have a few prepaid cell phones he'd purchased with cash. When the pager number came in, he pulled one of them out. At the right time, he dialed MacFaoil's own disposable phone.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Bey. This is Al. What's the story?"
"It's... it's the janitor. He got sloppy drunk." Presley O'Bannon has told somebody the story.
"You're sure?"
"Man, he told me he was going to. And then somebody left me a note asking about it."
"Somebody important?"
"The Head Usher." A cop of high rank. That was bad, very bad.
"I see. Well, if they didn't escort you out, they must not know anything yet. It's time to clean up the mess. There's no need to worry too much, though."
"Are you sure? What if he's already..."
"I'll have Jerry get you a ride home." I will have a ‘friend' get a stolen vehicle for you. You can find it at Jerry's Garage. Use it as we discussed. "He'll be driving a blue pickup. He'll leave you a present in the glove box, something to calm your nerves."
"You know I don't... I never would have gotten into this trouble in the first place, you wouldn't have talked me into... if it weren't for... my nerves."
"You need some medicine just this once. Calm down, Bey, it will be all right."
"If you say so. I bloody hope you're right."
"I am right. Just don't lose your head. Don't leave any spots in the carpet. The Head Usher isn't any relative of yours, this time. He won't clean up after you."
"Why does everybody always have to bring up my father--all right, all right, Al. No errors."
"And don't forget your nerves."
On his way home that day, Trevor Goodwill tossed the cell phone into the river. It was always best to dispose of the evidence as quickly as possible. He hadn't known that when he was back at good old Carillon College, wondering where he'd find next term's tuition. But a life spent climbing the slippery slope of politics had taught him a thing or two since then.
In the old days he hadn't always known to dispose of the evidence. But better late than never.
#
Lieutenant Briley drank the last of his coffee. He set the mug down on his desk with a grumble. Where was MacFaoil?
Maybe he hadn't seen the note? If so, it wouldn't be the worst mistake that lug had ever made on the Force. When he thought about what a great cop the elder MacFaoil had been...
He walked out into the main office. "Anybody seen MacFaoil today?"
"Boss?" Officer Stanson, a cute little female who usually worked the riverfront, looked worried and confused. Her whiskers twitched, her deep brown eyes were all seriousness and concern. "We have something on that hit-and-run last night."
"What?"
"Father O'Bannon has come out of it. He's a mess. They don't know how bad the head injuries are, or if he'll walk again. But he's conscious, sort of."
"Great. What's the description on the vehicle that hit him? Did he see the driver?"
"He isn't talking about that, Lieutenant. He says he wants to confess, says it over and over and over."
"Get him another priest, then."
"No. He wants to confess to you, and--" She held up a card in her webbed hand and squinted at it. "And to some people named Ananda and Arthur Fairweather."
Briley froze. His mouth dropped open. "Damn me," he whispered.
"Sir?"
"Damn me!"
Once, when they'd met him on the street, Father O'Bannon had addressed Colin MacFaoil by name.
They had both gone to Carillon College, at the same time.
Presley O'Bannon had worked for Arthur Fairweather, and would have known almost everything about Ananda's movements.
Sixty thousand dollars would have paid for three years at Carillon, maybe even four.
Kelly MacFaoil--the officer everyone on the Fort Pitt Police nearly worshiped--hadn't been able to find suspects in the Fairweather kidnapping. But he had found them. He hadn't found any evidence. But he had found evidence; found it and destroyed it. He'd worried himself into an early grave because he couldn't solve the case. But he had solved it. What killed him was that he knew exactly who had done the crime, and he couldn't tell. Because...
"Where the Hell is McFaoil?"
"He didn't show up this morning, Boss."
"Stanson--with me! Scramble three squad cars, have one pick us up at the front door! MacFaoil's apartment, fast!"
It took ten minutes to get there, lights flashing but the siren off. They parked at the curb. Three officers, revolvers drawn, took the elevator. Briley, Stanson, and the rest pelted up the stairs.
Briley knocked on the door. "MacFaoil? Open up." There was no answer. He stepped back to kick the door in. Stanson reached forward and turned the knob before he could. The door was unlocked.
