“The counterintelligence training I’d been through taught me well, so slipping out of the unit and through the jungle was not a problem. I lived off the land for a good six months, always making my way south, until I came to a fishing village and was able to barter some of my tools to get river passage down to the southern tip of Vietnam. From there, I made my way across the South China Sea to the Philippines and stayed there for a few years before managing to get myself onto a transpacific ship and eventually back to the United States. The whole time, I was searching for answers—in churches, in shrines, in the streets among the poor—and at last, I came to the conclusion that my life—the life of Corporal Mullen—had to be put to an end, and a new life must rise in its place. And so, when I finally made it home nearly eight years after my desertion and a full three years after the war had ended, I enrolled in Seminary. And on that day, Corporal Patrick Mullen died, and Father Patrick McGill was born.”
Father Patrick finished speaking and sat up again, leaning back in his chair. He reached out to the table, picked up his glass, and drank down the rest of the port. He had yet to look at her since beginning to tell his story, and all Maureen could do was stare at him. She could obviously tell that the effort of relating the story had taken a toll on him emotionally. There was even the stain of a single tear tracing its path down his face. She detected a feeling in him that she knew all too well herself. Shame.
“Is that all true?” she asked quietly. “That’s your whole story?”
“That’s two different questions,” Father Patrick said, turning and smiling sadly at her. “Yes, everything I’ve just told you is true. No, I have not told you everything, but I have told you enough to make you understand. I’ve seen enough violence to last me more than one lifetime, and I’ve done more than any man should. I have just as many demons to fight as you do, likely more, which is probably why I am able to speak of these things to you. My nightmares might not tell me the things that yours tell you, but they haunt me nonetheless. Another way you and I are a lot alike.”
“How do you handle it?” Maureen found herself almost forgetting why she had come in the first place. The anger she’d felt toward the man had almost turned to pity. If this all was an act, she was certainly convinced.
“Prayer, lots and lots of prayer. Seems like a fairly obvious and standard thing for a priest to say, but it’s the truth. I know that God knows what I have done, and I know that I’ll be judged justly when my time comes. I’m not one who necessarily believes that I can erase my sins with a string of good deeds, but I do believe in atoning for them as best I can. When I pray, I acknowledge to the Lord that I am mortal—I am flawed—but I really am trying to be better and to serve others because it’s right, not because I’m hoping for some reward.”
“Not very Catholic of you,” Maureen chided. It wasn’t a very tasteful thing to say, she knew, but she had to break this tension somehow.
Father Patrick let out a short, soft laugh then paused for a moment while staring down at his empty glass and passing it from hand to hand, once again deep in thought. “Maureen,” he said finally, “there are more than half a dozen churches and even more church leaders in this town. How is it that I became your prime suspect?”
“It seemed to fit so perfectly. It became pretty obvious to me and Manny after the second murder that whoever was doing this was targeting people who had sinned. Lying, stealing, and now Tasha Naismith just admitted to adultery. This guy is killing the children of commandment breakers as a sacrifice of atonement. It’s straight out of the Old Testament. Leviticus is practically a how-to manual for the crimes. All the families of the victims go to St. Mary’s, and at least one of each of the sets of the parents has been to confession within the last ten days, so I just assumed that . . .”
Maureen’s voice trailed off as Father Patrick got up from his chair and, almost trance-like, slowly made his way over to the bookshelf on the opposite wall.
“Father, what is it?” she asked.
“I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I was planning on retiring at the end of the year. Because of that, I’ve been handling less of the day-to-day responsibilities of the church.” He turned and looked steadily at her, his unblinking eyes burning with an earnest horror. “Maureen, I haven’t taken a confession in nearly two months.”
Maureen opened her mouth, but the words got lost on their way out. The final piece hit her all at once. She quickly shot her gaze over to the clock on the wall. 11:16. If he was going to kill the boy tonight, it would be soon. There wasn’t much time.
“Father, I have to go! Right now!”
Father Patrick began to protest, but she had run through the house and was out the door and out of hearing range before she heard what
