It was the smile that brought the memories back, memories so strong he had to catch his breath. There was something about her that reminded him so strongly of Carla Mallory ... the girl he'd loved when he was young, before he'd answered the call and entered the seminary. She'd been so angry when he told her his plans. Her pretty face had contorted with rage before collapsing into tears. But I thought you loved me, she'd accused him, I thought we were going to get married.
"The streets are dangerous, Molly,” he'd said to her, putting thoughts of Carla firmly away. “There's a killer out there, preying on girls like you. Don't you want me to call your parents? Don't you want to go home?” There had been a story in the paper just that morning about the latest girl, found near the French Market, her young body carved up. Just another teenager thrown away, not missed and with nobody to mourn or care. She was the tenth one in the last eight months.
Molly looked back at him with eyes suddenly old and tired. “Sometimes home is more dangerous than the streets, Father."
He'd taken her hand, rough and dirty with the nails painted black. “Please be careful, and know you can always come here. We minister here to homeless kids, Molly. You can always come here, get some food, take a shower, get cleaned up.” He gestured back to the office area at the rear of the chapel. “I can get you a list of shelters...."
"And sometimes shelters are just as dangerous as home.” She shook her head, the multicolored dreadlocks swinging. “But a shower would be cool."
"But where...?” He shook his head. Sometimes there was nothing he could do for them. “Come with me.” He stood up and started walking towards the front.
It was after hours, and against the rules, but he used his keys to open up the shower area and get her a fresh towel. Father Soileau would not be happy, but there was no need for him to know or find out. Besides, even if Father Soileau did find out, the most he would get would be a reprimand, and not a strong one for that matter. Father Soileau depended on him too much for the work he did with the teenagers, and it would be hard to replace him. Who wants to work for the pittance they pay me? he thought bitterly as he handed her a towel and shut the door behind him.
While she showered, he heated a can of soup for her, found a package of crackers, got her a fresh bottle of water.
She was so pretty with the dirt scrubbed off her face. So like Carla. He watched her as she slurped down the soup, crunching the crackers into the broth, and gulped down the water. There was a wounded innocence about her. She wouldn't tell him where she was from, or where she'd been. And when she was finished, she patted his hand in thanks, before slipping out of the church and back into the night.
He'd prayed for her that night, and every night since.
He prayed she'd come back.
He found himself coming back to St. Mark's every night at the same time, hoping she would show up. Sometimes she did, most nights she didn't. He didn't ask questions he knew she wouldn't answer. It almost became a kind of routine on those nights when she showed up. He would get her a towel and while she showered he made her something simple to eat. While she ate, they'd talk about little things, nothing important. And when the food was gone, she would slip back out into the night.
He worried sometimes that Father Soileau would find out. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that he would be fired. Rules were rules, and the Church was very big on rules. He knew that very well. It was why he wasn't a priest anymore. “But I've done nothing wrong!” he'd begged them up in Chicago as the archbishop shook his head.
"We cannot take that risk, Father Michael.” The archbishop shrugged. “We have to release you from your vows. Even the slightest hint of impropriety must be avoided. But there's a place you can make yourself useful, down in New Orleans. There's a small church just outside the French Quarter, St. Mark's. They minister to homeless teenagers, the kind of work you enjoy. The Church will get you a small place to live, and pay you a small salary, and you can continue your work."
"But the boy is lying...."
It didn't matter. They'd shipped him off to the foul-smelling little apartment in New Orleans, sent him to work for Father Soileau, and the anger burned in his heart. But he was working with the teenagers again, the ones who needed him, and while he'd been released from his vows, he kept them.
But Molly ... Molly changed everything.
She made him feel like a man again. She awakened the feelings, the emotions that had lain dormant for so long.
