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

by Gavin Reese

  Medina inhaled and stepped closer to Michael. When he spoke, he did so with the hushed anger of a father forced to discipline his child in public. “You speak with the arrogance typical of an American visitor, Michael. You know what’s best, you’re the only brave one out here sacrificing for the people, and you’re too willing to tell the rest of us everything we’ve been doing wrong all these years.

  “You can leave and go home whenever you want,” Medina continued, “when it finally gets too dangerous, when your life is finally threatened, when the lives of your family are finally threatened. Oh, wait, that’s right, you don’t have any family in danger, do you? The thugs that run this neighborhood can’t get to your mother, your sister, your father. They can only get to you, only threaten, cut, maim, or kill you! There’s tremendous freedom in that, Michael, that your actions won’t cost the lives, or safety, or dignity of anyone you care about, and you don’t understand that. No, you can only look down on the rest of us who do have something to lose here.”

  “Monsignor, I meant no—”

  “I don’t want your apologies, Michael! I started getting death threats from this neighborhood while you were still shitting in your pants, so you don’t have the right to criticize me and my people because we don’t have the same reckless attitude about our families’ lives that you have about your own! The only difference between me and you, Michael, is my lack of willingness to have my loved ones answer for my part in this fight.”

  Michael stood his ground, but he had to acknowledge the truth in his mentor’s words. I don’t have anything to risk but myself.

  The elder priest softened his tone but didn’t yet step away from Michael. “The fact that you’re here alone, in such a dismal and desperate part of God’s Earth, that’s both a blessing and a curse. Don’t think, not for a second, that I don’t know exactly what you’re doing out here, or that I haven’t ever done the very same thing for the very same reasons,” Medina quietly offered. “I envy that you get to enjoy the defense of your collarino and Cossack when it suits you to make known you’re a man of God. Only a decade ago, I would’ve joined you out here, and I still might today if the consequences weren’t so terrible. As it is, with what my sister and her children have to lose in this barrio, I can’t do anything but pray for you from inside the chapel.

  “There is no need to hide your collarino, Michael. The men you want to find will not care that you’re a priest, and you’ll receive no quarter or mercy because if it. If anything, you might incur more of their wrath, most of them blame God for their lot in this life, and, by extension, you. You’re not the first of us to come into this slum looking to avenge those we care about. You also won’t be the last of us to finally pray for God’s forgiveness, Michael. Vengeance is His alone, but, you already know that, and you’re out here in spite of it.”

  Michael merely nodded. No point in denying any of it. Even if it started subconsciously, this routine is my new normal.

  Medina finally stepped back and spoke in a more conversational tone. “Be safe, Michael, and remember there’s never just one of them. There’s always at least two, and the second one you see is usually the one you have to worry about.” He took Michael by the shoulders and looked into his eyes with pleasant envy visible in his expression. “I’ll wait up for a while because I’d like to know that you’re safe, even if you don’t care for your own welfare. Don’t stay out too late, or make me send the police and the enterrador looking for you in the morning.”

  “I’ll do my best, Monsignor.”

  “That’s what concerns me, Michael.”

  SEVEN

  Friday, 12:46 AM. Two Weeks Ago.

  La Iglesia de San Francisco. Bogotá, Columbia.

  Father Michael Thomas returned to the living quarters he shared with Monsignor Medina behind the Saint Francis Church. Seated on a simple wood rocking chair with a half-empty glass of lager on an adjacent, mismatched table, Medina looked down at his watch and appeared mildly relieved to see Michael. Looks like he was serious about waiting up for me.

  “You made it,” Medina offered, “I’ll tell the police and the undertaker they’ll have to wait to meet you another night.”

  “Perhaps,” Michael sheepishly replied while approaching his mentor. I really have no idea how this is gonna go. He sat on a rickety wooden chair across the small table from Medina. “I’m sorry for not putting more faith and trust in you, Monsignor, and I should’ve—”

  “You’ve said too much already,” Medina waved away his apology. “I forgave you while I was still shouting.”

