The Third Hour

by Richard Devin

  The hand that tightly gripped Brother Salvatore’s arm released and he could feel the blood rush once again to his forearm, wrist and hand. He breathed in quick gulps of air and unable to support himself any longer, his knees weakened and he slid down the wall, crumpling to the floor.

  Then darkness once again consumed the room as the flame at the far end of the church flickered out.

  Brother Salvatore lay back against the wall letting the coolness of the carved stonework seep into his skin and squelch his fear. He sat there through many hours of silence, until daylight eased across the sky and took his fear with it.

  FOUR

  “DOMINIC, EXACTLY WHAT do you mean we can’t call the police?” Tonita didn’t wait for an answer. “Just watch me.” She grabbed for the telephone.

  “Tonita, no!” Dominic reached the telephone before she did. He pulled it away, placing it behind his back.

  “Oh, that’s nice. Do you think we’re playing a game of hide and seek now?”

  “Don’t be a smart ass.”

  “Don’t be a dumb shit.” Her lips pouted and her entire body took on attitude.

  An attitude that sent Dominic’s senses reeling. “If only I had lived a different life, Tonita.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? You know, you don’t make any sense to me? No wonder you’re so screwed up.” She put her hand out. “Are you going to give me that phone?”

  He was screwed up. She was right. He couldn’t help but to agree with her, at least silently. They had only met about ten weeks ago and she already knew him.

  Could I be that transparent?

  He thought about it for moment and concluded that he could and probably was.

  “I can’t.”

  “Then, I’m leaving,” she said, taking up her coat from the floor and heading toward the door.

  “No, no, no.” He took a step in her direction, then stopped. “You don’t understand.”

  She turned. “Try me,” she said, placing her hands on her hips, giving him more of that attitude.

  Dominic bit on the inside of his cheek, a bad habit that he was trying to break. “He knew me.”

  “He?” Tonita raised an eyebrow. “Who? Who knew you?”

  Dominic glanced to the body lying near the kitchen.

  Her eyes widened. “He knew you? The dead guy?” Tonita dropped her coat to the floor and made her way into the living room. She paced between the sofa and the chair, sitting on the arm of the chair then getting up again. “I thought that you had no idea why this guy was in your apartment?”

  “I didn’t.” Dominic brushed his hand through his hair, trying to keep it out of his face. “I still don’t.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. “Look, you’re either trying to make this difficult or you’re trying to cover something up? Be honest with me, Dom.”

  Dominic sat down sinking into the worn leather chair, he pushed his hair back from his face—a nervous habit that he internally added to the list of tics and vices he was trying to break—I’m trying to change too much too soon. And not changing a damn thing. He sighed letting the breath flow from him. “I went out for a walk. You know the usual thing. Late night, alone...” He gave her a nod. “I slipped on the street and landed pretty hard. Luckily, I caught myself and I thought that I was all right. But when I got back, I noticed blood on my hands and pants.”

  “You cut yourself?”

  “No, that’s just it. I checked and I wasn’t cut. I wasn’t bleeding anywhere.” He looked up at Tonita, showing her his hands. “Nothing.” He turned his hands over inspecting them once again as though he may have missed something. “It was his blood.” He glanced at the body. “He was waiting for me.”

  “Why do you say that? Maybe you just happened along.” Tonita took a few steps toward the body. “He was injured, stabbed by that cross ice pick thing, and then you came along and he followed you in.”

  “That’s what I thought at first. I didn’t see anyone when I was walking. Sometimes, I see a few people, but not tonight. No one was out.”

  “He could have been hiding.”

  “True.” He let out long sigh. “If he was, he was hiding in here. Waiting for me.”

  “And that’s why you think he knew you?”

  “That, and then he said, ‘help me.’”

  Tonita walked back to him. “Dom, the old man was dying. Of course he asked for your help.”

  “It’s not just that he said, ‘help me’. It’s the way that he said it. Three times.” He paused, looking directly into her eyes. “Once in Latin, once in Greek, and once in Hebrew.”