They rushed into the apartment. They didn't have to go far. MacFaoil was on the couch, a half-full bottle of Bourbon on the end table. He looked peaceful.
Stanson holstered her revolver and touched MacFaoil's throat. "No pulse. Calling the EMTs." She keyed the microphone on her shoulder.
"Damn," somebody said. "The Big Irish. They all seem to die so young."
Briley growled. He sniffed the bottle of Bourbon, careful not to touch it. "No. This is too convenient. Just too convenient. And his father's death, too... was that convenient for somebody?"
"Sir?"
"MacFaoil didn't drink a single drop of booze all the time I knew him. And all of a sudden now, with everything that's happening, he gets drunk and conveniently drops dead? It stinks to high heaven! Nobody touches anything--anything. I want a tox screen. I want MacFaoil and this bottle tested for every poison known and unknown, strychnine, wolfsbane, eye of newt, everything. I want all the detectives in the world up here and why the Hell are you all still standing there? Get moving! Get me the lab, get the detectives, go go go! Damn me!"
Stanson said "EMTs are on the way." It was too late for an ambulance, she knew that as well as anybody, but the forms had to be followed. "This is a murder scene, sir?"
"Sure as Hell's a mantrap. Check everything. Check his mail. Check his computer and his email. We have a cop killer on the loose, people." He might not have been much of a cop, but he was still a cop. "We will find this killer. We will bring him to justice, if all of Hell stands in the way."
#
It's only after the tooth has been pulled that you know how bad the toothache was. That's how Alderman Trevor Goodwill felt when he woke up the next morning.
He'd spent the night alone, which was unusual for him. But it was all good. The sun was bright, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and a threat that had hung over his future for a decade was gone. The evidence would be gone by now. There was no way they could trace the ancient crime back to him.
What did it matter, anyway? It's not like they'd hurt that rich little bitch, not really. And if a crooked cop and a sniveling weakling of a priest had to be put aside to make Trevor's career safe... well, no great loss.
He hummed to himself as he made coffee. A flash of orange outside caught his eye. He lived in a gated community; nothing unusual was ever supposed to show up on his street. But this was just a telephone repair van, or something like that. They'd set up a traffic barrier and a little shelter around a manhole. That was all right, then.
Still humming, he decided to sit down and check his email before getting ready for work.
It was just the usual junk. News from some mailing lists he followed, a bit of spam that had slipped through his filters; notably something from dear old Carillon College. He deleted it. And then--
A and B--I will never betray you. But the guilt is too great. I must speak, for my own good. I pray for you and urge you to do the same. God can still forgive you.
--Omega
His jaw dropped open. That idiot. That idiot!
O'Bannon had changed the header on his email to hide its origin... or he'd thought he had, but the idiot priest didn't know the first thing about email systems. With a sinking heart, Trevor checked the raw data: Yes, damn, damn, damn, the original message routing information was still all there! So was Colin MacFaoil's email address, and Colin should be dead by now. The email linked them all; O'Bannon, MacFaoil, and poor Trevor Goodwill, who until this morning had had such a promising career in politics.
For an instant, he thought he might be all right anyway. The statute of limitations meant they could never get him for the kidnapping and the fun he'd had back then. He was free and clear of any prosecution. His career would be over, maybe, but he could talk his way out of it. A setback, only a setback--
Except he'd killed a cop. His heart sank.
Cop-killers somehow always seemed to die resisting arrest. Assuming they survived that, things didn't go well for them once they got to prison. The cons might appreciate a cop-killer, but when a knife in the cop killer's back, or breaking his spine, or cutting off his less immediately vital body parts could buy a few privileges or a few cigarettes from the guards... business was business, after all. Trevor's career in politics had taught him that, too.
Maybe there was still time to get out..? He opened the blinds a bit and looked out into the street.
The telephone repair van was still there. There were three large males, mostly hidden by the shelter around the manhole. They didn't seem to be doing much work. He caught a glint of sunlight on glass, perhaps a lens, from a chink in the shelter. There were two more gentlemen in the front seat of the van, staring resolutely anywhere except toward Trevor's house. One was a lion, one was a bear. They looked like weightlifters.
