White Lies

by Jeremy Bates

  She hadn’t been to church for years, and nothing seemed to have changed. It was, after all, one of the oldest institutions in the world whose evolution had taken centuries, not decades, or even years or months. The high ceilings dwarfed the congregation. The light filtering through the stained-glass windows was a brilliant red and icy blue. A hushed silence layered everything, what you only experienced in churches and libraries and, perhaps, the waiting room at the dentist’s office.

  The opening hymn began. The priest, dressed in a white-and-purple cassock, made his way down the center aisle, followed by his entourage. “Welcome to Sunday Mass,” he began in a loud, clear voice when he reached the altar. “My name is Father O’Donovan, and thank you all for joining us today in our time of worship.”

  For the next hour Katrina followed the familiar ritual of Mass: standing, sitting, kneeling, praying, singing. Throughout it all she found herself thinking about the past. When she was six or seven, before Crystal had been born, she had been unlike most of her other friends in that she’d always looked forward to attending church. For one, she liked the dressing up bit. But more than that, she liked the Sunday school where all the younger kids were ushered after the initial hymn was sung. She enjoyed the tales of miracles and adventures she learned about in the picture Bible, and when her teacher once told her that Jesus watched down over everyone, she’d spent the entire afternoon that day in the backyard, looking up into the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jesus, or even God, peeking over a cloud. Years later, in grade nine, she received the top mark in her religious studies class for a paper outlining the existence of God using St. Anselm’s ontological argument.

  The Good Girl, she mused.

  Not anymore.

  Katrina wondered why, after all these years, she’d decided to attend Mass now. Because if her parents’ death had made her discard any notion of an omnipotent, beneficial God, Shawn’s death had hammered the nails into the coffin of her belief, all but making her an atheist. She couldn’t put a finger on the answer, only that there had been something about the sight of the church. It had given her some reassurance, some comfort, which had been what she’d needed most right then.

  “And the Lord be with you,” the priest was saying.

  “And also with you,” the congregation answered in unison.

  “May the almighty God bless you. In the name of the Father, the Son, and Holy Spirit. Our Mass has ended. Let us go forth in the joy of the Lord.”

  “Thanks be to God.”

  The parishioners got to their feet, everyone chatting and laughing, the solemn hush now lifted. They emptied out of the front doors, leaving only the altar boys behind, who were busy with their duties. Katrina didn’t leave. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the back of the pew in front of her and tried not to think about much of anything.

  Someone spoke to her. She sat back, startled.

  It was the priest.

  “I’m sorry, my child,” he said. He was standing next to her pew. “I didn’t mean to give you a scare.”

  “That’s all right, Father. I was just thinking.”

  “About anything in particular? Perhaps I can help?” He was an elderly man with brown hair that was likely dyed and out-of-proportioned features, namely too-large ears and a small, upturned nose. His eyes were soft and kind.

  “Yes,” she said. “I mean, no. I can’t talk about it.”

  “Sometimes it is better to talk if something weighs heavily on your mind.”

  Katrina shook her head, at the same time thinking it would be a great relief to confide in someone what she’d done—to ask someone, anyone, aside from Jack, what to do.

  “Did you enjoy the sermon?” Father O’Donovan asked. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “I stopped going to church a long time ago.”

  “Sadly, that’s the trend these days. There seems to be three groups. The faithful who come regularly. Those who stop by for special occasions such as Christmas and Easter. And those who come only when they are troubled and in need of guidance.” He paused meaningfully. “If you would like to talk or make a confession, my child, you’ve only to let me know. I’ll be here a little longer.”

  Katrina watched him cross the nave and enter the confessional.

  Then, after a good minute of debate, she joined him.

  She took a seat on the wooden bench. A panel in the dividing wall of the booth slid open. All that separated her and the priest was a thin linen curtain. The air in the enclosed space was laced with the organic scent of burned incense.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began, making the sign of the cross.

  “How long has it been since your last confession, my child?”

  “A long time.”

  “What are your sins, my daughter?”

  “I told a lie.” She paused, swallowed. She was unable to go on.

  “Remember you are not telling God anything He does not already know.”

  “It was a bad lie,” she pressed on. “Well, no, it wasn’t. It was a white lie. Nothing big. But it led to some … some terrible consequences.” Suddenly she found the words pouring out of her mouth as she recounted everything, from the time she’d picked up Zach on the highway to Jack leaving for Zach’s house earlier this morning. She didn’t reveal Jack’s name, referring to him as her “friend.” Throughout the tale of deceit and murder, Father O’Donovan didn’t once interrupt her. When she’d finally finished, she remained sitting in breathless silence, wondering how she could have confessed so much.

  “This is a very serious matter, my daughter,” he said softly. “How well do you know this ‘friend’ of yours?”

  “We just met. But I … I know him well enough.”

  “Could you persuade him to go to the police?”

