He would do whatever he could to help lighten McKindry’s burdens. Monsignor was looking forward to visiting with his old friends again. One of them was Abbot James Rockhill, Tom’s superior at Assumption Abbey, and the other, Vincent Moreno, was a priest Tom had never met. Neither Rockhill nor Moreno would be staying at Mercy house with McKindry and Tom, for they much preferred the luxuries provided by the staff at Holy Trinity parish, luxuries like hot water that lasted longer than five minutes and central air-conditioning. Trinity was located in the heart of a bedroom community on the other side of the state line separating Missouri from Kansas. McKindry jokingly referred to it as 'Our Lady of the Lexus,' and from the number of designer cars parked in the church’s lot on Sunday mornings, the label was right on the mark. Most of the parishioners at Mercy didn’t own cars. They walked to church.
Tom’s stomach began to rumble. He was hot and sticky and thirsty. He needed another shower, and he wanted a cold Bud Light. There hadn’t been a single taker in all the while he’d been sitting there roasting like a turkey. He didn’t think anyone else was even inside the church now, except maybe Lewis, who liked to hide in the cloakroom behind the vestibule and sneak sips of rot whiskey from the bottle in his toolbox. Tom checked his watch, saw he only had a couple of minutes left, and decided he’d had enough. He switched off the light above the confessional and was reaching for the curtain when he heard the swoosh of air the leather kneeler expelled when weight was placed upon it. The sound was followed by a discreet cough from the confessor’s cell next to him.
Tom immediately straightened in his chair, took the gum out of his mouth and put it back in the wrapper, then bowed his head in prayer and slid the wooden panel up.
'In the name of the Father and of the Son…' he began in a low voice as he made the sign of the cross.
Several seconds passed in silence. The penitent was either gathering his thoughts or his courage before he confessed his transgressions. Tom adjusted the stole around his neck and patiently continued to wait.
The scent of Calvin Klein’s Obsession came floating through the grille that separated them. It was a distinct, heavy, sweet fragrance Tom recognized because his housekeeper in Rome had given him a bottle of the cologne on his last birthday. A little of the stuff went a long way, and the penitent had gone overboard. The confessional reeked. The scent, combined with the smell of mildew and sweat, made Tom feel as though he were trying to breathe through a plastic bag. His stomach lurched and he forced himself not to gag.
'Are you there, Father?'
'I’m here,' Tom whispered. 'When you’re ready to confess your sins, you may begin.'
'This is… difficult for me. My last confession was a year ago. I wasn’t given absolution then. Will you absolve me now?'
There was an odd, singsong quality to the voice and a mocking tone that put Tom on his guard. Was the stranger simply nervous because it had been such a long time since his last confession, or was he being deliberately irreverent?
'You weren’t given absolution?'
'No, I wasn’t, Father. I angered the priest. I’ll make you angry too. What I have to confess will… shock you. Then you’ll become angry like the other priest.'
'Nothing you say will shock or anger me,' Tom assured him.
'You’ve heard it all before? Is that it, Father?' Before Tom could answer, the penitent whispered, 'Hate the sin, not the sinner.'
The mocking had intensified. Tom stiffened. 'Would you like to begin?'
'Yes ' the stranger replied. 'Bless me, Father, for I will sin.'
Confused by what he’d heard, Tom leaned closer to the grille and asked the man to start over.
'Bless me, Father, for I will sin.'
'You want to confess a sin you’re going to commit?'
'I do.'
'Is this some sort of a game or a-'
'No, no, not a game,' the man said. 'I’m deadly serious. Are you getting angry yet?'
A burst of laughter, as jarring as the sound of gunfire in the middle of the night, shot through the grille.
Tom was careful to keep his voice neutral when he answered. 'No, I’m not angry, but I am confused. Surely you realize you can’t be given absolution for sins you’re contemplating. Forgiveness is for those who have realized their mistakes and are truly contrite. They’re willing to make restitution for their sins.'
'Ah, but Father, you don’t know what the sins are yet. How can you deny me absolution?'
'Naming the sins doesn’t change anything.'
'Oh, but it does. A year ago I told another priest exactly what I was going to do, but he didn’t believe me until it was too late. Don’t make the same mistake.'
'How do you know the priest didn’t believe you?'
'He didn’t try to stop me. That’s how I know.'
'How long have you been a Catholic?'
'All my life.'
'Then you know that a priest cannot acknowledge the sin or the sinner outside of the confessional. The seal of silence is sacred. Exactly how could this other priest have stopped you?'
'He could have found a way. I was… practicing then, and I was cautious. It would have been very easy for him to stop me, so it’s his fault, not mine. It won’t be easy now.'
Tom was desperately trying to make sense out of what the man was saying. Practice? Practice what? And what was the sin the priest could have prevented?
'I thought I could control it,' the man said.
'Control what?'
'The craving.'
'What was the sin you confessed?'
'Her name was Millicent. A nice, old-fashioned name, don’t you think? Her friends called her Millie, but I didn’t. I much preferred Millicent. Of course, I wasn’t what you would call a friend.'
Another burst of laughter pierced the dead air. Tom’s forehead was beaded with perspiration, but he suddenly felt cold. This wasn’t a prankster. He dreaded what he was going to hear, yet he was compelled to ask.
'What happened to Millicent?'
'I broke her heart.'
'I don’t understand…'
'What do you think happened to her?' the man demanded, his impatience clear now. 'I killed her. It was messy; there was blood everywhere, all over me. I was terribly inexperienced back then. I hadn’t perfected my technique. When I went to confession, I hadn’t killed her yet. I was still in the planning stage and the priest could have stopped me, but he didn’t. I told him what I was going to do.'
'Tell me, how could he have stopped you?'
'Prayer,' he answered, a shrug in his voice. 'I told him to pray for me, but he didn’t pray hard enough, now did he? I still killed her. It’s a pity, really. She was such a pretty little thing… much prettier than the others.'
Dear God, there were other women? How many others?
'How many crimes have you-'
The stranger interrupted him. 'Sins, Father,' he said. 'I committed sins, but I might have been able to resist if the priest had helped me. He wouldn’t give me what I needed.'
'What did you need?'
'Absolution and acceptance. I was denied both.'
The stranger suddenly slammed his fist into the grille. Rage that must have been simmering just below the surface erupted full force as he spewed out in grotesque detail exactly what he had done to the poor innocent Millicent.
Tom was overwhelmed and sickened by the horror of it all. Dear God, what should he do? He had boasted he wouldn’t be shocked or angered, but nothing could have prepared him for the atrocities the stranger took such delight in describing.
Hate the sin, not the sinner.
'I’ve gotten a real taste for it,' the madman whispered.
'How many other women have you killed?'
