Darby Stansfield Thriller Series (Books 1-3 & Bonus Novella)

by Ty Hutchinson

  In one quick movement, a dark figure entered the van and moved toward the back. Momi slid across the seat into the far corner but the figure crossed over on the seat in front of her. It was too dark in the van for Momi to make out any facial features.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her voice cracking.

  “You,” came a man’s voice.

  A flashlight flicked on, lighting the intruder’s face from the bottom up, creating a landscape of harsh shadowing. For the first time since the judgment, Momi Kapalama wasn’t smiling. But Rudi Balagot was. “Time for you to learn what happens when you break the law, yeah?”

  DESCRIPTION

  “I have sins to confess.”

  “Tell me, what evil have you done?”

  It’s St. Petersburg, right before the fall of Communism. Father Fedor, an Orthodox priest at St. Catherine’s Cathedral, is locking up after the late night mass when he hears a stranger’s voice call out to him. The man begs to confess immediately, afraid that if he waits he will become a lost soul.

  Of course Father Fedor accepts, but what he doesn’t know, what he isn’t expecting, is that this madman has committed the same sin ninety-nine times.

  One

  St. Petersburg, Russia, 1991

  Picked nearly clean, the carcass of the roasted hen lay on its side next to a bite of boiled potato. Father Fedor Yakunin had had his fill; he pushed the greasy plate away. He picked up a glass laden with oily prints and drained the last of the sweet Georgian wine before setting it next to the plate. It was a wonderful meal, one he had not had in a long time. He would have to remember to thank his friend.

  Father Fedor got up from the wobbly table for one and walked across the tiny room. The light from the oil lamp on the table did very little to follow him as he disappeared into the darkness. Tiny shuffle steps until he found what he wanted: a cot, where he sat and eventually lay down.

  Rays of moonlight would snake their way through the window when the trees outside allowed it. Tonight, they did not. While Father Fedor waited patiently, he thought about the words that he would soon speak. It was important that he not leave out even the tiniest detail, should he wish to change his circumstances. Only time would tell whether he had done his job right.

  Outside of his room, somewhere in the building, a priest moved hastily down the institutional hallways. His black, ankle-length cassock fluttered behind him like a flag. He was late.

  The large golden cross around his neck hung down to the middle of his chest and swung back and forth with every step, reminding him of its presence. Both hands were steadily cupped behind his back. The click-clacking of his shoes on the cold tile floor echoed through the hallways. Soon the man who sat outside of Father Fedor’s room would be able to gauge the visitor’s distance. He would be heard for quite some time before he would be seen.

  Father Dmitry Vladimirovich had traveled from Moscow to St. Petersburg, the renamed Leningrad, after receiving a letter from his old friend, Father Fedor. He had arrived a few days ago by train, coming as soon as he could. It was a little unclear as to why he was being summoned at the last minute. He even questioned whether there was anything he could do.

  It had been a little over ten years since the two priests had last seen each other, though it was normal for them to exchange a few letters a year. The twelve-hour train ride had become a physical obstacle for both. Neither of them wanted to endure it, until now.

  Father Dmitry rounded the last corner in the maze of corridors. The gentleman posted to watch over the priest was already standing, waiting for him. As soon as Father Dmitry entered the room, the heavy door shut behind him.

  “Fedor,” Father Dmitry called out.

  A soft voice rose out from the darkness. “Over here, my friend.”

  The priest moved toward the sound of the voice until he felt his leg bump against a cot. He sat down and leaned in a bit. “Fedor, it’s me: Dmitry.”

  “I know. Who else would be visiting me?”

  “How are you?”

  “I am fine. A little tired,” said the priest, giving up a few coughs.

  Dmitry motioned to the table. “Not tired enough to feed yourself though. You always had an appetite.”

  Fedor laughed at the man’s feeble attempt to cheer him up. “And you’re still the jokester,” he said.

  It had been so long. Father Dmitry finally asked, “Why am I here?”

  “I have much to tell you. It will take some time.” He felt for the other priest’s hand and gripped it. “It is important that you hear it all. Are you willing to accept this?”

  Father Dmitry made himself comfortable near the bottom of the cot. “I am.” I think.

  Two

  Leningrad, a year earlier

  It was a little past midnight. A half hour had passed since I had finished the late service at the church. The congregation had gone home content. Happy? That was questionable. This was communist Russia and there was always unease. Little did we know it would get worse when the government fell.

  I had completed my nightly paperwork and left it neatly on the desk for Deacon Vitaly to review the next morning, as he always liked to do. I stood up and stretched, letting out a squeak. I could feel my body aging, turning against me. The pain in my joints was noticeable in the cold mornings. How much longer before it was noticeable at all times?

  It was late, and time I headed home. When I headed to the front doors to lock them, that’s when I heard a faint voice behind me say, “Father.”

  I didn’t recognize the person. In fact, I was a little surprised to hear someone. The last of the visitors had left long ago and I was the only one on duty that night.

