ACTS OF CONTRITION
by Greg Herren

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[Insert Pic EQMM1106Stories10.jpg Here]
Art by Herbert Kearney
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Greg Herren is a longtime resident of New Orleans and has written five mystery novels set there, including Mardi Gras Mambo. He has been nominated for three Lambda Awards for Best Mystery, and his novel Bourbon Street Blues was cited by InsightOut Books as the best mystery of 2003. He lives in the lower Garden District and has no plans to relocate. Ever. 

“Help me, Father,” she cried. Her brown eyes were wide open with terror. The rain was falling, drenching them both, soaking her white T-shirt so that it clung to her body. Her dreadlocked hair was dripping with water. The water ran down her face, streaming from her chin as she gripped his arms with her black-fingernailed hands. She reached for one of his hands and drew it to the crevice between her breasts. “Please, Father,” she pleaded again. He didn’t pull his hand away from her cold chest. He knew in his heart he should, but somehow he couldn’t. He let it rest there, feeling her frantic heartbeat through her cold, wet skin, and closed his eyes. This is a test, he reminded himself, a test. But still he left his hand there, betraying the collar he was wearing, betraying his God. He tried to pray for strength, for guidance, but all he could think about was the feel of her skin beneath his hand. Push her away, reprimand her for her temptation, do something, anything, don’t just stand here with your hands on her ... be strong, find strength from your love of God, but don’t just keep standing here....

His hand remained where it was.

And she began to laugh, her lips pulling back into a smile of exultation. Her eyes glowed with triumph.

“Fallen priest, fallen priest,” she chanted between her laugh-ter, “You’re going to hell, aren’t you, Father?”

He pulled back from her, staring at her face as it changed. She wasn’t Molly anymore, the sweet young runaway he was trying to help, she was something else, something evil. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

“Fallen priest, you’re nothing but a fallen priest.” Her voice deepened and she took a step forward, her lips still curled in that horrible smile. She tore at the collar of her T-shirt, ripping it downward and exposing herself. She grabbed his hand again, and pulled it to her breasts.

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he finally managed to choke out, provoking her to more laughter. It echoed off the alleyway, and a light went on in a house a few yards from where he was standing. “Stop,” he whispered, glancing at the lighted window.

“What are you so afraid of, fallen priest?” she leered, her lips pulling back even further. “That you’ll be exposed for what you are?” And she laughed again, throwing her head back and sending the sound upward, to the spires of the cathedral, and more lights were going on up the alleyway.

“Please,” he said, and pulled his hand away from her. Where the knife came from he had no idea. One moment there was nothing and in the next it was there, in his hand, the sword of the Lord. It glowed with a righteous, cleansing blue fire. It pulsed and throbbed in his hand with an almost unimaginable power. Tears filled his eyes as he raised his hand. “Please,” he whispered again, not wanting to do it, knowing he had no choice. He brought the knife down into her chest. Black blood splattered, spilling down her stomach and onto her wet denim skirt. Yet still she laughed, and he brought it down again, tears flowing down his face and mingling with the rain. She must be cleansed, she must be cleansed, she must be cleansed, he thought as he kept swinging his arm. She must be cleansed ... cleansed ... cleansed ... and he hacked at her, the blood spurting and splashing, mixing with the rain, and yet still she laughed....

* * * *

He sat up in his bed, wide awake and shivering, his body damp with sweat, his short, graying hair plastered to his scalp. He wiped at his face. It was still raining, the windows fogged up. He sat there, hugging his thin arms around himself trying to get warm. The digital clock on the nightstand read 9:23 A.M., but it was still dark as night. Lightning flashed, so near it was merely a sudden bright light blinding him, followed almost immediately by a roar of thunder that rattled his windows. It had been raining for days, one storm rolling in after another, filling the gutters and streets with water, swirling as the city’s pumping system desperately tried to keep up. The ground was soaked, the big elephant ferns outside his door waving in the wind and drenching him every time he walked outside. He tried to slow his heartbeat by taking deep breaths, and he slowly felt warmth creeping through his body again. He threw back the covers and swung his bare feet down to the cracked linoleum. He walked over to the opposite wall.

