by K NILSSON
In fact, my mother said the reason Eileen didn’t promise herself to me was that I wasn’t the right fit and that her father disapproved of me.
For the past three weeks, I’d been accepted by the Drazen’s congregation, Christ the Redeemer Church, as a visiting priest and a temporary replacement for Father Daley. He wouldn’t be returning to his duties soon, due to his unfortunate accident. The parish secretary, Mrs. O’Leary, treated me like family when I walked through the church doors. I was given temporary dominion, as priest-in-charge, over the rectory, a comfortably appointed home paid for by the church. The house was a short walk across a patch of grass from the church. The rectory had a basement studio apartment which had direct access to the sacristy through a secret passage underground. I couldn’t have asked for a better set up for my plans.
For years, I’d walked through life as a priest, blessedly ordained by a bishop who was under duress. Thanks to the blessed sacrament of blackmail, I became Father Don Nesbitt. I liked to be called Father Don. As a visiting priest, I was welcome in any Catholic Church through the auspices of Canon 903.
My religious obligations were clear—I was to celebrate Mass, weddings, baptisms, and conduct funerals. Most important of all, I promoted the sacrament of reconciliation, in a paradoxical attempt to atone for my betrayal of trust, though I’d never felt the least bit guilty for not honoring the vows even though I promised to be holy and celibate. I lied.
I’d turned on the confessional light just before she slipped into the booth. Eileen arranged herself on the kneeler and took a few moments to collect her thoughts. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been one week since my last confession.”
Eileen was soft-spoken; I could barely hear her greeting. “What do you have to confess, my child?”
Though we spoke through the screen, I expected Eileen to recognize my voice. I could see her. She didn’t look up but kept her head bowed. “My sins are jealousy, pride, and selfishness.”
Her breath smelled like cherry cough drops. Eileen’s hair looked severe, pulled back into a tight bun. I was disappointed she didn’t wear her hair in the 1960s-bouffant style anymore. She’d owned that style. Her pale skin, coral lips, and the dark red hair teased so high that she swore it got her closer to heaven had been her trademark look. The last time I saw it was at the garden party where she promised her fidelity to my brother.
“Why were you jealous, my child?” I asked, feigning sympathy.
I had a brief vision of Eileen in a black floral cocktail dress, her creamy bosom pillowed above the low-cut portrait collar. She had just licked her lips, and I thought I heard her call my name.
“My husband had a lover until recently. He says he gave her up, but I don’t believe him. I always suspected he was cheating on me and that this wasn’t the first time. I tried not to be suspicious, but in the end, I was right, and now he’s lost my trust forever.”
My hand instantly covered my mouth to hide my smirk. Declan was an incorrigible skirt chaser and always had been, even when he promised to marry Eileen.
“The word jealous means envy; that being so, it’s a grievous sin,” I said, quite aware of the irony. “You must rid yourself of the damaging effects of that weakness.”
“I’ve been married to that man for over twenty years and given him six children! He wasn’t happy unless I was pregnant. Each child sucked away my youth and wore me out. He used me as often as any husband, and when he couldn’t, he turned to someone else!”
There was spittle on her lips. I should make her put it to good use.
“Now, now, calm down. Remember where you are,” I admonished softly. I wanted to tell her she deserved it.
“I’m sorry, Father, but he hurt my pride, and pride is all I have left. My children are grown. I’m not attractive anymore, and I drink to excess.”
Hearing Eileen’s admissions made me sad for one short minute. Why? Because no one knew better than me the tremendous emotional pain caused by jealousy. She could have saved us all from this kind of suffering, and now, all she got was Karmic payback. Some said you should sit back and wait, that Karma would catch up with those who’d hurt you.
“Do you repent?”
“Yes, Father.”
“For your penance, I want you to tell your husband how you feel about his cheating. If you’ve done it before, do it again.”
“But he gets mad every time I bring it up!” she protested.