Something moved in the corner of his eye. He looked down the street. Cops, revolvers out, were moving from another van toward him. They wore protective vests. Three ran aside, toward the back of the house; three came on along the sidewalk. He looked the other way. Maybe something was moving toward his house from that direction too; he couldn't really see, but he'd thought something moved.
He rushed to his front door. It was a design usually found on drug houses, and had three locks. He locked them all and walked upstairs to his safe.
He'd kept some ancestor's big .44 hinge-frame revolver, because Old West antiques were worth a lot. Most of the bluing had worn off decades before, but the revolver itself seemed solid.
Pounding at his door. "Mr. Goodwill? Police! Open up!" More pounding, then a much louder BOOM. And another, and another. Even his reinforced door wouldn't stop a battering ram for long.
He fumbled two or three cartridges into the revolver's chambers. The pasteboard cartridge box had almost disintegrated into dust. The cartridges themselves were corroded; the brass was a dark olive-brown with a few flecks of green, the lead had a coating of white powder.
He put the barrel of the revolver in his mouth. He had a moment, as his finger tightened on the trigger, to wonder whether such an ancient cartridge would still work.
It did.
#
"Derrick, somebody named Briley from the police department called, and--if Ananda calls, tell her I've already gone to the hospital, will you?"
"Mr. Fairweather? What's happening? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Well, I don't know. What will I do? What will I say?"
"Mr. Fairweather, sir! Whatever has happened, I know you can face it. I know things will be all right. Please, calm yourself, sir."
Art took a deep breath. Then another. He straightened, and let go of the frame of Derrick's door; he stood taller when he stood straight on his own hooves. "Yes. Yes, you're right." He even managed to smile. It was shaky, but a smile nonetheless. "We can handle it. Everything's going to be fine now."
"Do you wish to talk to me about it, sir?"
"No. Well, maybe later. Not now. I have to... if Ananda calls, tell her."
"Of course, sir."
Art hurried out of the office. He'd forgotten his overcoat, but that was all right; the clouds, snow, and drizzle had finally cleared. The police had sent a car for him. It was already at the curb, its passenger door open.
Derrick smiled quietly to himself. He picked up the pot and poured himself another mug of tea.
Continued from Part 1
As he had when they left the convalescent center, Wouters gave her his arm and held an umbrella for her as they walked back inside.
"Goodbye. Thank you for a wonderful lunch and an interesting conversation," she said.
"Hey, it was my pleasure."
"Mr. Wouters, I am of the Plains People. We get feelings about things. And more and more, something tells me you aren't what you seem to be."
"Is anybody, Ms. Redcloud?" He smiled, bowed slightly, and walked back out into the drizzle.
She used her cane to go on into the lobby. Her favorite nurse was waiting for her with the wheelchair. "Good afternoon, Anna," she said. She nearly sang it out.
"My, you seem happy. Was Mr. Wouters such a wonderful host?"
"He was all right. But I'm happy because I'm not worried about that any more."
Anna's eyes brightened. "I told you that you had a lot of good years in you yet! So you decided your premonition was wrong?"
She turned and looked back out into the drizzle. The nondescript silver van was at the end of the driveway. Mr. Wouters was just a darker blot behind the darkened windows.
The van turned right, out of the driveway. It accelerated to traffic speed. It went behind a line of trees and was gone.
"No, I was right--just in a different way than I thought. You see, there's more than one way to meet Death..."
#
Somewhere down the flagstone corridor, somebody was running. Father O'Bannon heard rapid footsteps. Then a skidding sound. A door thumped closed, somewhere off toward the church office.
He gritted his teeth, not sure whether to be more amused or annoyed. Kids--at least they weren't afraid to come into the church, as so many seemed to be these days! But he really should check into it.
"Hello? Hello?"
There was nobody there. He opened the office door and poked his head inside. Mrs. Kranz wasn't in, but perhaps she had been; there was a warm, sweet electrical smell, as if the computer had been running.
