Sinful Purity (Sinful Series)

by K. A. Standen

  All right, here we go. I took a deep breath to fortify my nerves.

  Downtown Bethel was just as I remembered it from the first time I saw it four days ago. It was quintessential New England in all its charm and finery. Instead of lingering in the provincial bustle of Main Street, I turned down Broad Street and drove into Bethel’s historic district. There, serendipitously located at 5 Broad Street, was Bethel’s town library. I parked the truck and hurried in, my objective unmistakable.

  The library was perfectly historic, like something out of my childhood fantasies. Its shelves were lined with dusty old books, rare volumes, and first editions. This was a truly faultless place, custom-made for me. However, today I was not looking for rarity or antiquity. Today I needed technology, more precisely a computer with any kind of Internet connection. I wasn’t picky. I was desperate. The phrase “beggars can’t be choosers” came to mind as the extremely elderly yet amicable librarian showed me to one lone dinosaur of a computer tucked far away in the back corner of the library. I mean, this might have been the first computer ever made. If not, it was definitely a direct descendant. I sat lifeless as I listened to the squeals and gurgles of the dial-up modem. Several minutes later, I logged on to the Internet.

  “Okay, let’s get some answers,” I murmured as I searched for a reliable online translator.

  After finding a pretty decent site, I transcribed the two-paragraph addendum in its entirety and hit the button for translate. The translation was unclear. Words like soul, purity, sin, and safeguard kept popping up, but a logical sequence was undecipherable at first.

  I tried a few more sites before I was able to piece together a coherent thought. Even then, what I reconstructed sounded implausible. The translation read in part, “To ensure piety and purity of soul and safeguard the subject from sin…the elixir of a pure life must be accepted and consumed as a symbol of loyalty and devotion. Only unconditional faith in God, in the Holy Catholic Church, and in St. Matthew’s will lead to absolute purity and eternal salvation.”

  What the hell did that mean? I didn’t understand any of it. I knew it was a common belief that faith would lead to salvation. But I couldn’t grasp the “consumption of the elixir” part. It didn’t sound like it had anything to do with Communion or penance, or anything from a traditional church service, for that matter. The whole thing perplexed me. I thought this would be the loyalty clause that spelled out all of St. Matthew’s covert dealings. Instead I got a poor translation of a cryptic order to show faith in God. That didn’t sound so ominous. The passage did have the word loyalty, but loyalty to your beliefs was not an unheard-of concept.

  Caleb made it sound like the loyalty clause had all this power and weird stipulations. I expected something like, “The adopted child must drink the blood of kittens every second Thursday while singing ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ and skipping a rope made of licorice.” I expected crazy stuff that demonstrated the power of St. Matthew’s. Whatever Caleb was talking about, this wasn’t it.

  I felt altogether defeated when I heard a young girl walk in. “Excuse me, I’m here to pick up the diploma folders for the high school,” she told the hard-of-hearing and barely living librarian.

  “Diploma! That’s it,” I said to myself. Since I’d gotten this artifact powered up and I was still tenuously logged on, I might as well look up Monsignor Brennigan’s college. After all, I was in Maine. It seemed only logical. And it was the only other thing I could think of.

  Now what was the name of that college? I thought back to when I had dusted his diploma. St. Joseph’s College.

  “That’s it,” I declared as I typed the name into the search. It immediately returned the school’s official website and links to alumni and archives.

  I hit the jackpot, I thought as I perused the site. It looked like a very nice college, prestigious even. I had always thought of Father Brennigan as being prestigious and elite because of his position at St. Matthew’s. Now it looked like he had always been elite, in some way or another.

  After practically boring myself into unconsciousness with reading about daily life at St. Joseph’s, I decided to try the alumni link. I wondered if Brennigan was listed or belonged to any groups. I really didn’t know what I was looking for. This was less like a needle in a haystack and more like a stab in the dark. I typed his name in the search field, “Ralph Michael Brennigan.”

  The search instantly pulled up twenty-some articles and mentions. I quickly browsed through them.

