“I-I—” he stammered.
“You are weak! You have forgotten our work.”
“No, it was a mistake. I can’t,” he yelled, covering his ears.
A booming laugh thundered through the room. “You dare defy me?”
“No, it’s just—”
“Just WHAT?”
“He was the wrong man. I don’t know where to begin,” he meekly confessed.
“Begin with the school,” the voice commanded. “And this time, no mistakes.”
“Yes,” he sobbed and the room fell still again. Curled in a fetal position, he cried himself to sleep.
Chapter Six
Father Samuel Rossi dug his aging hands into the soil. He loved the feel of the rich dirt between his fingers. It was like being a part of the earth. Over the last four years, Father Rossi converted an abandoned lot filled with the city’s refuse into a thriving garden that came to represent life and hope in a city that had seen much depravity and desolation.
As Father Rossi retired from the day-to-day operations of the church, he found daily refuge amongst the vegetables that he tenderly cultivated. The garden offered a peaceful solitude beyond anything he found in prayer. His endeavor started as a small patch, but day after day, year after year, developed into a small farm that fed a significant part of the community that would otherwise have to do without.
He enjoyed the manual labor. However, as each year passed, he noticed that it was harder and harder to pull himself into a straight position after crouching over to care for his offspring. The creaks are just getting louder.
As he closed his eyes to soak up the warmth of the morning sun, he heard a voice. “I’ve been admiring your garden for quite some time. I was walking past and thought maybe I could offer some help.”
Father Rossi opened his eyes and looked over his garden with pride. “Yes, she is something special.” He started to rise, and the man gently grasped his bicep to help him stand. “Thank you. That seems to be getting more difficult. I’m actually done here for the day. If you don’t mind, you can help me carry the tools to the shed.”
“Absolutely.” The man gathered the tools in his arms.
“Let me get some of those.” He grabbed a trowel and small shovel that were threatning to fall from the man’s hands.
“Thank you, Father.”
The man trailed him to a metal shed in the far corner of the lot. Father Rossi opened the door and stepped inside, and the man followed. The inside of the shed smelled damp and musty and was considerably cooler than the garden. As Father Rossi laid the tools on a wooden workbench, the door of the shed closed. “Son, we’ll need the door open for light.”
When the light didn’t come, Father Rossi turned and saw a face contorted with rage. The man bared his clenched teeth like an animal ready to attack. His eyes stood open wide with pupils dilated, and Father Rossi believed he was looking into the eyes of Lucifer himself. “Oh dear Lord, please help me,” he whispered. The man swung a shovel down on top of Father Rossi, and he crumpled to the floor.
*
Elizabeth rushed into the clinic and offered a hurried greeting to Amy as she passed. After depositing her bag on the chair across from her desk, she walked to the communal closet and found Jeff making a cup of herbal tea.
“Herbal tea? I need the hard stuff,” Elizabeth said as she watched Jeff’s slow, methodical motions.
“That stuff will rot your stomach,” he said without taking his eyes off his tea bag.
She debated whether to walk into the kitchen and start to brew some coffee. Not wanting to be that well acquainted with Jeff, she decided to wait impatiently, clasping her hands tightly in front of her until her fingers turned white.
“What has you so uptight?” he asked.
“Traffic was a nightmare this morning. I’m late. I missed my usual coffee stop.”
“Ah, that explains it. This is Elizabeth without caffeine. I like the caffeinated Elizabeth better.” Jeff continued his ministrations with his tea bag, as Elizabeth was ready to yank him out of the kitchen and drop-kick him back to his cubicle. She appreciated that it might be a legal nightmare for the clinic and tried to distract herself.
“So, what was up with all the traffic?” Elizabeth asked in the most conversational tone that she could muster.
“The mayor is holding a press conference on the steps of city hall. A bunch of the streets are blocked off.”
“You mean campaigning on the steps of city hall,” she said. “What’s he selling now?”