He shrugged and headed back toward the sanctuary. It was quiet there. He really should stop wasting his time with Wednesday evening confession. Some people had come in when he'd first started it, but even busy people seemed to prefer Saturdays. Oh, well; maybe the idea of ‘convenient contrition' was a little bit silly.
But no, there was somebody in here after all! He was sure of it. The door to the confessional's left-hand compartment clicked closed just as he returned to the sanctuary.
He hurried to the confessional and got into the priest's compartment, the one in the center. He sat down and turned out the light. He couldn't see who was on the other side of the screen, nor could he smell them; the cedar incense prevented that. Good. God knew who they were, and only God mattered.
"Blessed be the Blood of the Martyr, who took away our sins. And blessed be the Creator and the Messenger, who with the Martyr are worthy of all praise and glory. Amen."
Nothing. No sound, no movement on the other side of the screen. Could he have been wrong? Was there anybody in the confessional at all? But no, there was. Somehow he could feel it, a presence in the dark, sacred silence. Someone listening, waiting.
Finally a voice came. It was deep, but soft. Not a whisper, but a low mutter almost too faint for him to hear. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been... ten years. Ten years since my last confession."
"Why so long, my son?"
"Because of a great sin. One that weighs on me so heavily that I couldn't bear to speak of it, even to the Creator who knows all. But... I can't be silent any more, Father. To save my soul, I must confess that one great sin, compared to which nothing else I have done, good or evil, seems to matter."
"Then speak."
"Thank you, Father." The penitent took a deep breath. He said nothing more for what seemed a long time.
"Ten years ago," he said, finally, "I needed some money. I thought it was for a good purpose. My parents and my aunt were scrimping for every brass they could save, to put me through the Community College. And yet there was never enough.
"I was going to do great things, things that would help so many people. If there wasn't more money, that wouldn't happen. All the work of my family, all the good I could have done in this life, would be lost. Gone forever, just because I didn't have a little bit of money."
Father O'Bannon swallowed hard. He tried to speak. "Go on, my son. Go on."
"I had three friends who were in the same boat. We talked about it. One of them, the guy who was usually our leader, said he had a solution."
"What... what species was he?"
"Does it matter?"
"No, no..."
"I worked for the owner of the student bookstore. She was nice enough, and she did pay me. A few brasses, a few crumbs off her table. But she had so much money, and what had she ever done to deserve it? While all I needed was a little bit of what she had. I'd use it wisely, for tuition, room, and board. She wouldn't miss it, right?
"So Trevor told me--"
"Trevor?"
"That was his name, Trevor. He said ‘Just let us know how to get in and give us the safe's combination. We'll do the rest. Maybe you can watch the door and tell us if anyone else's coming, but other than that, keep yourself clean. The cops will never know you were involved, and if they don't get you, they won't get us either.'"
Father O'Bannon could hardly breathe. "Go on."
"But my boss was in the store that night. They tied her up, they beat her, they broke her arm. Maybe they did worse things to her. I was across the street, watching the door. I told myself I didn't know what was going on, but I did know. I knew, but I just didn't want to. That's the truth of it.
"I took the money. I finished my degree, and I've tried, Father, I've tried so hard to live a good life. To do things to help people, to do what's right. But it's all based on that old crime. Oh, Father, what should I do? What can I do, after all these years?"
Father O'Bannon couldn't speak.
"Father?"
"It's all right, my son. One moment." He took a deep breath. "You have to make it right."
"But how? I can't unbreak an arm. I can't unbetray a person who trusted me."
"You can confess to them. You can tell them how sorry you are, and you can ask their forgiveness. Perhaps they can't forgive you. My... your crime is so great that forgiveness may be more than any mortal can give. But God can forgive all."
"So I should..."
"Confess to her. That is your penance."
A gasp, a long breath. "It's too late for anyone to send me to jail for it, but who can trust me once this truth gets out? I may lose my job. I may lose my family. Those who respected me will scorn me."
"What you say may be true," the priest agreed, "yet you must make it right. All that you gained by your silence is built upon a foundation of lies." He tried not to sob. He had almost forgotten, he had tried to forget, but God... God never forgot. "If your life isn't built upon the truth, then it's not your life."
