by phuc
Daryl fell in love with the city of Seattle immediately. Meanwhile, Rachael started her second book, this one about the Militia Movement and their ties with the far Christian Right.
In October they got the news that Rachael was pregnant, which was a miracle.
Rachael always believed that she couldn't have children. She had been told by her doctor that she was incapable of bearing children. Her pregnancy proved this diagnosis wrong.
And on May 1, 2000, Daryl was present in the delivery room when Rachael gave birth to a healthy baby girl. She weighed in at seven pounds, two ounces and was twenty-two inches long. They named her Catherine Shirley Garcia. For Daryl, it was the happiest moment of his life. Next to his and Rachael's wedding day.
Some stories have happy endings.
But then, some don't ... ?
May 12, 2000, 7:30 PM
Los Angeles, CA
Father John Glowacz had just been ushered into Father James O'Grady's private study when he started having the shakes.
He couldn't control it. He had been having them a lot lately, especially whenever he thought about his family and his role in their deaths. He just couldn't take it anymore.
He had to talk to somebody about it. He had to speak to Father O'Grady.
James O'Grady stepped into his study and closed the door behind him. The priest was still dressed for duties, his clerical collar still in place. Today was John's off day at his new parish, a nice little church in the South Orange County area. He had made the drive up to Los Angeles in a blind heat after debating and praying about his dilemma for the past few days. The more time went by, the more this was eating at him. He was beating himself up over this. He had to find absolvement for his sins.
“You sounded rather urgent over the phone,” James said as he stepped up to the bar. “Would you like a drink?"
“Please.” John said, taking a deep breath.
“Scotch okay?"
“Scotch is fine."
James O'Grady poured them both three fingers of Scotch in heavy tumblers, then carried them over to the sofa. He handed John his, and the priest took it in a shaking hand and gulped half of it down. James frowned. “I think we'd better talk."
“Bring the bottle over,” John said. “I think I'm going to need it."
James looked at him with a sense of curiosity, then went back to the bar for the bottle.
John filled his glass and took another gulp of scotch. He sighed. The whiskey was already racing through his system, calming his nerves. His hands were less shaky now, his stomach less fluttery. Soon his tongue would be looser, too. That would make it easier to confess what he had been wanting to for the past six years.
“Normally I don't recommend using alcohol as a crutch when it comes to confession,” Father O'Grady said, sitting down in the easy chair opposite John. “But I think we need to make an exception in this case. You tell me whenever you're ready, John."
John nodded, taking another sip of scotch. He was feeling better already. “What I have to talk to you about is very personal,” he said. “Some of it concerns my life ... before I took the oath. The rest concerns some of my past sins. I may be committing a sin just by telling you some of this stuff, but ... by keeping it secret, I may be sinning as well. It's such a—"
“Take your time,” Father O'Grady said. “Tell me all you want to tell me. I'm here to listen as a friend, not as a priest."
John looked at the older man. “Are you serious, James?"
“If that is what you wish, yes."
“Good. Because it's very important to me, James. Very important. I ... I may need to talk to you at a later time ... after I've told you what I've come to talk about ... I may need to see you as a priest. But now ... for this ... I need to talk to you as a friend."
James O'Grady leaned forward, his smile warm and caring. “I'm honored that you've chosen to speak to me as a friend, John. I've always thought of you as a friend. I'm only too happy to be able to help you in whatever is ailing you."
John nodded, took another drink. He set the glass down on the table. Then, speaking slowly, being sure not to leave anything out, he told James O'Grady.
Everything.
When he was finished two hours later, John asked Father O'Grady. “Now I'm asking you advice as a priest. What should I do?"
And James O'Grady, the horror still on his now waxy face, could only shake his head. He looked at John with reddened eyes. “The two of us will go to confession tomorrow morning, here at St. Mark's. You will confess that you have revealed the sins of one of your penitent's, that you have discussed it with me. Then we say nothing."
“Nothing?"
