On finishing the headline story, Father Paul took a thoughtful breath and calmly folded the newspaper in half. He let the breath out slowly, trying to maintain his composure. Then, in a fit, he ripped the paper in half — and half again—and threw the damn thing to the floor. In the calm that followed, he looked at the newsprint on his hands and wondered what Jesus would do.
It seemed as if there was a new story every day. Actually, it was the same story over and over played out in a different city, a different diocese, a different country. And with every story Father Paul grew angrier. He’d been sold out again and again, as if by Judas, but for more than forty pieces of silver. Fifty million dollars paid out in New Mexico, three times that in Dallas, unknown sums in Boston, Philadelphia, Los Angeles, and virtually every other diocese in the country, and many other countries in the world. And that money wasn’t coming from Vatican City. Instead, they were fleecing the flock.
It wasn’t just that the abuse happened that angered Father Paul so—those in power couldn’t prevent that, at least not the first time. It was the cover-up. And there was always a cover-up. But it was even more than that. It was the tenacity with which the crimes were denied and hidden and perpetuated. How the blame was shifted. And it was the galling church policy of intimidating anyone who came forward with the truth about what they had been subjected to as children.
Pedophiles were moved around like chess pieces in a terrible game played at the expense of children. And of those responsible, some were actually promoted to the Vatican, moved out of harm’s way and into sinful luxury. Father Paul thought of St. Peter when he said, “Lord, which is he that betrayeth thee?”
Sordid and corrupt, it was the sort of thing one had come to expect from businessmen and politicians, shameless cons who declared all indictments politically motivated and who struck deals admitting no guilt, just to get the thing behind them so they could all move forward and let the healing begin. But this wasn’t business or politics—or perhaps it was both.
It was bad enough when it happened elsewhere, Father Paul thought, but now this. His own dioceses. Caught with its pants down, so to speak, as they tried to sweep another one under the rug. And he knew who would be made to pay. And it wasn’t the guys in the miters. The parishes would have to pony up, literally paying for the sins of the fathers. It left Father Paul torn between outrage at the perfidy and worry about his ability to do his job. As it was, he didn’t have the resources necessary to do the Lord’s work.
And now?
Perhaps this was a test of his faith. He would pray and hope the Lord would speak to him.
“Father Paul?”
That was quick, he thought. He looked up and saw a nurse standing there, her eyes alternating between the shredded newspaper and the priest. He gave a rueful smile as he picked up the shreds. The nurse said, “Father? Someone wants to see you.”
Chapter Twenty
Katy was in the kitchen on her laptop when Mary walked in with some groceries. “Hi, hon.”
Katy glanced up long enough to register her disdain for all things civil, like saying hello. So far she’d managed to nurse her grudge for a week, never saying anything more than absolutely necessary to coexist with her mother, including the occasional grunt and her favorite utterance of vexation, Guh!
Mary knew Katy was still pissed about having to stay in Corvallis and figured the best way to deal with the pouting was to let it exhaust itself. It was annoying, but privately she was impressed with Katy’s ability to maintain this degree of sullenness. It showed an admirable degree of commitment to a position, even if the position was less than noble.
Crossing to the pantry with several cans of tomatoes, Mary passed behind Katy. She paused and glanced over her shoulder and said, “Whatcha working on?” Before Katy could flip the screen down in a rush of outrage, Mary saw what looked like a string of typos: BHOF, DETI, and X-I-10. The only combination of characters that formed an actual word was PIMP.
“Guh! Excuse me. Uhhh, private.” The word came out in three syllables as puh-ri-vate.
“Pardon me,” Mary said as she put the cans on the shelf. “But I’m curious about your use of the word ‘pimp.’”
Katy couldn’t believe the nerve of this woman. “Do I read your e-mails?”
“I don’t know, do you?”
Katy tilted her head at the proper angle to indicate how stupid the question was. “Uhh, nooo.”
