The Redeemed

by Jonas Saul

  “The Lord pardons sins but he cannot pardon those who are determined to offend him.” He raised his hand, pointing skyward. “Nor can we demand from God a reason why he pardons one a hundred sins, and takes others out of life and sends them to Hell after three or four sins.” He lowered his arm and gripped the sides of the pulpit with both hands. “He who receives pardon, says St. Augustine, is pardoned through the pure mercy of God. They who are chastised are justly punished.”

  Father Adams leaned against one of the pillars until Father George finished. He watched as the priest walked some of his congregation to the doors and whispered goodbyes to the lot of them. Father Adams involved himself with some of the people filing out of the church and remained patient, as the Lord would expect of a man in his position.

  After a time, the big doors shut on the front of the church with only a few remaining to pray silently.

  Father George strode over to address Adams. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this evening’s visit?”

  “I wanted to have a quick word with you.” Adams turned, clasped his hands behind his back. “Walk with me.”

  When they reached the back of the church, Father Adams pushed open the door of Father George’s office. Moments later they were alone.

  “Quite the sermon this evening,” Adams said.

  “I was pleased with the turnout,” George replied. “My sermon on sin has always been my favorite. Now, Father Adams, what can I help you with?”

  Adams stood by the door as George walked around and took a seat behind his desk.

  “As you’re probably aware,” Adams started, “five of our fellow clergymen have been sent home to God recently.”

  Father George nodded, a grim expression on his face.

  “What you might not know is that these men were brought here by the Vatican.”

  “Brought here?” Father George asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Shuffled here from other churches in other cities.”

  “That happens all the time.”

  “Like in your case, all five were moved here to avoid prosecution or detection.”

  Father George’s expression darkened.

  “As you have probably read in the papers, the United Nations slammed the Vatican last February for looking the other way regarding sexual abuse of children by priests. They demanded the Vatican turn over offenders to face justice. The church official’s imposed code of silence, along with moving abusers from church to church, has not been entirely successful.” Father Adams remained by the door, his hands comfortably clasped in front of him. “Many bishops involved in these affairs have resigned after abuse scandals in their dioceses, but evidently it appears someone out there doesn’t think that’s enough.”

  “How does this affect me?” Father George asked.

  Whether George had reoffended here in L.A. or not, Father Adams wasn’t sure. But he had the dossier on Father George and he knew what the man had been accused of several times before he was transferred to L.A.

  “Based on your alleged history in Pennsylvania, and what has happened to those five priests recently, I felt it wise to caution you.”

  “Are you cautioning others?” Father George asked.

  It was easy to see this conversation had made Father George uncomfortable. It probably wasn’t something the man wanted to discuss since his past had been buried.

  “Look, Father George, I like the work you do here. It’s been a year since you arrived, and the people have responded well to you. I just thought you should know.”

  “Know what?” Father George leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desktop.

  “The police are hunting what looks like a serial killer. One that only targets Catholic priests. Each and every one of these priests had a questionable past concerning the Church.”

  “Are you saying my past is questionable?”

  Father Adams wasn’t used to being challenged, nor was he accustomed to the aggression he felt coming from Father George. He held his composure, waited a few breaths, then said, “Father George, when you came to me, you were close to being excommunicated. The accusations—”

  Father George held up his hand. “That’s exactly what they were—accusations. Nothing but faithless lies. A test of my faith. The church saw it my way and transferred me. Father Adams, just because my file has accusations in it, they cannot be verified as they are unproved allegations.” He smiled the same wide, calming smile he offered his congregation. “You of all people must know that.”

  “I am simply here in an advisory capacity today. After last night’s murder, I felt it necessary to warn the members of our Church who have experienced difficulty in the past.” He turned and opened the door. “Please wait for me here. I must use the restroom.”

  Father Adams stepped out into the hallway. Before he got too far, a man walked by, his shoulder bumping Adams.

  He turned back but missed the man’s face. There was a familiarity in the way the man walked, how he carried himself.

  Father Adams turned back around and walked the rest of the way to the restroom.

  Chapter 7

  Mike tried to avoid bumping into the priest, but the hallway was too narrow to accommodate both of them shoulder to shoulder. At least the priest didn’t get a good look at his face.

  Father George’s office door sat ajar. Mike listened at the door, not wanting to dawdle too long. When he heard no one talking inside, he pushed open the door.

  “Father George?” Mike said. “I wonder if I could have a word with you.”