  “Notable Priest and St. Joseph Alum Receives Title of Monsignor”

  “Father Ralph Brennigan Becomes Pastor of Famed St. Matthew Cathedral, Chicago, Illinois”

  “Local Theology Graduate Joins Priesthood”

  “Dean Stewart Says, ‘Best Seminary Class in 20 Years’”

  “Ralph Michael Brennigan, Class of 1989”

  “Local Senior Receives Esteemed Salisbury Grant for Chemistry”

  It was the last article that caught my attention. I clinked the link, reading as I went.

  “Promising young scientist Ralph Brennigan of St. Joseph’s College in Standish, Maine, has been awarded the coveted Salisbury Grant in chemistry. The twenty-one-year-old senior wowed judges with an organic suspension of amino acid peptides that showed promise of having neuropathic and cognitive suppression capabilities. Brennigan’s chemistry professor, Dr. Zaphar, is quoted as saying, ‘He is truly a wizard when it comes to solutions and mixtures.’ As for Brennigan’s bright future, he says that while he enjoys unlocking the mysteries of science, theology is where his heart lies. We wish this talented student the best in all of his life’s pursuits.”

  I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that Monsignor Brennigan was a scientist. He’d never struck me as the type. As much as my heart wanted to tell me that this article was wrong or that it was a different Ralph Brennigan, I couldn’t deny the small black-and-white picture that was closely cropped and set just left of the article. It was Monsignor Brennigan, all right. He was much younger and about fifty pounds lighter, but it was still him. Even in his twenties he didn’t have much hair.

  I didn’t know what to make of everything I found and didn’t find. My trip to the library wasn’t a total bust; I did learn some new and relatively interesting facts. I just didn’t feel that the information I’d uncovered would help me piece everything together. I didn’t understand where chemistry fit in with religion and loyalty. I still didn’t know what gave St. Matthew’s and Mary Immaculate Queen their power to control others’ lives. Frankly, it was all a little too much to process.

  Leaving the library, I felt forlorn and less than victorious. Most of all I felt exhausted. I wished that this whole tired phase would just pass already. On the drive back to the farmhouse, my mind wandered to more pleasant thoughts. Thoughts of Zack and his family, thoughts of our perfect time here in Maine swirled through my mind, dizzying me with giddiness. I couldn’t wait until Zack got home. But until then, I was taking a nap.

  My last couple of days in Maine with Zack flew by. We continued to nurture the farmhouse back to life with regular scrubbing, polishing, and repairs. I perpetually fed the hungry horde that was Zack’s family, all the while finding myself more and more an integral part of that family. Zack’s and my closeness grew day by day with every passing thought of our own soon-to-be family. I was very happy, feeling that I had finally found a place in this world.

  When it was time to leave for the airport, I wasn’t ready to go. Part of me regretted not taking Zack up on his offer of a spring break wedding. I could be flying home as Mrs. Bartlett right now. But I was stubborn and didn’t give in. It was probably for the best anyway. It left the memory of this trip flawless in my mind—no turmoil or controversy, just perfect bliss.

  Zack and I said our goodbyes to his brothers back at the farmhouse. All of them were so nice, each saying goodbye in his own personal way.

  Patrick gave me a little hug and told me, “Come back soon, okay, Liz?”

  “I hope you kn
ow you’re leaving me to starve at the hands of Chef Boyardee over here,” Nathan teased, pointing to his dad and then giving me a huge bear hug.

  “Well, Liz, I don’t know what to tell you. You’ve made my brother into a wuss—sleeping on the couch, helping with the dishes, cleaning the house. He’s whipped!” Josh quipped one final time. “And I think it’s great. But if you bring him back in a dress we’re going to have problems,” he laughed.

  “Well, come on. We have a long drive ahead of us,” Mr. Bartlett instructed.

  It was very nice of Zack’s dad to take the time to see us off. An hour and half’s drive each direction was a lot just to say goodbye. But I knew that like me, he too was trying to hold on to the newly rediscovered familial bonds for as long as he could. I thought this week had meant as much to him as it had to me. We were all very quiet before getting out of the truck at the Portland Jetport until Mr. Bartlett spoke.