  The thought of Jack caving and going to the police at this point was inconceivable. His resolve to see this through to the end undetected was inflexible. “No, he wouldn’t.”

  “Because it seems to me this is much more his doing than your own. Tell me then, my child, would you consider turning him over to the police yourself?”

  Katrina thought about all the reasons she had used to talk herself out of such an action. “I can’t,” she said. “I simply can’t.”

  “I think it would be an option you would do well to ponder.”

  “Are you going to tell anyone, Father?”

  “The confidentiality of all statements during the course of reconciliation is absolute. That is the Seal of the Confessional.”

  Katrina couldn’t bring herself to look up from her hands, which were clasped tightly together in her lap. “Do you despise me?”

  “God hates the sin, not the sinner. He is not vengeful or spiteful but merciful and forgiving. Even though you have turned away from Him, He has not turned away from you.”

  “You can forgive me then?”

  “I cannot.”

  Katrina’s heart sank. She was beyond redemption.

  “No man, regardless of how devout or learned, has the power to forgive sins,” Father O’Donovan added. “That power belongs to God alone. However, He does act through the ministration of men, and through me your connection to God’s grace can be restored.”

  “What would I have to do?”

  “Are you truly sorry for having committed these mortal sins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you commit them again?”

  “No, Father. I would not.” That was the truth. She was never more certain of anything in her life.

  “Your penance is one hundred Our Fathers and one hundred Hail Marys. Also, you will commit yourself to one hundred hours of community service wherever you see fit over the next year.”

  “Is that all?” she asked, unable to believe she didn’t deserve more. Much more.

  “Accepting the penance is the method by which you can express your true sorrow. Spend that time thinking about how you have sinned, praying for those you have wronged, and asking G
od for guidance in how to proceed. God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

  “Amen.”

  “Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “Go in peace my daughter, and may God bless you.”

  Katrina left the confessional, slid to the center of a nearby pew, and began her repentance. It was far from enough to make up for all her poor decisions. It would not clear her conscience or absolve her from the crimes she’d committed. But at least it would be a start.

  Jack was sitting on the front steps of her porch when she returned. Back from visiting Zach. Katrina’s pulse quickened. Jack tossed aside the pinecone he had been fiddling with and stood. “Go for a walk?” he asked, and although he said it pleasantly enough, she thought she saw his eyes narrow slightly.

  “I needed some space. And Bandit hasn’t been walked since early yesterday morning. I left the door unlocked for you.” The words were tumbling out of her mouth in her haste. She wanted to find out what he’d learned at Zach’s. Had Zach seen the murder or not? “So? Tell me. What happened?”

  “Do you want the good news or bad news first?”

  Katrina groaned inwardly. Bad news? She didn’t think she could deal with any more bad news. “Bad,” she said, regardless.

  “Zach knows.”

  She experienced a hot flash as she was momentarily flooded with warmth, though it wasn’t a good warmth. It left her feeling faint and sick.

  “But the good news is this,” Jack continued. “He won’t tell a soul.”

  Katrina felt the shadow of déjà vu. “How can you be so sure?”

  “You have to trust me on this.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “What did you say, Jack?”

  “I made him a deal, okay? Let’s leave it at that.”

  “You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

  “I told you I wouldn’t touch him.”

  “You threatened him?”

  “Listen,” Jack said, resting his hands on her shoulders and looking her square in the eyes. She felt like they were back out on Highway 2, and he was going to give her the emotion versus reason speech again. But all he said was, “I’m not going into detail. But I am one hundred percent confident he won’t say anything to anyone. You have to trust me on that.”

  She was about to leap on that, tell him she was done with blindly trusting him, but she held her tongue. What did it matter? If Zach was okay—and she would know that for sure tomorrow at school—then what did it matter what Jack had said to him? The details didn’t matter at this point. Like doing a head count minutes before the ship went under. So she nodded, feeling very indifferent, and that worried her. It was the feeling of giving up. “So what do we do now?” she asked.

  “We relax. Get something to eat? Dinner, maybe?”

  “Eat?” she said, surprised. “I couldn’t possibly. I’m far too nervous.”

  Jack’s powerful thumbs rubbed her shoulders, making small circles. “What can I do then?” he said. “You name it.”

  “I think I just need to lie down.”

  “Hey.” He titled her chin upward, so they were looking in each other’s eyes again. “You okay?”

  “I guess.”

  “If you need anything, even just to talk, you can call me. We’re almost through this.”

  Katrina nodded, went inside, and closed the door. She heard Jack’s Porsche drive away.

  Five minutes later the police arrived.