The walls of his apartment were cracked, the plaster buckling. The ceiling was covered with brownish water stains, and he could hear the steady plopping of water landing in the pots and pans he had set out in the kitchen to catch the leaks.

In the center of the wall was a huge crucifix. Jesus’ face, blood running down the sides from the crown of thorns, was turned imploringly to the sky, his beautiful features twisted in agony. Blood leaked out of the wound in his side, his ribs pressing through the pale skin; the nails in his hands and feet were drenched in red.

He grabbed the worn rosary from the small table and clutched it. Carefully he lit the votive candles, then sank to his knees and began praying. His knees ached from contact with the hard floor. The Latin words rolled off his tongue easily, feverishly, as he counted the beads with his fingers. After a few minutes, when his heart had slowed to a normal pace and he felt calm again, he finished his prayers and crossed himself. He rose to his feet, walked to the window, wiped the condensation away, and looked out into the street.

Such a horrible dream. He still felt chilled, rubbing his arms to increase the circulation. Was it a sign from God? he wondered. The feelings—of lust and desire—the girl aroused in him had been dormant for so long. He knew they weren’t wrong, but after so many years of self-denial through prayer, his vows were ingrained too deeply in his head to shake off easily. There was no reason anymore for him to feel ashamed of his feelings or to deny them, but even though he was no longer a priest, he kept his vows. Maybe she was sent by God to test his dedication to Him. He’d been released from his vows for nearly five years now, so perhaps it wasn’t really a test ... but then again, God moved in mysterious ways. Maybe he was supposed to save her.

No one knows the mind of God.

She was one of the street people, a runaway. One of the disposable teenagers, the throwaway children who somehow made their way to the French Quarter to hang out in coffee shops or in doorways, cadging change and cigarettes from passersby. She couldn’t be older than fifteen, he thought, but then again, as he got older he found it more and more difficult to judge the ages of the young. It was possible she was older. He had found her—was it only three weeks since that evening he had found her asleep in one of the back pews at St. Mark’s when he’d gone in to pray? At first he’d thought it was just a bundle of rags someone had left there. Then the pile had moved, and he jumped, startled. It had only been three weeks. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since that moment she’d sat up in the pew, coughing.

Three weeks only.

“What’s your name?” he’d asked, slipping into the pew beside her.

She just smiled and said, “Call me Molly, Father.” He opened his mouth to correct her, but closed it again without saying anything.

It was the smile that brought the memories back, memories so strong he had to catch his breath. There was something about her that reminded him so strongly of Carla Mallory ... the girl he’d loved when he was young, before he’d answered the call and entered the seminary. She’d been so angry when he told her his plans. Her pretty face had contorted with rage before collapsing into tears. But I thought you loved me, she’d accused him, I thought we were going to get married.

“The streets are dangerous, Molly,” he’d said to her, putting thoughts of Carla firmly away. “There’s a killer out there, preying on girls like you. Don’t you want me to call your parents? Don’t you want to go home?” There had been a story in the paper just that morning about the latest girl, found near the French Market, her young body carved up. Just another teenager thrown away, not missed and with nobody to mourn or care. She was the tenth one in the last eight months.

Molly looked back at him with eyes suddenly old and tired. “Sometimes home is more dangerous than the streets, Father.”

He’d taken her hand, rough and dirty with the nails painted black. “Please be careful, and know you can always come here. We minister here to homeless kids, Molly. You can always come here, get some food, take a shower, get cleaned up.” He gestured back to the office area at the rear of the chapel. “I can get you a list of shelters....”

“And sometimes shelters are just as dangerous as home.” She shook her head, the multicolored dreadlocks swinging. “But a shower would be cool.”

“But where...?” He shook his head. Sometimes there was nothing he could do for them. “Come with me.” He stood up and started walking towards the front.

It was after hours, and against the rules, but he used his keys to open up the shower area and get her a fresh towel. Father Soileau would not be happy, but there was no need for him to know or find out. Besides, even if Father Soileau did find out, the most he would get would be a reprimand, and not a strong one for that matter. Father Soileau depended on him too much for the work he did with the teenagers, and it would be hard to replace him. Who wants to work for the pittance they pay me? he thought bitterly as he handed her a towel and shut the door behind him.

