Allison Brennan - Sudden Death

She’d had his address, the small house next to the church. She hadn’t known it was a rectory. For all her plans, the way she arranged each murder, stalking the victims, she’d gotten arrogant in her success. Ethan was pushing to finish, though; she could have held him off a couple extra days to do further research. But after finding him naked in the dirt, she realized she didn’t have much time before Ethan’s mind permanently snapped.

She could tell Ethan that Frank Cardenas had moved. Or it was the wrong Frank Cardenas.

She couldn’t kill a priest.

What do you mean you can’t? You can kill anyone. He’s guilty, just like the others.

Father Cardenas locked the church doors at midnight. The night was balmy, the air still. The silence and calmness made her antsy.

He walked toward the rectory and saw her. She couldn’t avoid him now.

“Father?” she said.

He approached, face impassive. But his eyes scanned the area discreetly. Paranoid? “May I help you?”

“I need to make a confession.”

“Reconciliation is an hour before every Mass,” he said. “Tomorrow I open the church at six a.m.”

“I have to leave early in the morning.”

The priest offered to arrive thirty minutes earlier.

“I have to leave at five.” Was that a lie? Not really. They did have to leave early. As soon as they killed two men….

“Dear Lord,” Cardenas mumbled.

Had she heard correctly? Was that a whisper of Heaven in the air? More likely the gloating of Hell.

“Let’s go into the church, child.”

Father Michael used to call her “child” in a warm, endearing voice. Before he’d been murdered.

But she had found him justice. She had punished the wicked. An eye for an eye. That was her calling.

“Thank you.”

He walked alongside her. She was leading him to the slaughter. Her limbs grew heavy. She put her hands in the pocket of her windbreaker, felt the syringe with the mild tranquilizer. Only if necessary. Ethan was waiting at the house, but he’d see them. He’d come here.

They approached the church. She had to buy time. Maybe within the church there would be answers.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said.

“I’m visiting a friend.”

“And you’re Catholic.”

“Yes, Father. Born and raised.”

“But-?”

She laughed bitterly, but it ended in a sob that she quickly swallowed. “I haven’t been to Mass in over twenty years.”

“Let’s save this for the confessional.”

“It may take awhile.”

“Sleep is overrated. What’s your name?” He walked toward the main doors.

She stared at the side of the church, eyes wide. “Is that the Passion?” Small lights shone behind the narrow stained-glass windows that lined the walls. “They’re beautiful.” She was awestruck, walking slowly along the side of the old church.

The glasswork’s eyes accused her. She imagined Pontius Pilate sentencing her to death. But unlike Jesus, she was guilty.

Don’t feel guilty!

She hadn’t killed anyone who didn’t deserve it. Criminals who slipped through the system. Predators who deserved to die for their crimes. Murderers. Rapists. Child molesters. The world was a better place because of Karin.

But a priest? She couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

She had to. If she didn’t, Ethan would, and he’d hurt him first. Make him suffer. She liked that part, but not a priest. Not Father Cardenas.

She could kill Ethan first.

No, she hadn’t finished her training. There were still things she needed to learn. She’d have to speed it up because Ethan wasn’t getting any saner. The guy was combustible.

She could “accidentally” kill Father Cardenas. So he wouldn’t suffer. Whatever he’d done to Ethan in the past, maybe …

“They’re old,” Father Cardenas said. “Over two hundred years, except for the weeping women, which was broken by vandals shortly after I came here.”

“It looks the same as the others.”

“The artisan is very talented.”

“Are you from Hidalgo?”

“No.”

“The church sent you here?”

“Yes, but I asked to come.”

“Why?”

“It’s a poor town, but spiritually strong. And it was a good place to come for redemption.”

He looked at her. In the dim, yellowed outdoor lights, he seemed to glow. Like an angel. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

She nodded. She couldn’t speak.

He unlocked the door.

“The confessional is across the way, in the chapel,” he said, letting her step inside first. The lights were on, though dimmed. The church was old, with worn pews, old statues, and a simple altar. To the left was a small alcove where several wooden kneelers faced the statue of the Blessed Virgin on a pedestal. More than half the one hundred and ten candles behind her were lit, their low flames dancing faintly with the stirred air.

She dropped a handful of coins into the donation box, the metallic clink of change thumping when it hit the wood bottom. She took a long match from its holder and lit it from a low flame, stared at it, head bowed as if in prayer.

On the one hand, Frank Cardenas had left Ethan to be tortured and die. On the other, he was a priest and had been forgiven by a higher power. Would killing him be true justice?

Ethan wanted to kill them all. But that was because she had planted the idea in him. It had been her plan from the beginning, Ethan simply embraced it. Wholeheartedly. He couldn’t see anything else. He wouldn’t understand her hesitance because Cardenas was a priest. She could lie. She sometimes did, and usually got away with it.

This time, Ethan would know.

The priest walked toward the chapel on the opposite side of the church.

Dammit, I don’t know what to do!

Father Francis turned on a low light in the confessional, leaving the brunette woman to gather the cour age to confess. He’d seen the struggle in her eyes. The fear of giving up the pain, the guilt, and the sin to God. He’d been where she was. He hadn’t gone to confession in the fifteen years he served in the army. Because he knew he couldn’t promise not to commit the same sins again.

He still had a gun, but he never touched it. He kept it in a box in his bedroom, in the closet, high on a shelf. He opened the lid only when he needed to remember, to repent, to beg for mercy and forgiveness. He had nearly put a bullet in his head with that gun.

“What a way for you to call me, Lord,” he mumbled as he closed the curtain of the confessional.

Francis had come to Hidalgo for many reasons, but primary among them was because Jack had settled with his crew here on the Rio Grande, and Francis owed Jack more than his life. He doubted Jack understood the impact he’d had on Francis’s life-and the lives of so many others. And he worried about his old friend, letting the past eat him alive. Jack didn’t see it. Francis didn’t see much else.

He knelt, crossed himself, and said his own prayers, holding the rosary his grandmother had given him on her deathbed. He’d been nine.

“You will be a priest, Frankie. But first you have to walk through purgatory.”

He hadn’t understood back then. He hadn’t wanted to be a priest, and purgatory was for dead people.

Now, he accepted that his grandmother had been a prophet, a personal prophet for him.

Francis heard a voice. The woman-she hadn’t given him her name-might be lost. Maybe she hadn’t paid attention to him when he pointed toward the side chapel.

A door closed.

He walked out. The church was empty, he sensed it before he searched and realized no one was inside. Just him.

Francis glanced up at the crucifix behind the altar. “And you, Lord.”