  “I’ve really enjoyed this week with you both. Zack, I love you. You’ve found a real catch there.” He gestured to me. “Liz, you’re part of the family now. So you come back any time you want. Keep my wisecracking son over there under control. And if he gives you any trouble, well, you just call me, okay?” Mr. Bartlett’s face turned red with emotion, his eyes following suit.

  “Oh, Dad.” Zack patted him on the back as he said goodbye.

  “Thank you, Paul.” I winked, remembering not to call him Mr. Bartlett. “I had a wonderful time. I love your whole family. Especially Zack.” I leaned up and gave Zack a kiss on the cheek.

  “I know that, my dear. And I think you’re good for him.”

  I gave Zack’s dad a big hug and whispered in his ear, “Thank you for everything.” Zack and I then turned and headed into the terminal, ending our ideal getaway. Our spring break was officially over.

  Into the Dark

  Our plane landed in Chicago a little after nine on Sunday evening. My heart was heavy, my mood downtrodden, like an innocent dreamer ripped from her nocturnal bliss and waking to the harsh reality of daily life. Tomorrow classes would resume. I would have to find out what Caleb had told Monsignor Brennigan and Sister Christine. Work and chores had piled up during my week-long sabbatical. It all was overwhelming. Especially when all I wanted to do was get back on that plane and rush home to my new and picturesque future.

  As we walked through the airport, I could see the dark of the night through the windows looking out across the runway. Inside, the humming of the artificial fluorescent lights cast a dismal yet uniform glow over the entire building. Every terminal, every walkway, even the baggage claim, all were enveloped by the depressing, muted illumination. We were back to the rat race and the responsibilities of real life. My bright, colorful, fantasy-like life in Maine was now just a memory.

  Zack waited for our bags from the baggage carousel. I looked around the claim area, canvassing the room for Caleb. He had offered to pick us up at the airport and give us a ride back to school. My eyes searched for that familiar streak of electric blue that was his most distinguishing feature in crowds. My eyes scanned left and then right until they caught a glimpse of something familiar, something that was not Caleb at all. The glimpse forced my blood to run cold, and my facial muscles surrendered to the rigidity of paralysis. The black-hooded figure from my haunted winter break was back. My shadow stalker who preyed on my isolation was now boldly facing me. The once-vague silhouette that had clung to the seclusion of the shadows, content to observe and analyze me with its prying eyes, was now making a deliberate sweeping path toward me. Would he attack me here in public? Was he here to overtake me and violently drag me into to his den of torment? Wouldn’t anyone stop him? Wouldn’t someone save me?

  Still paralyzed with fear, I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even move. My leaden feet were welded to the ground. The only strength I had left that had not been completely suppressed by fear allowed me to crane my neck around. I frantically searched the vicinity for a would-be hero, someone who would come to my rescue. I was surrounded by people, all coming and going according to their own agenda. Surely one of these travelers had noticed the danger that sought me out. My fear intensified as the realization struck me. No one noticed my cloaked assailant. I knew that the intruder was not invisible, nor was he a figment of my imagination. It was just that no one even gave him a sideways glance, not even a second look. Almost like dark, malevolent, hooded figures lurking about the O’Hare Airport were nothing out of the norm. I knew that none of these oblivious strangers would be my savior.

  “Z…Z…ack?” I fought to free my voice, only to salvage a squeak barely above a whisper.

  The cloaked figure continued to approach, slowly, methodically. My attempt to signal help gave him no qualm. His purpose was unambiguous. His path was clear, and he was closing in.

  I had to try harder. “Z…Z…Zack,” my voice creaked again.

  My shadow stalker maintained his course. He was less than fifty feet away from me now. He was so close. He had never been this close before. Still, I couldn’t see his face. It was cloaked in darkness, in shadow. I couldn’t even make out his hands or feet. Every distinguishable feature was hidden beneath the murkiness of his black robes.

  “Zack!” I screamed, victorious in horror.

  “Liz? You okay?” Zack came rushing up behind me.

  Breathless and terrified, I weakly raised my arm to point. My finger was unsteady as my whole limb shook with fear.

  “D…do—do y…you see him?” I stuttered in horror. My entire body began to shake in unison with my arm.

  “What?” Zack asked, frantically trying to ascertain the source my distress.