He prayed for guidance, but none came. He found himself thinking about her, worrying about her while he attended Mass. He found himself going to confession at St. Louis, unwilling to confess his feelings to Father Soileau. He received his penance, said his prayers, counting the beads as he repeated the words over and over again. And he worried about her, where she was sleeping, what she was doing for money. So many of them sold their bodies to strangers for a warm bed and a twenty-dollar bill, for something warm to eat. They were so fearless yet somehow wary at the same time. But there was pained innocence in her eyes, and he longed for her to tell him her story, what had led her to the streets of the French Quarter. He warned her, over and over again. There was a killer stalking the alleys of New Orleans, mutilating young girls, raping them and then mutilating them. He begged her to go home, to call her parents. The streets were not safe at night.
She would just smile, and shake her head. “The streets are as safe as anywhere."
Was that what the dream had meant? he thought as he stared into the rain. That Molly was in danger? That Molly was dead?
He went cold, and sank to his knees in front of the crucifix again. Please, God, watch out for Molly, she is just a child, for all her bravado and airs. Hers is an innocent soul, protect her from the evils that lurk out there in the night and the rain, bring her safely home...
He was climbing out of the shower when the knock came on the door. He wrapped a towel around his waist and peered out at a tall black woman in a dove-gray suit, shaking off a dripping umbrella with one hand. He opened the door without removing the chain. “Can I help you?"
She smiled, flashing a badge at him. “Michael O'Reilly?"
"Yes."
"Detective Venus Casanova, New Orleans police. May I come in and talk to you?"
He felt a wave of nausea, the coffee he'd drunk burning an acidic hole in his stomach. “I just got out of the shower. I'll be a moment while I get dressed, is that all right?"
"Take your time.” She kept smiling as he shut the door again.
He dressed hurriedly, his mind racing. This was how it started back in Chicago: The police showed up at the rectory with the boy's accusations and their knowing smiles. Calm down, he told himself as he finished buttoning his shirt. There's no need to be afraid.
He walked back to the door and opened it. He smiled. “Sorry, I was...” He stood aside to let her in. “Come in. Would you care for some coffee?"
She shook her head, giving her umbrella one last shake. “No, I thank you, though.” She walked in, glancing around the apartment and then giving him a big smile. She was beautiful, her hair cropped close to the scalp, with high cheekbones and strong white teeth. Her face was unlined; she could have been any age between thirty and fifty. “I'll try not to take up too much of your time, Mr. O'Reilly.” She sat down in the worn thrift-store reclining chair. “This rain is something, isn't it?” She shook her head. “Everyone complains about the heat and humidity, but I just hate rain."
"It's depressing, isn't it?” he replied, and his voice sounded false.
Detective Casanova nodded. “Yes.” She reached into her bag, removing a small spiral notebook and a pen. “Have you been reading the newspaper, Mr. O'Reilly?"
He shrugged, and felt his hands start to shake. He grabbed the sides of his own chair. “Sometimes."
"Then you know we have a serial killer here in the Quarter preying on runaway teenaged girls?"
"Yes, I work with the street kids over at St. Mark's, so I know about it, yes."
"There was another murder last night. Another runaway girl, couldn't have been older than fifteen. Unidentified, of course.” She clicked her tongue. “She was found this morning in Pirate's Alley, right beside the Cathedral."
Like in my dream! he thought, biting his lower lip. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered. It was Molly, it had to be Molly, why else would the cop have come to him? Father, why hast thou forsaken me?...
"I've just been by St. Mark's, and Father Soileau sent me over here.” She reached into her bag again. “He thought maybe you knew her.” She pulled out a Polaroid and handed it over to him. “Do you recognize this girl?"
He took the photograph, his hands shaking, and forced himself to look at it. He let out his breath in a rush. This girl had black hair, no dreadlocks, her face pale and eyes closed. Thank you, Lord ... “No, I'm sorry, I don't know this girl."
