by Tom Lowe
THE CONFESSION
An Elizabeth Monroe novel
by
TOM LOWE
Kingsbridge Entertainment
ALSO BY TOM LOWE
A False Dawn
The 24th Letter
The Black Bullet
The Butterfly Forest
Blood of Cain
Black River
Cemetery Road
A Murder of Crows
Dragonfly
Destiny
The Jefferson Prophecy
Wrath
The Orchid Keeper
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, incidents, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental.
The Confession – Copyright © 2019 by Tom Lowe. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, photocopying, Internet, recording or otherwise without the written permission from the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. The Confession is published in the United States of America by Kingsbridge Entertainment.
Library of Congress Cataloging in—Publication Data - Lowe, Tom.
ISBN – 9781704057255
The Confession by Tom Lowe – First edition, November 2019
The Orchid Keeper (a Sean O’Brien Novel) is distributed in ebook, paperback print, and audiobook editions. Audible Studios is the publisher of the audiobook.
Cover design by Damonza.
Ebook formatting by ebooklaunch.com
The Orchid Keeper by Tom Lowe © First edition – The Confession, 2019. Published in the U.S.A by Kingsbridge Entertainment. All rights reserved
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks and deep appreciation for the people that helped put this novel together. To my wife, Keri, who works tirelessly as my first reader and editor. To Helen Ristuccia-Christensen, Darcy Yarosh, and John Buonpane for their extraordinary beta reading skills. To retired detective, Bill Sims, for his expertise in working crime scenes. Thanks to the talented team at Ebook Launch. To the graphic designers with Damonza. And finally, to you, the reader. Thank you for reading and being part of the journey. I hope you enjoy The Confession.
“The present is the ever-moving shadow that divides yesterday from tomorrow. In that lies hope.”
- Frank Lloyd Wright
For Kristy Kelel
CONTENTS
Also by Tom Lowe
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Epilogue
ONE
Father Gregory MacGrath listened to every word, trying to connect a face with the voice that moved into his pores like a cold wind through a thin coat. Father MacGrath, seventy, ruddy cheeks smooth as a baby’s bottom, sat in the confessional booth, listening to the man on the other side speak. He could smell the man’s cologne through the lattice-covered, veiled screen. But more defined, he could detect a trace of insincerity in the man’s voice. He said he was a parishioner, a member of St. Patrick’s Catholic Church. Who was he?
After hearing confessions for thirty years, Father MacGrath believed his mind had, to some degree, rewired itself to listen more acutely under the anonymity of the confessional. No faces. No lips moving. Beyond the cloak of discretion, the eternal sound of sinners. He learned to listen to the tone, as well as, to what was being said. He often thought it was similar to the blind developing greater acuity in the art of hearing because their sight was limited or gone.
Father MacGrath tilted his head toward the screen, his white hair neatly parted. “You told me you have sinned. However, you did not precisely mention what kind—venial or mortal sins? Do you seek absolution from Christ and are you ready to repent your sins?”
“If I cleanse myself of mortal sin for what I have just done, and I repeat it because I am only human … is there a promise of absolution and reconciliation?”
The man’s voice was a whisper without being a whisper, as if he always spoke in the soft undertone of secrets, almost cavalier, without an edge of arrogance.
“Yes, our Lord knows every hair on your head.”
“Does He know my purpose in life?”
“He gives us personal choice. The Bible gives direction and His word to follow.”
“But we can’t choose our destinies. Only God can do that.”
“Do you wish to repent?”
“Yes, Father … may God forgive me for I have sinned in His eyes.”
“What is the nature of your sin?”
“I have taken
a human life. More than once. I seek His forgiveness.”
Father MacGrath paused, his thoughts racing—jumbled, words that always came easy while hearing hundreds of confessions, were not there. Not this time. Because Father MacGrath had never heard a confessor seek absolution for murder. He cleared his throat. “If you are sincere about repentance and absolution, you must take penance very seriously and vow never to commit mortal sin again.”
“But that would be a lie, Father.”
“Man’s responsibility and intent play a role in God’s judgment. Outside of the confessional, should you wish to speak face to face, I am willing to discuss this and counsel you in God’s ways. I also would urge you to consider going to the authorities. Perhaps you could get psychiatric help and free yourself from this dark grip on your soul.”