Mary gestured casually at the computer with a package of dried spaghetti. “I couldn’t help but see the word.”
“You could if you didn’t snoop,” Katy said. “Besides, it’s not a word.”
“Sure it is. A pimp is a guy who—”
“I know what it means.” She rolled her eyes. “Guh.”
Mary started putting a dozen eggs into the refrigerator’s egg tray. “The reason I ask is I was thinking back to your research about how children in single-parent homes are more likely to become drug-addicted prostitutes.”
“Right, mom. I’m ordering from pimp-dot-com right now.”
“Eww, try to get one who doesn’t beat you too much. Even if it costs extra, it’s worth it.”
“You are so not funny. PIMP is IM shorthand. It means pee in my pants.”
“Oh, acronyms.”
“Duh. Like MYOB means mind your own business. Or POS for parent over shoulder.”
After the last egg was in, Mary said, “Honey, technically those aren’t acronyms. I think the letters have to spell something you can pronounce like a word. Like scuba or radar.”
“I didn’t say they were acronyms. You did.”
“No, when I said ‘oh, acronyms,’ you said ‘duh,’ indicating that I was obviously right.” Mary was doing this to annoy and, based on the stare Katy had fixed on her, she was succeeding. Mary smiled and said, “Well, just remember, it’s hard out there for a pimp.”
Katy just stared at her.
“I’d love to stay and chat,” Mary said. “But laundry calls.”
“Guh. What. Ever.” Katy kept staring until her mom was gone. She resumed typing. “Sorry, POS. WW I?” As in, where was I?
A moment later, her friend responded, “YR BIG SHHHH!”
Katy typed, “OK. R SECRET?
“Y!”
“GOING AWOL 2 LA.”
“N!”
“Y!”
“COOL!”
Chapter Twenty-one
The name had been changed, but not to protect the innocent. The innocent had nothing to do with it. In fact the entire exercise was pointless without the guilty. Some called it penance, others confession. The Church had taken to calling it reconciliation, which to Father Paul’s ear made the holy sacrament sound about as spiritual as balancing a checkbook.
In his thirty-five years as a priest, Father Paul Anik had heard thousands of confessions. Some were entertaining, many were depressing, others infuriating. He hated first confessions most—innocent children made to feel guilty over nothing at the age of six, herded into the box where they tried to convince themselves and the priest that they deserved to burn in Hell if they didn’t properly beg forgiveness.
Some of the people who came were just scared and lonely, parishioners who didn’t have anyone else to listen to their problems. They simply wanted someone to assure them of God’s love in a heartless world.
Then there were the argumentative sons-of-bitches who wanted to split hairs and plea-bargain. “That’s not coveting! Look, I know a priest over at St. Anthony’s who only charges two Hail Mary’s for that kind of shit.”
Every week Father Paul heard people confess things that made him doubt Genesis, things that made him think Darwin must have been right because only something evolved from apes could be this depraved and then have the nerve to ask for and expect forgiveness. If this was intel
ligent design, he wondered, where was the intelligence?
He had listened as championship sinners casually reeled off grocery lists of abominable behavior with no contrition in their voices, hoping to get the whole thing over with in five minutes as if it was some sort of spiritual oil change. Others came to ask questions, to probe in secret the limits of sin and morality to find out what they could get away with in the eyes of God. And many of them went on to win re-election.
But of all the penitential circumstances, Father Paul most looked forward to the death-bed confession. People who knew the end was nigh tended to take it seriously, tended to get down to brass tacks. They were sincere in their contrition and in their belief of what God could do for them. Faith tended to firm up when you were staring into the eye sockets of death.
Father Paul was standing in the corridor, his ink-smudged hands clasped softly behind his back, listening as the doctor talked about the sinner at hand.