  “Good, well, thank you.” Michael rose to start toward his private room.

  “Where do you think you’re going? Just because I forgave you, that doesn’t mean we’re finished dealing with this.” Medina downed a gulp of his beer, wiped his chin, and replaced the empty glass back on the small table before he continued. “You didn’t tell me what happened, back there in the alleys populated only with predators and prey.”

  “Nothing. I didn’t find anyone that needed help. Didn’t hear anyone calling out.”

  “And, presumably, you didn’t find the man you thought you were looking for?”

  “No,” Michael quickly replied, “I did not.” No point in denying my ulterior motive at this point. “Enough time has passed since the confession that I wonder if he is even still there.”

  “For men like I suspect he is, many things might keep them away. Jail, prison, unexpected death. Perhaps he heard a vigilante priest was hunting him down to offer his last rites, and he fled the country and changed his evil ways.”

  Michael saw Medina’s smirk and clearly understood the man’s message. He isn’t trying to stop me, but he won’t do anything to stick his neck out for me on this, either. “I think he’s probably landed himself in jail or someone else killed him.”

  “Interesting choice of words,” Monsignor Medina offered, “someone else…killed him. It sounds to me like your mind has already worked out how this will end. Doesn’t He get a say in it?” Michael’s superior pointed up to the heavens just to clarify who “He” was.

  “That’s not really what I meant, but, in my experience, that’s truly up to him. The bad man, not God.”

  “On behalf of God Himself, I feel compelled to object that He can intervene in anything He chooses to.”

  “I agree that He may, but, also in my experience, Monsignor, God does not often make that choice, at least not that I can directly point to, and certainly not as much as our parishioners deserve His direct help.”

  “You’re lucky I don’t wanna turn you in to the Archdiocese, Michael. Some areas of your faith are in serious need of examination.”

  Michael couldn’t tell if Medina sincerely meant that as a warning, but he continued to press his point, anyway. “I understand and acknowledge that God can intervene in anything He chooses, at any time, and for only divinely understood reasons,” Michael offered, “but I don’t see a substantial amount of intervention from Him, especially in this part of the world, and especially not in this neighborhood.”

  “It’s the small miracles that mean the most, Michael, and you’re focused on the big, life-altering examples. Evil will always walk among us, and the devil will always get a say in the events and tragedies that affect humanity. If you demand absolute proof of His power, mercy, and love, I fear you’ll soon find yourself in a position where you need them all very badly.”

  “I don’t doubt any of that, Monsignor, I only doubt that He actively works all the time. I think God spends more time watching what we do with the circumstances we create, and the ones He puts before us, and then judges how we react to them. He can do anything He wants, absolutely, but I believe He focuses a lot more on our free will and the internal process through which we make decisions about how to live our lives.”

  “You’re lucky I like you, Michael,” Medina announced and momentarily tried to finish his beer for the second time. “It wasn’t that long ago that the Church was burning
people at the stake for less heresy. But, your secret’s safe with me. For now.”

  With apparently nothing left to say or discuss, Michael started off toward his room. “Good night, Monsignor. Peace be with you.”

  “And with your spirit.” The monsignor’s suspicious gaze didn’t match his tone. “I’ll keep the undertaker on stand-by for you. He’s a patient man, though, the enterrador. He’ll wait.”

  EIGHT

  Wednesday, 11:51 PM. Present Day.

  Barrio Ciudad Bolivar. Bogotá, Columbia.

  Although he’d finished teaching his evening Krav Maga class hours ago, Michael still wandered the darkened streets and narrow alleys in one of Bogotá’s most prolific slums. If I can’t find the specific alleged rapist, then I can at least uncover an equitable substitute. Michael’s black nylon athletic jacket, jogging pants, and running shoes helped conceal his identity from anyone still out at this hour. Nothing good happens after midnight, and it’s close enough to count. Especially in this neighborhood.

