Priestly Sins

by Hadley Finn

  “501 North Rampart. You’ll need ID and cashier’s check or money order.”

  “For how much?”

  “Five thousand six hundred fifty dollars.”

  “Right. Thank you.”

  I’ve never heard of a staffer making the call on behalf of a detainee. But I don’t get called to make bail on the regular, so who knows.

  I throw my blacks and collar back on. Henry has never seen me otherwise, and it buys me some leverage in a city like New Orleans.

  I hit the twenty-four-hour grocery and pay for the money order and make my way to Rampart. Parking is shit—as is this neighborhood—and I hope for the best when I park the car at a closed-down gas station nearby.

  When I enter the station, a hush falls over the crowd before the bustle resumes. The looks and the sideways glances are unnerving, but I can’t say I’ve spent time in police stations so it could come with the territory.

  “I’m not here to give last rites.” The joke falls flat so I ask the lady at the counter for Sergeant Cox and explain I’m here to post bail. She’s a black woman with a growing afro and a take-no-shit attitude. I smile because I like that.

  “You’re not a bail bondsman.”

  “True.”

  “You know if you post on someone’s behalf and they don’t show, you’re responsible?”

  “I do now.”

  “Who are you here for?”

  “Henry Tremaine.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She shoves back in her chair and, with only one backward glance, heads out of the cubicle farm and toward the back, out of sight.

  I grab my phone to have something to do and check the weather. Long after searching the ten-day forecast—hot, muggy, afternoon thunderstorms every day for the next week and a half—she returns.

  “Sergeant Cox will be right with you.”

  I nod. I’m missing something, but I don’t know if it’s better to look a fool than to open my mouth and have it confirmed.

  I walk to the plastic chairs, sit, and wait.

  Thirty minutes later, I’ve become impatient.

  It’s after one in the morning.

  Five more minutes pass before I return to the same lady and smile. “Is there any paperwork I need to begin filling out for Henry’s release?”

  “Can’t do anything until you speak with Sergeant Cox.”

  “Any idea how long that should take?”

  “Nah-uh.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Miss…” I leave it hanging, hoping she’ll fill in the blank.

  “Welcome.”

  Back in the same chair, still warm from my last turn there, I grab my phone and open the reading app. I’ve never used it before. Never had this much time while I’m out. I download Bag of Bones and pick up where I left off.

  “Father O’Ryan?”

  I lift my head and nod at the man who’s come around the front desk. “Sergeant James Cox, New Orleans PD.” He extends his hand, and I take it.

  “Sean O’Ryan, nice to meet you.” His grip tightens for a quick second before releasing it.

  “We released Henry Tremaine. Wrong person. Sorry for wasting your time.”

  He holds my gaze but doesn’t step back or offer anything further.

  I nod, assessing. “Does he need a ride home?”

  “He walked out about an hour ago.”

  I look at my watch. It’s almost three-thirty.

  “Glad that’s taken care of,” I say, reaching in my pocket for my car keys. “Have a good night.”

  “Yeah. You too.”

  My car has two slashed tires when I return to it. I call a tow and order an Uber. By the time I get home it’s after five. No run this morning. I’ll be lucky to survive the day.

  Fifteen

  “That’ll be six forty-two.”

  “Does that come with a car wash?”

  “What?”

  “Just seems high. Wondering if there’s anything else in the bill besides the tires.”

  “Nope. Two low-profile tires, plus balance and alignment.”

  “Gotcha. What time do you close?”

  “Five. You need an inspection, by the way.”

  “Do it. Thanks! And I’ll see you before five.”

  I hang up.

  Last night’s adventure cost me my morning run.

  Confessions this morning cost me my sanity too.

  I grab an afternoon cup of coffee, turn the phones on silent, and head to my office.

  Three hours later, my neck muscles pinch, and my full cup coffee is now cold.

  I leave, not bothering to check the messages, and grab a shower hoping that will wake me up.

  I settle in with Stephen King, skipping dinner, and not caring enough to do anything about it. I read until I fall asleep and have dreams of Maine lighthouses and lake cabins.

  I wake and am back on track. My neck is hating the grueling pace I set this morning, but sleep being off can’t be handled with kid gloves, so I’m back on schedule and wishing I hadn’t gotten toyed with by the NOLA PD two nights ago.

  Home to shower and enjoy a brief moment or two, if only in my mind, of Sirona Dugas’ ass and her lips. This morning, I fist my cock and picture her sucking me in deep, grazing the back of her throat with my cock, feeling that soft, velvety flesh on my tip. I come embarrassingly quickly, but the fantasy was too good.

  “Well, you’re in a good mood this morning.” Evelyn looks sheepish, but rested from her vacation last week. “I’m sorry, Father. That was inappropriate.”

  “Good morning. I’m just glad you’re back. How were the Smoky Mountains?”

  “Beautiful. And much cooler than here. This humidity!” She throws her wrist toward the windows. “It could choke a fish.”

  “That it could! How’s Tom?”

  “He enjoyed vacation. Happy to be home, though.”

  “That’s a good life. I have to leave a little early today. Picking up my car after needing a couple of new tires. Just wanted you to have a heads-up.”