“If you wish to remain a priest, you say nothing! ” Father O'Grady's voice was stern for the first time.
John Glowacz thought about it. His fingers caressed the empty glass of scotch.
The near empty bottle sat between the men on the coffee table. “I just want my life back,”
John said, his voice trembling.
“Then make your confession tomorrow and make a good act of contrition and penance,” James O'Grady said. “And give the burden to the Lord.” The older priest's features were set, stony in his seriousness. “It's the only way."
John nodded. Yes. It was the only way.
God help him.
September 5, 2000 1:02 PM
Seattle, Washington
George Castro couldn't wait. He simply had to call Alfonso DiMartini now, even though he was due in a development meeting in five minutes. George punched Al's number in by memory, hoping his old friend wasn't making rounds. Alfonso had surprised everybody in their clan from high school by becoming a physician, graduating in the top ten of his class at UCLA Medical School. He now practiced medicine in Ventura County, specializing in Family Practice, while George had wound up in Seattle as a Software Engineer for Microsoft.
Alfonso picked up the phone on the third ring. “Yes."
“Al,” George said, eyes glancing at the clock on a cluttered shelf in his cubicle.
“It's George. I don't want to keep you, but you are not going to believe who I just ran into today—"
“Make it quick, George, I've got a patient coming in three minutes."
“Okay. Remember Stacy Temple?"
“Yeah."
“I just ran into her today at lunch near Pioneer Square."
“Really? You sure?"
“Positive. I'd never forget that face. She looks a lot different. Shit, I always thought she was pretty but she must have, I don't know, gotten help or something. Gained some confidence in herself or something, because her hair is styled real nice, and she dresses nice, and she actually wears make-up. Not too heavy, just enough, you know, and—"
“Did you talk to her?” Alfonso sounded just as eager to hear about this as George thought he would be.
“Well, I tried to,” George said, still puzzled and confused over the encounter. “I recognized her right away, you know? She still looked basically the same, she just looked better, you know? Same height and all. She was in front of me in line at Carl's, a take-out place I usually like to go to at lunch, and I knew it was her. Only when I stopped her and asked if it was her, she was different."
“What do you mean different?"
“She was heading back toward the exit of the restaurant and I intercepted her,”
George said. “And I said, ‘excuse me, but aren't you Stacy Temple? From Gardena?’ And she looked at me, and I knew it was her. I knew it! But—"
“But what?"
“She told me I had mistaken her for somebody else. And her voice ... it was all weird and shit."
“Weird? Like how?"
“It was deep. Like a man's. It was like she was purposely speaking in a deep tone, trying to disguise it or something. It reminded me of the last time I saw her, when she showed me that tape. Remember?"
“Wow."
“Yeah. And her face, that was weird, too."
“How so?"
George paused, shuddering at the thought of that face again. He could have sworn that it was Stacy Temple he had seen. He was positive. The woman that had been standing in front of him, the woman that had walked out of the restaurant with a confident stride in her walk, had been Stacy Temple all right. Simply add eighteen years, dress the Stacy Temple he had known back in high school in nicer clothes, make her hair and face up, and the woman he saw today at lunch would have been her. But that voice, that face—
“What about her face, George?"
“Her face ... her expression, it wasn't her. It was ... it was like it was somebody else. It was like watching somebody you used to know, that you haven't seen in years, and then you see them for the first time in years and they're ... not the same people they were before."
“Well, Christ, George, we all go through that—"
“This was different.” George finally had the right descriptive word choice for Stacy Temple. He swallowed, still feeling spooked by what he had seen. “I was looking directly into Stacy Temple's face. I knew it was her. But the person inside Stacy Temple was a completely different person. And that person, whoever it was, was completely insane."
September 5, 2000 5:31 PM
Seattle, Washington
He caught the bartender's eye as the man wiped down the far end of the bar. He motioned to his empty glass and the bartender plucked it off the table, refilling it with what he had been drinking—Jack Daniels, on the rocks. It had been a long time since he sat in a bar. It was a nice feeling to be back among people.