While she showered, he heated a can of soup for her, found a package of crackers, got her a fresh bottle of water.

She was so pretty with the dirt scrubbed off her face. So like Carla. He watched her as she slurped down the soup, crunching the crackers into the broth, and gulped down the water. There was a wounded innocence about her. She wouldn’t tell him where she was from, or where she’d been. And when she was finished, she patted his hand in thanks, before slipping out of the church and back into the night.

He’d prayed for her that night, and every night since.

He prayed she’d come back.

He found himself coming back to St. Mark’s every night at the same time, hoping she would show up. Sometimes she did, most nights she didn’t. He didn’t ask questions he knew she wouldn’t answer. It almost became a kind of routine on those nights when she showed up. He would get her a towel and while she showered he made her something simple to eat. While she ate, they’d talk about little things, nothing important. And when the food was gone, she would slip back out into the night.

He worried sometimes that Father Soileau would find out. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he would be fired. Rules were rules, and the Church was very big on rules. He knew that very well. It was why he wasn’t a priest anymore. “But I’ve done nothing wrong!” he’d begged them up in Chicago as the archbishop shook his head.

“We cannot take that risk, Father Michael.” The archbishop shrugged. “We have to release you from your vows. Even the slightest hint of impropriety must be avoided. But there’s a place you can make yourself useful, down in New Orleans. There’s a small church just outside the French Quarter, St. Mark’s. They minister to homeless teenagers, the kind of work you enjoy. The Church will get you a small place to live, and pay you a small salary, and you can continue your work.”

“But the boy is lying....”

It didn’t matter. They’d shipped him off to the foul-smelling little apartment in New Orleans, sent him to work for Father Soileau, and the anger burned in his heart. But he was working with the teenagers again, the ones who needed him, and while he’d been released from his vows, he kept them.

But Molly ... Molly changed everything.

She made him feel like a man again. She awakened the feelings, the emotions that had lain dormant for so long.

He prayed for guidance, but none came. He found himself thinking about her, worrying about her while he attended Mass. He found himself going to confession at St. Louis, unwilling to confess his feelings to Father Soileau. He received his penance, said his prayers, counting the beads as he repeated the words over and over again. And he worried about her, where she was sleeping, what she was doing for money. So many of them sold their bodies to strangers for a warm bed and a twenty-dollar bill, for something warm to eat. They were so fearless yet somehow wary at the same time. But there was pained innocence in her eyes, and he longed for her to tell him her story, what had led her to the streets of the French Quarter. He warned her, over and over again. There was a killer stalking the alleys of New Orleans, mutilating young girls, raping them and then mutilating them. He begged her to go home, to call her parents. The streets were not safe at night.

She would just smile, and shake her head. “The streets are as safe as anywhere.”

Was that what the dream had meant? he thought as he stared into the rain. That Molly was in danger? That Molly was dead?

He went cold, and sank to his knees in front of the crucifix again. Please, God, watch out for Molly, she is just a child, for all her bravado and airs. Hers is an innocent soul, protect her from the evils that lurk out there in the night and the rain, bring her safely home...

He was climbing out of the shower when the knock came on the door. He wrapped a towel around his waist and peered out at a tall black woman in a dove-gray suit, shaking off a dripping umbrella with one hand. He opened the door without removing the chain. “Can I help you?”

She smiled, flashing a badge at him. “Michael O’Reilly?”

“Yes.”

“Detective Venus Casanova, New Orleans police. May I come in and talk to you?”

He felt a wave of nausea, the coffee he’d drunk burning an acidic hole in his stomach. “I just got out of the shower. I’ll be a moment while I get dressed, is that all right?”

“Take your time.” She kept smiling as he shut the door again.

He dressed hurriedly, his mind racing. This was how it started back in Chicago: The police showed up at the rectory with the boy’s accusations and their knowing smiles. Calm down, he told himself as he finished buttoning his shirt. There’s no need to be afraid.

He walked back to the door and opened it. He smiled. “Sorry, I was...” He stood aside to let her in. “Come in. Would you care for some coffee?”