She took the photograph back and slipped it into her bag. “Each one of these murders has something in common, besides the fact that each is a runaway teenaged girl. Something we haven't allowed the press to catch on to.” She gave him a searching look. “You do a lot of good for these kids, and I know you care about them—and obviously, they aren't too interested in talking to me or the uniformed police. Have any of the kids you work with said anything? Do they talk to you about this?"
He shook his head. “Only in general terms."
She reached into the pocket of her jacket. “Each one of the victims had one of these in her hand.” She held up her hand.
A strand of black rosary beads dangled from her fingers.
"And between her breasts, a cross was carved."
The beads swung in her hand, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He glanced over at his own rosary, still on the scarred coffee table. “That's—that's just sick.” He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. “It's blasphemy."
"I think it's some kind of religious freak,” she said slowly. “Someone who sees these poor girls as evil—most of them are working as prostitutes, after all—and he is cleansing the world of their sin by sending their souls to God; he probably thinks he is saving them as well.” She shook her head, standing up. She placed a business card on the coffee table. “I've taken up enough of your time. If any of the kids who come by St. Mark's say anything—anything at all, no matter what, please give me a call right away. We have to catch this guy.” She walked to the door, shook his hand. “You'll call me?"
"Yes, of course.” The moment the door shut he ran to the bathroom and threw up. He splashed cold water on his face, brushed his teeth again, and stared at his red eyes in the mirror.
He watched for Molly all day, hoping that she'd break her usual pattern and come into St. Mark's during its normal hours. As he ladled soup into bowls, cut sandwiches, handed out towels, he listened to the kids talking. No one was talking about the latest victim—maybe they didn't know yet, which would be unusual. Normally, that kind of news spread through the street kids in no time flat. No, there was talk about the usual inane things—good corners to ask for money, places to avoid, business owners who chased them off and others who were good for some money or something to eat, a great place to get cheap clothes, and on and on and on. He looked at them with their multiple piercings, tattoos, and wild hairstyles and colors, and wondered, as he often did, what drove them to the streets. He opened his mouth a few times to ask about Molly, but then closed it and said nothing. She never came in during this time, and who knew if they would even know her as Molly?
He walked home after closing, the rain still coming down, the gutters full of water spilling over onto the sidewalk. By the time he got back to the miserable little apartment on St. Philip Street, his pants were soaked and he was shivering. He pulled off his pants, toweling his legs dry and slipping on a pair of sweatpants. He sank to his knees in front of the crucifix and prayed again for Molly. As he clicked off the beads, nagging thoughts kept coming into his mind, interfering with his prayers.
It's just like before.... Surely that police detective was just grasping at straws, trying to get information and help from wherever she could.... It's silly to be afraid of the police just because of what happened before.... Stop thinking like this, you're supposed to be praying, communing with the Lord.... But I can't go through that again, the boy lied, why wouldn't anyone believe me?
He opened his eyes and placed his rosary back on the coffee table.
He walked into the kitchen, ignoring the roaches as they scurried off the counters, and made a peanut butter sandwich, glancing at the clock. Only a few more hours until her usual time.
The boy lied.
Joey Moran. A pudgy boy of thirteen with an acne problem and thick glasses who always seemed to have a runny nose when it was cold. Shy and introverted, the only child of a shrew of a mother, overprotected and hovered over. He cried often and easily, and the other boys at St. Dominic's made sport of him, taunting and teasing, tripping him and knocking the books out of his hands in the hallways of the school. He'd felt sorry for the boy—with that horrible mother, his life had to be miserable—and tried to make friends with him, tutoring him and trying to protect him from the other kids. Until that day when the police officer came by the rectory and told him what the boy's mother was saying. It was like being punched in the face. “Lies,” he'd told the cop. “I never laid a hand on that boy."
The knowing smirk on the cop's face. The endless meetings with his superiors until the archbishop himself had called him in, and no one, no one believed him.
"We've reached a settlement with Mrs. Moran,” the Archbishop said, frowning at him. “She'll drop the charges on condition that..."