The television perched on the top shelf behind the bar was tuned to the news. He had been watching it disinterestedly for the past twenty minutes, calmly sipping his drink and chilling out. He had stopped by the bar on impulse, driving into the Sea Tac strip quite easily and cruising around till he found a bar that looked right. And it was, too.
Plenty of people milling around, talking over pitchers of beer and food, a couple of barflies spaced intermittently at the bar with him, a couple of guys playing pool, the faint melodic strains of Eric Clapton coming out of the jukebox. It was a peaceful, relaxing place.
He took a sip of his drink, aware of the motion of somebody sitting on the stool next to him. He stole a sly glance toward his left and let it linger. It was a young woman, thin, lithe body dipped in black tights that hugged every curve, a skimpy halter top, and a black suede jacket with fringes. Her brown hair was long and hung straight down her back. She had large brown eyes and features that might be attractive if she hadn't buried them under the make-up. Otherwise her features were strong; high cheekbones, full lips, small nose. She caught him glancing at her and smiled. She was chewing gum. Judging by the way she was dressed in this particular neighborhood, it was obvious what she did for a living. “How ya doing tonight?"
“Fine,” he replied.
“You work around here?"
“I suppose you could say that?"
The woman paused, checking him out. “You work the classy places, right? That's why I haven't seen you before."
He laughed. “Oh, I can see where this is going, young lady."
The woman's smile faded slightly. “Young lady?"
He turned to her, the crucifix he was wearing in plain site. “I work up the street, at St. Anthony's. I do missionary work."
The woman looked shocked. She sputtered. “Christ, I'm sorry ... I ... I hope I didn't offend you."
He laughed and his put drink down on the bar. “I'm fine. Really. Let me buy you a drink."
The woman accepted the offer. He ordered another JD and the woman ordered a Tom Collins. “So that's why you're here then,” she said. She was already starting to look relaxed. “You can drink. They probably let people like you, missionaries, drink, right?"
He laughed. “That's funny. You think priests and nuns have some sort of ban on the Catholic community when it comes to drinking?” He took a sip of his drink, set it down. “You must not be Catholic."
“Oh, I'm Catholic all right.” She brought out a pack of cigarettes from the small, black purse slung over her right shoulder, extracted one, lit it. “Or was. Actually I am, but I haven't been to church in a while.” It was amazing how she was already starting to act guilty around him when he hadn't even proved to her that he worked for the church. All he'd done was told her. He had dressed casually today when he set out to run his errands and was wearing a clean pair of blue jeans, a blue and red sweater with a brown leather jacket over it and his white Nikes. He smiled as the woman said, “And I never seen priests drink in bars before."
“Well, Miss ... er?"
“Giacomini. Rita Giacomini."
They shook hands. He introduced himself. “Nice to meet you, Rita. And yes, priests and nuns are allowed to go to bars on occasion, even indulge every now and then in a glass or two of spirits. So are bishops and missionaries. Some of us smoke. Not very healthy mind you, but then we're only human."
“So you're really a missionary, huh?” She asked, lighting a cigarette. She smoked calmly, regarding him wistfully. “Does this mean you guys don't have to take a vow of chastity, or whatever it is you call it?"
“Oh, no! We can have sex just like normal people."
This brought laughter from her and he laughed with her. Rita was an air-head, but she seemed like a nice girl. He could tell.
He took another quick sip of his drink when a news item from the television perked his attention.
“...the headless body was found floating in the Green River. Authorities are denying that this is—"
Rita made a face next to him. “Oh, how gross!"
“—the work of the Green River Killer, who is believed to have killed 49 young women in the Seattle area in the 1980's.” Close up on a Deputy Sheriff, a forty-something man with a perpetual squint and a ruddy, chapped face. “This victim was a male, and we haven't identified him yet. It appears that whoever did this committed the crime elsewhere and then dumped the body in the river."
