Discretion

by David Balzarini

  No answer. Interesting she presses on against this meeting. What will the source tell me that she doesn’t want me to know? What is she hiding? Perhaps the source will tell me of how I can be rid of her—how she can be made silent.

  A few joggers pass by on the sidewalk, an elderly couple getting some fresh air and exercise. The man is using a walker and insists on holding onto his coffee while his wife, at his side, pesters him. A young couple sitting on a thick brown blanket over the grassy area, under a tall tree; a little boy with long blond hair chasing a wiener dog. It’s about ninety-two degrees and sunny, the heat of the spring day.

  An unoccupied bench catches my attention, facing one of two empty baseball fields and I take reprieve there, to stare at nothing for a while. To wait. For a sign. For my unknown future.

  “Mister Wiley?” a man’s voice says, from behind me. No need to correct mispronouncing my name.

  I turn toward the sound; an older man walks around the opposite side of the bench and takes a seat, keeping his distance: close enough to converse, far enough to appear we are not together. Strangers sharing a bench.

  The man is balding, with simple round glasses against olive skin. His face is full; there’s a little pudge at the waistline. He dons black slacks, a black shirt with a clerical collar, and appears as somber as I feel. It’s just after three, the set time. He grins, not to me, but to the birds that gather on the sidewalk, to pick at what seed, bread crusts remain.

  “Do you ever think about the birds?” he says, watching them with amusement.

  Seriously? He’s asking about birds? “Not really. What about them?”

  “That as insignificant as they are, God provides for them. There they are, working hard for seed and stale bread crusts, but to them, that is…” He faces me with a grandfather’s wisdom. “Like a filet mignon.”

  I can’t help smiling back and it’s refreshing—like breathing clean air after days trapped inside.

  He introduces himself: Father Sal Panepinto, raised in Phoenix and priest at Saint Mary’s Parish for the last eighteen years. His work before entering the cloth was working with teen girls mostly, and some adult women. Some came because others brought them into the fold, as sheep to be slaughtered and a few of them went, feeling like they had no other choice. “Running away from home,” he says.

  I’m surprised he reveals who he is, considering the secrecy Jackson used to protect his identity. But that could just be Jackson protecting secrets.

  Father Sal says, “I don’t try to keep myself a secret…no, not so much. What I do is secretive only so that people can be protected and there are others who labor with me, who share my passion. For God’s work. Jackson told me you have a special case and you need my help. I called him late yesterday because I brought in a young lady who escaped her captors. When I saw the pentagram tattoo on her wrist, like the others, I knew I had to help.” He pauses a moment, then says, “But there is something I must tell you first and I think it will help you understand the rest.”

  “She escaped?” I say.

  He sniffs, his gaze returns to the baseball field. “This young woman is different from the others. She wasn’t a student. No, she’s a wife—a mother—and her family doesn’t live in Arizona. She was taken from her life and family and forced into prostitution.”

  “How can people force her to be a prostitute?”

  “Threats of violence to her, her family, her child. But that’s only the result of the real problem. The big problem.” He sits in silence, watching the park with ease. “The problem is spiritual,” he says emphatically. “The world is dark. People don’t want to talk about it like that, but it’s all around us, and most live, blind from the truth.”

  “Blind? Meaning what? Are you saying everyone needs to find religion?” I say, watching him.

  This is what I tried to protect you from.

  “Religion can cover up the problem, but not fix it. It’s like a bandage, you see. Gauze only covers a wound; it does not heal it. Conceals and protects, maybe, but does not fix. What the world needs is Jesus. Where Jesus is, the evil that tramples the lives of people can’t be. Do you know why they call Him the Savior?” His eyes meet mine again, a relaxed expression on his face.

  I think for a minute, and then concede with a headshake.

  “Say a man lives for seventy years, since I’m seventy, and then, by a variety of circumstances, he kills a man. So now he stands before a judge to be condemned, right?”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “So he stands before a judge, and other people would come forward and talk about how nice of a person this man is, because after all, he does wonderful things in the community, helps people in need, feeds the homeless, gives money to charity. Maybe he even does a little religion—you know, shows up at a building full of people for an hour every weekend. Magnanimous, right?”

  I nod.

  “So he does all these things, is a great guy all around, a good person, yeah? But now he’s killed someone. How’s the judge to take this?”

  “I think I see your point. The judge has to convict him. Doesn’t matter how good he was. He still killed a person.”

  “Exactly. So the man is taken to prison for the remainder of his days—doesn’t matter that he was good by some standard, by some list of do’s and don’ts. He still killed someone and has to be punished, if the judge is just.”

  “And so?”

  “And so, that is where Jesus comes in. We are in the same position as the man standing accused,” he says, carefully.

  “How so?”

  “Have you killed anyone?”

  Shit. Got me there. “I didn’t want to.”

  His eyes widen and he shifts back on his seat. “I didn’t expect that. I’ve had this talk with gang members who I know killed people and they didn’t respond that way…so you’re on the right track to admit that.”