  “So, he didn’t know what language you spoke and he was just covering all the bases.”

  “Then why not Italian? We’re in Rome for God’s sake. At least Italian would have made sense. But instead he uses three languages. And one of them Latin? A language that almost no one uses.”

  “All right, I give up. Why?” She crossed her arms and focused on him.

  “Because. Well, I think because,” he paused thinking it through, then continued, “they are the three languages used on the plaque placed on Christ’s crucifix.”

  “Okay, you’ve lost me.” She dropped her arms and shook her head.

  “You’ve seen it abbreviated as I.N.R.I. on a board just above Jesus’ head in paintings. Pontius Pilate placed the titlum on the cross...”

  “The what?”

  The titlum. The plaque. The piece of wood.”

  “Okay. Continue.”

  Dominic sighed, “Pilate placed the titlum to identify the crime that Jesus was being crucified for. Jesus the Nazorean, the King of the Jews.” Dominic stood up and walked the few steps to a bookshelf in the corner of the room, “It was a common practice by the Romans to place a plaque above the head of the crucified, letting everyone that saw the dying man know what crime he had committed. Let me show you.” He pulled a book out from under several others and handed it to Tonita. “Here’s a good example from Nicolas Tournier. He painted it about 1635.”

  She glanced at the cover of the oversized art book. The scene was of the crucifixion of Christ on the cross, surrounded by an old man, two women and another person that Tonita could not decide if it was a man or a woman.

  “See the titlum is above Christ’s head.” Dominic pointed to the place on the painting.

  “I see it, but I don’t understand how you get from this plaque on a cross to the conclusion that the man over there knew you.”

  They both could not help but glance quickly to the body.

  “It wasn’t just that he spoke those languages, it was in the order he used them. Latin first, then Greek, then Hebrew. In the bible, John says that the titlum was written in Hebrew first, then Greek, and the Latin was last. That’s the common belief and if you asked anyone that’s what they would say.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “No, really.”

  Tonita smiled. “You missed the sarcasm. I don’t think that almost anyone would know that.”

  “You’ve got a point,” he said, then continued with his own point, “Theological historians will tell you that the titlum was actually written in Latin first, then Greek and then Hebrew. The language of official Rome, the government, was Latin. However, because of all the lands that the Romans conquered many people spoke Greek. Pilate was Roman, and he was the Governor of Judea. So protocol would have mandated that the titlum be written in Latin first, since that was the official language of the Roman government. And the act of crucifying Christ was a government act.”

  “That’s a great little history lesson, but I don’t get anywhere near—that man on the floor of your kitchen knowing you—from the title thing on the cross.” Tonita turned a page in the book to a painting entitled the “Denial of Saint Peter.” She noted the caption and closed the book quickly, handing it back to Dominic.

  “There’s more.”

  Tonita looked at him. Waiting.

  “He said one more thing. And this is why I am
certain that he knew me.”

  “Well?” Tonita crossed her arms in front of her. “What did he say?”

  “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.” Dominic waited a moment as he watched the expression on Tonita’s face change to complete recognition. “He knew that I’m a priest.”

  FIVE

  “SO, YOU EXPECT ME TO believe that the dead body just walked into your flat and you have no idea of who he is?” Inspector Carrola spoke adding the hard ‘eh’ endings to the English words as so many Italians do.

  “Signore,” Dominic began.

  “Excuse me, Father,” Inspector Carrola interrupted. “English, please. I wish to rehearse my English.”

  “Fine, Inspector. English it is.”

  “And, I am so sorry to again interrupt you, but please, if I make the mistake in English, you make it correct.”

  “Yes, Inspector.” Dominic’s tone was impatient.

  “Va Bene,” Inspector Carrola said smiling, then remembering, “I mean, all is good.”

