For I Have Sinned

by Kristen Houghton

  “The last one was pretty damn good, don't you think? Sending the information and a picture to the archbishop and the New York cops! Sent right from the laptop in the trunk of my car. A member of the Memorare knows how to make tracing our IP address almost impossible.”

  He takes a swig from a bottle. “Why were you so unfriendly when I met you at Marie’s house? Why didn’t you like me? Did you think that I might hurt Marie? No, never. She's as fragile as a flower. Pretty Marie; she has nothing to fear from someone like me.”

  David sighs deeply and the smell of alcohol rises with his breath. “I could have had you work for the Memorare to help us track down these pedophiles, these miserable priests, and bring them to justice, our justice.”

  “I could never do that David. I’m a licensed P.I. If I can bring a criminal to justice, I do it legally. What you’re doing isn’t justice.”

  “That’s really too bad. I think you would have been an asset to our cause. And who's to say what justice really is? What was it Genghis Khan said to his enemies? I am the punishment of God. If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you. I still want you to see how we enact justice though. I’m taking you there now. It’s a shame but after you witness our brand of punishment, you will never be seen or heard from again. You’re a liability.”

  “I've already sent your name to Detective Benigni and the police. They'll find me.”

  He laughs, shaking his head, “No, you haven't. You didn’t know I was the one who tied up that nosy bitch in your office. You didn’t have enough time to send anything important before I knocked you flat and took your phone.”

  I’m not about to plead for my life, but it’s not because of pride. No matter what I say to him, David is not about to let me go. I have to stay alert and wait for him to make a mistake. Maybe I’ll get lucky and some alert cop will pull him over for impaired driving. The one advantage that I have is that he has been drinking. Alcohol may make a person reckless but it also does one other thing; it dulls the reflexes. My eyes go to my gun on the front seat; I need to be able to get that gun.

  The back seat of the van is a mess of old clothes and fast food bags from the Bar-B-Cue Chicken Barn. David swerves around a corner and I fall against several crumpled bags that smell of oily chicken and stale fries. Trying to get into a sitting position again my wrist pushes against a half open bag and I feel something hard. Pushing into the bag, my index finger feels the serrated edge of a plastic knife. I almost laugh. Can that cut through duct tape? I curse under my breath.

  But then I remember something that Melissa told. In one of the many classes she is always taking, one was about products used by the American consumer. The utensils used at any given place, she had said, depended on the type of food sold. Most fast-food places sell burgers and salads and so it makes sense that they would have flimsy white plastic knives because they don’t need to cut through anything thick. But places like Bar-b-Cue Chicken Barn use knives made of clear, thicker plastic to cut through the overcooked micro-nuked meat.

  David’s driving is bouncing me back and forth but, after some bungled attempts, I manage to shove the fingers of my right hand into the open bag and feel around for the knife. My kidnapper’s erratic driving makes it difficult but I finally grasp it. I feel a sharp cramp as I bend my wrist to slide it under the tape.

  As David continues talking I work the knife back and forth, rustling my foot over a paper bag on the floor to cover the sound of the knife scraping against the tape. My fingers are tingling and getting numb from my hands being in one position. I scrap the edge against my wrists as much as against the tape. The tiny scratches I’m making feel like annoying paper cuts. Where the hell is he taking me?

  Chapter 27

  My cell phone lights up and buzzes, doing a little shimmy on the front seat.

  It’s Will. “Cate, where the hell are you? If you’re able to answer, do it now. Will’s voice is frustrated as well it should be. Even with all the tech help available, he can’t find my exact location. He’s calling my phone in the hopes of pinging my whereabouts off of one of the many mobile towers even though he knows he won’t get my exact location. The towers can only identify a large general area. .

  Startled by Will’s voice, David opens a window, takes my brand-new phone and throws it out onto the street easily eliminating any chance of police help in finding me. The knife cutting through the tape is a slow go but it is working. My fingers are numb..