“I will kill again, and you, Father MacGrath, because of the holy sacrament of the confessional, can do nothing about it. I enjoy the therapy of confession. I share my burden and feel a release. This parish has given me so much … including the reason to find prey. Does that surprise you, Father? It shouldn’t. You’re part of that reason.”
Father MacGrath heard the man rise from his seat, open the door on his side of the confessional and walk quickly through the center of the cathedral. The priest opened his door and stepped out. He watched the man leaving, his back toward him—stopping to glance up at a massive, stained-glass window depicting Christ on the cross.
The man exited the church. Father MacGrath stared at the stained glass, the confessor’s parting words echoing in a soft whisper through the cathedral. Because of the holy sacrament of the confessional, you can do nothing about it. Father MacGrath dropped to his knees, made the sign of the cross, and clasped his hands together in prayer. His knuckles bone white.
TWO
Olivia Curtis could see the frustration on her fiancé’s face as he swiped his credit card a second time at the gas station pump. Brian Woods, mid-twenties, thick black hair, shook his head, placing the card back in his wallet. He got in the driver’s side of his car and turned to Olivia. “I couldn’t have maxed out the damn card. Do you have a card on you?”
Olivia, tinted blonde hair falling across half of her face, lots of silver earrings in her ears, smiled and lifted her purse. “Not in here. I have another purse back at my apartment where I keep the only card I have. That way I’m not tempted to impulse buy. But I might have a few dollars with me.” She pulled the bills out of her purse and handed them to him. “This is better than nothing.” She smiled.
“Thanks. That will get us closer to Hattiesburg, or if we’re lucky, back to the apartment.” Brian took the money and entered the convenience store to pay. Olivia checked the messages on her phone, the light illuminating her striking face. She sent a text to her best friend, Angie Chaffin. Should be back in a little while. Brian’s bummed cause his card didn’t work at the gas pump. :-( Hope we don’t have to walk home …
A late model, red Cadillac Escalade pulled into the parking lot, the windows tinted. The car drove slowly by Brian’s BMW. The driver stopped at a gas pump across from Brian’s car. Olivia looked up, the light on her face. She watched Brian lift the pump and put gas in the car. It only took seconds before he was placing the handle back on the pump and getting in the BMW.
The man in the Cadillac Escalade didn’t get out.
Olivia looked at the SUV for a moment. The lights were different from any she’d seen, making an L shape on both sides of the car’s front end. The driver was a man, a silhouette behind the wheel.
A text arrived on Olivia’s phone. She quickly read it: If you run out, call me, and I’ll buy a gas can and bring some to you -
Brian got back behind the wheel, leaned over and kissed Olivia. He started his car and pulled onto the highway, glancing at the gauge. “It barely moved the needle. I’m gonna do like my grandfather does.”
“What’s that?”
“Drive the freakin’ speed limit for once in my life. We’ll save a lot of fuel.”
“I texted Angie. She can bring some gas if we run out. She’ll have to buy a can from somewhere first. In my psych class last year, I remember the teacher was talking about what she called the ‘no Boy Scout Syndrome.’ She said the majority of people want to be prepared but make excuses not to be until something goes wrong, and they blame others. Like when the power goes out in a storm and there are no working flashlights.”
“I think things like smart phones and apps have made people lazy.”
“The professor said, in some survey, they learned that less than ten percent of people have jumper cables in their car, and less than one percent carry a spare gas can.”
Brian drove under fifty-five, heading north on Highway 49, the De Soto National Forest on both sides of the road, cars whipping by him. A black cloud passed in front of the full moon, casting the countryside in darkness. After a few miles, Brian looked at his phone screen. “I think we’ll make better time by staying on the highway back to campus. Should be more gas stations once we get away from this remote area and closer to the city.”
Olivia watched the moon rise above a cloud, moonlight flickering through the tall pines. She looked at the side-view mirror. In the distance, she could see headlights similar to the lights from the Cadillac back at the gas station. The car, which had maintained a good distance behind them, now seemed to be moving quickly, cutting the space between them. “Brian, that car behind us … it’s …”
He looked in the rearview mirror. “What about it?”
“I think it is the same guy that pulled up to the pumps opposite us.”