“That fond of him, huh?”
“Never voted for him. Don’t trust him,” she said, crossing her arms.
“The mayor is launching the second phase of his economic revitalization campaign.”
Jeff finished his tea ritual and stepped out, and before he crossed the threshold, Elizabeth was working the coffee machine. “Come on, come on, come on,” she chanted.
*
“Mayor Reynosa, over here.” A flash temporarily blinded him.
“Thank you for all coming this morning.” Reynosa stood behind a podium at the top of the steps with a lineup of men to his left. “Today, I humbly stand here to honor some of the people that have helped guide this city onto a path of financial and moral prosperity. Our unemployment rate is down, our crime rate is down, our school test scores are up, as we invest our city’s new financial success back into our youth. I am a product of this city, born and raised. I know the heart of this city. I know we’ll continue to show others how we, as a community, can rise together.”
He pointed to the men flanking him. “With me are some of our esteemed business and religious leaders who have come together to stand as a symbol of solidarity in support of our great city, as we mark this auspicious occasion.” Applause erupted from the audience.
After concluding his political sermon, Reynosa escorted his honored guests to a private brunch inside a small but elegant dining room. In the center of the room, a large crystal chandelier hung over a round table with a pressed white tablecloth. The drapes were pulled open, allowing the sunlight to dance off the ceiling centerpiece. As the servers made the final preparations for the brunch, the guests clustered in small groups around the room immersed in conversations.
“I read the piece on you in the Times. Nice coverage,” Seth Lowry said as he took a modest sip of champagne from his flute.
“I’m sure your favorite part was the mention of IPR’s success,” Reynosa countered good-naturedly to the pharmaceutical company’s CEO.
“Yes, I was pleasantly surprised. I’m sure you somehow had a hand in guiding the reporter’s research.”
“Perhaps. No one appreciates unpleasant surprises,” Reynosa responded while scanning the room, observing the guests. Confident that his guests were amiably chatting, he lowered his voice. “How are the clinical trials going?”
“Very well. By this time next year, IPR will be a household name,” Lowry boasted. “And we will be fucking rich.”
Reynosa clapped him on the shoulder approvingly.
“A toast,” Lowry said as he raised his glass. “To even more profitable times.”
“Hear, hear,” Reynosa said as they joined glasses.
While the guests spoke in hushed tones around the room, Bishop Pallone stared out the top floor window and took in the view of the city that spread out below. Reynosa excused himself from his conversation and approached the bishop. “Bishop Pallone, thank you for being here today.”
The bishop put out his hand and firmly gripped Reynosa’s palm and placed his other hand on his shoulder in a warm greeting. “That was quite an inspiring speech.”
Reynosa gave a slight bow of his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.
“Will you be able to remain after the other guests have left? It’s been some time since my last confession.”
“For an old friend, I can make time.”
*
Father Rossi slowly woke but had no strength to lift his head, not that he woul
d were he able. A sharp pain radiated through his brain, and he drifted back into darkness.
The cold dampness on his naked skin once again pulled him from his dark refuge, and he floated back to consciousness. Pain in his wrists and ankles competed with the pain in his head. Disoriented, he slowly lifted his head and, with great effort, attempted to open his eyes. After several moments, he focused his vision on a gray concrete wall.
He pulled his right arm to rub it across his throbbing forehead, but found it pulled tight. His wrists and ankles were firmly held by metal cuffs connected to chains that dug deep into his skin. The taut chains were attached to large metal clasps anchored in the ceiling and floor, and he pulled his arms and legs apart like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man.
He took in as much of the room as he could with his restrictions. The room was covered in concrete—walls, ceiling, and floor. A single lantern dangled from a hook at the center of the ceiling illuminating only the middle of the room, leaving the corners in shadow. The furnishings that he could see were sparse, with a small wooden table and single chair and a metal shelving unit holding nondescript cardboard boxes. Two concrete-covered doors that nearly blended into the wall sat opposite each other as though they were standing guard. The air was stale, and he wondered how safe the lantern was in such a confined space.
