The Confessor: Finnegan #1 (The Midnight Defenders)

  The Confessor

  A Tale of the Midnight Defenders

  by Joey Ruff

  I’d been taking confessions for an hour. There was nothing different from the normal, nothing to set this day apart from any other. A teenager was having sexual thoughts about a man whose kids she babysat. A housewife felt unappreciated in her role. A college student drank too much and woke up in bed with a strange co-ed. There were others.

  A middle-aged man had just expressed his guilt to me in the wake of his father’s death because he was so preoccupied by the inheritance in the last days, he missed out on his father completely. When he’d gone, I sat in the quiet for a moment.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  I hadn’t heard the confessional door, but I glanced through the vent toward the man. He was slouched in shadows, and all I could make out was the shock of his red hair. From the sound of his voice, he had to be in his thirties.

  “How long has it been since your last confession?” I asked, rehearsed.

  “I…,” he said. There was a nervous tension in his voice, a quiet desperation. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “That’s okay. Perhaps you will find the freedom of forgiveness to be addictive,” I said with just a slight trace of humor. The man didn’t say anything. I stared at the grate between us, saw only the faint trace of his outline. “Have you been Baptized?”

  There was a moment’s pause. “I've...never been to church before. I’m not even sure I believe, Father. I believe in Hell, sure. I wanna believe in Heaven, but… I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t know what to do, but I need to talk to someone.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’m here to listen.”

  “I... God, how do I even say this? I hear voices. I…have dark thoughts.” He cleared his throat. “I walk down the street,” he continued. “If someone bumps in to me…I envision myself putting his head through a window display. I imagine pushing old women in to oncoming traffic. But that’s not all. I…I know this isn’t normal. There are dark…things inside of me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “We all have urges to do things we know aren’t right,” I told him. “It’s part of being born into sin. The important thing is not to act…”

  “I look at a man, Father, and I wonder what his blood tastes like.”

  “I…” I stopped. What do you say to that? Silently, I asked God for strength and wisdom, and then I continued, trying to rely on His grace to guide me. “How long have you had these thoughts?”

  “A few days,” he said. His voice quivered unevenly. “Maybe a week.”

  “Have you had these desires before?”

  The man hesitated for a moment. His seat creaked as he adjusted himself. “Yes,” he said, and quickly added, “But it was several years ago.”

  “How many years?”

  “I was in college. Five or six, maybe. No, seven. Seven years.”

  “And what happened last time?”

  Something in the air changed, and the man grew suddenly very quiet. I felt a cold tremor snake up my spine, and I shivered. “These thoughts,” I said, trying to compose myself. “How do they make you feel?”

  “Uh…ashamed. They scare me.”

  “Why do they scare you?”

  “I don’t…don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “Do you think you will?”

  Silence again.

  “Just because you have urges,” I said eventually, “doesn’t mean you have to act on them. If you think you might hurt someone, you can always turn yourself over to the authorities. I have a friend who could help you, Detective Anderson…”

  “Oh, fuck that,” he said in a harried whisper. “I knew this was a mistake.”

  There was a shuffling, and he burst from the confessional booth. I wasn’t as fast as he was, and by the time I stepped out, all I could make of the man was his curly, red hair and a dark denim jacket disappearing out on to the street.

  I felt the cold chills on my skin long after he’d vanished.

  ***

  That afternoon, I was sitting with a friend in a coffee shop down the street. His name was Terry, but had earned the name Ape due to the coarse reddish-brown hair that covered his body and face. We’d been friends awhile, both of us belonging to an organization called the Hand of Shanai. Terry had quit several years prior, but I was still active, somehow managing to balance the duties of the Hand with the duties of the Church.

  It wasn’t hard, as both offices held the same goal: protecting the innocent, casting out demons.

  The Hand was a collection of Night Hunters, and we dedicated our lives to the protection of the innocent from the things that went bump in the night. It wasn’t a religious organization, and as such, it had no direct ties to the Church, but throughout time, there were numerous warriors who, like me, tended both camps.

  As a priest, I ministered to the flock. As part of the Hand, I kept them safe. Jesus warned that a man could not serve two masters, but regardless of the hat I wore, the work I did was for the Lord.

  Terry drank eagerly from his coffee, but I nursed mine.

  “You’ve been unusually quiet, Austin,” he said eventually, breaking from a story he’d been telling of his latest case with his partner, Jono. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I took a deep breath, and shook my head. “Who am I kidding? No, Terry, it’s not.” I lapsed back in to silence.

  “If it’s the scars again,” he said, “they aren’t that noticeable anymore.”

  I looked up at him and shook my head. A few months back, I’d helped Terry with a case that involved a dragon, and the flames had left their mark, scorching my face, neck and hand on the right side of my body. I’d taken an extended leave to recover, and I’d only just gotten back to work. Taking confessions was preferable to offering homilies, as I was still getting used to the looks. “That’s not it,” I told him. “I… Something happened today, but I can’t talk about it.”

