conscience.”
“No,” Fegan said, resisting but not letting go. He set the glass on the floor.
“For your mother, Gerry.”
Fegan slipped off the chair and allowed Father Coulter to guide him to his side, kneeling. He rested his forearms against the chair and clasped his hands together. A minute passed, the ticking of the clock over the fire hammering against Fegan’s temples.
Father Coulter turned his head just a little. “Don’t you remember what to do?”
“I’m afraid, Father.”
The priest turned in his chair and circled Fegan’s hands with his. “Don’t be. Just—”
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Father Coulter’s hands slipped away from Fegan’s. “It’s been nine years since my last confession.”
Father Coulter waited for a few seconds. “Go on.”
“I’ve been quiet for so long. I turned away and I was quiet. But they won’t leave me alone.”
“Who won’t?”
“The people I killed.”
The priest nodded. “Guilt is the heaviest of all emotions. It’ll eat you alive if you let it. Have you confessed to these sins before?”
“Yes, Father. In the Maze.”
“Then you have absolution. But guilt remains, of course it does. You must carry that burden. That is your penance, not any prayer. You must carry it and live on, however painful that might be.”
“Father.” Fegan hesitated, squeezing his eyes shut. He let the air out of his lungs in a long hiss and opened them again. “Father, I’ve killed two more men.”
The priest shifted in his chair. “When?”
“This week.”
“This . . . this week?”
“Yes.”
“Oh God, Gerry. Oh, sweet Jesus.”
“I didn’t want to. I swear to God, I didn’t want to.”
“Oh, my Lord. Michael McKenna? Vincent Caffola?”
“Yes, Father.” Fegan pressed his interlocked hands against his forehead.
“Jesus. Jesus, why?”
Fegan looked up. Father Coulter stared back at him. “Because I had to.”
“What do you mean?” The priest shook his head.
“I told the boy’s mother where his body was. I thought that would do it, make him leave me alone. Then Michael found out. He came to me, said he’d tell McGinty if I didn’t do what he wanted. Then the boy told me what to do, and I did it.”
“What boy? What are you talking about? Dear God, Gerry, this is madness.”
“Then Vincie, he was coming after me, asking questions. And the UDR men, they wanted him, and I—”
“Stop it.”
“I had to give—”
“No.”
“—give him to them.”
“Enough!” Father Coulter slammed his fists into his thighs. “Enough. No more.”
Fegan closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Father.”
A long silence passed. The ticking clock sent jolt after jolt into Fegan’s temples. The chill at his center deepened.
After an age, Father Coulter whispered, “The Sacrament of Penance is my curse. The things I’ve had to carry for men like you. A curse is what it is.”
He bowed his head and made the Sign of the Cross. “God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Fegan asked, “My penance, Father?”
“Your penance?” Father Coulter gave a thin, sad smile. “The same as it’s always been. The same as it always will be. Your burden, Gerry Fegan. That is your penance.”
The priest looked away. “Now get out,” he said.
Fegan watched him for a moment before standing. Without looking back, he went to the hallway where the