She shook her head, giving her umbrella one last shake. “No, I thank you, though.” She walked in, glancing around the apartment and then giving him a big smile. She was beautiful, her hair cropped close to the scalp, with high cheekbones and strong white teeth. Her face was unlined; she could have been any age between thirty and fifty. “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time, Mr. O’Reilly.” She sat down in the worn thrift-store reclining chair. “This rain is something, isn’t it?” She shook her head. “Everyone complains about the heat and humidity, but I just hate rain.”

“It’s depressing, isn’t it?” he replied, and his voice sounded false.

Detective Casanova nodded. “Yes.” She reached into her bag, removing a small spiral notebook and a pen. “Have you been reading the newspaper, Mr. O’Reilly?”

He shrugged, and felt his hands start to shake. He grabbed the sides of his own chair. “Sometimes.”

“Then you know we have a serial killer here in the Quarter preying on runaway teenaged girls?”

“Yes, I work with the street kids over at St. Mark’s, so I know about it, yes.”

“There was another murder last night. Another runaway girl, couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Unidentified, of course.” She clicked her tongue. “She was found this morning in Pirate’s Alley, right beside the Cathedral.”

Like in my dream! he thought, biting his lower lip. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered. It was Molly, it had to be Molly, why else would the cop have come to him? Father, why hast thou forsaken me?...

“I’ve just been by St. Mark’s, and Father Soileau sent me over here.” She reached into her bag again. “He thought maybe you knew her.” She pulled out a Polaroid and handed it over to him. “Do you recognize this girl?”

He took the photograph, his hands shaking, and forced himself to look at it. He let out his breath in a rush. This girl had black hair, no dreadlocks, her face pale and eyes closed. Thank you, Lord ... “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know this girl.”

She took the photograph back and slipped it into her bag. “Each one of these murders has something in common, besides the fact that each is a runaway teenaged girl. Something we haven’t allowed the press to catch on to.” She gave him a searching look. “You do a lot of good for these kids, and I know you care about them—and obviously, they aren’t too interested in talking to me or the uniformed police. Have any of the kids you work with said anything? Do they talk to you about this?”

He shook his head. “Only in general terms.”

She reached into the pocket of her jacket. “Each one of the victims had one of these in her hand.” She held up her hand.

A strand of black rosary beads dangled from her fingers.

“And between her breasts, a cross was carved.”

The beads swung in her hand, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He glanced over at his own rosary, still on the scarred coffee table. “That’s—that’s just sick.” He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. “It’s blasphemy.”

“I think it’s some kind of religious freak,” she said slowly. “Someone who sees these poor girls as evil—most of them are working as prostitutes, after all—and he is cleansing the world of their sin by sending their souls to God; he probably thinks he is saving them as well.” She shook her head, standing up. She placed a business card on the coffee table. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. If any of the kids who come by St. Mark’s say anything—anything at all, no matter what, please give me a call right away. We have to catch this guy.” She walked to the door, shook his hand. “You’ll call me?”

“Yes, of course.” The moment the door shut he ran to the bathroom and threw up. He splashed cold water on his face, brushed his teeth again, and stared at his red eyes in the mirror.

He watched for Molly all day, hoping that she’d break her usual pattern and come into St. Mark’s during its normal hours. As he ladled soup into bowls, cut sandwiches, handed out towels, he listened to the kids talking. No one was talking about the latest victim—maybe they didn’t know yet, which would be unusual. Normally, that kind of news spread through the street kids in no time flat. No, there was talk about the usual inane things—good corners to ask for money, places to avoid, business owners who chased them off and others who were good for some money or something to eat, a great place to get cheap clothes, and on and on and on. He looked at them with their multiple piercings, tattoos, and wild hairstyles and colors, and wondered, as he often did, what drove them to the streets. He opened his mouth a few times to ask about Molly, but then closed it and said nothing. She never came in during this time, and who knew if they would even know her as Molly?

He walked home after closing, the rain still coming down, the gutters full of water spilling over onto the sidewalk. By the time he got back to the miserable little apartment on St. Philip Street, his pants were soaked and he was shivering. He pulled off his pants, toweling his legs dry and slipping on a pair of sweatpants. He sank to his knees in front of the crucifix and prayed again for Molly. As he clicked off the beads, nagging thoughts kept coming into his mind, interfering with his prayers.