"But--my friends! People might be able to figure out who else was involved. What if I ruin their lives too?"
"Your sin is yours, and your penance is yours. You don't have to mention anyone else's names. But you owe it to them to give them a chance to cleanse their own souls, as you are cleansing yours."
"It... will be hard, Father."
"I know, my son. But there is no other way."
"I will..." The penitent sobbed. "I will do as you say. But one other thing, Father. I have spoken with people about this crime, and I have lied about my involvement in it. What is my penance for that?"
"For that? Oh, that‘s a venial offense--say five Blood of the Martyrs. Making the crime right again, as best you can, that is your true penance."
"Thank you, Father."
"God forgives you, my son. Hail to the Creator, the Messenger, and to the Martyr whose blood took away our sins. Go in peace."
The confessional shook. Father O'Bannon heard the penitent's door open. He heard heavy footsteps walking away. He heard the sanctuary door hiss open and thump closed again.
He sat there for a long time, alone in the darkness.
He had tried to fool himself for years, but deep in his soul he'd always known what he had to do about his greatest sin. It was time to face the truth.
#
"Well, hello again, Mr. Clydesbank! Come in, sit down. What brings you here today? Did you find anything about the Fairweather case?"
"No, Lieutenant. Not that I should have expected to, when the professionals have had such little success. But I did have one new idea, silly as it may be. It's definitely clutching at straws."
"What is it?"
"When I was here last week, I thought I saw another Irish police officer. A large fellow--they're about as hard to mistake as I am myself. Someone told me that you have an Officer MacFaoil on the force. Would MacFaoil be the Irish officer? And if so, would he be related to the late Lieutenant Kelly MacFaoil?"
"Him? Yeah. That's Colin, the Lieutenant's son."
"You sound as if you disapprove of him, somehow. It's only natural that, having lost his father, you'd want to give the son a chance on the Force."
Briley barked a laugh. "We're professionals here, Mr. Clydesbank. We'd never let someone onto the force just because we felt sorry for him. Colin may not be what his father was, but he earned his place on the Force. He met all the qualifications."
"I see. That includes a degree in criminal justice these days, does it not?"
"Yes. Colin has his degree. From Carillon College, too. They're good."
"They are indeed. Rather expensive, though. The younger Officer MacFaoil must be very glad that his father left enough life insurance to pay his way through Carillon. Even back then, it would have cost fifteen thousand a year. But I didn't come here to ask about Officer Colin MacFaoil. I came to ask him questions. After all, he was very close to his father. Perhaps he overheard something that might be of use to us."
"I don't think they were really that close."
"Is something wrong, Lieutenant Briley? You look troubled."
"Nothing at all," Briley said. Mary MacFaoil's mobile home was decent, but it didn't look like Kelly had left her very much money. It was confusing. "It's... nothing. Nothing at all."
"You're sure?"
"I am." Briley sniffed the air. "Colin MacFaoil's been around the building some time today. He's on his beat now. I suppose I could call him in if you want to question him."
Clydesbank coughed. He pulled a Campho-Rub inhaler out of his pocket, inhaled the fumes into each nostril, made a face, fumbled the cap onto the inhaler, and tossed it in the wastebasket. Briley could smell the sharp stink of the camphor. "Foul stuff, that," Clydesbank said. "I don't think I'll ever buy it again. No, that's all right, Lieutenant. Maybe I'll come by and ask him about it, with your permission, some time in the future.
"But I can't think of any other leads to pursue. I consider my investigation of the case to be closed. It's a pity nobody was able to find and punish the guilty parties."
"Yes. A true pity."
#
Seven lousy years walking a beat... At least he had enough seniority to work days, now. But it made him sick, thinking about how much of his life he'd wasted out here.
A trio of youngsters--probably ferrets, although it was hard to tell with the loose clothing they wore--saw him and ran away from the car they'd been trying to steal. He pretended he hadn't seen them. He was almost back to the station, and he didn't want to work late filling out paperwork on a theft arrest.
Seven years. And how many more until...
"Colin?"
He stopped and blinked at the mutt who stood before him, wearing a clerical collar. "Presley? What are you doing here? You crazy, man?"