  “Priestly duties?” he guessed. There was a hint of understanding in his voice. We’d been friends a long time, and while there weren’t many boundaries between us, he knew where they were and not to cross them. “How is it being back? Are you readjusting?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, but I don’t want to talk about that, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure,” he said. “How about the Hand then? How’s that going?”

  “Good,” I said. I hadn’t officially started back with them yet, but it wasn’t strictly a lie, either. “Hey, since you brought it up, I need to ask. My head’s not all there today, I wanted your opinion.”

  “Okay.”

  I forced a lighter inflection in to my voice. “Ritual killings.”

  He nodded.

  “Any significance in the number seven? Say, happening every seven years. That ring any bells for you?”

  “Seven years?” he said, wrinkling his brow. “What kind of creature are we talking about?”

  “It’s a new case. Actually, it’s not even my case. It’s a consult. I don’t know the gory details. The number seems significant, but…”

  “Like an anniversary?”

  “Maybe,” I said. But that wasn’t it, and from the look on my face, he knew it, too.

  “I can do some research and get back to you,” he offered.

  I nodded. “That would be good.”

  We sat there in silence another moment, and I swirled my coffee idly in my cup.

  “About the other thing,” he said eventually. “I know you can’t say anything, but if you want, we could look into it for you. Was it a confes
sion? Jono could use his ability, and….” His partner, Jono, was born with the ability to see the history of an object just by touching it. Technically, I guessed that would work. I wouldn’t be giving them any information; they’d be getting it themselves. I wouldn’t be violating my oath, but…

  I shook my head. “No. It’s okay. I appreciate the offer.”

  “Alright,” he said, a bit reluctantly. “You’ve got a lot on your plate. If I can take something off, just let me know.”

  ***

  The next day, I was still wracked with the same cold, palpable uneasiness as the day before. There was something in the man’s words, something that shook me at the core. What’s even more, there was something even darker in his silence. I had the impression that he would do something. He would hurt somebody. I just didn’t know who, or when. And even if I did, there was nothing I could do about it.

  Still, feeling powerless is one of the worst ways to feel. I needed to do something. At least, I needed to feel like I was doing something. I called down to the bishop, set up a meeting, and just before lunch, I worked my way to his office and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” came the deep voice, and I entered.

  Classical music played softly as Bishop Hendricks sat behind his desk. He was shorter than I, and he had a bald spot on his crown. He wasn’t old, as he liked to tell people, just well-seasoned, as evident by the salt and pepper coloring in his hair. He was comfortably over-weight, something he said made him more relatable, more American.

  He looked up at me when I entered, smiled vaguely, and looked back down at whatever he was working on. “Austin,” he said in his thick, Italian accent. “Have a seat. What’s on your mind?”

  I sat, but I didn’t say anything at first. I shifted uncomfortably in the chair for a moment, unsure what to say, uncertain how to begin.

  The bishop took note of my silence and looked up at me without moving his head. There was a curious expression on his face, and I couldn’t tell if it was humor or annoyance. “Don’t take all day, son. I’ve got a lunch appointment in forty-five minutes.”

  “I…” I shrugged. “I’m disturbed.”

  “Is this a confession?” he asked, setting his pencil down and focusing properly on me. “I wasn’t sure earlier when you called. Did something happen?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Something happened, but it’s not me. Yesterday…I took a confession.”

  “Ah,” he said. He shifted in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I remember those days.” He gave a knowing smile, and it wasn’t unkind. “You’ve been a priest for, what, six years?”

  “Five,” I said.

  He nodded. “We all have off days, and some confessions are harder to carry than others. You’ll learn how to manage.”

  I shrugged. “How do you?”

  “Well,” he said. “How does God?” I didn’t say anything, and in a dramatic flair, his eyes darkened, and he quoted, “I, even I, am he who blots out your transgressions, for my own sake, and remembers your sins no more. Or, if you prefer the Psalms, As far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.” He folded his hands before him on his desk. “God forgives and forgets,” he said simply. “And so should you.”

  I considered his words a minute. “I don’t think I can forget,” I told him. “Not this time. Not this one. There was something to this man. I don’t know that he had actually done anything yet, but…I was left with the feeling that he was considering something…wicked.”

  Bishop Hendricks nodded. “A few years back, when I was just a priest, I had a young man come to me. He was, oh, in his late teens. High school. He confessed some things to me, and then he sat there for a minute. I could sense that there was something he wanted to say and wasn’t. As he got up to leave, I asked him if he’d confess what he really came to talk about. I watched him as he wrestled with the words, and finally, he told me what was really on his mind: the thoughts he’d been conspiring with. I was disturbed, to say the least, but I was bound by my oath to say nothing, do…nothing. I tried to dissuade him, and I thought maybe I’d succeeded. When we finished, the boy hugged me and thanked me for my time.” He paused, and his eyes grew heavier. “Two days after that, there was a shooting at a local high school. Three were killed and seven wounded before the shooter took his own life.