“Then do it in a way that won’t get him mad.”
She huffed.
“And apologize for losing trust in him. Then do something nice for him that you’ve never done before or haven’t done in a long time.” I’d gotten good at dispensing meaningful penance.
Eileen was silent. Hell, I wanted to know what she was thinking because she showed admirable self-control.
“And say the rosary three times.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And ask him to go to confession.”
“Yes, Father.” She smiled.
“Now, recite the act of contrition.”
She did, and I absolved her in God’s name.
“God, the Father of mercies—”
She repeated after me. “Amen.”
“Go in peace and sin no more.”
“Yes, Father.”
It was still cloudy, and the church was cold. I turned off the open-for-business-light and to leave. Thoughts of Carrie, tied in up in bed, probably hungry, definitely thirsty, and, if the drugs had worn off, groggy, spurred me to leave in a hurry.
Then, I saw Eileen. She knelt at the back of the church, her shoulders hunched over as if she was fervently performing her penance.
Absolution was a new beginning, a clean slate for her, but as for me, I wasn’t ready to give her MY absolution. Not until I told her what she’d meant to me all these years. Not until she saw things my way. Then I might forgive her for turning her back on me.
When Eileen finished her prayers, she lit a candle at the shrine of Saint Gabriel, the patron saint of messengers. Then, the woman who had tortured me with her fading footsteps, slipped out of the church.
Chapter Six
Margie
Father called to tell me had gotten a cell phone message from “him.” We kept our texts and phone conversations as cryptic as we could. On my way to the car, I contacted Saint and told him to meet me at father’s office.
As soon as I arrived, Saint was already there.
“I live nearby,” he said sheepishly.
Then, the three of us huddled around dad’s cell phone that he put down on the table so that all of us could see it.. Once he swiped the screen, the image of a tiny video opened slowly, and my breath caught in my throat. Carrie was naked on the floor, her legs tucked into her chest, shaking uncontrollably, one arm raised as if to protect blows.
The recording device must have sat on a tripod or bookshelf, in any case, the scene was staged. Though the image was in profile, the bloody monster's teeth bared, he was in a rage. His movements were wild. He kicked Carrie in the ribs once, twice, then three times, but, she didn’t fight back. The syringe on the floor, next to a discarded t-shirt, might have had something to do with that. The muscles and cords in Saint’s neck were taut. “That’s how he took her! He injected her with something so she couldn’t fight him. “
“She didn’t have a chance,” I said, silently contemplating vengeance.
“Much as I wanted to kill him,” father began, visibly sweating, “I’m terrified for her.”
“This guy has no self-control. Carrie could be suffering from internal bleeding from this type of beating!” He roared, pounding his fist on the desk.
I prayed silently. Carrie had to be alive. Please, God, let her be alive. This macabre video is horrible, but at least we can see her breathing, terrified, but surviving.
The words spoken off camera were chilling. "I have your girl. I was nice to her, fed her, and bathed her; then the little bitch tried to escape. Stupid cunt. She cut m
e with a dull beer tab. Me! I can’t trust her. She takes after you Declan. Like father, like daughter.”
Father’s head jerked back, and his face drained of all color. “Who is this motherfucker who took my daughter? What do I have to do to eradicate him from the face of this earth, to force him into perdition, worse than what he’s putting her through?”
“Have you called the police?” I asked.
“No, and I don’t think I will just yet.” He said gravely. “If it’s who I think it is, I have to send out feelers and call in some favors.
“But dad! The video is the first proof she’s been kidnapped! You can’t sit on it! “This was one of the few times I’ve ever questioned my father’s judgment.
Saint looked at my father though he spoke to me, “He’s right, Margie. They always suspect the immediate family first. They’ll waste precious time interrogating and writing reports. The first twenty-four hours of kidnapping are crucial. After that, chances of recovering the person aren’t good.”
“Can you tell when the was video created?” I asked.
“Yes!” He said.
