Catherine Coulter: Eleventh Hour

The man said in a rich, deep, sober voice, “But you haven’t heard the rest of my tale, Father.”

“I don’t want to hear anything more out of your mouth.”

The man laughed, a deep, belly-rolling laugh. Father Michael Joseph didn’t say a word. It was cold and stuffy in the confessional, hard to breathe, but his frock stuck to his skin. He smelled himself in that sweat, smelled his dread, his fear, his distaste for this monster. Dear Lord, let this foul creature leave now, leave and never come back.

“Just when he thought he had pulled it loose enough so he could breathe, I jerked it tight, really fast, you know, and it sliced right through his fingers all the way to the bone. He died with his damned fingers against his own neck. Grant me absolution, Father. Did you read the papers, Father? Do you know the man’s name?”

Father Michael Joseph knew, of course he knew. He’d watched the coverage on television, read it in the Chronicle. “You murdered Thomas Gavin, an AIDS activist who’s done nothing but good in this city.”

“Did you ever sleep with him, Father?”

He wasn’t shocked, hadn’t been shocked by anything for the past twelve years, but he was surprised. The man had never taken this tack before. He said nothing, just waited.

“No denial? Stay silent, if you wish. I know you didn’t sleep with him. You’re not gay. But the fact is, he had to die. It was his time.”

“There is no absolution for you, not without true repentance.”

“Why am I not surprised you feel that way? Thomas Gavin was just another pathetic man who needed to leave this world. Do you want to know something, Father? He wasn’t really real.”

“What do you mean he wasn’t really real?”

“Just what I said. He didn’t really ever exist, you know? He wasn’t ever really here-he just existed in his own little world. I helped him out of his lousy world. Do you know he contracted AIDS just last year? He just found out about it. He was going nuts. But I saved him, I helped him out of everything, that’s all. It was a rather noble thing for me to do. It was sort of an assisted suicide.”

“It was vicious, cold-blooded murder. It was real, and now a man of flesh and blood is dead. Because of you. Don’t try to excuse what you did.”

“Ah, but I was giving you a metaphor, Father, not an excuse. Your tone is harsh. Aren’t you going to give me my penance? Maybe have me say a million Hail Marys? Perhaps have me score my own back with a whip? Don’t you want me to plead with you to intercede with God on my behalf, beg for my forgiveness?”

“A million Hail Marys wouldn’t get you anywhere.” Father Michael leaned closer, nearly touched that evil, smelled the hot breath of that man. “Listen to me now. This is not a sacramental confession. You believe that I am bound by silence, that anything anyone tells me can go no farther than the confessional. That is not true. You have not made a sacramental confession; you are not contrite, you seek no spiritual absolution, and I am not bound to silence. I will discuss this with my bishop. However, even if he disagrees with me, I am prepared to leave the priesthood if I have to. Then I will tell the world what you have done. I won’t allow this to continue.”

“You would really turn me over to the cops? That is very impassioned of you, Father. I see that you are seriously pissed. I didn’t know there was a loophole in your vow of silence. I had wanted you to be forced to beg and plead and threaten, but realize you’re helpless and let it eat you alive. But how can anyone predict someone’s behavior, after all?”

“They’ll throw you in an institution for the rest of your miserable life.”

The man smothered a laugh, managed a credible sigh, and said, laughing, “You mean to imply that I’m insane, Father?”

“No, not just insane. I think you’re a psychopath-ah, I believe the politically correct word is sociopath, isn’t it? Doesn’t make it sound so evil, so without conscience. It doesn’t matter, whatever you are, it’s worse than anything doctors could put a tag to. You don’t give a damn about anybody. You need help, although I doubt anyone could help the sickness in you. Will you stop this insanity?”

“Would you like to shoot me, Father?”

“I am not like you. But I will see that you are stopped. There will be an end to this.”

“I fear I can’t let you go to the cops, Father. I’m trying not to be angry with you for not behaving as you should. All right. Now I’m just mildly upset that you aren’t behaving as you’re supposed to.”

“What are you talking about-I’m not acting like I’m supposed to?”

“It’s not important, at least it isn’t for you. Do you know you’ve given me something I’ve never had before in my life?”

“What?”

“Fun, Father. I’ve never had so much fun in my life. Except, maybe, for this.”

He waited until Father Michael Joseph looked toward him through the wire mesh. He fired point-blank, right through the priest’s forehead. There was a loud popping sound, nothing more because he’d screwed on a silencer. He lowered the gun, thoughtful now because Father Michael Joseph had slumped back against the wooden confessional wall, his head up, and he could see his face clearly. There was not even a look of surprise on the priest’s face, just a flash of something he couldn’t really understand. Was it compassion? No, certainly not that. The priest despised him, but now he was shackled for all eternity, without a chance for him to go to the police, no opportunity for him even to take the drastic step of leaving the priesthood. He was silent forever. No loophole now.

Now Father Michael Joseph didn’t have to worry about a thing. His tender conscience couldn’t bother him. Was there a Heaven? If so, maybe Father Michael Joseph was looking down on him, knowing there was still nothing he could do. Or maybe the priest was hovering just overhead, over his own body, watching, wondering.

“Good-bye, Father, wherever you are,” he said, and rose.

He realized, as he eased out of the confessional and carefully closed the narrow wooden door, that the look on the Father’s face-he’d looked like he’d won. But that made no sense. Won what? The good Father had just bought the big one. He hadn’t won a damned thing.

There was no one in the church, not that he expected there to be. It was dead silent. He would have liked it if there had been a Gregorian chant playing softly. But no, there was nothing, just the echo of his own footsteps on the cold stones.

What did that damned priest have to look happy about? He was dead, for God’s sake.

He walked quickly out of St. Bartholomew’s Church, paused a moment to breathe in the clean midnight air, and craned his neck to look up at the brilliant star-studded sky. A very nice night, just like it was supposed to be. Not much of a moon, but that was all right. He would sleep very well tonight. He saw a drunk leaning against a skinny oak tree set in a small dirt plot in the middle of the sidewalk, just across the street, his chin resting on his chest-not the way it was supposed to be, but who cared? The guy hadn’t heard a thing.

There would be nothing but questions with no answers for now, since the cops wouldn’t have a clue. The priest had made him do things differently, and that was too bad. But it was all close enough.

But the look on the priest’s face, he didn’t like to think about that, at least not now.

He whistled as he walked beneath the streetlight on Fillmore, then another block to where he’d parked his car, squeezed it between two small spaces, really. This was a residential area and there was little parking space. But that, too, was just the way it was supposed to be. It was San Francisco, after all.