Absolution: A Mortal Sins Novel

by Keri Lake

  Another part of me knows from experience how hard it is to resurface after that, so instead, I push up from my desk and head to the rec room.

  Over the next hour, I hit the gym equipment, pushing myself harder than usual, until my skin is coated in sweat and my muscles burn with the torment. After a quick shower, I tuck into a bowl of the ham and potato soup our secretary, Mrs. Castle, dropped by earlier in the day. The food helps settle my thoughts, pulling me out of the dark hole that threatens to consume me.

  Later, I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, having spent the last half hour trying to remember one moment in my life I wasn’t challenged with something that warred with my conscience. As a child, my mother died in a car accident, leaving me to grow up with my aunt on my father’s side, a devout Catholic woman who made every day afterward bearable, who made me feel like I could lead a normal life without my mom, which invariably left me grappling with guilt. As I got older, I faced the challenges of being a criminal’s son in New York, groomed and trained by a man who had no place as my mentor. The same man who taught me how to cheat the system, launder money and amass more enemies than friends.

  What happened tonight was another test. Another stab at my conscience that I need to set aside, until the morning when answers might come to light.

  In the quiet that follows, my thoughts drift to the woman who threw up in the confessional. How troubled she looked, and how my mind, completely consumed in anger and guilt, could hardly focus on the conversation with her. I’ve always been good at setting aside my stresses for the needs of my parishioners, but tonight was different. I wasn’t in the mindset of judicious confessor, but that of a man wanting to protect and punish.

  The vigilant shepherd watching over the flock.

  She sensed something was wrong, she could see it in my eyes. I could see something was troubling her, as well, and I wish I could set things right with her.

  Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever see her again.

  4

  IVY

  Sunlight streams in through the sheer curtains, warming my face, enticing me to open my eyes, but I don’t. The ache between my thighs is a reminder that I’m not alone, and I can’t bear to see Calvin lying in bed beside me. Instead, I push off the edge of the mattress to my feet, and hobble to the bathroom, a deep throbbing cramp low in my stomach.

  Evidence of his cruelty still lies on the bathroom floor, where the unplugged curling iron, coated in scant drops of blood, stirs flashes of him shoving it up into me while forcing me to look at myself in the mirror. Punishment for embarrassing him in front of his friends. Tears sting the rim of my eyes at the memory of him threatening to plug it in, a warning that if I ever humiliated him again, he’d take pleasure in returning the favor.

  I relieve myself quickly, wiping to find blood smeared on the tissue as well, and with shaky hands, I clean myself with a warm washcloth. My chest tugs with a sob, but I choke it back, grinding my teeth in anger, instead. I prefer anger. It’s far more useful than tears.

  I force myself not to look at him lying sprawled on my bed, as I make my way to the kitchen, where beer bottles, scattered cards, and overflowing ashtrays litter my once-spotless table and countertops. Rubbing a hand over my forehead, I will myself not to break down, and tug a balled-up grocery bag from beneath the sink. The bottles clang against each other while I clean up the mess, but his snores in the other room confirm he’s too drunk to hear it. I set the bag of empties onto the counter, beside the knife block, and pull one of the blades from its sheath. Touted as the sharpest brand of knives in the world, I suspect he wouldn’t even feel it sinking into him at first. Maybe a mild sting and the warm blood leaking down his skin.

  Gripping tight to the hilt, I tiptoe back into the bedroom until standing over him.

  Back contracting with each breath, he snoozes away, completely unaware of the urges beckoning me to slam the blade right into his spinal column. Perhaps it’d paralyze him immediately. I once read a medical record, about a man who sustained a cervical stab wound and immediately suffered tetraplegia. Could’ve killed him, had he been struck just right.

  The curve of his neck draws my eyes, and I’ve tightened my grip of the blade, going so far as to raise it over my head before I’ve realized the motion.