  Father George sat behind his large desk, a clutter of papers scattered about on top. He leaned back in his chair and nodded.

  “Come in.”

  Mike entered the office until his thighs pressed against the desk.

  “As you’re aware, Father George, I’m in charge of our recent campaign to locate and renovate shelters within the city limits where we can provide the word of God to the homeless.”

  Father George nodded, but remained silent.

  “I wonder if you would like to accompany me out to view one of our recent acquisitions. We’re renovating an old building. The contractors come in next week, but before they do, I would like your blessing on the choice of building. It would only take an hour. Are you up to it?”

  Father George nodded. “It would be a pleasure. But at this late hour?”

  “I won’t keep you long. I promise.”

  “Fair enough, Mike. I was in a meeting moments ago, but I think what had to be said was said. I’d be happy to get some fresh air. Let me get my things.”

  A minute later, Father George, Bible in hand, followed as Mike led them out the back way to his car. Mike started the late-model Pontiac and pushed the cigarette lighter in.

  “You smoke?” Father George asked as he slipped his safety belt on. “For some reason I thought you were allergic to cigarette smoke.”

  Mike shook his head. “I’ve been smoking since I was fourteen. You must have me mixed up with someone else.”

  He pulled out of the church parking lot, careful to make sure no one looked directly at his face.

  When they find Father George’s body tomorrow, Mike didn’t want anyone offering his description to a police sketch artist. Mike was Satan’s instrument. Having the police on his tail would only slow his mission, upsetting Lucifer, which Mike didn’t want.

  But if the authorities got too close, he would sacrifice them because anyone who attempted to stop his mission, opposed him.

  That meant all opposition had to die.

  Even if it was a young girl with a broken foot who attended his crime scene last night. He now knew exactly who she was and what she was called here to do and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to end her life before she got too close to him.

  Young or old, male or female, they were all Lucifer’s for the taking.

  He would see to it.

  Chapter 8

  Mike opened the side door to the building with his key and led Father Geor
ge through the main floor.

  “The city foreclosed on the building and the church bought it from them for a rather low price,” Mike said.

  They stopped by one of the bathrooms that was in the process of being torn out. The upstairs still had running water, but Father George wouldn’t make it upstairs. Mike didn’t want Father George seeing Evelyn strapped to the bed. With George’s history of molestation, maybe he would want a taste. But Eve was eighteen, probably too old for George.

  He guided him toward the small room under Eve’s. The sealed room where the sulfuric acid waited. The homemade gas chamber.

  “Back here, we have storage rooms that are already finished.” He pulled out his key ring and unlocked the door to the last room Father George would ever see. “Inside here, we’ll store dry goods for the shelter.”

  The priest stepped back.

  “Father George, what’s the matter?”

  “Why did you bring me here?” he asked.

  Mike held the door open to the room he needed the priest to enter. “I want your opinion on the building. Actually, I want your approval on the project.”

  “I’ve never seen you smoke,” Father George said as he stepped back once more from the entrance to the store room.

  “Is that what this distance between us is all about?”

  “No, but you have surprised me a few times today. Your behavior has been unbecoming.”

  Mike looked down at his polished black shoes. “This has been a very difficult week for me with all the murders—”

  “I understand, but—”

  “No, let me finish.” Mike met his gaze. “In the face of such evil, we have to persevere. We have to not only continue to do good, but to be active in the face of evil, always moving forward. The only thing that goes with the flow is dead fish. We can’t be dead fish, Father. We have a mission.” He cleared his throat. “After this past week, I felt I needed to share this building and the future renovations with you. Since the congregation likes you so much, I thought you might want to prepare a sermon on what we’re doing here.” Mike waited a moment to let his words sink in. “Let’s finish the tour and then we can discuss your thoughts on it.”

  Father George nodded, seemingly accepting the explanation and started for the sealed room.

  Something clunked upstairs.

  Eve.

  Father George looked up at the ceiling. “What was that?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mike said. He maneuvered himself behind the priest. “I found squatters in here a few days ago and we have running water upstairs.” He looked back at George. “Stay here for a minute. I’ll go up and take a look.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, no. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Nonsense. I won’t have you walking up there alone.”

  Father George made to pass by him and enter the hallway again. Mike was too close to locking George into the sealed room to let him get away. The door was still wide open. The room beckoned from behind George. This was simply a test. Would he fail Satan or not?