"Colin, I can't live with my part in what happened. I must confess. It will be my ruin, but I have to speak anyway. I'm sorry."
Colin reached for his revolver. But--shooting a priest? How could he justify that? He hustled Presley O'Bannon aside, into the shadows of a doorway, instead. "It will be my ruin, too, mine and Trevor's. We're your friends, the best friends you ever had. We trusted you! Do you ever think of that?"
"Every day. You don't need to worry about me; I'll never betray you or Trevor. But you should confess, too, Colin. You and Trevor both, for the good of your souls."
Colin almost laughed in the priest's face. But Trevor wouldn't like that. He forced the laugh down. He put on a serious look. "Shouldn't we meet and talk things over, before you do anything rash?"
"I have to do what's right. Finally, after all these years, I know that."
"But I don't know what I should do! I'm confused. Let me think, and let's talk again before you say anything. Please? We could meet at the old coffee shop where we used to go. Say, 11:00 tonight?"
"All right. All right, Colin. I'll pray for you."
"Thank you, Father."
He walked the rest of the way to the station in a daze. He walked up the steps and into the lobby, then around and back toward his locker. He tried to greet the people he met as he always did, but he was sure they could smell the guilt on him.
Briley had gone home for the evening, thank God! There was something in the air he couldn't identify; a medicinal sharpness that filled him with guilt, somehow.
Thank God he didn't have to talk to Briley, thank God that--
There was a message slip in his slot. With a trembling hand, he picked it out. He unfolded it and read:
MacFaoil--Want to discuss w/ you anything you know & can remember re: Fairweather kidnapping case. Pls meet, my office start of shift tomorrow.--A. E. Briley
Somehow he got into his street clothes. He wobbled out of the station house, hardly smelling or seeing anything around him. Someone called out to him, but he kept going, out into the early darkness.
#
Alderman Trevor Goodwill had found it was often useful to have a few prepaid cell phones he'd purchased with cash. When the pager number came in, he pulled one of them out. At the right time, he dialed MacFaoil's own disposable phone.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Bey. This is Al. What's the story?"
"It's... it's the janitor. He got sloppy drunk." Presley O'Bannon has told somebody the story.
"You're sure?"
"Man, he told me he was going to. And then somebody left me a note asking about it."
"Somebody important?"
"The Head Usher." A cop of high rank. That was bad, very bad.
"I see. Well, if they didn't escort you out, they must not know anything yet. It's time to clean up the mess. There's no need to worry too much, though."
"Are you sure? What if he's already..."
"I'll have Jerry get you a ride home." I will have a ‘friend' get a stolen vehicle for you. You can find it at Jerry's Garage. Use it as we discussed. "He'll be driving a blue pickup. He'll leave you a present in the glove box, something to calm your nerves."
"You know I don't... I never would have gotten into this trouble in the first place, you wouldn't have talked me into... if it weren't for... my nerves."
"You need some medicine just this once. Calm down, Bey, it will be all right."
"If you say so. I bloody hope you're right."
"I am right. Just don't lose your head. Don't leave any spots in the carpet. The Head Usher isn't any relative of yours, this time. He won't clean up after you."
"Why does everybody always have to bring up my father--all right, all right, Al. No errors."
"And don't forget your nerves."
On his way home that day, Trevor Goodwill tossed the cell phone into the river. It was always best to dispose of the evidence as quickly as possible. He hadn't known that when he was back at good old Carillon College, wondering where he'd find next term's tuition. But a life spent climbing the slippery slope of politics had taught him a thing or two since then.
In the old days he hadn't always known to dispose of the evidence. But better late than never.
#
Lieutenant Briley drank the last of his coffee. He set the mug down on his desk with a grumble. Where was MacFaoil?
Maybe he hadn't seen the note? If so, it wouldn't be the worst mistake that lug had ever made on the Force. When he thought about what a great cop the elder MacFaoil had been...
He walked out into the main office. "Anybody seen MacFaoil today?"
"Boss?" Officer Stanson, a cute little female who usually worked the riverfront, looked worried and confused. Her whiskers twitched, her deep brown eyes were all seriousness and concern. "We have something on that hit-and-run last night."