  Calvin snorts, flips over to face me, and I startle with a gasp, lowering the blade behind my back. Though his lids open, he seems oblivious to me standing beside him. A second later, his eyeballs roll back into his head.

  Exhaling a shaky breath, gaze locked on him, I inch backward toward the kitchen again. Thoughts spin inside my head, none of which express any level of remorse for having nearly killed him just now. Instead, I stand smacked by how easily I could’ve ended this nightmare, how quickly I’d have severed him right out of my life for good. How thin the line between a normal human being and a cold-blooded killer really is. I’d have lost everything in those split seconds—my beloved apartment, my job, the many things I’ve collected over the years, like my cherished phonograph and my wardrobe of vintage clothes.

  Everything but my dignity and self-worth.

  My freedom.

  If only I didn’t take that deal all those years ago, how different might things be for me today?

  A quick glance at the clock shows one in the afternoon. My shift at the hospital starts soon, and my day will undoubtedly tick away, as it usually does. Only today, I’m far more dangerous than I was yesterday.

  5

  DAMON

  My search is fruitless. Not that I wanted to find a child’s dead body up on Angel’s Point, but had he buried her there, at least someone would know. At least her death wouldn’t have gone completely unnoticed.

  At first light, I took my morning jog up to the graffiti spattered overlook, where the city stands off in the distance. Had I not been preoccupied with searching for the remains of a little girl, I might’ve taken in the breathtaking views, but instead, I left that place wondering if I imagined the whole thing. If the man who stumbled into that confessional was nothing more than a visual sent by God, to test my faith and dedication.

  Morning mass seemed to slip by almost in robotic fashion, my mind swarming with thoughts I feared I’d accidentally divulge to the entire congregation, as I spoke of sin, and God’s mercy and compassion. I decided to get through my day, to be here and present for my parish, and then resume my inquiries into the Ames girl later tonight, after my Street Safety meeting. At the very least, Lia Ames is still missing. That alone draws my curiosity in troubling measure, to the extent I dreamed of having found her bones, and woke up in a cold sweat.

  I turn my Chevy Impala into the parking lot of Los Angeles General Hospital, where I’ve been called to offer prayer and support to the family of a comatose child who fell into a pool and nearly drowned. I’m early, as usual, the result of having worked construction for so many years prior to the priesthood, and getting up before the sun. Keys in hand, I exit the car and make my way past security, who wave me on as I enter the lobby. With three hospitals and several nursing homes within my parish boundaries, a few visits in the last couple of months have made me a familiar face here.

  Through the halls, I make my way to the Medical Surgical floors, coming to a stop at the elevator. Beside me, a woman hobbles up with a chocolate lab, a service dog, I’m guessing. Offering a friendly smile seems to ease the stiff expression on her face—one I’m all too familiar with, suggesting she’s not comfortable in the presence of a priest.

  “Someone die?” she asks, stroking her dog, who sits at attention.

  “Um, no. I’m just here to offer prayer and support for a family.”

  “Thought you was giving someone last rites, or something.”

  “No. I’ll be praying for her recovery this week.” The elevator seems to be taking longer than usual. Or maybe I’m just not in the mood to talk after having spent half the morning searching for a little girl’s remains. “That’s a beautiful dog.”

  “I have
seizures. Bad ones. Epilepsy. Rango, here, keeps me from swallowing my own tongue.”

  Frowning, I nod and clear my throat. “I’m sorry to hear you suffer from seizures. That’s gotta be terrifying.”

  “Hell, I ain’t scared. I was married to a bastard who beat me to within an inch of my life. Finally worked up the courage to divorce him. Seizures ain’t nothing.” Her eyes seem to challenge me, maybe expecting that I’ll say something about the permanence of marriage.

  “I’ll pray he takes a long walk off a short pier.”

  With a chuckle, she shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re not like most priests, are you? I’ll bet your church appreciates that about you.”

  “I’m an acquired taste, for sure.”

  The elevator dings open on a half dozen people inside, presenting room for no more than one more passenger. Hand ushering her forward, I offer to let her go.