  When I turned around, there was no one standing there. I thought it strange because the voice sounded so clear, as if the person were only a few feet from me. When I turned back toward the door, I heard the voice address me again. “I need to speak to you.”

  I spun around quickly this time, hoping to catch the prankster before he hid, but there was no one there. “Who are you?” I called out.

  The voice spoke again. “It’s important that I speak to you, Father, but I cannot reveal my identity.”

  “Why?” I asked as I walked away from the door, searching.

  “I have sins to confess.”

  “You must confess, but you must do this to your spiritual guide, the one you’ve entrusted. What parish do you belong to?”

  “I don’t have one. Will you help me, Father?”

  I reached the center of the nave, wondering where this man was. There were no pews to hide between even if he chose to. His voice seemed to come from every direction.

  “What is your name?”

  “You need not know my name or see my face, Father. But I must confess. I’m worried I will commit these terrible sins again.”

  I walked slowly toward the sanctuary. “But that is how confession is done. You stand near the lectern facing the wall of icons and I stand next to you. You confess to Jesus Christ, not I.”

  “But Jesus Christ is on the cross that hangs from your neck.”

  “That is for extreme circumstances.”

  “Father, you must trust that what I have to tell you is extreme. We can use the sanctuary, where it is dark. Please…”

  The voice trembled when it spoke to me. Whoever it was seemed troubled. I opened the middle gate in the wall of icons and entered the sanctuary behind. I could see him now. The voice had a shape—it’s all I could make out. I took a seat in the corner opposite it. There was something about this man that did not feel right. A sudden coldness had overcome me. His presence was stronger than any I had ever felt. This man had done a fair amount of wrong.

  I was almost afraid to ask… but I did. “Tell me, what evil have you done?”

  Three

  I had heard many confessions in my time as a priest. One gets to a point at which he is no longer fazed by what people have done. However, I was not prepared to hear what this man had to say.

  �
��Father, I’m unsure where to start.”

  “Start where you feel comfortable.”

  “I will tell you in the order I committed them.”

  “If you wish. Jesus Christ has no preference. When we are done—”

  “Done? Father, what is your name?”

  “You may call me Father Fedor.”

  “With all due respect, Father Fedor, we will not finish tonight. I am sure of that.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I have ninety-nine sins to confess.”

  I don’t think any priest would expect to hear a number like that. I know I didn’t. I struggled to swallow such a number. Ninety-nine sins. “How does a man commit so many wrongs?” I asked.

  “I did not commit very many wrongs. Father, I committed one wrong, ninety-nine times.”

  “Oh.”

  “Father, is it safe to confess to you? Are we in a private moment?”

  “Yes. It is my duty. I am to never share what we discuss.”

  “No matter how wrong?”

  “No matter how wrong.”

  “No matter how cruel?”

  “No matter how cruel.”

  “No matter how… disgusting?”

  I paused. “No matter how disgusting.”

  “Thank you, Father. I must tell you; I am very afraid of what I’ve become. Afraid that I will not change my ways. Afraid that if I commit the one hundredth sin, I will be a lost soul, forever.”

  “What do I call you, my son?”

  The shape in the corner took its time answering me. The silence in the room filled my ears. I wanted to scream at him to speak, but I didn’t. I asked Jesus to give me the patience to wait for his answer. After what felt like an entire night, he responded.

  “Prividenie,” he said.

  Surely this man was joking. He wanted me to refer to him as a ghost? My patience was starting to run thin. I was tired. Thirty minutes had already passed and this man still had not confessed to anything. And now he joked with me?

  “My son, my time is valuable to me. I do not appreciate these games.”

  “I am not playing with you, Father. No one must know that I am here or that we are speaking. You will refer to me as the Prividenie. This way if anyone were to ask about me, you can say I was a ghost. Who would believe that? Is this clear?”

  Who was this man to tell me how things would be? The arrogance. “Listen—”

  “No, you listen!” The shape stood straight up, almost doubling in size. It had gone from a child-like shadow in the corner to a menacing behemoth towering over me. “I must have your word that our talks will not exist beyond this room.” His tone was serious and unwavering.

  “Yes, I assure you. No one will know.”

  The shape, or Prividenie, sat back down.

  “I’m sorry, Father. I did not mean to raise my voice. I want you to know I am grateful and serious about our time together. Are you ready to hear what I have to say?”

  “I am.”

  “You might want to hold on to your cross, Father.”

  Four

  The Prividenie shifted into a position of comfort and began to speak.

  “I was seventeen and living in Siberia. My city was called Novosibirsk. You’ve heard of it?”

  “Yes. It is a big city.”

  “Famous for being the industrial center of Siberia. Many men grew rich in this city. Many families moved to my city for work.”

  “Did you take advantage of your situation?”

  “Yes, but not in the way you think. I took advantage of the rich.”

  “So you stole?”

  “No. I killed.”