“No big deal.”
“But he never got out of his car. Stayed in it the whole time you were in the store and while you pumped gas. When we left, he left. And now, after several miles, he might still be behind us and coming closer.”
Brian chuckled. “I knew we shouldn’t have downloaded A Cabin in the Woods. The last half of the movie you pulled a blanket over your head.”
“Stop it. I didn’t want to watch the stupid movie in the first place. When we’re married, the only rule in the house is no horror movies.”
“That’s a deal.” Their car sputtered a second, the engine misfiring. Olivia tried to see the fuel gauge from where she sat. “Are we running out of gas?”
Brian spoke into his phone, “Directions to the closest gas station.”
The staccato voice came back, “The nearest gas station from your location is two-point-four miles north. You are on the fastest route.”
Brian eyed the fuel gauge. It was a notch below the E. He inhaled a deep breath, cut his eyes up to the rearview mirror. “We’ll make it.”
Olivia, growing frustrated, shook her head. “What do we do for money?”
• • •
Elizabeth Monroe looked at the digital clock in her kitchen and reached for the empty coffee pot. In her mid-forties, she had the cheekbones of a model, but she wore only a touch of mascara and a light dusting of blush, her thick brown hair hanging just below her shoulders. She glanced across the kitchen to a large, gray tabby cat whose black stripes looked hand-drawn on his thick body, like streaks left from a drunken painter. The top of his left ear was missing. The cat sauntered from the family room into the kitchen, moving slowly with swag in his steps. He stopped at a barstool next to the counter, jumped on top of it and sat, his large, yellow-gold eyes aloof and reserved. The cat watched Elizabeth as she made coffee.
“Jack, I’ll put some food in your bowl before I leave,” Elizabeth said, pouring coffee from the pot into a thermos bottle. “It’s Monday. The one and only night this semester I teach a graduate class for a couple of hours. It’s Criminal Behavior and Cognitive Assessment, and it covers interesting topics. They’re all good students. Even you’d like them.” She smiled. “Well, I think you’d like them. You’d even like my undergrad kids—good group this year.”
Jack blinked and watched her cap the thermos as if he had the final inspection. Elizabeth opened
the bag of cat food and scooped some into a metal bowl. She walked across the tile floor to an alcove dining area and set the bowl in the corner. Jack slowly turned his head, like a great horned owl on a perch, the expression on his wide face detached.
Elizabeth picked up her purse from the back of a kitchen chair and glanced down at the cat. “Jack, tonight the lesson plan deals with criminal profiling. I want to teach the students more about self-awareness, knowing who they are deep down in order to better understand others. I know it sounds so human, full of complexities, but it seems like the poor human race doesn’t have it figured out like you do.” She laughed. Jack didn’t come out of character.
“You are one cool cat. Maybe it’s because you have nine lives and are more willing to take risks. Anyway, tonight I want my students to understand risk taking is a big part of getting them out of their comfort zone to better understand their core, to find their core. Wish me luck.” She bent down and kissed Jack on top of his head. “Come on, don’t give me that Garfield look. I know you’ll miss me.” Elizabeth lifted the purse strap to her left shoulder, picked up her coffee and walked out into the early evening, locking the door, the sound of crickets in the night air.
• • •
Brian Woods drove below the speed limit the next mile and hoped he’d not run out of gas. He glanced over at his nervous fiancée, Olivia, and said, “We’ll make it. I’ve had close calls, but never had to walk to a gas station. I’ll call my dad and see if he’ll transfer money into my bank account.”
Oliva glanced in her side-view mirror, watching the distinct headlights of the car behind them. She said, “We can only buy gas if we get to a place that sells it.” She licked her dry lips. “We’re going slow. Why doesn’t that guy pass us? It’s the same car, Brian. I recognize those lights! They’re like the letter L.”
Just as Brian started to respond, his car bucked, the engine sputtering. He gripped the wheel. “C’mon pal … don’t quit on me now. You can make it.” The engine died, red warning lights coming on the dashboard. Brian had just enough speed to pull off the road into the dark shadows of oaks draped with hanging moss. Dappled moonlight broke through the limbs of an old oak tree, casting barely enough light for them to see each other in fading silhouette. The ticking, cooling engine the only sound—a lonely sound in the night.