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

by Gavin Reese

  Michael briefly contemplated the scenario before him, but he intrinsically knew what he had to do. She needs a hospital more than he needs salvation. Fuck him. With that decided, he ran through his logistical options to simultaneously get the girl medical help, get his gear out of the apartment in case he could not return, and leave Isadore and his place set up to portray a guilt-driven suicide. She’s still breathing, but I can’t take long. The closest hospital’s almost ten minutes away. Two minutes. I’ll do everything I can in the next two minutes.

  Michael hurried to his toolbox, retrieved a pad of paper and a pen, and scrawled out a few remorseful words he’d previously translated into Italian: “mi dispiace. non ho causato molto dolore.”

  “I hope you are sorry, Isadore,” Michael quietly offered as he worked, “and, yes, you have caused quite a lot of pain. I just hope it’s believable that you’d say this, just in case you don’t get to write one in your own words. It’d be kinda funny to find out later that you were the last illiterate adult left in Italy.”

  Moving quickly, he set the pen and paper on the floor next to Isadore and ensured his prints were on both items. Michael then dropped them on the small kitchen table and pulled one of the dining chairs out a bit. No, he’s been drinking. He instead quietly turned the chair over on the floor.

  Michael returned to the bedroom and hurriedly staged it as he thought a remorseful predator might. He exposed all the known secrets but did so without sullying or scattering them. He’d still care about the trophies, even if they’d cost him his life.

  Lastly, he assessed the vitals of both Isadore and the woman. Both are still breathing, but Isadore’s pulse is down to about fifty-five. He might bottom out before I get back, but I’d rather risk his death than hers. Neither of them has much time.

  Michael carefully retrieved his darts from Isadore’s thigh, urgently packed up all his belongings in the toolbox, and ensured the front of his overalls still concealed his Cossack and collarino. He prepared to leave the apartment with the victim and, he hoped, all evidence that he’d ever been there. Placing his toolbox by the front door, he kneeled down to lift the young woman. I need to move fast and work doors and locks, so I’ve gotta put her up on my left shoulder. Michael looked over at Isadore and paused just long enough to ensure his chest still rose and fell on its own. Michael’s memory inconveniently recalled John’s recent assertion that he had to get the absolution ritual right. He clearly saw the instructor’s previous grimace and heard his concluding statement: Takin’ a life without absolvin’ its soul is no better’n a killin, and might be a murder, no matter how much society benefits from the absence of the departed.

  “Sorry, John,” he quietly offered and picked up the girl. “She’s the only one that matters right now.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, 0056 hours.

  43 Via del Colosseo. Rome, Italy.

  Just as Michael turned back onto the narrow street just northwest of the Coliseum, the rain had finally slowed to a fine drizzle. Seeing that his same parking stall had remained empty while he drove the woman to a hospital, Michael pulled the van back in and rolled down both front windows. He killed the ignition and intently listened to the outside world. Only the sounds of a sleepy urban neighborhood reached him. Very little movement around this area at night, but I have to take a few minutes to be sure. Less movement should mean fewer witnesses for the cops, and no Good Samaritans to mistakenly come to Isadore’s aid.

  The ‘aid’ thought made Michael again consider how fortunate he’d been at the hospital. Thank God that orderly was taking his late-night smoke break just outside the emergency doors when I pulled up. She was barely breathing and he rushed her inside so fast that he didn’t notice me drive off. If I’d been hung up there, I’d have no chance to now prevent Isadore’s death. Well, at least his unintentional death. John’s gonna flip his shit if I muck up my first righteous assignment.

  Michael understood that he had very little time to get back inside the apartment, and he desperately feared that he may have already failed. Despite that, Michael knew he couldn’t risk rushing back into the apartment building before providing himself some assurance that nothing had changed in his absence. No cops, no medics. If someone had called the authorities while I was gone, they would certainly have been here by now. I have to risk going back up while there’s still a chance that Isadore’s alive. As much as I despise his behavior, God wants all His children afforded the opportunity to spend eternity at His side.

  Stepping from the rented van, Michael checked that the zipper of his overalls still covered his Cossack and collarino. He adjusted his toolbelt and once again retrieved the large metal toolbox. It’s unlikely that I’ll get to carry out the absolution I intended, but I can’t deny him the opportunity if God allows it.

  Quickly retracing his steps, Michael soon found himself again standing in Pietro Isadore’s apartment. The ominous difference this time, though, was Isadore’s body lying at the back of the entryway. Good news is he didn't get up and call for help. Bad news is I might have missed his only opportunity for salvation.

  Michael closed the door behind him and again locked its flimsy deadbolt. Before taking another step, he donned two new pairs of medical exam gloves. Only then did he approach Isadore and, just as he had done earlier for the young woman, held his ear just over the man’s open mouth. No breath. Checking the man’s radial pulse, he found nothing; the carotid pulse was also absent. Isadore hasn’t been dead for very long. His color hasn’t changed and rigor mortis isn’t set in. Michael rose and desperately turned on several nearby light switches to get a better look. Through almost two decades of police and clerical work, he’d seen dozens of lifeless bodies. More than enough to know that Isadore was gone. He looks like a wax statue, void of an inner light and sentience.