  “Thanks, Father.”

  As the day wears on, my thoughts creep back to Bag of Bones. This is one reason I don’t read very much. When I do, I get sucked in too easily.

  When I first got assigned to the New Orleans diocese, I read those vampire books by Anne Rice. I was looking in doorways and dark alleys for weeks until I remembered there’s no such thing as vampires and then reminded myself that I am the actual villain. But something about her writing and King’s—the world creation—makes a home inside me. It’s a gift. At times, though, it’s a curse to the reader who must see what’s next while never wanting to really know it.

  So, before picking up my car, a day later than I promised, I open my reading app and steal an hour or two away in Maine, pretending I can feel the salty air and the crisp night air.

  “Father.”

  “Hey, Leroy. Appreciate you taking care of my car.”

  “Sweet ride, Padre. How ya been?

  “Can’t complain. You?

  “Same. Um...”

  “What is it?”

  “Well. This is awkward. Did you know you had a bug in it?”

  “Bugs? No. Never heard of that in a car. Got a recommendation for me?”

  “No. A bug. A tracking device.”

  My blood runs ice cold and I school my features. “No clue. What did you find?”

  “It was odd. Not well hidden, just out there. Looks pretty new, not real dirty, so couldn’t’ve been there long. I didn’t move it. Want me to show you?”

  “Please.”

  He rolls my car toward the lift legs and raises it up with the hydraulics. We walk under the front end and he points to the passenger wheel well, where there’s a little black box that looks like a doorbell except for the red flashing light.

  “Know anything about those?” I ask.

  He looks sheepish but says, “Will you forgive me if I do?”

  I laugh. “No forgiveness needed. Knowing stuff isn’t a sin.”

  He bl
ushes furiously under his light brown skin. “Right. So, this one is pretty common. Transmits location. Nothing indicates it records sound. It can be disabled by—” He reaches up to grab it, but I put my hand on his forearm to pause him and interrupt.

  “Wait. Walk me through it but don’t disable it. Okay?”

  He looks confused.

  “I don’t know who did this, but I don’t have anything to hide, so I might let it go. Want to think about it. But, in case, I’d like to know how.”

  “But...”

  “Not forever. But on my terms. Wouldn’t it be fun to screw around with them? Have it transmit sometimes and not others? Besides, who could’ve done this?”

  But as soon as I say it, I know. My wait at the police station two nights ago with a bullshit excuse, after Henry had been dismissed. Someone knew where I was, how long I’d been there. But why slash my tires?

  Leroy shakes his head. “No clue. It’s basic and not for recon or anything. See this?” He points to the box. “It slides off like an old matchbox or those old hide-a-keys.” He pulls it off gently. Underneath there’s a little switch.

  “All you do is flip that and it’s off. Flip it back and it’s on.”

  “Is it hard-wired in?

  “No.” His answer comes out like a question.

  “So, I can keep this in my glovebox or put it somewhere and it’ll transmit from anywhere?”

  “Yeah.” Again, it sounds like a question. “It holds with only a strong magnet. Whoever put it here did it because they could get a good hold.”

  I nod, grabbing the matchbox-sized device, and turn it around in my hand.

  “You ever want to go for a joyride, let me know. I’ll send it on a trip with you.”

  He looks shocked, but I just laugh. “Might as well give them what they paid for.”

  “You’re funny, Padre. I like that.”

  He lowers my car, and we head to the office. I pay, and we shake hands.

  “Appreciate you, Leroy.” I leave him a tip and thank him again.

  I drive home with a fucking tracker in its current location, trying to decide what I want to do with it. I do not go by Petites Fleurs since someone is watching me.

  Does Enzo have dirty cops working for him? Is that why death after death surrounding his operation never turns up as anything other than natural causes? Is the coroner in his pocket too?

  When I park at the rectory, I grab the tracker and toss it into a sliding compartment under the radio panel and leave it there. The red button flashes a steady beacon.

  I seethe as I wonder if I’ve been made.

  Sixteen

  My eighteenth birthday brought several things—only one of them good.

  I stood in my father’s house the night before that birthday and stared at myself—truly stared at myself—in the mirror, hating I shared the same DNA as the man… hating that daily, my reflection took on more and more of him, at least physically.

  Ma had been gone almost three years and the pieces of her in me were starting to fade. No, that wasn’t true — they were being overwhelmed. Her goodness and kindness could never be dampened, but the other stuff, his stuff, seemed to be coming to the fore. Not his cruelty, or his ruthlessness, but the chilly demeaner, how removed he was. How removed I was becoming.

  I could see how it could happen. One couldn’t screw people over, ruin their families and their businesses—kill, steal, and destroy—without hating themselves or going numb.

  Except a sadist.

  Or a narcissist.

  I could be convinced my father was both. It wouldn’t have taken much.

  But when I overheard him tell his attorney, Hal Staunchley, thirty minutes before, that he did what he must to bring me back into the fold, I knew. I listened, holding my breath and biting the insides of my mouth to keep from screaming.

  And I knew.

  “Patrick…”

  “I had to. He needs to take his rightful place, and she would always be in his head. Hell, three years on and she’s still in his head.”