  Dominic’s apartment was packed to capacity with policemen, inspectors and detectives. The local station captain had, it seemed to Dominic, sent every available officer, those on duty and those off. Most of the plentitude of polizia gathered in groups in corners of the apartment. Some busied themselves skimming through books. Two relaxed on the sofa, one smoking, and another on the chair, head tilted back, eyes closed.

  The body of the old man was now wrapped in a body bag, having been photographed from every possible angle and examined by everyone who came through the door. Dominic half expected a cop to draw a chalk line around the body, as he had seen done in so many old movies.

  Tonita had been separated from Dominic by several other inspectors. Dominic watched her animatedly explain to the Roman police her story. She gesticulated wildly at one point, arms at her chest, her face bent over as though she was vomiting, legs kicking in a re-enactment of the old man’s final moments. A good little actress, Dominic noted.

  “So, now please, Father, you tell me the story.” Inspector Carrola blinked several times, an odd expression of disbelief to a story he hadn’t yet heard, evident on his face.

  “I have told the other inspectors what happened and they all took notes Inspector. Perhaps we could save some time and you could simply ask them,” Dominic spoke each word clearly and slowly.

  “You are not a priest anymore, Father?” Inspector Carrola cocked his head to the side.

  “I’m on a leave.”

  “Why? Why do you leave?”

  “I haven’t left the priesthood, Inspector. You misunderstand the meaning of the word. I’m still a priest. I just needed some time away to get my head straight.”

  “So then, I can ask you?” Inspector Carrola asked not waiting for an answer. “You no believe in God now?”

  “Yes, I still believe in God. That hasn’t changed. It’s not that at all”

  “It is what then?”

  “Like I said, Inspector, I needed some time away.”

  “Ah.” Inspector Carrola clicked his tongue. “For your sake, Father, I hope that God does not need some time away from you.” He looked to the black vinyl body bag stuffed with the corpse of the old man and shrugged.

  Dominic let out a long sigh. The last thing he wanted now was for a cop to give him advice on his calling. What he really wanted, was everyone out of his apartment, a shower, and a few hours of sleep. He had been up since the late afternoon of the day before. The adrenaline of the night’s events had long since worn off and his body ached.

  “Is she your girlfriend, Father?” Inspector Carrola tilted his head toward the corner of the room where Tonita was standing.

  “I’m sorry.” Dominic heard Inspector Carrola’s question, but needed a moment to think. “Inspector?”

  “The woman, she is no Italian, correct?”

  “No. She’s American, like me.”

  “I see. And she is, come dite?” He slipped back into Italian. “I am sorry, how do you say in English? A metà negro e mezzo bianco?”

  “Mulatto.”

  “Ah yes.

  “Her mother is South African, but born and raised in England. Her father is Irish.

  Then, I am correct, she is your girlfriend, no?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Good friends. Nothing more.”

  “She is very beautiful? No? Father?”

  “Inspector? Call me Dominic, or Dom.” Dominic thought he may have sounded too irritated. Then thought about it again and concluded, he was irritated!

  “Ah that is right, you are not a priest now.”

  “I am still a priest. I have already explained to you that I just needed some time.”

  “I understand, Dominic. You need some time with the girlfriend.” Inspector Carrola winked.

  “She’s just a good friend, Inspector. Nothing more.”

  “Va Bene,” Inspector Carrola said, apparently forgetting again that they were conversing in English.

  Long moments of silence followed as Dominic watched while Inspector Carrola looked around the room, taking—Dominic assumed—mental notes of everything that was on the floor, ceiling, and walls. Thank god I left the crucifix up, Dominic thought, as he watched Inspector Carrola shake his head back and forth when he caught sight of the wooden crucifix hanging near the bedroom door.

  Dominic had actually taken the crucifix down several weeks ago, removing it from the rusty nail holding it in place on the wall. He had taken it down, but had only moments later replaced it. It was a few weeks earlier, as he prepared for one of his late night walks. He had caught sight of the crucifix when he’d sat down to put on his shoes. It had seemed odd to him to have that object of the church hanging on the wall as a statement of his belief when he wasn’t sure what he believed, so he’d taken it down. Just before walking out the front door to the street, however, he’d returned to the living room and re-hung the cross to its place of prominence in the apartment. He who walks without God walks alone, he reminded himself of the modernization of the quote from Genesis.

