The Absolver: Rome (Saint Michael Thriller Series Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  “Thanks, pop. Give mom my love, and tell her I’m thinking about her.”

  “I will. We love you, hope to see you soon.”

  “Love you too, pop. Be safe back there, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Doesn’t cross much off the list, but I’ll try.”

  Michael hung up the receiver and stood. The whole family’s like this. Someone’s finally gotta quit saying goodbye, or it’ll go on forever. It takes longer to end the conversation than it does to have it. For the moment, he had no choice but to stuff his problems down into their proverbial box and set them aside for another time, perhaps another day. Michael’s parishioners needed him, and he had to be at his best to serve them. At the end of the day, I’m just a visitor here. These folks are born and buried within a few blocks of this church. I owe them all the help and guidance I can muster for the little time that I’m here.

  FOUR

  Tuesday, 5:27 PM. Three Weeks Ago.

  La Iglesia de San Francisco. Bogotá, Columbia.

  Later that same evening, Monsignor Medina finally returned from his appointed rounds and errands out in the neighborhood, but Michael couldn’t secure a private audience with him until they met for dinner. Michael had long adjusted to the Columbian practice of a small evening meal, so their shared portions of buttered arepas and hot chocolate suited him fine. His only troubles remained in his heart, not in his stomach. I should discuss my struggles with Medina, but I’ve only worked with the man for six months. I’m still not comfortable just coming out and asking for such personal guidance from him.

  “Michael, how did you resolve matters with Jesus Salinas this morning?”

  Perfect, he thought, he’s gonna break the ice for me. “Well, actually, that’s something I need to discuss with you, Monsignor. I’m struggling with what’s happened, but I don’t want to risk breaking the Seal of the Confessional.”

  “Let’s start by taking all the identities out of our discussion. Never mind who told you what, just discuss with me what’s troubling you. Just, as I’ve said, divulge no other identities or personalities to me.”

  Michael hesitantly considered how to explain his moral dilemma without confirming the identity that Medina already knew. This seems like a silly technicality, but, here goes. “My trouble, Monsignor, is that I’m struggling to grapple with the concept of vengeance and the morality of violence.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve offered counsel to a parishioner that they are to avoid vengeance at all costs, and that God has demanded that we leave the revenge business up to Him alone, while we are incapable of understanding how, when, where, and why God chooses to act or not to act against those that wrong us.”

  His mentor buttered another arepa and waived his hand to encourage Michael to continue with his inquiry.

  “But, there are numerous examples of God’s favored people, his blessed and anointed personalities throughout the scriptures, that took vengeance into their own hands. They turned their righteous indignation into violence, and God rewarded them for it.”

  “Such as David and Goliath?”

  “Yes, for starters.”

  “Michael, these are basic questions directly answered by the Catechisms, specifically in dealing with the Fifth Commandment, ‘You shall not kill.’ How is it that you’re troubled by such a simple topic?”

  “I’m speaking directly to the contrary examples throughout the holy scriptures that suggest otherwise. ‘O Lord, God of vengeance, O God of vengeance, shine forth!’” Michael knew his quotation invited Medina to quote contradictory passages, but he’d prepared for that inevitability.

  “’You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against the sons of your own people,’” Medina replied, “’but you shall love your neighbor as yourself. I am the Lord.’”

  “’Since God indeed considers it just to repay with affliction those who afflict you.’”

  Medina set down his arepa and frowned. “’Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’” The monsignor emphasized his last phrase by pointing down at the table several times at its keywords.

  He thinks his quoted verse from Romans should have ended this, Michael realized, but pressed his point further. “God was with Jehoshaphat, Monsignor, while he placed forces in all the fortified garrisons in the land of Judah, and honored him with great riches for his faithfulness! Do you think God blessed him for building garrisons filled with cheek-turning meekness, or for filling them with sword-wielding warriors?”

  “We are commanded, by the scriptures and by the Church, to set aside our wrath!”