It’s just like before.... Surely that police detective was just grasping at straws, trying to get information and help from wherever she could.... It’s silly to be afraid of the police just because of what happened before.... Stop thinking like this, you’re supposed to be praying, communing with the Lord.... But I can’t go through that again, the boy lied, why wouldn’t anyone believe me? 

He opened his eyes and placed his rosary back on the coffee table.

He walked into the kitchen, ignoring the roaches as they scurried off the counters, and made a peanut butter sandwich, glancing at the clock. Only a few more hours until her usual time.

The boy lied.

Joey Moran. A pudgy boy of thirteen with an acne problem and thick glasses who always seemed to have a runny nose when it was cold. Shy and introverted, the only child of a shrew of a mother, overprotected and hovered over. He cried often and easily, and the other boys at St. Dominic’s made sport of him, taunting and teasing, tripping him and knocking the books out of his hands in the hallways of the school. He’d felt sorry for the boy—with that horrible mother, his life had to be miserable—and tried to make friends with him, tutoring him and trying to protect him from the other kids. Until that day when the police officer came by the rectory and told him what the boy’s mother was saying. It was like being punched in the face. “Lies,” he’d told the cop. “I never laid a hand on that boy.”

The knowing smirk on the cop’s face. The endless meetings with his superiors until the archbishop himself had called him in, and no one, no one believed him.

“We’ve reached a settlement with Mrs. Moran,” the Archbishop said, frowning at him. “She’ll drop the charges on condition that...”

No one cared that it was all a lie. “For the good of the church, it’s best that we do this ... We’re releasing you from your vows, but we’ve found a job for you ... It’s best that you leave Chicago ... Of course I believe you, Michael, but we just can’t have another one of these scandals, and it’s just better to resolve things this way ... You’ve met the mother, you know what she’s like, she’s threatening to go to the papers and you know what will happen then, other families will smell blood and a chance to get money out of us ... It’s best this way.”

Best for everyone but Michael O’Reilly, he thought angrily, glancing over at the crucifix.

The boy LIED.

He started trembling. He picked up his beads and started praying for strength, for serenity, for peace.

The string snapped in his hand.

He sank to his knees and wept.

* * * *

He waited for Molly for over an hour, watching the cars drive by in the rain. Finally, he gave up and walked back home through the deserted streets. Where could she be? Was she safe and warm and out of the rain somewhere? The worry bubbled within him as he unlocked his door and stepped out of the rain. The rosary beads were still scattered all over the floor where he’d left them. He knelt down and started scooping them up into his palm. He glanced up at the crucifix just as a flash of lightning lit up the room.

Jesus’ eyes seemed alive, glittering and angry. Unforgiving.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...” he began reciting the words.

* * * *

“Fallen priest, fallen priest...”

His eyes snapped open. He was lying on the floor in front of the makeshift altar, the votive candles burning and flickering in the dark. The room was cold, very cold. The rain was still pounding away on the roof; he could hear the dripping water in the kitchen. He was trembling, his heart pounding in his ears. I fell asleep and had the dream again, he thought, glancing over at the clock. Almost midnight. He struggled to his feet, his knees stiff, his back and neck aching from lying on the hard floor.

She was in danger.

He had to save her.

He grabbed his raincoat and his umbrella, blowing out the candles and grabbing his keys. He took a deep breath, opened his door, and stepped outside. The rain was pouring, the water gushing off the roof. The street was under water, swirling dark water carrying debris, rising halfway up the tires of the cars parked on the streets. The street lamps feebly tried to illuminate the night, but only succeeded in giving off a dull yellow glow. She was out there somewhere. He opened the umbrella and stepped down the creaking wooden stairs and took a few hesitant steps into the night.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” he muttered as a car went by, throwing up a sheet of dirty water, continuing the prayer as he started down the sidewalk, not sure of where he was going.

There was a thick mist, and the streets were silent, except for the rain and the hissing of streetlights, and the mist moved and swirled like lost souls, dancing the dance of the dead in the stillness. He began to walk down toward the waterfront, knowing somehow that that was where she was, and there was danger, danger for her, some madman with rosary beads and a knife wanted to wipe her off the face of the earth, send her soul to God....