  His heart filled with panic at the apparent failure, and he hurriedly opened the toolbox and retrieved the antidote syringes. Kneeling down next to his target, Michael resolved himself not to fail at securing Isadore’s confession. Gotta plunge the needle through his sternum and into his heart! The cartilage’s too thick for ‘gentle’ and ‘moderate!’ Michael uncapped the syringe, gripped it hard in his right fist, and raised it high above his head. Just before hammer-fisting the antidote home, Michael paused and considered the consequences of his imminent actions. I could make heroic efforts with all three syringes of antidote and C-P-R, but that's almost certain to fail. Even if I get his pulse back, he could have brain damage from the oxygen deprivation. If I start this, I’m gonna leave a lot of forensic evidence that this wasn’t a suicide, and there’s almost no chance he’ll ever breathe on his own again, anyway. How much point is there in condemning myself and risking the whole program, when there’s almost no chance at cleansing his soul? I chose to save her, and that cost Isadore his salvation. The medical examiner’s already gonna inspect the small bruises on the back of his leg. If Isadore looks like he got his ass kicked, they’ll never rule this a suicide.

  Michael lowered and recapped the syringe as reason and the forensic realities overpowered his emotions. Saint Aquinas believed that God can even use demons to achieve and direct His plans for us. If that’s true, then it’s equally possible that God allowed the girl to be here so Isadore couldn’t enjoy the opportunity I came here to present. He could have compelled me to save her so I couldn’t also save him. There’s so much at play that I can never know or control, it’d just be narcissistic for me to take the blame or the credit for the outcome.

  Michael sighed and accepted his circumstances for what they were. Unfortunate, but, perhaps divinely orchestrated, as well. There’s nothing more I can do for him here that I can’t do later from an outbound aircraft. Whatever Isadore’s current circumstance is, wherever his soul now finds itself, he and his demons got there all on their own. I can plead for God to show His mercy to both of us in the coming hours and days, but I can’t offer a compelling argument without Isadore’s confession and absolution.

/>   Disappointed, Michael rose and went about destroying or recovering any forensic evidence of his presence in the apartment. He expected the building’s air conditioning had already been shut down for the season, so he turned off the unit’s heat to conceal the body as long as possible. That fact alone won’t keep Isadore’s death from being ruled a suicide, as long as I didn’t leave enough other evidence behind to justify a protracted investigation. It’s most important that the medical examiners here don’t yet test for this anesthetic, but that’s out of my hands. Given the evidence of his crimes, I doubt anyone will care what really happened to him.

  Michael slowly and deliberately scanned the apartment one last time to ensure he hadn’t left anything behind and wiped down every surface he thought he might have touched. He opened Isadore’s armoire to ensure no additional evidence remained hidden there, and, to his surprise, saw a set of blue overalls similar to his. Different sizes, but close enough to be believable. He removed the disguise and hung it next to Isadore’s. After setting the toolbox on the bed next to the painting, Michael removed the capped antidote syringes and secured them in his pocket. Everything else can be thought to belong to the deceased. The restraints, gag, and balaclava are all new in the packaging and have no prints or D-N-A to offer investigators. He set the toolbox and its contents in the bottom of the armoire and concealed it under some clothing, just as he thought a predator might.

  As Michael retrieved his lock-pick set and strode toward the front doorway, his thoughts turned to regret. There’s no time to wallow in what I’ve done here and how I failed the primary objective. The woman’s health and survival had to come first, and I’ll have to ask for God’s forgiveness later that Isadore didn’t have one final chance at confession and absolution. With what I knew and saw, I’d have been justified in shooting Isadore to protect her, so I can’t beat myself up too badly that he didn’t survive the overdose. He quietly turned the front doorknob and pulled it ajar just enough to confirm no one stood in the hallway outside. I may not get to walk away from this with the clear conscience I’d hoped for, but, at this point, I’ll have to be content with getting to walk away at all. Michael’s growing paranoia only allowed him to pause for a few seconds before he stepped into the building’s empty, shared hallway with the pick-set in hand.

  Please let this sloppy deadbolt lock as easily as it unlocked.

  SIXTY-SIX

  Tuesday, 0214 hours.

  17 Via del Cardello. Rome, Italy.

  Dressed in his black Cossack and starch-white collarino, Michael stepped out from the murder scene and into the apartment building’s shared interior hallway. He pulled Pietro Isadore’s door closed and nonchalantly looked around him. No one’s here, time to hurry. Michael fought the intensifying urgency in his gut to flee. Although he wanted to sprint away from the serial rapist’s body as far and fast as his legs and lungs could carry him, Michael logically understood this was the most critical phase of his operation. He now had to do everything right to avoid leaving a forensic trail that would inspire a homicide investigation and risk his identification. He set about locking Isadore’s flimsy deadbolt with his pick-set. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.

  click

  Michael breathed a sigh of relief when the lock’s cylinder easily rolled over. He stepped away from the door and concealed the set back in his pocket as he walked. Stay calm, stay calm. Now is NOT the time to lose my cool. Everything I do, or don’t do, for the next two hours will determine if the cops find me, suspect a murder, or simply close this as the suicide it's intended to be. Michael’s thoughts uncontrollably returned to his failure to attempt or secure a confession and absolve the man of his sins. Whether his soul’s at peace or not, at least he’s no longer capable of preying upon God’s children. Have to deal with that later, nothing to be done about it now.