  “And what of David,” Michael continued. “When the Philistines deprived the Israelites of blacksmiths to prevent them from possessing weapons, they sharpened their plows, axes, and sickles, and then followed David into battle against those who’d wronged them!”

  “God led them, and used David and the Israelites as a tool to execute His own intent!”

  “And when Moses said, ‘Arm your men for war, that they may go against Midian to execute the Lord’s vengeance,’ what of that? Must we have the word of a prophet before acting?”

  “Father Michael, I—”

  “And Psalm 58:10, Monsignor! ‘The righteous will rejoice when he sees the vengeance; he will bathe his feet in the blood of the wicked! Men will say surely there is a reward for the righteous!’ How do you reconcile that?! It’s counter to the teachings, I’ll give you that, but it’s not ambiguous at all!”

  “Now your rhetoric is truly bordering on heresy, Michael! You know what the Church teaches, what the Catechism says on this! The scriptures have been misinterpreted and maliciously used for centuries by those who wish to substantiate and promote their own cause! That is not the way of God, and it will not be the way we counsel the people of this chapel!”

  Deflated, Michael sighed in frustration that his intended dialogue had devolved into a shouting match of juxtaposed and entrenched ideology. “I’m sorry, Monsignor, if I’ve somehow been unclear, but you’re missing my point. I didn’t counsel him to take revenge. I’m asking, for me, how to reconcile the difference between the Catechism and the scriptures themselves.”

  Medina’s eyes reduced to angry slivers, and disdain dripped from his voice when he spoke. “Father Michael Andrew Thomas, just who the hell do you think you are? Who the hell are you to question the teachings of God, and of His beloved Church, of the Pope, God’s appointed representative on this earth and the divine successor to Saint Peter?” The man stood, shook his head, and looked away from Michael in disgust. “Now would be a good time for you to devote yourself to study and prayer. If we both pray hard enough, maybe we can figure out what God says we’re supposed to do with you.”

  FIVE

  Tuesday, 8:32 PM. Three Weeks Ago.

  La Iglesia de San Francisco. Bogotá, Columbia.

  After he completed his nightly Compline prayers, Michael stepped from the small stone and stucco chapel and apprehensively strode into the darkness of the surrounding barrio. Tonight’s the first time I’ve recited Saint Michael’s prayer since I quit being a cop. Since I’m kinda going out to do cop-ish shit tonight, I’m glad to have it back in the rotation. He considered how vulnerable he was at that moment, despite the familiarity with his intended “patrol” of the neighborhood. Last time I did this, I had a gun, vest, and radio to go with my prayers. Tonight, I’ve got nothing but a collarino and a Cossack. He smiled at the irony that, for the fights that really mattered, his clerical garb should have been far superior weaponry.

  Twelve hours ago, Jesus Salinas Escobedo’s confession began chewing at Michael’s humanity, and he couldn’t let loose of his desire to intervene, to step in and make things right. Like I used to do as a cop, except that I no longer have special arrest authority and I’ve sworn an oath to never break the Seal of the Confessional. How have the clergy dealt with this over the centuries? There’s gotta
be some alcoholic priest sitting in the bottom of a bottle somewhere who had to hear the confession of a legit serial killer. You just know at least one of those assholes told some poor priest everything, knowing he couldn’t do a damned thing with the info, and he did it just to fuck with us.

  Michael usually taught a Krav Maga class that began at seven-pm and ended between eight and eight-thirty, so it wasn’t unusual for him to be out walking the streets at this hour. It was only odd that he was walking away from the chapel and its relative safety. What if I did find this kid, what then? He’s not gonna give a shit about anything I have to say about what he’s done, and he’s not gonna let me drag him by the ear to the police station to confess his sins like some Dennis the Menace character. What the hell am I doing?