  I feel so, so stupid. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “Where Jesus comes in is when the man stands accused. People that follow Jesus and trust him for their sin, the charges that are against them, are passed to Jesus, as he takes their place before the judge. He takes the punishment. A transaction takes place, and by substitution, the guilty man is free.”

  “Sounds like our bullshit political system. Know the right man, get out of jail free.”

  He chuckles. “Funny you say that. In a way, that is true. It’s not what you’ve done in this life that saves you, but who you know. The right friend makes all the difference.”

  The birds come and go and we sit in silence, which feels comfortable. He draws out a plastic bag from his pocket, and begins tossing crumbs to the birds on the sidewalk, who happily eat off the ground.

  “God provides for the birds, Colin. He can and He will provide for you.” He pauses a moment, throwing crumbs about ten feet out for his new feathered friends. “Do you believe that?”

  I sigh, watching nature around me, contemplating what this means and when we’ll get to the point of the conversation. It comes down to faith. Can I believe that Jesus will care for me, in place of Christel? This is not the right question. The issue is not will Jesus provide for me, but will Jesus give me what Christel gives me—what I want from the world? I doubt it. “I’m not sure what I believe anymore.” I’m surprised at my own admission. Why am I opening up to this stranger?

  “God provides for the birds, no?” Father Sal says.

  “They’re alive, so He must.”

  “Jesus tells us, in the book of Matthew, that we are more important than many sparrows. You are successful, no? It’s a beautiful suit you wear. God provides for you, does he not?”

  “He does, but I can’t see Him doing what I want.”

  “Well, that probably is true. Do you have kids?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s a good example, anyway. Children are a perfect case. They want candy. Only candy. If you were to feed a child only what he wants, candy, say for example…do you think that would make you a go
od father?”

  “No.”

  “God is the same way. He gives us what we need, not always what we ask for. And this is because what we need and what we want…are two different things.”

  “Sounds reasonable. But what about people who starve? Who are sick? How is God providing for them?”

  “This world does not belong to my master, Colin. It belongs to the devil. And so with this world, his dominion, bad things happen to people. Death comes to us all at some point, and because of sin, we must die. People are sick because of sin.”

  “Because of sin?”

  He retells the story of Adam and Eve, in the garden, the fruit. The snake that tricked the woman and man. He told them they would be like God by eating the fruit, for they would know about good and evil—which was true, yet it was entirely deceitful. Ultimately, they sinned because they did not trust God.

  “Why a snake?” I ask.

  “Trustworthy, I suppose.”

  I sigh and wish I didn’t have to make a decision. “I think it’s time I told you my story. Why I’m really here.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  I spare no details. Christel. The lake. The abduction. The killing. My career. A life of grandeur. Marisa. Now Jamal. He listens without comment or question.

  “I wish I could say I’ve never heard such a story before,” he says, his voice quiet, solemn.

  “You mean there are others?”

  “There are others who understand them and communicate intimately with them. They are always speaking, contaminating people, you see. Your situation is unique, but with all demons, they work everything to their advantage. So you must be…part of its larger plans. Hard to say what those are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Demons are evil and hate God. They resent Jesus saving humans, as they, being angels, were banished with no path of reconciliation to God. Because humans were given a path and they were not…they hate people and all things that honor God. Their mission is to defy God. So this demon that helps you is very unique. I must say, I wonder why and know that I shouldn’t. It’s a bad curiosity.” He shrugs and smiles a little. “I’m human, so I wonder.”

  “That’s what doesn’t make sense. Why does it help me?”

  “It must want something. You said you killed a man, years ago, and you were told to kill your friend. This is more like them. They are obsessed with death.”

  “Obsessed?”

  “Oh, yes. Obsessed. It is a reminder that this world belongs to them. As long as people suffer and die, they celebrate. When people are in pain, they are happy. Human pain is pleasure to them.”

  “Because we were offered Jesus and not them?”

  He nods and slides closer to me on the bench. “To be condemned and watch others being saved? To know that you’re destined to suffer for all eternity while others who don’t deserve it get a free pass?”

  I nod, as this clicks. “I’d be pissed too.”

  “More than that. They wish to destroy humanity. Anything that Christel does for another person, she does for her own purposes, which are evil. The decision you must make is, can you trust that God will be sufficient for your needs? Will you trust Him to be Lord of your life in place of Christel? In place of yourself?”

  My head nods by will of its own.

  God will not give you what I provide.

  I understand.

  Father Sal continues, “So, this young mom who’s come to me, she bears the tattoo on her wrist, just like the others, and may be of help to Jackson. I said this much to him. So he will meet with her when she’s ready to talk about it. From what I gather, you hope it’s soon.”

  I nod quickly. “So…about this young woman.”

  “Of course.”

  We talk at length about the investigation Jackson is into and how I’m involved, to bring Father up to speed.

  “So, how did you find this woman—or did she find you?” I say.

  His lips tremble. “That’s just it. The young ladies who escape often have problems they are running from. When getting out, they are like you—people who want the past to go away because they committed crimes and are afraid of getting into trouble with the law. They fear being seen as common criminals, so they just want to bury the past and move on. The woman from last night, she wants to find her family. It’s been two years, she thinks, since she saw them last, but she’s not positive.”