  Michael nonchalantly walked toward the stairwell. Don’t want to take the elevator in case it has a video surveillance feed. The cops might realize the maintenance worker and the priest are the same guy.

  Michael had walked no more than a few steps before a door suddenly opened just ahead of him and to his left. An elderly woman pushed a walker into the hallway and startled when she saw him there. Dressed in a white cotton nightgown, bright yellow crocheted shawl, and slippers, she didn’t appear like she intended to go very far. Her thick, white hair was up in rollers, and she wore large, black-framed eyeglasses. The thick lenses made her eyes appear comically massive, and Michael hoped he had a chance to laugh about it later. While I’m outside of a cell would be better. The woman looked as surprised to see him as Michael felt to see her. She looked past him, to the end of the hallway and the door to Isadore’s apartment. Michael smiled at her and tried to conceal the terror he felt inside.

  “Father,” she hesitantly asked in Italian, “is Pietro dead?”

  The question terrified Michael, and his reason struggled to quell his emotions. She can’t know that! He’d preplanned an explanation if found or confronted on his way out of the building, which improved the speed and sincerity of his response. I just hope my Italian is up to the task. “Do you know him well, ma’am?” Gotta watch my verb tense. I’m the only one who knows that Pietro is now past. He carefully stepped around the woman’s walker and hoped to soon continue on to the stairs. Michael glanced up at the green exit sign ahead and felt its siren call.

  “He’s lived here for years, always bringing those drunk whores back to his bed.” She spat on the floor. “He hates God, so, if you’re coming from his apartment, I know he must be dead.”

  I can’t panic! If she sees me react, she’ll know she’s right! “We, uhh, we must serve whenever we’re, umm, when we’re called, ma’am,” Michael stammered and struggled to translate his thoughts into her language. Amid her assertions about Pietro’s demise, Michael forgot what he intended to say if confronted. His panic increased and he stepped closer to the stairwell door about fifteen feet past her. “Pietro has a, uhh, a bad conscience, a lot of guilt. I hope you will pray for him.” I wouldn’t normally say so much, but I can't break the Seal of the Confessional if Isadore didn’t confess. It’s more important that I escape and keep the existence of the absolvers a secret.

  “I pray for his soul every day, as I’m afraid he’s just not right in the head, Father. I don’t like how he looks at my granddaughters, but they’re too smart and too tough for that little weasel.”

  I’ve gotta end this conversation without being rude, Michael thought. Negative emotions plant stronger memories, and I need to be neutral and forgettable. “I understand, ma’am.” Michael didn’t know how else to respond. I certainly can’t validate her concerns, or say that she won’t have to worry about that again.

  “I’m too old to care what these other people think, but before I go to bed each night, though, I pray that Pietro finally accepts Jesus Christ into his life and prays the sacrament for himself. He tells me that he doesn’t even believe in God, Father.”

  “I think he’s seen the error of his ways.” The woman’s confirmation of his fears about Isadore’s faith brought Michael’s guilt back to the forefront of his mind. Tonight’ll be a recurring source of confession and prayer for a long time to come.

  “Mama!”

  The woman startled at the loud male voice and stared back into the apartment toward the unseen man that called for her.

  Michael recognized her “hand in the cookie jar” look and seized his opportunity to move closer to the exit while the elderly woman focused on her keeper. He sounds much younger than her, gotta be her son, or a son-in-law.

  “What are you doing out there, old woman? You know it’s dangerous to go out by yourself at night! What if there’s a rapist out there, and he has his way with you?!”

  “Maybe I would have my way with him,” the woman shouted back in protest. “I leave the door unlocked every night so I might get lucky and feel like a woman one last time!”

  Michael had almost reached the exit door. Please forget about me f
or another few seconds.

  “Get back in here, crazy woman! Your mind gets worse every day! Where were you going?”

  “I’m out here talking with the nice priest,” she shouted and pointed a finger in Michael’s direction, but stayed focused on the argument.

  Michael quietly opened the green metal door and urgently stepped into the stairwell. He tried to push it shut behind him, but a small wood doorstop held it open several inches. No time to dig it out. Michael descended as quickly and quietly as possible while the upstairs conversation closely followed him down.

  “He’s right here,” the woman explained, her voice echoing down the concrete stairwell. “Where did he go?”

  “Mama, did you take your medicine? Pietro wouldn’t talk to a priest unless he was dead.”

  “That's what I told him!”

  Michael reached the next flight and slowed his pace a bit now that he couldn’t be seen from the landing above. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Once at the ground level, he carefully pushed the exit door open, oriented himself in the building’s main interior hallway, and turned left toward the street. Even if the cops take her statement seriously, they don’t have much time to find me. Another two minutes and I’ll be safely away in the van. Another two hours and I’ll be safely out of Rome.