Saint sent a copy of the video to himself.
“The video was made last night, at 10:50 pm. The geo-tag narrowed the location to the closest cell tower."
“What now?” I asked.
“We’ll figure it out,” said Saint somberly.
“You better do it fucking fast,” Dad barked.
No shit, I thought as Saint promptly left.
Ms. Drazen, you have a call on line one,” said Mary, my father’s secretary.
“Who is it, Mary?”
“Max Carson. He said he’s an associate of Mr. Saint Gabriel.”
“Put him on hold for a couple of minutes please.” After I turned off the speaker, I told my father, “Let me check with Will to see if he’s legit.”
Daddy seemed to be looking at nothing. His profile was hawk-like and determined, as though he were summoning the war-god Baphomet because, in his mind, he could.
I sent Will a text asking if he knew Max Carson. He quickly responded with an affirmative.
Father's fingers curled into a fist as I picked up the extension in his office. “This is Margie Drazen.”
“Hello Ms. Drazen, this is Max Carson. I’m working on locating your sister.”
“Have you found her?”
“Uh… no, not yet. I need your help. I think her doctor, Jane MacCallum, may have information that can help us find her, though she may not realize it.
I drummed my fingers on the desk, “I see. Why do you need me?”
It’s about Dr. MacCallum. She’s bound by HIPPA and professional ethics not to disclose anything about her patients. The only way she could do it is if she had proof Carrie would want her to speak with us or permission from her family.”
“Oh yes, of course. I have a durable power of attorney that includes a health proxy. But I’ll have to go with you and present it.”
I heard the relief in his voice as he said, “Thank god.”
“I can be available this afternoon. Call the good doctor and arrange it. Let me know the particulars.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
As I slipped the phone into its cradle, Mary's tinny voice from the intercom pierced the room. "Sir, Mrs. Drazen is on her way up in the private elevator."
Dad paled. “I haven’t told your mother about Carrie’s photos, and now…” he waved the phone in the air.
“Guess you have to tell her now.”
I braced myself because soon, my mother will burst through the doorway. She knows dad wouldn’t have her brought to his office unless he had something unpleasant to say. Once she saw me, she'd know Dad kept her in the dark about something, and she hated being the last one to know about whatever... again.
I had no doubt she will be an avenging angel; as she should.
"Dad, I need to tie up some loose ends at work and hand off some cases, because I can't focus on anything else. Talk to you later. I left through the main elevators as fast as I could.
Chapter Seven
Saint
Dr. Jane was a meticulously neat woman. Everything about her was studied, her makeup conservative—neutral lipstick, just a bit of mascara—and dressed in a business suit. I liked how she spoke and could see how she’d put a troubled soul at ease. Hell, I’d bet even Max would be open to a couple of sessions with the good doctor.
She was invested in Carrie’s well-being. I had no doubt she would be helpful in the field if necessary.
“What did you plan on discussing with Carrie?” I asked.
“She brought her journal a few times,” Dr. Jane looked away. “There are things in it she obviously didn’t want to verbalize.”
“And what are those things?”
“Honestly, I don’t know… she read the entries aloud to me. I’m unsure if she shared them all. The dreams were the most disturbing. They plagued her. Apparently, she felt strong enough to share her recollections with me.”
“And you’ve summarized the dreams in this report?” I asked.
“No.” She said firmly; her squared shoulders spoke volumes.
Max hid a small smile with his hand.
We showed her the glossy photos of Carrie which Declan received at his office.
“These make me very sad. The person who sent them, even if he wasn’t the abuser, is a sick sociopath.”
Margie’s shot me a warning glance.
But I was frustrated and impatiently blurted, "We know it’s obvious."
“See that scar on his head? It looks like the result of a serious head injury. Head injuries on that part of a person’s head can cause psychotic behavior.”
There was silence in the room as everyone digested the implications of what she’d said.