“He has a high cervical injury, spinal cord partially lacerated around C3,” the doctor said before glancing at her watch. “By now he’s got secondary damage from the arachidonic acid cascade and inflammation.” She continued by saying something about the release of excitatory amino acids and lipid peroxidation of cell membranes by various forms of oxygen free radicals. She referred to her chart. “Oh, plus he chipped a couple of teeth.”
Father Paul looked up with sorrowful eyes. “Nothing you can do?”
“Nothing anybody can do,” the doctor said as if her credentials had been questioned. “Not in this life.”
“Does he know?”
“Yes.”
“Can he talk?”
“He’s fine from the chin up.”
“How much time does he have?”
A professional shrug. “Tonight, tomorrow, early next week. Impossible to say, but no question he’s in articulo mortis.” The doctor didn’t see too many people who understood Latin. She figured an older priest would appreciate it.
Father Paul gave a solemn nod. “He asked for last rites?”
The doctor shook her head. “He was unconscious when they brought him in. Fell down some stairs at Pike Place Market, landed square on his occiput,” she said, tapping the back of her head. “Came to about an hour ago, said he’d seen some sort of sign about going to Hell and wanted to make a confession. We assumed he wasn’t talking about the cops.” She held her hand out, palm up, ushering Father Paul into the ICU.
There were six beds separated by curtains. Richard Mills was the only patient in the room. Stainless steel screws anchored an alloy halo to his skull and large bore needles were embedded in his veins delivering fluids. His face was bruised and swollen. He looked as if he were being subjected to the tortures of a modern-day Inquisition.
Father Paul kissed his violet stole and draped it around his neck, then pulled a chair to the bedside. The ventilator huffed and hissed as the priest laid his hand gently on Richard Mills’ shoulder and leaned close to his ear. He caught a faint whiff of fish as he said, “I am here, my son.” His voice was soothing and offered reassurance, though his breath left something to be desired.
Richard Mills had a trach with a speaking valve so he could talk during what were sure to be his last hours. His voice was scratchy and hoarse as he uttered a thought that had never entered his mind until he saw that restroom sign as he began to tumble down those stairs. He said, “Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”
Father Paul said he understood and he encouraged the man to clear his conscience.
Richard Mills had murdered dozens without a moment of remorse but now he could see the face of every person he’d killed. A grim parade, marching through his mind, haunting him, crushing him with guilt, demanding that he seek forgiveness. “In my life,” he said, “I killed forty-eight men.”
Father Paul had started to nod, the way he always did during a confession, a sign that no matter what sin was confessed, it wasn’t unforgivable. But when “I killed forty-eight men” finally registered, his head jerked back and he said, “What?”
Richard Mills felt a great relief as he repeated his statement. A tear rolled out the corner of one eye.
Father Paul wondered if the man was delusional. The doctor hadn’t said anything in that regard so Father Paul looked for another explanation. Perhaps he’d been a soldier. The man looked old enough to have been in Vietnam where Father Paul, then private Paul Anik, had found his calling. Perhaps this man had served his country and seen and done the terrible things required of him in such a circumstance. Father Paul tried to recall church doctrine on when “thou shalt not kill” didn’t apply. After a moment it came to him. Augustine’s “Just War” theory. Wanting to give the man the benefit of the doubt, Father Paul said, “You were in the military?”
“No,” the man said, wishing he could still shake his head. “An assassin. I killed for money.”
“Oh.” So much for the benefit of the doubt. Father Paul knew the church had some extremely sophisticated theology that allowed a wide range of egregious misbehavior under certain circumstances, but he didn’t think the church’s situational ethics stretched quite this far. He’d have to conjure some forgiveness.
Once Richard Mills began to confess, he couldn’t stop talking. He explained that he’d retired five years ago. Money in the bank, set for life. Then he got lured back for one last job.
Father Paul couldn’t believe it. Lured back for one last job? Like an inciting incident in bad movie. In fact it brought to mind several films he’d seen recently featuring that tired plot point. Still, he felt compelled to ask, “Have you done this last job?”