  “You okay? You’re awfully quiet back there,” says David. I’m almost through the tape. Maybe if I play the victim card he’ll fall for it. Getting out of the car is what I need to do.

  “I’m so dizzy, David. I feel like I’m going to throw up!”

  “Sorry,” he says with little concern. “We’re almost there. You'll be fine.”

  My wrists are free. I can try to grab my gun.

  “No, you don’t understand. I’m, oh God, stop the car!” I make retching sounds hoping that I don’t really vomit. The truth is that I am feeling very nauseous.

  “Look,” he says, “We're almost there. It's only a block away from here. You can hold it.”

  “No, I can't, now, please! I’m going to throw up right here!”

  Cursing loudly, David pulls quickly to the side of the road. As he breaks to a screeching stop I act. With one quick swinging motion I reach over the seat, grab my gun, and jam it into the back of his head.

  “Give me the keys and then get the hell out of the van! Now!”

  David does as he’s told, stumbling out and falling to the street. His cap falls off and I see a zigzag scar on the left side of his head near the hairline. Recognition hits me. David is the man in the sketch artist’s drawing; the one Bo’s friend met who said priests deserved to be killed. And I can assume that the van is the same van Bo described; it is dirty but it is white and old. I get out slowly, feeling a wave of dizziness.

  “It’s you. You’re the one looking for priests aren’t you? You go scavenge where the homeless are.”

  “A lot of the homeless have been victimized by priests; they become drunks and drug addicts because of what was done to them. Someone stronger like me has to find those child molesters and punish them. They deserve to die.”

  “Get up and empty your pockets,” I say still pointing the gun at him. “Make no mistake David, if you try anything I will shoot you.”

  He does as he’s told. There’s no cell phone in his pocket but he does have a roll of duct tape which I grab.

  “Where’s the place you were taking me?”

  “Down the block.”

  “Where? Which building?”

  “The one on the left side, downstairs.”

  I look down the street and see a building flanked on either side by vacant lots with demolished parts of what look like factories. There is no street sign. It’s unfamiliar to me; it could be any one of many once thriving areas hit by low socio-economic problems and a higher rate of crime on the outskirts of the city. People leave and it becomes suburban blight.

  “How many are in your group, the Memorare?” He doesn’t answer. I nudge him hard with my Smith & Wesson. “How many?”

  Staring at me defiantly he says, “Five as of now, but there are going to be a lot more.”

  “How many are in the building now?”

  He shakes his head, laughing. “Bitch!”

  “How many? Answer me!” I smack his jaw with my gun and draw blood. “How many?”

  Stunned, David answers me. “Just one person. He’s bringing justice to his abuser. That’s what I wanted you to see.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “Out canvassing for survivors,” he says angrily. “Fuck you!”

  A wave of dizziness hits me and I step crookedly to the side. David suddenly lunges at me knocking me sideways, but I regain my balance. He’s disoriented from the booze and before he can come at me again I swing my gun hard against his temple. He goes down in a dead slump. I
check his pulse; he’s still alive. Then, putting the gun in my jeans I quickly wrap his hands tightly behind his back with the duct tape and tape his legs and ankles together before taping his mouth shut. I shove his body as far under his van as I can. With any luck the combination of alcohol and the blow to his head will keep him out for awhile.

  My exertions have upped my adrenaline level and that’s good. I try to do a few running steps in place to get my blood circulating, close my eyes tightly and open them, then head down the street to where someone is carrying out the justice of the Memorare.

  ****

  The building that David pointed out is a deserted one that has no sign of life except a few rats that don’t bother to move at my approach. They’re New York rats and fearless. Taking out my penlight and holding my gun, I move around them and head towards the back of the building looking for a basement door. Down a dark flight of stairs behind the building I find it. Cautiously I try the handle and find it unlocked.