  “Why, Father, do you call your girlfriend and not the doctor or the police?” Inspector Carrola asked as he finished with his mental notes. “You want to hide something?”

  “Not my girlfriend, Inspector.”

  “She is a girl, no?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “And she is your friend?” Inspector Carrola’s eyebrows arched.

  “Yes.” Dominic knew where the inspector was going with this line of questions.

  “Then why no girlfriend?”

  “Because girlfriend means that there is something sexual...something more to the relationship than just a friendship,” Dominic said, hoping to put an end to the discussion.

  “I see.” The Inspector clearly didn’t. “This beautiful girl is just a friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you call her and no police or doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me ask you then, can a priest lie and still go to heaven, Father?” The Inspector punched up the last word.

  He was lying. She did mean more to him than just a friend who happened to be a girl. Why not admit it? Dominic was about to respond to both his own internal questions and those of Inspector Carrola, when Tonita approached. He glanced at her and smiled. She looked tired and a bit haggard, but attempted to smile back.

  “Dom, have you finished with the Inspector?” Tonita said, as she mutilated a business card left with her by the detectives. Her hair fell around her face and over her eyes. She brushed it back.

  Dominic wanted to reach out and hug her, assure her that it would all be okay, apologize to her for getting her involved. Instead, he commanded his arms to remain by his side and not to make any movement toward her.

  Inspector Carrola’s eyes moved up and down Tonita’s body, watching carefully for any sign, a hint of what really happened here, and what really was happening between this woman and priest. “I belie
ve I have the information I need for now, Father,” the Inspector said. Then, turning back to Tonita, he asked, “You will call if you have something more to say?” And looking directly at the now mutilated business card in Tonita’s hand, “You have our card and number, no?”

  Even through the dark coloring of Tonita’s skin, her father’s Irish could be seen as her cheeks reddened. “Yes, Inspector, we do.”

  “Va bene. Va bene.”

  Twenty minutes later the detectives, inspectors, photographers, technicians, and the dead body were out the door. The apartment was once again quiet.

  Dominic collapsed into the worn leather chair, physically and mentally exhausted. He closed his eyes. “I’m beat.”

  Tonita stood by the kitchen where the old man had fallen and died. She looked to Dominic “What do we do now?”

  “Sleep.”

  “Dom, I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “Listen, if all you told me was true...” Tonita didn’t get a chance to finish.

  Dominic’s eyes snapped open. “I told you the truth. I’m a priest for God’s sake.”

  “How convenient.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “And we all know that priests never lie.”

  “This one doesn’t.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Tonita crossed the room and knelt by the chair. She stared directly into Dominic’s eyes. “How do you feel about me then?”

  His eyes darted away from hers.

  “See there?” Tonita said. “You looked away. You’re going to lie to me.”

  “No, I was just thinking about your question.”

  “If you don’t know the answer already, then you’re lying to yourself.”

  Dominic was about to mount a defense, when a loud banging on the front door distracted them both. Thankful for the interruption, he pulled himself out of the chair and made his way to the door, half expecting more cops, more questions, and more time without sleep. He reached for the small handle on the deadbolt to turn the lock and unlock the door, but it was, as usual—he cursed at himself—unlocked. He pulled the door open. No cops, no photographers, and no technicians awaited him. The sidewalk was empty. Only a black Mercedes Benz Berlina was there, parked directly in front of the apartment, its motor running and back door open. The driver stared straight ahead, not once turning in Dominic’s direction, giving no clue as to what was expected next. Had someone gotten out of the car and knocked at the wrong door? Dominic looked up and down the street. Not a soul, only the driver and Dominic. He was about to close the door and ignore the car and driver, when a glint of red on the Mercedes windshield caught his attention.