  Mike lowered his arm, placed a hand on Father George’s chest and held it there. George looked down at the offending hand. When he glanced up, his mouth was agape and his eyes were wide.

  Mike shoved Father George backwards so hard the priest stumbled a few steps before falling on his butt inside the room.

  “Enjoy your short stay,” Mike said, “at Hotel Hell.”

  He slammed and locked the door before Father George could get up. As Mike walked away, the priest pounded on the door, his screams muted.

  Mike’s stomach tightened in anticipation of what would happen next. It would be quite something to watch. If only the Church knew how much money Mike had spent setting up his death chambers, how much money he had embezzled from the Church to make this building and its unholy fixings a reality, he would spend the rest of his days in jail.

  Unless they just sent him to another church to cover it up.

  He snickered to himself.

  The Church had been involved in mass murder for years. How would this be any different?

  Another hard clunk reverberated from above.

  “I’m coming, Eve,” he shouted. “We’re going to watch a gas chamber show. But I need to teach you to not interrupt me when I’m busy. You almost got Father George turned around. You’re such a naughty young girl. Time for a little penance.”

  Mike made his way upstairs, enjoying the anticipation of his evening’s duties as a man with each step.

  He’d never seen someone executed by toxic gas before.

  “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

  Chapter 9

  Sarah offered directions to Parkman as they drove along Sunset Blvd. As they neared the signs to access The Hollywood Freeway, Sarah saw the Bing’s Breakfast Restaurant on the left.

  “There it is,” she said. “Pull into the back parking area.”

  She checked the clock on the dash; 1:55 a.m.

  “Once we park, I’ll take a look around for a Mercedes.”

  “You sure you want to do that with one foot?” Parkman asked. He angled into a parking spot in reverse. “I should do the walking around and searching stuff.” He turned off the car and pulled the keys. “I’ve got two good legs.” He smiled at her.

  “I’ve got two good legs, too,” she said.

  “Okay, ankle, foot, whatever.” Parkman touched the door handle, but Sarah grabbed his other arm.

  “Let me,” she said. “I can’t just sit in the car. I need to stay active. That’s who I am.”

  He released the door handle and nodded.

  Sarah scanned the parking lot. “No Mercedes in this area.”

  “Heard anything from Vivian? Any idea why we’re here looking for a Mercedes?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Nothing.” She went to open the door, but stopped. “Did you turn off the interior light?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She pushed open the door and set her good foot on the ground, then pulled her crutch out of the back seat. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t get a better weapon,” Parkman said. “I tried.”

  She turned to look at him. The parking lot lights lit up half his face.

  “The weapon is fine.” She glanced at the hammer on the car floor. He couldn’t get a gun. The army surplus store was sold out of pepper spray. Short of buying knives or a scythe, Parkman thought two hammers from the hardware store would have to do. Sarah was no stranger to hammers. She’d used them before to save her life. “There’s just no place for me to hide it.” She offered him a reassuring smile. “If there’s trouble, I’ll use my crutch.”

  “Fair enough. Just scream if you need me. I’ll bring my hammer.”

  “Parkman?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You sound like Thor.” She stepped away from the door and leaned on her crutch. “I’ll be okay. Chances are, I won’t scream.”

  “I know.”

  For two in the morning, the breakfast spot was busy. Over a dozen cars were parked in the lot. A couple walked by on the sidewalk. A man exited his vehicle and headed toward the restaurant. With the area this busy, it was smart of Bing’s to stay open all night.

  Why am I here, Vivian?

  A woman in a short mini-skirt walked alone through a darker part of the lot. She passed the last car and kept walking. At the bushes near the back, she stepped through a small opening and disappeared.

  That’s interesting. And not very safe.

  Sarah hobbled along on the crutch until she made it to the sidewalk of Sunset Boulevard. Out front, by a bench at the bus stop, two girls stood talking. The brunette wore a bikini top and Daisy Duke shorts, while the blonde sported a mini-skirt and a tube top too small to cover her breast implants.

  What’s with the mini-skirts tonight?

  Once the brunette noticed her staring, they stopped talking and turned to face her.

  Either a sexy costume party just
let out somewhere or streetwalkers roamed this area of Sunset Boulevard.

  “What choo lookin’ at?” the brunette asked with a drunken slur.

  Sarah started toward them. The brunette snickered as she passed them. Sarah had seen it a hundred times. The posing. The acting tough. It almost made her smile but she resisted. It was an illusion people fed themselves to feel safe.