  The basement is dark and dank-smelling with a dirt floor. There are shelves stacked to the ceiling. It might have been a wine cellar at one time or an old community pantry, decades ago. There’s a faint smell of stale urine and emptied bowels coupled with a stronger odor of old bleach as if someone had tried to clean the area at some point. The body smells however seem to float above the bleach as if they are more potent. I also smell the distinct, coppery odor of blood.

  I let my eyes adjust to the dark, which is illuminated by a small crooked-neck lamp on an old desk. Holding my penlight and gun in front of me I squint, canvassing the room, checking corners, and shining the light along the wall. On the far side of the room there’s another door with a thin strip of light coming from underneath it.

  I walk slowly over to the desk. By the dim low-watt bulb I see what look like strips of paper. Getting closer I can see that they’re not paper at all; they’re clerical collars. Neatly printed letters inside the collars are words in Latin: peccatum vestrum: your sin; iustitia nostra: our justice; Dei poena: God’s punishment. There are also what appear to be some types of surgical tools. Someone is getting ready to commit a murder and mutilation and leave the body behind with a message.

  I hear a moan coming from behind the second battered old door and the sound of sobbing. As quietly as possible I move towards the sound and gently slide the door open a crack. The overhead light is bright and I blink my eyes against the glare. A man is standing with his back to me but I can see he’s holding what looks like a surgical scalpel in one hand as he leans over a body on a table in front of him.

  “Joey, Joey, don’t do this, Joey!” pleads the man lying naked and restrained on the table.

  There’s that heavy coppery smell and I see a lot blood on the towels under the man.

  “They hurt me so much Joey, those men with you, they hurt me. Why did you let them hurt me? I’m bleeding. Help me. I need a doctor Joey.”

  “I’m not Joey! Joey’s dead. I’m not the weak boy who obeyed you, you sick fuck!”

  “Joey, please help me. I love you like a son. Joey, help me, I hurt so much.”

  “Shut up! Don’t call me that name! My name is Joshua. You deserve the pain, you deserve more!”

  Cautiously I inch the door open and move forward and squint in the light. I quietly suck in my breath. A young man is standing over his abuser. From the archdiocese picture I saw of him online, even bloodied and battered, there is no mistake that this person is Monsignor Bernard Moore. I have to act fast.

  Standing in the doorway I point the gun at the man with the scalpel and demand that he drop the weapon. When he turns to look at me, I find myself looking into familiar hazel eyes sprinkled with brown flecks. Eyes I had seen sad and crying, and just once, laughing; Marie McElroy's eyes. But this time I am looking into the eyes of her brother. Joshua McElroy is standing in front of me, a male version of sweet Marie. The scalpel in his hand is held expertly. I have a strong feeling that he knows exactly how to use it.

  I take one step sideways so that I can have full view of what Josh is doing.

  “Joshua, drop the weapon,” I say calmly, holding the Smith & Wesson level.

  “No! You drop your gun.”

  “You know I can’t do that, Joshua. You know I won’t.”

  “Who are you?” he asks with a touching simplicity, the question of a lost child.

  “My name is Cate Harlow. I’m a private investigator hired by your sister Marie to find you. You need to drop your weapon.”

  “Marie?” He looks at me with so much sadness and pain that I feel heartsick.

  “She wants to see you, Joshua. Marie misses you so much. Put the scalpel down. You don’t need to do this.”

  “I don’t want to commit murder, that’s not who I am. I want justice.”

  “Then let me call the police, Joshua, and they’ll put this criminal in prison.”

  “No! I’m not taking the chance that he’ll get away with what he’s done. There is no justice for people like me. David says we have to make our own justice.”

  “Not true Josh. David’s wrong. The system isn’t perfect, but I promise you that this bastard will get what he deserves and you and all his victims will get justice.”

  I ease forward slowly so as not to startle him. “You know what happens to child molesters, pedophiles, in prison Josh? They’re on the bottom of the food chain in there.”