When I looked at Margie, she gave me silent permission to share the taunting video. I played the short clip of Carrie's beating. I had sent it to my phone for further examination. Dr. Jane put on her reading glasses and was ready to look at it with interest, but, was unprepared for the horror she was about to witness. The blood drained from her face.
The poor woman blotted tears from her eyes, as did Margie. She raised her hand as a sign that she needed a moment before she could speak.
“What’s the best way to stop him?” Margie asked in a choked voice.
“You are dealing with someone who can’t reason, has no conscience, and is a danger to society. I have no clue.” Her squinty-eyed expression seemed to say, read-between-the-lines, and don’t ask me any more stupid questions like that.
“Would you mind talking about her participation in group therapy?” Asked Max.
“If it’s relevant and doesn’t compromise the identity of the others, of course.”
“These meetings are all about sharing experiences, aren’t they?” He asked. “What did she share that was relevant?”
Dr. Jane’s eyebrows furrowed, and her mouth turned down as if angry. “There was a priest involved in an encounter. He molested her. One of the lesser things he forced her to do was French kiss. When she refused, he punished her.”
Margie stiffened. Max controlled his facial expression, but I couldn’t.
“Tell me about it, all of it,” I said with quiet rage.
We sat still while Dr. Jane recounted Carrie’s tale, occasionally dabbing at her eyes.
At the end of it all, Margie was inconsolable. Dr. Jane opened her arms in an offer of comfort, and she succumbed, weeping openly.
Max and I stepped out to give them a private moment.
“How do you stop someone who has a brain injury? “asked Max.
"How do you stop a freight train?"
As I looked at the women embracing, I longed for one of those hugs.
Chapter Eight
Declan Drazen
Those two who call themselves Private Dicks are nothing more than cartoonish Dick Tracey’s. I’ll have to speak to Margie about why she had so much faith in Will’s recommendation. From
where I sit, the grainy images of the man in these surveillance photos should already be identified, in custody, and my daughter safe-and-sound at home where she belonged, where she should have been for these past years.
This demon towering over her in the restaurant was very tall because he bent quite low to whisper in her ear. Dressed in black, he was pale, bald, and bearded, though the beard was missing in the most recent of the pictures. The images taunted me.
How I’ve lost touch with Carrie is beyond me, perplexing, and disturbing. As a child, she wore Eileen’s halo and was a little sprite, while Margie, the child closest to me, was an old soul with a bit of my darkness. The cynicism, the instinct to go with her gut and in for the kill, Margie kept my tallies. She was the most significant achievement of my children.
Carrie was sweetness and light, frivolous in her youth but more somber in her teens. She helped old people cross the street, took stray animals to the shelter, and would take a sweater off her back to give to a homeless person.
It smelled like fucking Donal. I think he kidnapped my sweet Carrie to get revenge on me.
My older brother had been estranged from us since our father disavowed him and promptly banished him to Rome.
Donal had been at Harvard for one year before I attended the school. When I tried out for the team, the coach assigned me to play all three positions, which was right up my alley. I didn’t want to be a one-trick pony. I was happy to be put in the game in any position.
The word team had significant meaning at Harvard—we all needed one another to be successful in our goals. Lacrosse was a team effort, but Donal didn’t get it. Over the season, he changed, became distant, and ignored me. We didn’t do things together at all.
He complained that the coach didn’t play him enough, that he was considered a better bench warmer than a player. The teammates wanted Donal off the team, but they couldn’t force him off. Thanks to our father’s influence, the coach’s hands were tied. Donal wasn't going to get any help from me. He needed to get himself out of the doghouse. My brother didn’t think he was the problem. He groused at me, arguing that I’d stolen his spot on the team. The way I saw it, the problem wasn’t mine. His teammates became my friends. Our teammates answered every complaint, every wrong, and act of aggression toward me through various forms of punishment. Each instance involved blindfolds or a hood so that he couldn’t identify the participants. If he complained, he’d lose his spot on the team. He was miserable.