  “The weeks that followed were difficult. I didn’t sleep much, didn’t eat. All I could think was, what if… If I had only done something, then surely the entire tragedy could have been avoided. Lives could have been spared, maybe the boy would have gone on and found forgiveness. Even to this day, I still have moments when it haunts me. He was a suicide; he’s spending eternity in Hell, and maybe I could’ve done something about it.” He took a slow, deep breath, and I caught the glisten of something wet in the corner of his eye. “Doctor’s lose patients, shepherds lose sheep. We do God’s work, and not even God can usher every soul in to his kingdom, Austin.”

  I nodded. I understood. Then something occurred to me. “I know we aren’t allowed to talk about or act on anything that we hear during confession, not even at the cost of our lives, but what if…what if this guy that confessed wasn’t…human?”

  The bishop chuckled, involuntarily. The idea of monsters wasn’t known or accepted by the general populace. “What else could he be?”

  “Well,” I said, but I didn’t say anything further. My face was serious, and as he studied me, Bishop Hendricks’ face grew solemn as well.

  “I know,” he said, “that it’s easy to see some people as nothing more than ‘animals’ because of the brutal acts they accomplish. But at the end of the day, Austin, they’re still human beings. They’re still made in God’s image, and they still have a soul, no matter how tainted. We can’t save everyone, and so we must commit to preserving our own souls. Because however you see this man who came to you – human or animal – you’re still bound by oath, and either way, you face excommunication if you violate that oath.” His face was serious, pleading…almost sad.

  I nodded. “I know,” I said.

  “You’re just getting back from your leave. Don’t rush it, Austin. Ease back in.”

  ***

  I left work early that day.

  I hadn’t slept much the night before, and I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open, but my head was too cluttered to offer the peace I would find in sleeping. So I ventured out. I put on jeans and a t-shirt, threw on my leather jacket and took off on my motorcycle.

  I couldn’t talk about what the man had said, and I couldn’t do anything to try to stop him, or even help him. Hell, I didn’t even know this man from Adam. All I saw of him was the curly red hair.

  Eventually, I came to a bar and went inside. The place wasn’t crowded, and I took a stool at the bar, ordered a Scotch. The bartender studied my face for a minute, trying hard not to stare too long, trying not to be rude.

  He poured the drink, set it in front of me, and I tossed it back in one swallow. I slid the glass toward him. “One more,” I said. “Make it a double.”

  As he did, the man to my left chuckled. “Rough day?” he asked. Although he was two stools away, his breath hung heavy with a green, alcoholic vapor.

  “You could say that,” I said, not looking at him.

  “What do you do?” he asked.

  I looked toward the ceiling and then back at the fresh Scotch that had been set in front of me. “I’m a priest,” I said.

  The man laughed again, harder this time. I turned to look at him, and when he saw my scars, his laughter stalled. “Shit, man,” he said, sobering just a little. “What happened to you?”

  “Motorcycle accident,” I said. I turned back to my glass, brought it to my lip, and let it hover there, not drinking.

  “Some accident,” the man muttered.

  I didn’t say anything. I drained my glass, set the empty on the bar, and stood, making my way across the room. “Where you going, Father?”

  �
�Bathroom,” I muttered.

  The man turned to the bartender as I passed and said, “Barkeep! Another round for me and my priest friend.”

  “You’ve had enough, Jake,” the bartender said, and Jake started to protest, but I didn’t hear what he said.

  In the bathroom, I moved to the sink, turned the water on, and let it run. My hands gripped the edge of the bowl, and I watched the water froth and swirl into the drain. I took a deep breath, cupped my hands under the water, and splashed the cold into my face.

  It was taking a toll on me.

  I stared blankly at the mirror and didn’t recognize the man staring back at me: the blonde hair, empty gray eyes, the deep lines and pink markings that dominated half my face and made me look like a human raisin. No wonder people stared.

  “Forgive and forget,” the man in the mirror said, but he didn’t look like he believed it himself.

  I just shook my head. It wasn’t that easy. What if some sins were unforgiveable? But I wasn’t worried God wouldn’t be able to forgive. If something happened, if I ignored it…would I be able to forgive myself? If the red-haired man was working something dark, if the significance in the seven year time period was some kind of anniversary or Sabbat, some kind of dark ritual, then I was obligated by my position in the Hand to stop him. Yet as a priest, for me to act on the information I’d earned in the seclusion and privacy of the confessional, I would lose everything, not just my position with the church, but I’d be forbidden from Heaven. I felt the weight on my shoulders, my back, and I stooped low over the sink, filled my cupped hands once more, and splashed my face again.

  I turned the water off and faced my reflection once more. I took a deep breath and said, “You’re being ridiculous. This isn’t the way to handle yourself.” While part of me knew that to be true, another part of me was growing increasingly numb from the Scotch. I felt the exhaustion begin to ripple through me, and as my head began to clear – just a little – sleep began to sound really good.

  I pushed my way back into the bar and said, “Alright, Jake. You wanna share a cab? I don’t think either of us are in any shape to drive…”