“I see you’re finally awake. I was afraid I might have lost you.”
Father Rossi turned his head, attempting to find the origin of the voice. “Where am I?”
A man mostly concealed in a dark cloak stepped forward and faced him. “A place where no one will ever find you. Screaming will be futile. No one will ever hear you. We are covered by concrete, but please feel free to try. I would quite enjoy it, actually.”
“What kind of evil are you?” Father Rossi spat.
“Evil? Oh no, you are mistaken, Father. I am not evil, but merely your prodigy.” Humming “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” the man glanced to the ceiling before he pulled a coiled rawhide whip hanging from a hook and ran his fingertips along the sharp thong of the whip. “It was a whip like this that was used on Jesus. Don’t you think?”
“Who are you?”
“You may call me Salvator, a name I bestowed upon myself.”
“What do you get from this?” Father Rossi asked, looking directly into the man’s eyes.
The man stood motionless, contemplating his answer. “Joy.”
“There is no joy in suffering,” Father Rossi wheezed out.
“Oh, but there is. Hearing your plea for forgiveness is pure joy.”
“I do not fear you. I’m an old man. My time on this earth is near its end. You can batter my body, but my soul is with the Lord.” Father Rossi spat at the man.
A maniacal laugh echoed through the bare, bleak space. “You’re different from the other. He cowered, begged for mercy. You’re a fighter.”
The sneer on the cloaked man’s face was quickly replaced by a startled look as he violently flinched, causing the whip to fall from his hands, and he turned to face to the corner. “You scared me. I didn’t know you were there.”
“Yes, yes. I’m sorry,” the cloaked man stammered and hastily picked up the whip.
Father Rossi focused his eyes on the trembling man and looked around the room to see what scared him so. “You’re lost, you’re afraid. Don’t turn your back on God. He is always there for you.”
“Shut up!” screamed the cloaked man. A deafening crack reverberated through the solid room. Father Rossi felt rawhide rip into his flesh, and a shriek spilled from his mouth.
*
Elizabeth pulled on her long black wool coat. The weather was changing, and she enjoyed the opportunity to pull out some of her warmer clothes. As she turned off her office light and advanced toward the front door, Dan came up behind her.
“Pulling a late night? Hope you’re not bucking for a raise.”
“Nope, I’m gunning for your job.”
Dan chuckled. “You only have to ask. So, what’s got you here so late?”
“The Sanchez case.”
“Tenacious, aren’t you?” he said, laughing at his own humor, which was lost on Elizabeth. He pulled the front door shut behind them and reengaged the lock with his key.
“I’m going to file a motion to reopen with the immigration court based on ineffective assistance.”
“Hmm, that’s an idea. Well, go get ’em.”
After a quick drive, Elizabeth strode up the walkway of her home, and the security light illuminated her way. She noted that it was getting darker earlier. As she opened her front door, Elizabeth was assaulted by Charlie.
“Hold on, my God.”
She dropped her bag on the side table and hung her coat on a hook by the door. Charlie weaved in between her legs, impeding her progress. As Elizabeth walked to the kitchen, booting Charlie with her feet on the way, she glanced at the blinking red light on her home phone and hit the button for her voice mail as she passed.
“Two new messages,” announced the automated voice.
“Hi, Ms. Campbell, this is Margaret from Dr. Bernstein’s office. You are due for a dental cleaning…” With cat food covering her fingers, Elizabeth punched the key to erase with her elbow.
“Elizabeth, this is your mother. Remember, you have one of those.” Elizabeth sighed. She knew she was in for a long one.
“You could be lying unconscious under a bridge for all we know.”
“Who are you talking to?” her father’s voice interrupted.
“Our daughter. The one who never has any time for her parents.”