The scene cut back to the newscaster. “Detectives have their work cut out for them. The police aren't speculating on a motive for the slaying, but I assume we'll learn more as the investigation unfolds."
The broadcast immediately switched to the next topic, this one concerning the plight of Cuban immigrant Elian Gonzalez. Rita was still smoking her cigarette. She shook her head. “I heard a real brief flash about this thing this morning before I left.
That's so awful."
“Yes, it is."
“I hope they find whoever it is who did it,” Rita said. She took a hearty sip of her Tom Collins. “There's so many damn nuts out there, a girl doesn't know what to do."
“What about a guy?” He said, motioning toward the television. “That poor sucker was a man!"
“I know!” Rita exuded syrupy melodrama that bordered on the ridiculous. She was making too much of trying to appear sympathetic. “You can't do anything these days without some nut either shooting you for the quarter in your pocket or because he thinks you looked at him cross-eyed. The world is becoming a scarier place. It's even scarier now that the millennium has hit us."
“Oh, I know,” He said, taking a quick sip of his drink. “In my business I have to try to calm people's fears of the millennium. Everybody thinks that the year 2000 signifies the rapture and the End Times. In reality, none of us will know when Our Lord will return."
For the next forty minutes they talked. Rita finished her drink and he bought her a second one. He asked her about herself gently, not prying, and she told him, not holding back. She had gone to college but had to drop out to get a job when her father was killed in an auto accident so she could support her mother, who had been badly injured. She had fallen into the wrong crowd, did drugs and drank a lot, and now she worked as an escort.
He tried to look surprised at this news and Rita swallowed it. “I don't work the streets,”
she explained, as if trying to justify what she did for a living. “There's no way I would do that. I respect myself
too much for that. I work through an agency and they send me out on jobs. Lots of my clients are businessmen that fly in and out of Seattle. I was just coming back from the airport when I decided to stop by here for a drink. I know some of the girls that work the streets and I like to come here and chat with them. You know, try to convince them that the streets aren't good, that they'd be better working in something like I've got."
He was about to respond, but then stopped himself in time. He was going to suggest why work in your line at all? Why not encourage them to strive for something better? But that wasn't for him to say.
“Let me tell you something,” he said, choosing his words carefully. His now empty glass sat in front of him. He had switched to Seven-Up after he had finished his Jack Daniels upon meeting her. “I once knew a priest in Los Angeles, a real nice guy named Father Glowacz. Father Glowacz's church was in a really bad section of the city.
They had a bad gang problem there. Four or five different gangs operated within a ten mile area. The neighborhood was really affected by the gangs; the violence, the drug sales, the ... just everything about it. Many of these gang members were hopeless themselves. They had no self confidence, no confidence in each other, really, despite their
... pseudo macho pontifications of Latino pride. What it all boils down to is that they didn't give a shit about each other.” At the mention of the word shit, Rita's eyes widened.
He put a hand over his mouth, a look of shock on his face. “Oops! Sorry. That slipped."
Rita laughed.
“Anyway, Father Glowacz came to the parish and listened to the kids. He and another guy there, a counselor who used to be a gang member, paid attention to the gang members. And what they did was start a youth program. They recruited volunteers to staff it and they provided after-school activities for the kids. They offered workshops for those kids more prone to join a gang, and they offered counseling and bible studies for gang members. They worked with them, prayed with them, loved them the best way they could.
Sometimes they ... went to their old ways and picked up a gun when the heat got too hot in the kitchen and tempers flared. Father Glowacz presided over too many rosaries and funeral masses for those kids than he'd probably like to remember. But he stuck with the system and eventually got a grant from the city to start a business. It was entirely run by several ex-gang members and it was a small Mexican restaurant in East Los Angeles. A business owner donated the equipment.” He smiled. “That business has done well. Three months ago I heard it was voted that they served the best tacos in all of East Los Angeles."