He tasted blood in his mouth, could smell it in the wet air.

He began to run.

His footsteps echoed in the mist, the sound bouncing off the buildings that stood so silent and reproachful, almost contemptuous in their silence. The mist continued to dance as he ran, and he was sweating despite the cold, and he threw the umbrella, which was doing him no good, only slowing him down, into the gutter, thinking I’ll pick that up later, not realizing how foolish the thought was, all he could think of was her, and he continued praying as he ran, please God, oh heavenly Father, save her save her save her, let me be in time she is young she is innocent do not take her...

He heard a scream. “No, mister, please, don’t...”

He ran harder, and still the screams continued and his lungs felt as though they would explode, and he was crying as he ran, and the prayers and pleas were running together in his mind, forgive me Father for I have sinned and yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death hail Mary full of grace our Father who art in heaven please protect her let me save her ... he saw them, through the mist, as though the dancing souls were parting for him, and he closed the gap, and grabbed the man’s upraised hand, the hand that held the dripping knife, and just like in his dreams it was flashing blue fire, it was the knife, the sword of the Lord, the sword of the righteous....

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” the man with the knife said softly, then shrugged him off. He stumbled, falling down into the water with a splash, and it was cold. The man swung the knife at the girl again, and it flashed fire, a holy, pure fire, and the girl screamed, and he could hear the sound of bones splintering as the knife tore at them, and it was Molly, or was it Carla, the mist was confusing him, and he lunged for the lunatic again, trying to grab his knife arm, shouting, “Run, Molly, run!” as he struggled, trying to get the knife, to protect her, and then...

He heard her giggle again.

He stopped fighting.

“What?” He turned and looked at her, and her face changed, she was Molly, she was Carla, and she was Molly again.

“False priest, false priest,” she chanted, dancing a jig in the mist, her feet throwing up water, and she was laughing.

He rubbed his eyes, her face was like liquid, changing shapes and then reforming again.

“Save her, Father, heavenly Father, she is good and innocent, save her.” It was his voice, coming from behind him, and he turned and stared at the man with the knife. It was his own face, beneath the rain cap, smiling at him. It was spattered with blood.

And then it changed into Father Soileau’s face.

Then the archbishop’s.

And Joey Moran’s.

Back to his own.

He took a few steps backward.

“False priest, false priest.”

“Save her, Father, save her, oh God, save her, protect...”

“...priest, false priest...”

“...heavenly Father, save her...”

“...false priest...”

“...Father...”

“...priest...”

He started screaming.

* * * *

It stopped raining just before the sun rose, and the pumps, which had been straining for days to keep up, finally managed to drain the water from the streets. Throughout the French Quarter, people were getting up, getting ready for work. Businesses were unlocked, lights turned on, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief that the rain was finally over. The sun beat down, evaporating the water, and the air thickened.

“Have you tried to get the knife away from him?” Venus Casanova asked the beat cop as she sipped at her coffee, her eyes taking in the scene, the girl’s rain-soaked dead body, her shirt open to reveal the cross carved between her breasts, the rosary beads dangling from her left hand. Her eyes were open and staring up at the blue cloudless sky, her mouth frozen in a scream. Venus shuddered. You never get used to it, she thought as she turned her attention to the mumbling man holding the knife.

“I haven’t tried, we thought it better to wait for you,” the cop, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, replied. Two other uniformed cops stood safely out of reach on either side of the man, their guns carefully trained on him.

“What is he mumbling?” she asked.

“Prayers,” the cop replied. “Hail Marys and Our Fathers.”

Religious mania, she thought as she walked over and knelt down. “Michael?”

He stopped mumbling and slowly turned his head towards her. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and empty.

“Can you put the knife down?”
It clattered to the ground.

She breathed a sigh of relief, and nodded to the other officers, who moved in, grabbed him by the arms, and raised him to his feet. They cuffed him, moved him over to a squad car, and she could hear them reading him his rights. He was docile and didn’t say a word as they put him into the backseat. She waved the crime-lab guys over, and they started their work.

She glanced over at the body, and shook her head. It was over.

She looked up at the sky.

It was going to be a beautiful day.

Copyright © 2006 Greg Herren