  A confession of murder. It was now my turn to create the void of silence. I sat still, staring at the Prividenie, pondering his answer to my question. If what he said earlier was true, this man was about to confess to ninety-nine murders. I had heard rumblings of other priests receiving a murder confession and the moral anguish they go through on whether to tell the authorities. Those priests heard a single confession. I was on the verge of receiving ninety-nine.

  Surely this man did not kill this many people. He sounded no older than a university student. How could someone commit so many heinous acts at such a young age and yet not get caught? How could he live with himself? The guilt alone must be punishing.

  There was of course, disbelief in my mind. How was I to know whether he actually committed these murders? Was he of sound mind?

  I was determined to not let the subject matter get to me. Ever. I would not reveal my emotions. That might be what he was looking for. I vowed to stay strong.

  “You murdered an individual?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I was paid to.”

  “Why would someone pay you to kill another human being?”

  “He could not repay his debt.”

  “So he deserved to die?”

  “I was not paid to question.”

  I was taken aback by his frankness at this point. He seemed to be able to separate his emotions from the act. It was as though someone had asked him to empty a garbage can. It is full so it needs to be emptied; what’s to question? Someone hired him to do a job and he did it without further thought.

  “Why you? Were you holding a sign that said, ‘I will kill for food?’”

  “No. I was a collector.”

  “You worked for the mafiya.”

  “I worked for men who paid me to collect money from other men.”

  “So they wanted this man killed?”

  “No. I killed this man because he could not pay. When they later found out what I had done, they paid me more and thanked me. From that point on, I was hired only to kill.”

  “You speak as if you don’t care that this man died at your hands.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Are you here to kill me?” I had to ask. I had to know if this brute were toying with me.

  “No, Father.”

  He could have been lying but I chose to believe. I had no choice at that moment.

  “How did you kill this man?”

  “I beat him using my fists and the heels of my boots, until I spotted the hammer.”

  “Why the hammer? Were your fists and boots not enough?”

  “They were.”

  “What kind of talk is this? You beat a man to death for no good reason and then you continued to beat him with a hammer?”

  “That is why I am here, Father. I’m afraid that if I continue to kill, I will reach a point of no return.”

  “What makes you think you haven’t already reached that point?” I shot back. “You are a sick man. What penance could I possibly give you that would even begin to represent atonement to Jesus Christ? We have not even moved pass your first confession and you have already admitted to committing the worst mortal sin of all.”

  “You could damn me to hell for all eternity,” the Prividenie replied.

  “I could, but then what do I do for the remaining ninety-eight confessions?”

  Five

  When I awoke in my bed the next day, it felt as if I had not moved all night. My body felt rested, yet it ached. I looked over to my bedroom window, where the sun had made good on its promise to slip through the sheer curtain and light up the room. I stared back at the ceiling with empty thoughts. And then I remembered the Prividenie.

  I lay there for a bit, wondering if it were all a dream. I had the late shift and was responsible for locking the doors to the church. I remember being tired. I could have dreamt it. It felt like a dream. Was he real?

  I sat up and checked the time on my watch: 8:30 a.m. I had overslept. It was unusual for me. I quickly dressed and began preparing a breakfast of chai tea and bread with butter. Today was my day off. I had a few errands to take care of and then I had plans to visit with my daughter, Olga.

  I was very proud of my daughter. She had graduated from the university with a degree in international relations. I had always assumed she would wo
rk for the government, maybe even become a diplomat. Instead, she turned to a small, liberal newspaper—one that didn’t always agree with the government. The newspaper had a huge following, mostly young people. Over the years, my daughter had gained some popularity amongst her age group. Olga Yakunin had become a somebody.

  Unfortunately, she had also become a person of interest to the government. They didn’t appreciate what she had to say. They had once locked her up for two days. I worried the next time they would do more.

  She still lived near the university, which wasn’t far from my small apartment, near my church. The walk there was a brief fifteen minutes—faster if you had the wind on your backside. This was something my fifty-nine year old body appreciated, for I had plans to see her today.

  A few hours later, with my business matters finished, I stood outside Olga’s apartment. I grabbed the metal knocker and rapped the door three times, then a pause, and once more—my calling card. I could hear Olga calling out to me through the door. A second later she appeared.

  “Papa,” Olga said. She hugged me and gave me a kiss on each cheek. “Come inside. I have just finished making chai. We’ll have it in the kitchen. The living room is a mess with my work and I haven’t had time to—”

  “It’s fine, Olga.”

  “Let me take your coat. I do have room to hang it.”

  I slipped off my coat and handed it to her. Inside her kitchen was a small table with two chairs—perhaps the only place in her apartment not occupied by remnants of her work. I took a seat and waited. A few seconds later, Olga poured each of us a cup of tea.

  “So, Papa, how are you?”

  “I’m doing well but starting to age.”

  “Oh, Papa, you’re not old. You’re fit for your age. Your mind is still young,” she said pointing to my head, “though I do believe the gray on the sides has increased—but I like it. It makes you look distinguished.”