  Michael stepped carefully through the meandering, rutted dirt alley to avoid puddled mystery liquids and piled feces, both canine and human. Even at this late hour, he didn’t pass a single block without hearing a hushed conversation, arguments, and occasional, muffled cries of hungry and unhappy children. Watchful, distrusting eyes occasionally stared at him from behind the tin and cardboard walls that passed as housing construction in this part of the city. Every night that I come out hunting increases the odds that I’ll find what I’m looking for. Michael stopped at the next intersection and looked around for recognizable landmarks. Hell, I can’t make anything out. No idea where I am right now. That’s never good, even in Beverly Hills. Downright dangerous here. Just gotta find a reference point and I can be on my way.

  Michael glanced down all four available routes and found each of them equally dark, narrow, and uphill. I’m standing near the rough center of a trough, a killbox. They got that name for a reason. Where’s the nearest high-ground? Michael scanned the area, turned right, and strode uphill to orient himself back to the chapel.

  After reaching a midpoint between the next intersecting alley, Michael’s sensed danger and reflexively slowed and paid greater attention to his surroundings. Someone’s nearby. He stayed in the center of the tight footpath to give him equal reaction time to threats from either side, but the encroaching shanties complicated his effort. A glance back confirmed no one was following him. Not yet, anyway. These guys almost always work in pairs. They’re better off splitting more frequent profits, and not many victims fight back if they’re outnumbered.

  Threat right! Michael saw the man just before he spoke, only because his clothing was darker than the shadows that concealed him.

  “Alto,” the shadow gruffly commanded. Stop.

  Michael quickly glanced to his left before responding. He needed to ensure he didn’t step into a second, unseen adversary while backing away from this one. “Señor, puedo ayudarte?” Can I help you? Most of the world’s population is right-handed, so the man should’ve hidden on Michael’s relatively weak left side if he were alone. He’s got a partner somewhere close, or he wouldn’t have given up that distinct advantage.

  The shadow stepped forward into the moonlight. Michael saw he was a rough looking man, and probably only a few years younger than him. He doesn’t show any fear or apprehension. He’s done this before, and it’s worked well for him. Until tonight. Where’s the partner hiding?!

  “Dame todo, ahora.” The words had calmly seethed off his tongue. Give me everything, now.

  “Espera, dejame ayudarte,” Michael replied with both hands up in front of his chest, just about shoulder height. He knew most people would misunderstand his posture as a “surrender position.” Those well-versed in the technology of empty-hand combatives all knew better.

  “Dame, todo, ahora!” The man had taken another step forward, which pressed Michael back into a corrugated metal shanty behind him. Movement from the aggressor’s right pocket confirmed Michael’s assumption that he was armed. He withdrew a large, hidden blade and recklessly displayed it for a brief moment before pressing closer to his target.

  Knife! Before Michael consciously considered the threat before him, he’d thrust his left hand out to block and control the man’s right forearm, which held the primary threat, while also landing a devastating throat punch with his right fist. Just as he’d practiced thousands of times, the simultaneous block and counterstrike had the desired effect of stopping the thug’s advance while stunning him and preventing a quick reaction.

  Because he’d always rehearsed this takeaway as a fast, three-part movement, Michael fluidity controlled his opponent’s right hand and the knife, stepped out to his left, and broke that wrist inward. The immediate third movement turned the blade on his attacker. Michael grasped the man’s dysfunctional right hand and the knife between both of his. Without conscious thought, he hastily pointed the sharpened steel toward his adversary, stepped forward, and forcefully propelled his right knee into the bottom of his own hands. The knife dove deep into the man’s torso and stopped only when its oversized hilt prevented further penetration. Thrust up off his feet, Michael’s adversary dropped to the ground in a heap.

  hhuuuurrrhhhhhh

  Michael released his grip, stepped back, and watched just long enough to ensure he stayed down. The entire lethal fight had lasted only three seconds. Moonlight reflected off the knife’s handle as it projected out from his felled attacker. Large, dark drops appeared on the dirt at their feet, and the wound audibly gurgled around the knife’s handle. He’d expected the man to scream, but suspected the long blade had likely punctured his lung. Can’t yell without positive pressure in your chest. Can’t breathe either. Michael took one more step back away from the threat and scanned his surroundings for additional foes that sought to further ruin his night. Nothing, no one. This asshole was really alone. Turning his focus back to the would-be robber, Michael added another step between them, just in case the opponent found renewed vigor despite his injuries.