“I had dinner at your house last weekend,” Elizabeth argued back to the machine.
“Thomas Whittaker came by yesterday to review our stock portfolio. He’s still single. He’s a catch. You really should call him.”
“He has wandering hands that are faster than the eyes, and he has a mole the shape of New Jersey on his forehead,” Elizabeth countered. Over the years, she found it cathartic to argue back with her mother on the machine. In real time, she would never get a word in.
“When are you going to settle down and have kids?”
“When are you going to leave that flea-bit clinic and come practice some real law?” her father interjected.
“Call us, honey. We love you.” The machine beeped, signaling the end.
“Oh yeah, I’ll get right on that. Right after a long bath and a large glass of wine.”
Chapter Seven
Grace pulled up the collar of her jacket as she approached the dirt walkway to a flourishing community garden that stood in contrast to the concrete surrounding it. A silhouette of a cross stood against the garden as the early morning birds gathered around the vegetables looking for a morning meal. The air was brisk, and light dew dampened the ground. As the morning sun made its journey across the sky chasing away the cool moist air, the silhouette emerged into a form. Father Rossi’s naked body hung on a wooden cross like a scarecrow, his hands and legs bound to the wooden posts. Parts of his skin were gouged and hanging loosely, with some pieces of his flesh ripped away. His left ear was dangling, barely attached. There was a savagery of deep gashes that left crevices across his body. A circle with three blood red triangles was carved deep into his stomach.
Grace stared at the grotesque figure hanging on the cross. “Damn it to hell,” she muttered under her breath. A crew of criminal investigators efficiently worked around her processing the scene. A gaggle of reporters and onlookers were being held at bay behind the chain link fence that surrounded the garden. She could see the flashes of light as the photographers were snapping away, and she yanked at her phone clipped on her waist and viciously punched at the numbers. After a single ring, the phone was answered.
“Hello?”
“There’s been another murder. What the hell is this!”
“I know. I can see.”
“What?” Grace asked irritated.
“Look to your east. I live in the gray building. Nice containment of t
he crime scene, De-tec-tive. It’s all over the news.”
Grace turned to face the building. “Don’t give me that crap. The reporters and looky-loos were here getting their fill before the first unit arrived. We need to talk. What number are you?”
“What?”
“What fucking unit number are you? I’m coming up.”
Grace jabbed the end button and headed toward the gray building. She passed through the upscale lobby, and a sleek elevator ascended the floors. She found retired detective Patrick Sullivan leaning in the doorway of his apartment, and she moved past him, not waiting for an invitation. The apartment was well furnished. “This is a nice building for such a shitty neighborhood.”
“Part of the economic revitalization. Move on or die out.”
Grace crossed to the window that Sullivan previously occupied and stared down at the scene in the garden below. “What the hell is going on? This murder has Raymond Miller’s markings all over it. At least I used to think it was Raymond Miller’s markings. Now I’m thinking you screwed up.”
Sullivan glared at her and crossed his arms defensively. “Don’t forget who arrested Miller with the damn cross in his pocket. You got a nice fast track to the gold shield after that, didn’t you.”
A silent tension filled the space between them, and Sullivan backed off first. “Look, there’s no need to get your panties into a bunch. There’s an easy explanation.”
Grace perched herself on the windowsill, waiting to be enlightened.
“Miller isn’t the dumb fuck that he pretends to be. He knew the mayor’s plan to have the cases reinvestigated. Hell, everyone knows. What better way to have his conviction overturned than by planning another murder and having it carried out by some ex-con lackey who he fucked up the ass? He has a solid alibi.”
Grace didn’t flinch at Sullivan’s vulgar description. As a woman in a male-dominated world, she was often tested by her colleagues for her worthiness. Instead, she remained silent never taking her eyes off Sullivan, evaluating him for the veracity of his statements. She finally responded. “His confession was clean?”
Sins of Our Fathers Page 6