  Chapter 27

  Crystal Burton was sitting on a bench out front the Kwik Stop, staring at page forty-nine of the dog-eared paperback novel she’d been reading for the second time. She blinked, the words on the page coming back into focus. She backtracked a little and discovered she’d barely read two-and-a-half pages over the past thirty minutes. A page every fifteen minutes? What was she? Brain dead? No, more like heart dead. She’d been thinking about Zach. How he’d told her he liked to read too. The books and movies they’d talked about. His crazy cyborg theory. All the other crazy but neat stuff he’d told her. Kissing him. Doing a lot more than kissing later in the night, though not going all the way. Maybe third base, maybe that’s how far she’d gone. She wasn’t sure. She was used to getting walked, bypassed, and didn’t know the details of the lingo.

  What the hell had changed between them? She’d thought he’d liked her as much as she’d liked him. He’d been drunk, yeah, but she had been drunk too, and she wasn’t pulling any one eighties this morning. So why was he? Because he was a guy and that’s just what guys did? That would suck. Because of the distance between them? He in Leavenworth, she in Seattle? That would still suck, just a little less. Nevertheless, she didn’t really believe it. Seattle was only two hours away. It wasn’t the Middle East. They could have worked something out. She thought back to their exact conversation. She’d told him she was going to be at Kat’s all day, and would he like to come by for lunch, and he’d said, “I better not.” That was it.

  You walked off because of that? she thought. Because he didn’t want to come by for lunch?

  A part of her knew that wasn’t completely true, that she’d seen it was over in his eyes, but she stubbornly blocked that out now. Instead she told herself what she wanted to hear, that perhaps he didn’t want to come over because Katrina would be there. They worked together, and maybe he found being with a coworker’s younger sister embarrassing, especially given his shady relationship with Kat.

  Yes—that was more like it.

  The Greyhound bus appeared on Highway 2. It pulled into the vast parking lot and stopped next to the gas pumps. It was hissing and groaning and seemed to sigh with relief as the doors folded open and the passengers began to disembark for a quick smoke or bathroom break. Crystal stood, slung her bag over her shoulder, but she didn’t get on the bus. She went to the payphone outside the service station and was happy to find the white pages in the hard plastic case had not yet been replaced by automated directory assistance. She fingered through the thin book. There were only two Marshall Zs in Leavenworth. Thank God for small towns, she thought. She dug a pen and a scrap of paper out of her handbag and scribbled down both addresses. She looked up the number for the taxi service and ordered a cab. One arrived five minutes later, by which time the dark sky had begun to spit rain. She showed the driver both addresses and asked him to take her to whichever was closer.

  The first house was on Benton Street across from the Faith Lutheran Church. It was a grand two-story redbrick done in the Federal style, complete with classical Greek columns, a semicircular fanlight over the front door, and symmetrical Palladian windows. Two cast-iron hounds guarded the front porch. Crystal had an inauspicious feeling about this one. Zach might look like a rock star, but he surely didn’t live like one. Still, she knocked and was immediately greeted by a real dog’s bark, which was quickly accompanied by another high-pitched yelp. A middle-aged woman opened the door, holding a baby. She eyed Crystal through the screen. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry,” Crystal began, “I think I may have made a mistake.”

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “Zach?”

  The woman frowned. “Can I ask what this is about?”

  Zach’s mother? Did he live with his parents? “I’d just like to speak with him.”

  The woman cast Crystal a final, suspicious glance before disappearing inside. A robust man with a shock of salt-and-pepper hair appeared in the doorway. He looked at Crystal curiously. His wife stood close watch behind.

  “Uh, hi,” Crystal said. “Can I speak with Zach?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You’re Zach?”

  “Yes, I believe I am.”

  “I’m sorry. I have the wrong a
ddress.”

  She hurried down the steps, back to the waiting cab. She told the driver to take her to the second address, on Birch Street. This one turned out to be a wooden thing with a pointed roof and overhanging eaves. The shutters needed a new coat of paint and the lawn needed a mow. This was more like it. She asked the driver to wait once more, then dashed through the rain to the front door. She knocked.

  “Who are you?” a bent, ghoulish-looking woman greeted her.

  “May I speak with Zach, please?” she asked, though her hopes had been dashed once again.

  “Ha! That’s a first,” the old woman cackled. “A visitor! Side door. Lives in the basement.”

  Bingo! Crystal returned to the taxi, tipped the driver well for his patience, then went to the side door. She took a deep breath, pushed her wet hair back behind her ears, and knocked. Her heart hummed with nervous excitement. No one answered. She knocked again, louder. A curtain in the door window was pulled back. Zach peered out, like a sentry at a secret fort of bandits. His face disappeared and the door opened. “Hey, Crystal,” he said, and for some reason he looked relieved.

  “Since you didn’t want to come by for lunch,” she said, hoping she sounded more casual than she felt, “I figured I’d come by your place.” She held her breath.

  “Umm—okay, sure.” He opened the door farther. “Come in.”

  Crystal followed Zach down the stairs to a rustic basement, which had wood-paneled walls and oak-colored carpet. An open, half-empty bottle of whiskey stood on the coffee table, next to a metal ashtray filled with cigarette butts.