  I nod towards the man on the table keeping my eyes on Joshua. “He’ll spend the rest of his life rotting in a jail cell somewhere being raped repeatedly by sadistic prisoners who hate child molesters and rapists, and the guards will turn a blind eye to what’s happening. Josh, they’ll turn away from his screams and his pleas to stop, just as this monster turned a deaf ear to your pleas.”

  “God will punish you if you don’t help me, Joey. He will send you to Hell!” screamed the man on the table in terrified desperation. “You will burn in Hell forever!”

  Josh gasped and tears rolled down his cheek. When he said that to Josh I wanted to smash my gun against the monsignor’s mouth. That disgusting monster! Still using the name of God to try to instill fear. Slowly I edge closer towards Joshua.

  “Monsignor Moore," said Josh quietly, “I know what it is like to be in hell. You brought me there, remember? Don’t talk to me about God. Your God is the one who abandoned me to a hell of your making. I stopped believing in God a long time ago, you child-sodomizing bastard.” He takes a deep breath and continues. “Do you even comprehend what you have done to me? How you stole my innocence and destroyed my life? I will never be a whole man. You made me see life as perverted, dirty, and sick. How many other children’s lives did you destroy after me? How many?

  “You know," Joshua laughs, “David slits the throat of the priests he punishes and watches them die. It’s rather quick if you cut the carotid artery just right. Not a whole lot of suffering. Then, after they’re dead, he cuts off their dirty, ancient pricks.” Joshua wipes away his tears.

  “But me, see, I’ve been thinking about this day for a long time, ever since I joined this group really. When I found out that the church was going to pay you off to disappear I thought we’d never catch you. Oh yes, David found out that information about you through one of his contacts. You were so protected. But David, he was patient, he told me to just keep waiting and that the day would come when you were caught off guard and brought to justice. My justice.” He laughed again. “You came to me so willingly! So happy to see me! Did you think we were going to resume our…relationship? This place should remind you of that old school basement where you brought me to do my special penance, what you called the bad-boy penance.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep ragged breath. “Anyway, I’m not going to do what David has done to those child molesting priests.”

  “I knew you couldn’t hurt me, Joey. I knew you still loved me,” babbled the old priest with relief. Looking at Joshua's face, I knew Monsignor Moore didn’t understand that Joshua had a different torture in mind.

  �
�My justice, do you want to know what my justice will be?”

  “You want me to say I’m sorry if I hurt you and that I’ll make it up to you? I have money, Joey, I’ll help you. I know that’s what you want from me. You help me and I’ll take care of you.”

  “You sick, sick bastard!” Joshua's voice rose in anger. "Sorry? You think that’s what I want? Having you say you’re sorry and giving me money? No!” His voice lowered and he said softly, “No, no, you don’t get to say you’re sorry and have that mortal sin absolved, oh no. I don’t want you to say you’re sorry.” He took a step to the side and stared at the wall sighing. “Don’t worry though; I’m not going to slit your throat.”

  The man on the table was blubbering hysterically and watching Joshua with hopeful eyes.

  “Thank you, thank God,” the priest mutters.

  Joshua smiles almost sweetly, boyishly, as he walks closer to the table.

  “No, I’m not going to do that. I already told you, my justice is different from David’s. I would never cut your throat.” His voice is as soft as if he were speaking to a frightened child. “That would be too quick a death. I… want… you…to fucking suffer.

  “Don’t curse Joey. That’s a sin.”

  “A sin? Well, one more won’t matter now will it Monsignor because I’m about to commit a mortal sin. You see, you miserable pedophile, what I'm going to do is this; I’m going to castrate you slowly so that you feel every single cut of this scalpel, I’m going to slice off that part of you that you used to punish me. I remember your bad-boy penance all too well, do you? You should; you enjoyed it so much. Well, I will enjoy castrating you. Then, I’m going to watch you bleed out slowly and die in agony. I want to hear you beg me to stop the way I begged you. That’s my justice. Where’s your God now?”