  “But there had to be another way.”

  “I called a marker with a man I knew in New Orleans. Dirty son of a bitch.”

  “But, Claire—”

  I don’t know what they said after that. Didn’t care. I snuck away as quietly as I could and went back to my room. I stood there, hands fisted by my sides, seething. I seared that conversation into my brain. The nonchalant tone in his voice. The audacity to speak plainly about murdering my mother for convenience.

  He didn’t just know, he planned it. He called a hit when I was with her. He didn’t worry I could’ve been there. He apparently didn’t care that I found her or was completely shattered and alone, or even that I was fifteen years old and fifteen hundred miles from home.

  He hadn’t cared about what I wanted or didn’t want, namely being involved with him.

  And that was the truth of it; he was a narcissist and certainly sadistic.

  He’d been slowly trying to bring me in. It’s why I could see myself getting cooler, more reserved.

  Fuck that and fuck him!

  I needed a plan.

  I had accepted an offer to Boston College. But, unbeknownst to my dad, I applied and had accepted another at Notre Dame. It was a pipe dream, mostly fueled by football and the idea of getting away, and not one I took seriously.

  Until that moment.

  They’d offered a track scholarship. I didn’t need a scholarship at BC. Dad would’ve paid and I’d have been working for him when I wasn’t studying.

  Notre Dame would mean his fury.

  Notre Dame would mean my freedom.

  If Patrick O’Shaughnessy taught me anything, it was to never let emotion overrun your mind. Respond, don’t react. Plan and strategize, don’t ever wing it.

  For the next three weeks, he’d never have known anything changed. I woke up, finished out my last semester, studied for final exams, and I ran.

  I ran to plot. I ran to plan. I ran to get out the anger that threatened to eat away at me like acid.

  I bought a new cell phone, one no one knew about, and made connections in Boston. Some were people my father owned. Others wanted to see him dead.

  I connected with anyone in Boston’s underbelly who could help me achieve my plan. No one was too high; no one was too low.

  I got a new identity, a new birth certificate, a new driver’s license.

  I graduated and accepted my father’s gift, a new Beemer, with a smile and handshake and kept running and plotting.

  My records at Notre Dame were changed into Sean O’Ryan. That hacker got ten thousand in cash to make that happen and another ten to forget it ever did.

  And the pièce de résistance? I paid Hal Staunchley and became his client. Anything he discovered or learned was then protected by attorney-client privilege.

  Lastly, and the ultimate fuck you, I decided I would find a way to kill Enzo Calabrese and my father and dismantle their operations.

  Or I would die trying.

  I just needed the right cover.

  And the right cover also meant my father would never have a grandson to put in the same position.

  Seventeen

  Confessions the next day surprise me.

  For starters, Zera Calabrese is back. She talks like we’re old friends after we get the formalities out of the way. She’s a regular, every other week. She generally mentions the same things: lying, cheating, manipulating.

  “Zera, usually absolution comes with the commitment to repent from those ways and change your course.”

  “I know.”

  “But…”

  “But divorce isn’t an option and having a baby with him isn’t either, so…” She leaves the sentence unfinished, but we both know the answer. She can’t leave. Won’t leave and she’s right about bringing a baby into his world.

  “Wish I could give you a better alternative.”

  We finish up with our prayers and she leaves. I’ll see her again in two
weeks, and again, nothing will have changed.

  “Forgive me, Father,”

  Henry!

  “Hey, Henry. What’s up?”

  “Do the official thing, yeah?”

  “When was your last confession?”

  “I don’t know. It was here. Couple months ago, maybe.”

  “And what are your sins?”

  “Okay, so we needed the money and I didn’t quit school or anything, but I’m working and the dude ain’t right, but I don’t think I can get out of it.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the money’s good. Evie deserves a good life and so does Ma, but what if I have to tell you stuff you won’t approve of?”

  “Henry, I hear messed-up stuff all the time and I don’t judge. I don’t want it for you, but I won’t judge you either. You know I’m here for you, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened the other night?”

  “Yeah, so I don’t want to get into that, but I appreciate you would be willing to come get me.”

  “Willing? I went there, check in hand for your bail.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. NOPD called and said you were arrested, and I went down there to bail you out.”

  “They detained me in the back of the cop car, but after a while, they released me. Fucking pigs. Sorry, didn’t mean to say ‘fuck,’ Father.”

  So, he was never at Rampart. Fuck! Someone is messing with me.

  “How’d they know to call me?”

  “They asked for my next of kin, and I don’t trust them with Ma’s name, so I told them you.”

  “Pretty cool, Henry. Glad you know you can trust me. Who’s the dude you’re working for and why do you need to get out of it?”

  “Calabars shipping. Something like that. I’m doing deliveries right now.”

  “Calabrese Freight?” My blood runs cold. No. Fuck no!

  “Yeah. That’s it. Big company around here.”

  “I’ve heard of it.” Understatement of the damned century. “So, why are you confessing that? And why did you want it to be so formal? Just a job, right?”

  “The two dudes I work with are whacked in the head. You know how you know? I just know. They do whack shit. Shit. Sorry I said ‘shit.’”