"What?"
"Father O'Bannon has come out of it. He's a mess. They don't know how bad the head injuries are, or if he'll walk again. But he's conscious, sort of."
"Great. What's the description on the vehicle that hit him? Did he see the driver?"
"He isn't talking about that, Lieutenant. He says he wants to confess, says it over and over and over."
"Get him another priest, then."
"No. He wants to confess to you, and--" She held up a card in her webbed hand and squinted at it. "And to some people named Ananda and Arthur Fairweather."
Briley froze. His mouth dropped open. "Damn me," he whispered.
"Sir?"
"Damn me!"
Once, when they'd met him on the street, Father O'Bannon had addressed Colin MacFaoil by name.
They had both gone to Carillon College, at the same time.
Presley O'Bannon had worked for Arthur Fairweather, and would have known almost everything about Ananda's movements.
Sixty thousand dollars would have paid for three years at Carillon, maybe even four.
Kelly MacFaoil--the officer everyone on the Fort Pitt Police nearly worshiped--hadn't been able to find suspects in the Fairweather kidnapping. But he had found them. He hadn't found any evidence. But he had found evidence; found it and destroyed it. He'd worried himself into an early grave because he couldn't solve the case. But he had solved it. What killed him was that he knew exactly who had done the crime, and he couldn't tell. Because...
"Where the Hell is McFaoil?"
"He didn't show up this morning, Boss."
"Stanson--with me! Scramble three squad cars, have one pick us up at the front door! MacFaoil's apartment, fast!"
It took ten minutes to get there, lights flashing but the siren off. They parked at the curb. Three officers, revolvers drawn, took the elevator. Briley, Stanson, and the rest pelted up the stairs.
Briley knocked on the door. "MacFaoil? Open up." There was no answer. He stepped back to kick the door in. Stanson reached forward and turned the knob before he could. The door was unlocked.
They rushed into the apartment. They didn't have to go far. MacFaoil was on the couch, a half-full bottle of Bourbon on the end table. He looked peaceful.
Stanson holstered her revolver and touched MacFaoil's throat. "No pulse. Calling the EMTs." She keyed the microphone on her shoulder.
"Damn," somebody said. "The Big Irish. They all seem to die so young."
Briley growled. He sniffed the bottle of Bourbon, careful not to touch it. "No. This is too convenient. Just too convenient. And his father's death, too... was that convenient for somebody?"
"Sir?"
"MacFaoil didn't drink a single drop of booze all the time I knew him. And all of a sudden now, with everything that's happening, he gets drunk and conveniently drops dead? It stinks to high heaven! Nobody touches anything--anything. I want a tox screen. I want MacFaoil and this bottle tested for every poison known and unknown, strychnine, wolfsbane, eye of newt, everything. I want all the detectives in the world up here and why the Hell are you all still standing there? Get moving! Get me the lab, get the detectives, go go go! Damn me!"
Stanson said "EMTs are on the way." It was too late for an ambulance, she knew that as well as anybody, but the forms had to be followed. "This is a murder scene, sir?"
"Sure as Hell's a mantrap. Check everything. Check his mail. Check his computer and his email. We have a cop killer on the loose, people." He might not have been much of a cop, but he was still a cop. "We will find this killer. We will bring him to justice, if all of Hell stands in the way."
#
It's only after the tooth has been pulled that you know how bad the toothache was. That's how Alderman Trevor Goodwill felt when he woke up the next morning.
He'd spent the night alone, which was unusual for him. But it was all good. The sun was bright, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and a threat that had hung over his future for a decade was gone. The evidence would be gone by now. There was no way they could trace the ancient crime back to him.
What did it matter, anyway? It's not like they'd hurt that rich little bitch, not really. And if a crooked cop and a sniveling weakling of a priest had to be put aside to make Trevor's career safe... well, no great loss.
He hummed to himself as he made coffee. A flash of orange outside caught his eye. He lived in a gated community; nothing unusual was ever supposed to show up on his street. But this was just a telephone repair van, or something like that. They'd set up a traffic barrier and a little shelter around a manhole. That was all right, then.