  “So what can you do?” I ask.

  “I’ll locate her family. That’s how Jackson and I got paired up. I had a teenager, years ago, who was taken as a slave, bound and gagged for months at a motel in California. Horrifying, what they did to her.” He wipes a tear from his eye. “Jackson was a detective with the police back then and he helped me get her home to Indianapolis. She still breaks my heart.”

  “It is terrible. So what happened to her?”

  “That’s the most painful part. She said these girls at her high school sold her. It was a nice school, too, private for just girls. But Lexi…she wanted revenge. I think that’s what got her out. She had so much hate. She saw past any pain she had to endure in California to get away and I believe she killed two of her captors in her escape.” He pauses a moment, looking to the clear sky. “When she got home, she wasn’t the same girl her parents lost. All she wanted was to bring death to the girls at school who caused it…and then to herself.”

  This is not what you want.

  I can’t take much more of this. Jackson will meet with the young woman and hopefully, she will come forward to give the investigation a new, positive direction, away from me. The past needs to stay a secret.

  “I’m sorry for what you’ve had to go through. But I’m sure there are good stories too,” I say.

  He stands and suggests we walk the trail. I follow along at his side.

  “The good ones keep me going, Colin. The successful ones. The stories of God’s mercy and grace filling a person who has nothing but reasons to hate people, to get revenge, or go back to the lifestyle they escaped from.”

  He brushes a stone off the path with his foot in stride. Then his attention shifts to a family playing in the field. Two little girls—maybe three or four years old? It’s hard to imagine those girls in the horror Father describes—a circle of hell they can’t escape, save for grace and a love that destroys all boundaries and defies all elements of human logic or reason.

  Natalie comes to mind and what she suffered through—how lucky she was. Walking along this path, my mind wanders on what good this meeting is for me. Jackson paired me with Sal, this priest, to get answers not just on the case, but on Christel, too. Ironic, I suppose, that a priest, of all people, would point me back on the right path.

  “Answers will come, Colin. Give it time,” Father says. I laugh a little, as I feel burdened with an impossible decision. Then he continues, “Now…before you go…I want you to do something for me. Could you do that?”

  My eyes narrow on their own, looking ahead at nature blowing in the wind. “Okay.”

  “Pray that your eyes will be opened, and they will.” He draws a small leather book from his back pocket. “Here. This is a Bible. Start with the book of John. We’ll talk again. In the interim, spend some time in this book. It will do you good.”

  I accept the offer and slide it in my suit jacket pocket, wondering whether I will ever read it. I thank him for his time and part company. He continues down the path, leaving only a fainting trail of dust behind him.

  He may be right.

  It’s a choice I have to make and Christel is trying to keep me from having all the facts. She is clouding the issue.

  Then I remember her tattoo. Mila’s tattoo. A snake. That can’t be a coincidence.

  FIFTY-SIX

  I skim through radio stations while sitting in the parking lot. A steady pounding at the front of my skull is becoming tiresome, but the cool air and few moments with my eyes closed in the car is helping. The day is fading into the evening.

  My phone vibrates in my pock
et; how many times it’s done that in the past hour I can’t count. The neglected device displays a dozen items: missed calls from Marisa, text messages from friends, and two guys at work who are going out for chicken wings tonight. A text from Joanna about making funeral arrangements, helping her out with the financials. The funeral is Monday morning.

  I call Marisa and her voice brightens my mood. With all that weighs on me, I need a large serving of encouragement. She’s hungry—no surprise—and in the mood for my company, which I’m sure will be gloomier than normal. She’s craving Thai and it’s up to me to decide whether we are going out or if I want to pick up takeout and rendezvous at home. I tell her I’m not up for going out, that I’d see her at home and we hang up.

  Modern Thai is close, about a mile away from the park at Forty-Forth. A short drive in modest traffic. The evening air is clear, the AC off, windows down. The cooler air carries a renewed optimism, like the arrival of spring after a long and harsh winter.

  The Thai restaurant is an older brick building with ample parking, shared with a host of neighboring businesses. Two families with lots of kids gather outside the place, waiting and keeping the younglings out of trouble. The inside is updated with dark leather seats in a cozy waiting area, the cashier to the left and the hostess on the right from the doorway, toward the dining area. A bar at the opposite wall and wood floors all around. The lighting is low and the place is busy for a Tuesday evening. A short interaction with the cashier and I take a seat close to the door with a menu in hand.

  Marisa doesn’t normally binge eat, but with Thai food, she could eat for six.

  She’s pregnant.

  I set the menu on my lap and look around at the patrons there. Two young men, seemingly not together, stand about, bored. A middle-aged mom, I gather from the size of her purse—the multicolored tote could carry a twenty-gauge and diapers.

  “Fancy seeing you here.” I startle at the sound of Mila’s voice. My pace quickens and the beating drum in my head returns with vengeance. She is on the seat next to me. Did I see her come in?