It was a Tuesday morning, and he showed up two hours early. The church parking lot was empty, and so were the few cars parked on the street of the residential neighborhood. He drove around the block several times, finally convinced that cops weren’t staked out anywhere. He entered the church fifteen minutes before ten. The interior was empty, and two candles burned up front. The only other light streamed through the stained-glass windows.
He walked the full length of the nave to be certain that he was alone. No one, not even the priest, was in sight. He went outside again and saw nobody. And the sixth sense that years in his trade had honed did not alert him to an ambush. When satisfied, he went back inside and entered the confessional to wait for the priest. Even if police were staked out, he had not incriminated himself.
He carried no weapon. In fact, he had not carried one since his last kill. That was four months ago, when he had suffered a heart attack and decided to give up contract work. Yes, he missed the money because the recession had hurt his auto body business as people stopped coming in with dings, dents, and fender benders. Furthermore, as an independent, he could not compete with chains that cut pricing deals with insurance companies. Nearing his fifty-second year, he reminded himself, while sitting in the confessional, that his father had died of a coronary thrombosis at fifty-five and his mother a year later of a stroke.
What had brought him to this booth the other day was his reaching out to God. Lying in that hospital bed four months ago and fearing he was going to die, he had sent up a prayer from the bottom of his soul that he would give up the killing if God would spare his life. The next night, he could have sworn that Jesus had appeared to him. It was probably just a dream, because he looked like the Jesus in the picture his mother had on her bureau—a tall figure in white standing on a hillside with people gathered around his feet, listening. And beneath it the Ninety-first Psalm. He could still recall the words:
But as Roman sat in the dim light waiting for the priest, he recalled the promise of those words and the bargain he had made. He had fully recovered, certain in the belief that God had answered his prayer and forgiven him. Certain that while he lay in his hospital bed, God had visited him like one of the guys from the body shop or softball team. And he knew because he could feel something happen inside his soul—something that told him that God was real. And that God had actually loved him enough to have intervened, telling him,
A little after ten, Roman heard someone enter the other side. Because of the low light and screen, he couldn’t see the profile of Father Callahan.
“Good morning, my son.”
“Good morning, Father,” Roman said. Then he began: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The words tumbled out of his mouth like gravel. It was the second time in forty years he had uttered them.
“Would you care to confess your sins, my son?”
The voice did not sound like that of Father Timothy Callahan. This was a different priest. “I was here three days ago.”
“Yes, I know,” the voice replied. “But I still need to hear your confession.”
Roman felt his chest clench. A setup—the guy on the other side was a fucking cop, his backup hiding in the pews or behind the altar. “You’re not Father Callahan.”
“No, I’m not. I’m a brother in spirit and am bound by the same vows of confidentiality. Father Callahan is a new priest and shared with me the special circumstances. But I can assure you that what is said in this confessional is strictly confidential.”
“He hasn’t. He’s bound by the holy sacrament and his sacred vows.”
Maybe Roman’s sins were so awful that the young priest had to call in a heavy hitter—a bishop, maybe, or even a cardinal. “I’ve committed mortal sins.”
“God will hear your sins.”
“I killed some people and want to redeem myself.”
“I see. It’s good that you want redemption. Let us pray that God forgives you for your sins and gives you guidance and strength.”
Through the decorative grate, Roman could hear the man praying. The last time Roman was in the presence of a priest was when he was a teenager. His mother had made him go to church, and he’d hated every moment of it—an hour plus of mumbo-jumbo, half in Latin, half in bloated threats. The only matters that held his attention were stories about saints being crucified or roasted alive. For more Sundays than he cared to count, he sat numb- butted on hard pews that smelled of Murphy’s Oil Soap. But instead of losing himself in it all, he watched others lock into complex rituals of praying, kneeling, standing, and crossing themselves. And never once did he feel any mystery or peace—just near terminal boredom, surrounded by a lot of people going through the motions out of duty, fear, and hope. As for confession, he went because Father Infantino insisted he go. That had always struck him as silly —a way to shed guilt and get a free pass to sin some more.
Now, sitting in this oaken box, he could not repress a deep unease that took him back to those days at St. Luke’s at the south end of Hartford, where Father Infantino tried to pound the fear of God into his adolescent brain.
“Were you were raised Roman Catholic?”
“Yes—early on.”
“So, you strayed from your faith.”
“Something like that.”
“What made you choose this parish to return?”
“I guess it’s like the traditional Catholicism I grew up with.”
From what he knew, St. Pius Church still held sacred pre–Vatican II dogma, resisting efforts to modernize the Church—holding fast to the sanctity of the literal Bible, the Latin mass, the dress codes for women, the firm stand on divorce, and the conviction that there was no salvation for those outside the Roman Catholic Church. The parish also rejected reconciliation with the Jews. From what Roman had heard, St. Pius Church was a small, white, conservative enclave of traditionalist worshippers who upheld Catholic purity within a Church that had become too liberal and a culture that rejected God’s Word. Given his sins, Roman figured that he needed a ministry of severe unction.
“Then we welcome you back, my son, but know that your sins are very heavy.”
“I know and I’m asking forgiveness.”
“Good, and no matter how heavy, there is a way back to God, my son.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“But for such special circumstances, special sanctions are necessary. Do you believe in God the Father Almighty and his son Jesus Christ our savior?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe that God answers prayers?”
“Yes, and I ask that He save my soul.”
“He will because God sees you and He loves you. And He will welcome you home.”
Roman took in the comfort of those words. “Thank you, Father.”
“Do you believe in evil?”
“Evil?” The question caught him off guard. “I guess. There’s a lot of it out there.”
“So it seems. Do you believe in the devil?”
“No, not really.”
“So you believe only people are evil.”
“Yeah. Because evil is what people do, what gives them pleasure.”
“I see. Did you get pleasure from your profession?”
Roman picked up on the careful wording, though he was beginning to wonder about the direction of the