“On my way,” he said. “Two men, and not good men either. Killers like myself.”
In his halting, scratchy voice Richard Mills told Father Paul the whole story, how the Frenchman had contacted him and told him about the twenty-million-dollar bounty to kill Bob and Klaus. “You must warn them,” he said, wanting to grab Father Paul’s arm to make his point, but unable to do so. “Tell them, others are coming.” His eyes turned to look at his bedside table. There was a plastic bowl with a watch, a slip of paper, a small key, and other personal belongings. “That ticket? Take it to Palace Loans on 2nd Ave. They will give you a duffle bag in return. Everything you need is in there. Keep the money or give it to the church, I don’t care. The other things you must throw in the ocean. It’s up to you now. Warn them. Others will be coming.”
Richard Mills closed his eyes. The steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor became a steady tone. A flat line. Father Paul bowed his head and began to pray when a team of doctors and nurses rushed in, displacing him to the hallway.
Removed from the commotion, he stood there thinking about what the man had said. Not about the people he had killed or his guilt or his need for redemption or that he should warn the men that others were coming.
But about the twenty million dollars.
He bowed his head and began to pray, “Lead us not into temptation.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Bob and Klaus had been putting in ten-hour days, but their work was going on around the clock. Three eight-hour shifts of highly qualified microbiologists loading the DNA fragments of insects and arachnids onto microscopic-gel-beads treated with illuminating reagents so the DNA sequence could be visualized by hyper-spectral imaging systems, chemiluminescence detectors, and computer controlled digital microscopes that recorded the color changes onto a light-sensitive chip. Fourteen million beads at a time packed into an area the size of a dime, checked by fluorescent chemical probes. Bob loved the irony that the beads signaled these sequences by activating luciferase, the light-producing enzyme found in fireflies (Photuris pennsylvanicus).
“It’s unbelievable,” Bob said. “The progress, the pace…it’s, it’s like playing God.” He cradled the phone in the crook of his neck as he continued to work. “But I
guess that’s to be expected when you put a dozen Bio-Plast 545 sequencers into the hands of people who know how to use them.”
“You know, that technical talk used to get me sooo hot,” Mary said, “but right now I’d rather be in the hands of someone who knows how to use them.” She paused before lapsing into Lauren Bacall saying, “You do know how to use them, don’t you?”
Absorbed in his work, Bob wasn’t listening as closely as he should have been. He said, “Use what?” Then he stopped what he was doing and said, “Whose hands are you talking about?”
“Yours, you knucklehead. I miss you.” Mary could see him now, his nutty professor hair trying to keep up as he darted from one corner of the lab to another, bursting with energy and passion, although not the sort of passion Mary had in mind.
“Oh, I miss you too, sweetie. Sorry, I’m trying to fractionate some proteins.”
“Yeah? Well, why don’t you come up sometime, and fractionate me?” This time as Mae West.
Bob smiled as he indulged an impure thought or two. “I promise I’ll be all hands next weekend when I see you. Well not all hands, of course, but…” Bob heard a clearing of the throat. He turned and noticed a disapproving glance spilling over the top of Klaus’ bifocals. “Well, ’nuff said.”
“Hubba hubba,” Mary said. “So tell me, what’s it like playing God?”
“It’s pretty cool,” Bob said. “Klaus and his team are sequencing the DNA for the spiders and it looks like we’ll be able to transfer the venom to the transgenic assassins. And I think it’s safe to say you would not want to be overrun by a hundred spined ambush assassins loaded with sydney funnelweb spider venom.”
“What about gender distribution?”
“Are you kidding? Other than the breeders, this is boys only. Can’t take a chance on uncontrolled reproduction,” Bob said. “We’ve also started to sequence the giant robber fly for the airborne assassins. So the next big step is figuring out how to control and direct them. We’re meeting with some of the other research groups about that tomorrow. Treadwell’s pleased with the progress so, like I said, it’s all good. How’s Katy?”
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