  Alone and unarmed, Michael slowed his stroll through the Ciudad Bolivár barrio. Despite my better judgment, my dumbass is still out here. Among the poorest populations Michael had ever seen, the local inhabitants used all available space and materials to erect their tenement shelters. Nothing here constituted a traditional “house,” as the wind, rain, and repeated burglaries would demand all the shelter’s components be replaced within the coming months. Materials like tin siding that offered some degree of relative longevity commonly migrated from one shanty to another as opportunity allowed its theft and relocation.

  Each passing block steeled his resolve that he could deliberately navigate through the neighborhood at night. At minimum, he could act as a roving patrol and make himself available to help anyone who needed it. And, if they really wanna push the issue, I can try to change some priorities for a few of the scrote-bags trolling through here at night.

  Michael further buoyed his confidence by admitting his presumptive superiority in whatever martial art he required to defeat any local adversary here. No way anyone in the area’s got enough money for a gun, so the worst thing I have to worry about is a knife, maybe a pipe or bat, but, mostly, it’d be their numbers. If any one of these assholes got their hands on a firearm, they’d be busy robbing bodegas, markets, and people with money, not victimizing their neighbors to steal another small share of nothing. If I can’t go out and quietly use my martial arts training to make this a safer neighborhood at night, just what the hell have I been wasting the last fifteen years training for? Just have to keep an eye out for their buddies. If they have significant numbers on me, I’ll have to run, at least far enough to get them down to only one or two bad guys. Two is easy enough to defeat, three’s a much bigger problem. If it comes to that, I’ll need to quickly make examples of the first two. Hurt ‘em bad enough their friends want no part of me.

  Although he had a general idea where to find his specific target, Michael didn’t have an exact location. It’s not like the shanties around have addresses and mail service. If these people can’t consistently get the cops to show up, there’s no way a mailman’s walkin’ through here.

  Michael cautiously strolled down the barrio’s darkened, anonymous alleys. Finding most of them narrower than his arm span, he experienced claustrophobia for the first time in his life. If I survive the consequences of my own actions tonight, I can credit my confidence. If I fail, my arrogance will be to blame. Despite his awareness of the risks, he slowly grew more comfortable in the potentially lethal environ. No different than a frog in the pan, I suppose. As long as the danger increases ever so slightly, I won’t realize how much trouble I’m in.

  SIX

  Thursday, 8:57 PM. Two Weeks Ago.

  Barrio Ciudad Bolivar. Bogotá, Columbia.

  Michael stowed his gear and training equipment in a locker inside the dojo and walked out of the front entrance with the last of his Krav Maga students. They politely parted ways, and Michael slowly strode along the main road until all his students were out of sight. No longer visible to anyone who knew him, he backtracked toward the dojo and turned right to walk through a narrow, darkened alleyway. If anyone recognizes me out here, it’d be easy enough to claim I’m out visiting a sick parishioner.

  Michael had made nightly treks out into the neighborhood ever since Jesus Salinas’ confession. Although initially unsure of what he hoped to accomplish, he’d already transitioned and clearly defined his objectives during the short timeframe. He first intended to merely intervene and help anyone that needed it. Now, after about a dozen such back-alley forays, Michael hoped to take the victims’ place. He wanted the predators and local thugs to find him instead of his parishioners. I’d be the kinda victim that’ll make ‘em rethink their career aspirations.

  His methods had quickly evolved, as well. The first night had mostly been about exploring the barrio and learning where to find trouble. Over those first few nights, Michael had quickly found the type of men he sought, but just as any other predatory mammal recognizes another, his potential adversaries had melted into the background and evaporated as he approached. Michael realized they saw the way he carried himself, the confidence with which he moved about the barrio. They knew there had to be a reason I didn’t look or act like anyone else, and likely assumed I had a gun. He’d since changed his behavior patterns, slouched his shoulders, taken smaller, more cautious steps, and generally worked to present the persona he hoped the local criminals would want to target. A slight limp oughta help sell the image, make me look weaker, more feeble, less able to handle myself.