No one cared that it was all a lie. “For the good of the church, it's best that we do this ... We're releasing you from your vows, but we've found a job for you ... It's best that you leave Chicago ... Of course I believe you, Michael, but we just can't have another one of these scandals, and it's just better to resolve things this way ... You've met the mother, you know what she's like, she's threatening to go to the papers and you know what will happen then, other families will smell blood and a chance to get money out of us ... It's best this way."
Best for everyone but Michael O'Reilly, he thought angrily, glancing over at the crucifix.
The boy LIED.
He started trembling. He picked up his beads and started praying for strength, for serenity, for peace.
The string snapped in his hand.
He sank to his knees and wept.
* * * *
He waited for Molly for over an hour, watching the cars drive by in the rain. Finally, he gave up and walked back home through the deserted streets. Where could she be? Was she safe and warm and out of the rain somewhere? The worry bubbled within him as he unlocked his door and stepped out of the rain. The rosary beads were still scattered all over the floor where he'd left them. He knelt down and started scooping them up into his palm. He glanced up at the crucifix just as a flash of lightning lit up the room.
Jesus’ eyes seemed alive, glittering and angry. Unforgiving.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...” he began reciting the words.
* * * *
"Fallen priest, fallen priest..."
His eyes snapped open. He was lying on the floor in front of the makeshift altar, the votive candles burning and flickering in the dark. The room was cold, very cold. The rain was still pounding away on the roof; he could hear the dripping water in the kitchen. He was trembling, his heart pounding in his ears. I fell asleep and had the dream again, he thought, glancing over at the clock. Almost midnight. He struggled to his feet, his knees stiff, his back and neck aching from lying on the hard floor.
She was in danger.
He had to save her.
He grabbed his raincoat and his umbrella, blowing out the candles and grabbing his keys. He took a deep breath, opened his door, and stepped outside. The rain was pouring, the water gushing off the roof. The street was under water, swirling dark water carrying d
ebris, rising halfway up the tires of the cars parked on the streets. The street lamps feebly tried to illuminate the night, but only succeeded in giving off a dull yellow glow. She was out there somewhere. He opened the umbrella and stepped down the creaking wooden stairs and took a few hesitant steps into the night.
"Hail Mary, full of grace,” he muttered as a car went by, throwing up a sheet of dirty water, continuing the prayer as he started down the sidewalk, not sure of where he was going.
There was a thick mist, and the streets were silent, except for the rain and the hissing of streetlights, and the mist moved and swirled like lost souls, dancing the dance of the dead in the stillness. He began to walk down toward the waterfront, knowing somehow that that was where she was, and there was danger, danger for her, some madman with rosary beads and a knife wanted to wipe her off the face of the earth, send her soul to God....
He tasted blood in his mouth, could smell it in the wet air.
He began to run.
His footsteps echoed in the mist, the sound bouncing off the buildings that stood so silent and reproachful, almost contemptuous in their silence. The mist continued to dance as he ran, and he was sweating despite the cold, and he threw the umbrella, which was doing him no good, only slowing him down, into the gutter, thinking I'll pick that up later, not realizing how foolish the thought was, all he could think of was her, and he continued praying as he ran, please God, oh heavenly Father, save her save her save her, let me be in time she is young she is innocent do not take her...
He heard a scream. “No, mister, please, don't..."
He ran harder, and still the screams continued and his lungs felt as though they would explode, and he was crying as he ran, and the prayers and pleas were running together in his mind, forgive me Father for I have sinned and yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death hail Mary full of grace our Father who art in heaven please protect her let me save her ... he saw them, through the mist, as though the dancing souls were parting for him, and he closed the gap, and grabbed the man's upraised hand, the hand that held the dripping knife, and just like in his dreams it was flashing blue fire, it was the knife, the sword of the Lord, the sword of the righteous....
EQMM, November 2006 Page 13