  “Thanks, Father. Hope whatever kid you came to visit ends up okay.” She steps onto the car, and its then, when the dog is facing me, that I can see a logo etched into the vest across its chest.

  I focus on it, wondering why it’s so familiar to me. Blue and yellow, set around a company name: Paws For A Cause.

  It’s not until the elevator door closes that I recall the same design on the T-shirt of the man who confessed the night before.

  A service dog company. And then it clicks. Not just the identity of the logo, but the connection to Lia. No wonder her dog didn’t bark when she was kidnapped. It probably recognized her kidnapper.

  A hard thunk hits my shoulder, snapping me out of my thoughts, and I glance down at the woman who ran into me, her hair pulled up on top of her head with a scarf tied around the curled black locks, above bright spring green eyes. The frilly cream-colored lace shirt and pencil skirt give her a vintage look, like something straight out of the 1940’s. A classic beauty who could easily grace a magazine, and the only person, besides my deceased daughter, whose vomit I’ve cleaned.

  “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry!” She bends forward to pick up her purse, and when she straightens, sliding the strap up her shoulder, her jaw drops. “Oh. I’m … I’m sorry, Father.”

  “I just keep running into you, don’t I?”

  Following a quick glance around, her cherry-stained lips stretch into a demure smile. Something sweet, like vanilla and fruit, lingers on the air. “So, you chase down penitents and follow them everywhere?”

  “I’m here to visit a family.” I glance at the elevator, then back to her. “What about you?”

  “My grandmother’s a frequent flyer here. Apparently, indwelling catheters and nursing homes do not mix.”

  The elevator dings again, totally vacant this time, but I let it go, not wanting to rush off on her twice.

  “Just popping in on my way to work to see her.”

  “What is it you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Hmmm. I don’t know …” She bites her bottom lip in a teasing way, cheeks dimpling adorably. “If I tell you, you might think differently of me.”

  “Well, now I’m even more curious.”

  “Promise you won’t curse me, or something, if I tell you.”

  Brow raised, I bite back the urge to smile. “I’m a priest, not a warlock.”

  “Well, that’s too bad. I thought I’d invite you to a séance tomorrow night. Black candles. Ouija boards. It’s a good time.”

  The chuckle that escapes me comes as a surprise. It’s been a while since someone made me laugh.

  “I’m kidding. I’m a medical records clerk here. For now, anyway, until I move onto something less exciting.” She huffs and diverts her gaze away once again.

  “You work … here?”

  “Almost ten years now. Wow. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

  My quest for answers has taken an interesting turn down an unexpected path, so I steal the opportunity to gather as many details as I can. “Are you familiar with Paws For a Cause?”

  “I’ve seen the dogs around here on occasion, but I stay in the basement mostly. We don’t get a lot of traffic down there. In fact, they rarely let us up here, unless we have to pick up or deliver a chart. We’re like … the undead sequestered from the living.”

  In the pause that follows, I try to imagine that older man walking these halls, smelling of whiskey and cigarettes, looking for his next victim. Seems he’d scare away any child, but then I remember the way Isabella had haphazardly ran toward anyone with a dog, ignoring the owner for the cuteness of the animal.

  “Hey, speaking of the undead.” Eyes squeezed shut, Ivy shakes her head, lips pressed to a tight line, before she lowers her gaze from mine. “I’m sorry for the … Exorcist thing the other night. Jeez, I’m so mortified, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “It’s okay. I like to think I exorcised your demons, or something.”

  Smiling again, she looks away, making me wonder if she’s watching out for someone. Or maybe she’s just embarrassed to be talking to a priest in public.

  With her head turned, I catch a purplish mark on her cheek and throat, dulled by what looks like a coating of makeup, slightly off tint from the rest of her skin tone. “Is everything okay?”