  As he proceeded down the alley from his dojo, each footfall allowed him to transition further into his “victim” character. Michael had taken no more than a dozen measured steps into the isolated alley when his local mentor, Monsignor Medina, unexpectedly emerged from a doorway just ahead and to his left. He saw his supervisor first, but Michael immediately understood he had nowhere to hide and couldn’t avoid interacting with the man. Medina almost appeared shocked when he finally looked up.

  “Michael, what are your doing out here? You should’ve been inside a long time ago! You know it isn’t safe out here, especially after dark. It’s bad enough for me, but, for you, an obvious foreigner, it won’t matter that you’re a priest if they want whatever they think you have.”

  “I wanted to clear my head,” Michael weakly offered, “class wasn’t very productive tonight, and I thought a walk might do me some good.”

  “Father Michael Thomas,” Medina more formally counseled him in the dark alleyway, “it hasn’t been so long since you were a police that you wouldn’t understand the danger that this place poses after sunset.”

  “Our parishioners live in here, Monsignor, if it’s safe enough for them to try to survive here, it’s certainly safe enough for us to walk just as they do.”

  “Look around, Michael, we’re the only ones foolish enough to be out at this hour. Everyone who lives here is either inside, where they’re a little safer, or they’re out here trying to prey on fools like us. None of this is new to you, though, so I have to imagine there is some purpose to your actions.”

  Michael held his Monsignor’s gaze while silence passed between them. He’s clearly gonna just wait for me to respond. Great interrogation technique to use against people who don’t understand it. “I really just wanted to clear my head, Monsignor, but, really, I care a lot less about keeping myself safe than making sure the evils in here feel some of the intimidation they use against everyone else.”

  “So, what, you’re gonna wait to be beaten and stabbed with a rusty screwdriver, maybe worse, and then, what? You have a plan for what happens next, Father Michael, a just and holy plan to convince the aspiring murderers to change their ways and turn their life over to God? If so, I’d love to hear it, because good men have struggled with this since the dawn of time, but, if you’ve worked out an answer, I’d appreciate you sharing it with the world.”

  Now aware that Medina wouldn’t accept his initial explanation, Michael wanted to offer his righteous indignation but felt unsure how much to reveal. The man’s nearly a pacifist, so he’ll never understand inviting danger to stop it. “The criminals and thugs have been running this barrio for gene
rations, Jefe,” he replied and worked to keep his voice down despite the passion and emotions he felt about their discussion. “All the care, compassion, and prayers of our predecessors have done nothing to change that! Are we really supposed to allow the mere threat of fear and violence to keep us indoors, to keep us from doing what little we can to challenge the evil in society that preys upon our own parishioners? I don’t believe God calls us to stay safe and protected while wolves encircle our flock every night!”

  “You’re talking like a cop now, Michael, and that’s not your job anymore, it can’t be. You gave up the badge and the gun, and it’s come time for you to give up the mindset, as well. Police can’t be priests, and priests can’t be police. Right now, you’re behaving like you’re still a police, but you’ve got only a collarino and big balls to protect you.” He reached up and unzipped the very top of Michael’s thin athletic jacket to expose his starch-white collar tab. “I see you’ve chosen to keep all three of them hidden. Now, why would a priest desire to do such a thing?”

  Michael already suspected Medina’s response and tried an indirect answer. “Monsignor, how can we stay hidden in the church at night, safe and sound behind thick stone walls, while these animals run free to stab, shoot, rape, and pillage everyone we see during the few daylight hours when we’re actually willing to join them in the streets?”

  “Those animals, as you say, are also God’s children we’re called to serve.”

  Michael ignored the Sunday school lecture. “The local police refuse to patrol these alleyways and streets, and our flock is left to fend for themselves once the sun goes down every night! How can this be okay with you, sir, I mean, it’s like you’re a visitor in your own city, and you’ve turned the streets over to the worst criminals imaginable!”