  A large, dark pool emanated out from beneath the man, and his knife trembled with the man’s labored, futile attempts to breathe. The man collapsed down onto his back and lightly touched the handle with his right hand.

  “No hagas eso,” Michael warned, “te desangraras.” Don’t do that, you’ll bleed out. The adversary dropped his hand and laid back onto the soiled dirt surface. Michael knew he didn’t have much time. He would die soon, even if this had happened in front of American paramedics and a trauma surgeon. There are no actual first responders in this neighborhood, only clean-up crews and evidence collection after the fact. He’s D-R-T, he just doesn’t know it yet. “No tiene mucho tiempo. Do you believe in God?” He asked the question in English and hoped he could use his own native language. Michael saw no apparent recognition on the man’s face. Yep, he’s for-sure Dead-Right-There. There’s only one thing I can do to help him. “Crees en Dios?”

  “Sí,” the dying man weakly uttered while nodding his head.

  Michael unzipped the top of his black athletic jacket to reveal his starch-white collarino. “Soy un clerigo. ¿Me dejaras ayudarte ahora?” I’m a priest. Will you let me help you now? The downed man answered with a simple nod and closed his eyes for a moment. Despite the darkness, Michael saw tears stream down the man’s cheeks. “¿Me permitirás orar por ti? ¿Puedo pedirle a Dios que te perdone por tus pecados?” Will you allow me to pray for you? Can I ask God to forgive your sins?

  The man again only nodded, and he appeared to have grown weaker in the last few moments. Beneath the light of a full, late-summer moon and surrounded by the fetid stench of the desperate Ciudad Bolivar slum and its shanties, Father Michael Thomas crouched in an anonymous alley over an equally anonymous and dying man. He held the man’s hands, both as an act of comfort and to keep him from taking the weapon back. He’s too weak to confess his sins and complete an act of contrition, but I can pray that God forgives him and absolves his sou
l.

  Michael fulfilled his moral obligation as his assailant’s soul irretrievably slipped from its mortal shell. Even though he just tried to rob and stab me, his soul can still be forgiven and ascend to Heaven through God’s limitless mercy. Michael briefly realized and considered his lack of animosity for the man. There’s no greater act of love and compassion than helping this man avoid eternal damnation for the choices he made on Earth. This may be the very pinnacle of my service to God in this lifetime. It’s also entirely possible God put me here at just this moment for just this reason. I selfishly hope He doesn’t make a habit outta this.

  NINE

  Saturday, 6:34 PM.

  Inbound Approach to Runway 26, Sunport International Airport. Albuquerque, New Mexico.

  Michael looked out a small window of the Learjet 36A as it descended toward Albuquerque’s international airport. The official diplomatic transport had been configured to the Vatican’s specifications with seats for seven passengers, excluding the two-man flight crew in the separate and secured cockpit. Despite the capacity, Michael shared the opulent cabin with only his luggage and his thoughts.

  He wanted to keep a positive outlook on the events of the last seventy-two hours, but his mind kept returning to the downfalls. Despite having taken a man’s life, Michael felt little remorse about it. The man had, after all, tried to stab him, which defined him as a “suspect” rather than a “victim,” especially to the “Semper Cop” portion of Michael’s brain. The past two nights had offered little rest and even less sleep, but not for the reasons he’d expected. I don’t feel guilty about killing him, or even about putting myself in a position for him to attack me. That’s not any different than when I used to walk through dark alleys on patrol in Silver City. He got what he deserved, I know that rationally, but I feel guilty for not feeling guilty. I took a man’s life. Aren’t I supposed to be wrought with sorrow and regret? What kinda monster am I?