  Snapping her attention back to me, she smiles wider, the unnatural stretch of her lips less genuine. “Look, I … don’t mean to be rude, but I’m gonna be late … and, well, as exciting as it is in the basement, I can’t afford to lose my job.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry to hold you up. I’d like to invite you back to the church, if you’d like to talk, or confess. Promise I’ll hold your hair back next time,” I tease, as easily as if I’ve known her awhile. Feels that way, for some reason.

  “Yeah, I … don’t think that’s gonna happen, Father. Thanks, but throwing up in a confessional booth is ranked up there with the time I walked out on stage for my elementary school Christmas concert with my dress tucked into my underwear.”

  Again, I chuckle for the second time within minutes. “It doesn’t have to be me. Father Ruiz performs Reconciliation, as well. No one has to know. It’ll be our secret.”

  “Am I to assume … you cleaned up my puke?”

  “Does it matter who cleaned it up?”

  “Well, kind of. See, I know I’m not supposed to think you’re attractive, but hello, human nature. And knowing that you cleaned up my puke is just … wrong.”

  “So, if I was unattractive, you wouldn’t be grappling as much?”

  “I know you can’t really relate, so I’ll leave this topic alone.”

  “I’m a priest, but I’m a human being, as well.” Leaning in closer, I lower my voice in play. “Believe it, or not, I used to think girls were cute.”

  “But now you wear special clergy contacts that make all of us look like hags.”

  Her comment draws my eyes back to her outfit, simple yet classy, keeping the focus on the unique beauty of her face. A sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and those spellbinding green eyes. “I see you just fine, and there’s nothing unattractive about you.”

  Clutching the strap of her purse, she takes a step back, as if my comment slapped her in the face, and suddenly, I regret saying it. “I’m gonna go. I’ll think about coming back.”

  “Fair enough. Take care …” There’s an awkward pause where I might’ve said her name, and I fill the gap with a smile, instead.

  “Ivy. My name’s Ivy Mercier.”

  “Take care, Ivy.”

  The elevator dings a third time, and I watch her walk off before I step inside.

  I find a moment between supper and Wednesday night mass to log onto my computer and search Paws For A Cause. It’s a local business in what looks like a residential area of Los Angeles, but the website shows nothing about the trainers, or staff there. I jot the address down and scour the internet for anything on Lia Ames service dog. A faint image shows up, pixelated with age and crappy quality, but I can make out the logo on the dog’s vest. The same logo as worn by the lab I s
aw at the hospital. The same logo I saw on the penitent’s shirt. And just like that, I’ve made a link between Lia and her kidnapper, or killer, as it were.

  And what if he is her killer? Who will you tell? I can almost hear the words of Bishop Cannes, my mentor while he was still a priest, and an expert on canon law, just before I’m excommunicated.

  There is no one to tell. It’s my duty to maintain the confidentiality and sanctity of what is confessed. It is the priest-penitent privilege, much like communications between a lawyer and client, protected by civil as well as canon law, and disclosing such would set precedence. Besides that, I have no evidence. I’d be condemning a man based on a drunken confession, driven solely by my own painful experiences—something for which I’m not willing to betray my parishioners, nor face the penalty for doing so.

  6

  IVY

  The smell of piss assaults my nose as I enter the room that Mamie shares with another woman, whose every breath is marked off by an incessant beep. A machine to keep her alive, I guess. Partitioned by a pastel curtain, my grandmother lies in her own bed, the heavy drapes across from her blocking out most of the afternoon sunlight, creating a depressing darkness that I know would’ve left her old self miserable. She loved the sun as much as she loved her gardens and music … and me.

  The very faint sound of Te Revoir Mon Amour by Rina Ketty plays through the speaker I bought for her, from an entire Spotify list of her favorite French singers. Probably helps keep her from counting each of the other woman’s beeps and paying far too much attention to how many breaths her neighbor takes in a day. If she even has the wherewithal to notice such things.

  I crack the drapes just enough to let a sharp beam of sunlight through and catch the twitch of Mamie’s hand when it hits her skin.