Jack O'Connell - Wireless

Speer puts his hand in his coat pocket, touches the canister, finds two loose Excedrin, pulls them out, and puts them in his mouth. The headache is probably too far gone now, but he dry-swallows the caplets anyway.

Todorov isn’t a stupid man. Why can’t he see the simple fact that following the fringe, following after the aberration, will always lead down a blind alley? The only explanation for the priest’s actions is the sin of vanity, the vice of raging ego. Pride will always make the brain lie to the soul. Todorov wants to be a shepherd so badly he’s tending to a flock of serpents.

Speer looks up and sees fewer people exiting the cathedral. He glances to his watch and sees confessions are just about over, so he gets out of the car, crosses the street, and enters through the enormous, castlelike front doors.

He stands in the doorway for a moment and lets his eyes adjust to the dimness. He moves to a small table set next to the St. Vincent de Paul Society collection boxes and picks up a mimeographed flier. It takes him a second to realize it’s written in Spanish.

He walks through a second set of double swinging doors into the main body of the cathedral. He slides into the last pew, kneels, folds his hands in prayer, and starts to take inventory. To his left is an elderly couple kneeling in a pew next to the confessional booth. And far to the front, up at the altar, is a large-bodied nun in a reformed habit, folding fresh white linen cloths. Speer scans the whole scene again.

He grew up in churches like this one. Smaller versions, but always built of heavy stone, like the cathedral, always ornate rather than quaint, with long aisles and cold, shadowy choir lofts, and a dark, smoky tinge to the walls where the heating system would push dust and grime upward year after year. Places where every word echoed and threatened to end up unintelligible.

Speer grew up dreaming of overseeing a place like this, four or five curates under his domain, maybe a crowded school staffed by classic disciplinarian nuns, enormous May Processions spilling out into the streets, and local politicians sniffing around each year for a vague endorsement. Three months in the seminary severed any hopes of fulfilling that dream. He found the core dogma of the institution had been subverted. And he knew that once that happens, the cancers of compromise and rationalization spread like an unbroken line of oil fires down the landscape.

Speer left the seminary and signed on with the FBI.

The nun on the altar folds and smooths her last piece of linen and exits into the sacristy. A few moments later the older couple finish praying their penance simultaneously, slide out of the pew, and leave. And Speer is alone with the priest.

There’s the sound of a cough and then Todorov appears from the sacristy, a set of keys in his hand, ready to lock up the church now that all the Masses are done.

Speer gives a hesitant voice and says, “Are you leaving, Father?”

Todorov squints down toward the rear of the church, then smiles and says, “Can I help you with something?”

He starts down the aisle toward Speer, and Speer moves his head around sheepishly and motions with one hand toward the confessional booth.

The priest pauses. “Do you want to …” He trails off and mimics the motion with his keys.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Speer says.

“Not at all.”

Speer waits and allows the priest to enter the box, then moves out of his pew, steps in the adjoining booth, and pulls the heavy curtain closed behind him. He goes down on the cushioned kneeler, waits a beat, and then hears that old sound, that childhood sound of the miniature door, the sliding panel being pushed open to reveal the shadowed face of the priest, in profile, his ear turned to the penitent, obscured behind a heavy mesh.

The sound and the sight take Speer back for a moment, catch him off guard.

Fr. Todorov says, “Go ahead, my brother.”

And Speer instinctively begins speaking in a low, rote voice. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been—”

Another pause and then an improvisation. “—an awfully long time since my last confession and these are my sins.”

He stops. Todorov gives him a good ten seconds, then says, “It’s all right, son. Remember why we’re here. God has infinite forgiveness.”

“You truly believe that, Father?”

Speer can almost see the priest smile on the other side of the mesh. “With all my heart, my friend. That’s the root of all my faith.”

“But you’ve made a very broad statement, Father.”

“How is that?”

“What I mean is, is forgiveness the same as redemption?”

“I’m not sure I’m—”

“I’m speaking about the unconverted, Father. I’m talking about those outside the Faith. I’m asking you, can they be redeemed?”

“Are you trying to tell me you’re not Catholic? Is that—”

“Excuse me, Father, but, in this day and age, what would you mean by Catholic?”

Now Todorov pauses, backs away from the confessional screen, seems to put a hand up to his face.

“Well, very simply, were you ever baptized in the Catholic Church?”

“Is that necessary, Father?”

“Necessary? I’m not sure … I’m not sure we’re on the same track here. Did you want to make a confession?”

“It’s just that I’ve been following your work, Father. You’ve been in the Spy quite a bit lately. And I’m just wondering what it is you tell the heathens—”

Now Todorov interrupts, his tone turning sharp, his torso leaning back to the screen. “Heathens?”

“The gang boys. The Tonton Loas. The Angkor Hyenas. The Granada Street Popes.”

“I’m not sure we’re in the right place to—”

“Of course you’re right, Father. It’s just that your work, what I’ve read about, the things I’ve heard — it’s all caused me to rethink certain … Well, it has relevance to my confession, you see.”

The priest is curious now, maybe on the verge of being flattered. “Go on.”

“It’s just that, Father, the things I’ve done … It’s very difficult to … I’m very ashamed …”

Todorov is in his element now. His voice turns professional, a brother to his radio voice. “God’s brought you here today for a reason, don’t you think? We can’t change the past, my friend, but we can repent. That’s why you’re here. There are things you want to tell me, yes?”

“Yes, there are, Father.”

“Yes, there are. Now, you take a deep breath and you let the Spirit move you.”

“It’s very difficult, Father—”

“God will give you the strength. Tell me your story:”

Speer begins to whisper in a voice too soft to be heard. Todorov says, “If you could just speak up a bit, my friend.”

Speer sees the priest lean his ear toward the screen. The buck knife comes up and slashes the mesh diagonally. Speer’s free fist flies through the opening, catches the priest in the eye, breaks open skin. His hand grabs hold of Todorov’s throat and pulls the priest’s head through, into the penitents’ booth. Before the priest can scream, Speer has a full arm around his neck and the blade to his throat.

“I’ll have your tongue on the floor before you can make a fucking sound.”

The priest starts to let out small, panicky gasps that immediately evolve into a wet gurgle.

“I want you to know what you’ve done. I want you to realize what your actions have brought you. I hope God can have more mercy on you than I.”

Speer brings the knife down, pockets it, and draws from his jacket a small silver metal cylinder about the size of a hip flask. He holds it up in front of the priest’s face, actually touches the man’s forehead with it like some kind of quick anointing.