  “There.” I pointed again. My voice relinquished its strength again, leaving me with scarcely a whisper.

  Zack’s body stiffened as he seized me protectively. His grip tightened and I knew. He had seen it. He saw the malice of my would-be attacker. But if the stalker noticed Zack’s discovery, he did not react. Unfailing in his hunt, he maintained his line. Our impending doom closed in, now less than twenty feet away.

  The only thing left between us and our imminent demise was a set of automatic airport doors to our right. Glass doors that held two meanings at this precise moment: our freedom or his escape. Our minds simultaneously comprehended the severity of the situation. With eyes locked on the pair of doors, our only hope of evasion, we waited for our chance. The doors opened, letting in a blast of cold air and snapping us out of our trance.

  “Hey, guys. There you are. Sorry I’m late,” Caleb announced loudly as he entered the baggage terminal.

  Zack and I stood there frozen and lifeless as we watched the cloaked figure slip undetected out the double doors directly behind Caleb. They had been so close to each other that the assailant’s robes wafted over the edge of Caleb’s trench coat as he fled.

  “Are you two all right? Did I miss something?” Caleb asked.

  Zack and I stood there dumbfounded. My heart was still pounding and my ears ached from the thumping. Zack gradually loosened his grip and began to breathe again.

  “Really, you two. I’m sorry I’m late, but come on. Isn’t this a little melodramatic?” Caleb protested.

  “No, Caleb,” I eked out as I pointed to the doors behind him.

  “What?” He turned to look. “You guys are nuts.” He turned back and looked at us, mystified.

  “It was the shadow stalker,” I said weakly, my knees weak. My body felt limp, like a marathon runner who had just crossed the finish line.

  “What? Here?” Caleb asked, now understanding our panic.

  “Yes,” I answered quickly.

  “You saw it, Zack?”

  “Yeah, I did,” Zack responded in disbelief.

  “It was so close,” I bleated.

  “Wait, you’ve seen it—him—before?” Zack demanded, his voice riddled with anger and fear.

  “Yeah, she has,” Caleb said.

  “You know too?” Zack barked at Caleb.

  “Yeah, I’ll tell you all about
it—”

  “Can we get out of here first, please?” I begged.

  “Good idea,” Caleb agreed. “I’m just parked outside.”

  Once inside the safety of Caleb’s Judge, Caleb and I explained to Zack my history with the hooded figure. We told him about my fear-ridden winter break and Caleb having to drive back early from New Hampshire. I told Zack about the library and how the figure had always lurked in the shadows, never approaching, just following and observing. Tonight was the first time it had blatantly tried to scare me. Zack was not at all pleased.

  “I should have known. Someone should have told me!” he yelled.

  “I thought it was all over. When you came home, I didn’t see it anymore.”

  “What about you, Caleb? Why did you keep my girlfriend’s stalker a secret?” Zack demanded, his face contorted with rage.

  “Look, man, I never saw it. I looked after Liz, just like I promised. What was I supposed to tell you, ‘Your girlfriend is afraid of the dark’?” His sarcasm spewed out with his anger at being condemned for his good deeds and loyalty.

  “Someone should have told me. If Liz isn’t safe, I should know.”

  A hush fell over the car. Then a loud thud shook the vehicle.

  “Hey, man, don’t punch the Judge!”

  I turned around and looked into the backseat. Zack’s face was livid as he rubbed the knuckles of his fist with the palm of his other hand. I felt broken inside. I’d never meant to upset anyone. Now Zack was mad at Caleb for his secrecy, and Caleb was ticked at Zack for his lack of respect and appreciation. And I was pretty sure Zack was upset with me for not telling him sooner. It was all a big mess and I felt awful.

  We sat quietly, lost in our own angry, pitiful, resentful thoughts, until I remembered. “Caleb, what did you tell Monsignor Brennigan and Sister Christine?”

  “Don’t worry, Liz, it’s all taken care of,” Caleb assured.

  “I really appreciate that, but I kinda need to know,” I pressed.

  “I told them that my dad had arranged for you to have a one-week internship with Congressman Reynolds. That my father thought it was a great learning experience, that it could open a lot of doors. Stuff like that.”