Still humming, he decided to sit down and check his email before getting ready for work.
It was just the usual junk. News from some mailing lists he followed, a bit of spam that had slipped through his filters; notably something from dear old Carillon College. He deleted it. And then--
A and B--I will never betray you. But the guilt is too great. I must speak, for my own good. I pray for you and urge you to do the same. God can still forgive you.
--Omega
His jaw dropped open. That idiot. That idiot!
O'Bannon had changed the header on his email to hide its origin... or he'd thought he had, but the idiot priest didn't know the first thing about email systems. With a sinking heart, Trevor checked the raw data: Yes, damn, damn, damn, the original message routing information was still all there! So was Colin MacFaoil's email address, and Colin should be dead by now. The email linked them all; O'Bannon, MacFaoil, and poor Trevor Goodwill, who until this morning had had such a promising career in politics.
For an instant, he thought he might be all right anyway. The statute of limitations meant they could never get him for the kidnapping and the fun he'd had back then. He was free and clear of any prosecution. His career would be over, maybe, but he could talk his way out of it. A setback, only a setback--
Except he'd killed a cop. His heart sank.
Cop-killers somehow always seemed to die resisting arrest. Assuming they survived that, things didn't go well for them once they got to prison. The cons might appreciate a cop-killer, but when a knife in the cop killer's back, or breaking his spine, or cutting off his less immediately vital body parts could buy a few privileges or a few cigarettes from the guards... business was business, after all. Trevor's career in politics had taught him that, too.
Maybe there was still time to get out..? He opened the blinds a bit and looked out into the street.
The telephone repair van was still there. There were three large males, mostly hidden by the shelter around the manhole. They didn't seem to be doing much work. He caught a glint of sunlight on glass, perhaps a lens, from a chink in the shelter. There were two more gentlemen in the front seat of the van, staring resolutely anywhere except toward Trevor's house. One was a lion, one was a bear. They looked like weightlifters.
Something moved in the corner of his eye. He looked down the street. Cops, revolvers out, were moving from another van toward him. They wore protective vests. Three ran aside, toward the back of the house; three came on along the sidewalk. He looked the other way. Maybe something was moving toward his house from that direction too; he couldn't really see, but he'd thought something moved.
He rushed to his front door. It was a design usually found on drug houses, and had three locks. He locked them all and walked upstairs to his safe.
He'd kept some ancestor's big .44 hinge-frame revolver, because Old West antiques were worth a lot. Most of the bluing had worn off decades before, but the revolver itself seemed solid.
Pounding at his door. "Mr. Goodwill? Police! Open up!" More pounding, then a much louder BOOM. And another, and another. Even his reinforced door wouldn't stop a battering ram for long.
He fumbled two or three cartridges into the revolver's chambers. The pasteboard cartridge box had almost disintegrated into dust. The cartridges themselves were corroded; the brass was a dark olive-brown with a few flecks of green, the lead had a coating of white powder.
He put the barrel of the revolver in his mouth. He had a moment, as his finger tightened on the trigger, to wonder whether such an ancient cartridge would still work.
It did.
#
"Derrick, somebody named Briley from the police department called, and--if Ananda calls, tell her I've already gone to the hospital, will you?"
"Mr. Fairweather? What's happening? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Well, I don't know. What will I do? What will I say?"
"Mr. Fairweather, sir! Whatever has happened, I know you can face it. I know things will be all right. Please, calm yourself, sir."
Art took a deep breath. Then another. He straightened, and let go of the frame of Derrick's door; he stood taller when he stood straight on his own hooves. "Yes. Yes, you're right." He even managed to smile. It was shaky, but a smile nonetheless. "We can handle it. Everything's going to be fine now."
"Do you wish to talk to me about it, sir?"
"No. Well, maybe later. Not now. I have to... if Ananda calls, tell her."
"Of course, sir."
Art hurried out of the office. He'd forgotten his overcoat, but that was all right; the clouds, snow, and drizzle had finally cleared. The police had sent a car for him. It was already at the curb, its passenger door open.
Derrick smiled quietly to himself. He picked up the pot and poured himself another mug of tea.
