David Policar 1994
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned." The penitant's voice was high-pitched, though clearly male, and backed by the irregular tapping of some metal object - perhaps a ring or a pen - against the wooden chair arms. Father Marlo had listened to that tapping for several minutes, waiting for the man to speak; he decided to accelerate matters somewhat.
"How long has it been since your last confession, son?"
"Um... well, actually, I guess it's been... well, around sixteen years, I guess. I... well, I guess you'd say I'm not a very good Christian, Father... the last time I went to church was ten years ago, when my brother got married... and, um, well, since then I've... Jeez, I've - oh, damn, I'm sorry - argh! I'm making a complete muddle of this, aren't I?"
"Please try to relax. The confessional is not a place to pretend to perfection, it is a place to admit your imperfections to God and give Him leave to exchange them for His grace. You get no points for style here, only substance." Marlo tried to think about his words - although over the years they had achieved something of the flavor of ritual for him, the confessional was a sacred trust, and it was not for him to turn them into something mechanized and meaningless.
"Well... OK, like I said, it's been sixteen years since I last gave confession. Um... in that time, I've... well, I've had impure thoughts, and I haven't attended church regularly, and I've lied to some people, and I've slept with a few women outside of marriage, and I've cheated -- well, only on my income taxes, does that count?" It wasn't the first time Marlo had heard the question, but never had it been delivered so plaintively.
"Every sin 'counts' before God, my son. When the Lord said to render unto Ceasar what is Ceasar's, he was reminding us that our obligations to our country are every bit as important to Him as our obligations to one another.
"However," Marlo continued, sensing a long silence coming, "I don't expect you came to me in September to confess to cheating on your income taxes, nor even to confess your episodes of fornication. Perhaps it would be easiest for you to simply confess what brought you here in the first place?"
The silence dragged on, punctuated by faint whines, as of a small child having difficulty drawing a breath.
"Son," Marlo added in the voice his congregation had learned to respect, "Remember you are not confessing your sins to me. I am but the vehicle through which God has chosen to grant you His grace, should you choose to lay down your burdens and confess them to God. He already knows all you have done, my son. He has provided the sacrament of confession solely so that, by baring your soul to Him you can receive His love and His forgiveness, which is not denied to any of His children, if they be truly repentant. So in the name of God, son, give over your sins and receive His love!"
Father Marlo had not been shouting, nor even raising his voice, although the effect was somehow similar. However, the young man's voice when he finally spoke was little more than a whisper, and Marlo felt he'd delivered a thundering sermon by comparison.
"Father... I think I killed a -- a young girl this morning. I -- I --" his voice cracked suddenly, and was replaced by sobs. Marlo felt a chill hand gripping his heart, and muttered a blessing under his breath.
When Marlo had heard the whole story, he was unsure if the chill had been simple fear or a premonition of something more, but he knew it was no coincidence that had led this man to confess in his church.
"Son... I want you to listen to me very carefully. Your immortal soul is in a very real and very present danger, and I'm afraid it will take more than a simple atonement to wash it clean. You will have to trust me, and the God I serve, and allow me to introduce you to some colleagues of mine. Will you trust us, son?"
There was another long pause.
"I guess I can't carry this alone, Father, no matter what happens to me. OK, I'll do what you want."
Relief washed over Father Marlo, but didn't touch the cold feeling.
As he paid for his cab ride, Daniel Reese saw a flash of red hair and a green trenchcoat in the rear-view mirror. "Hey, Liz!" he called, jumping out of the cab, "Did Marlo give you any details on this one?"
Melissa Rojas shook her head. "Not really, just something to do with a murder. You?"
"Nope." Reese tilted he sunglasses he affected over his thinning blond hair and smiled briefly. "But I have a feeling I know who the stiff is." He noticed her disapproving frown as he opened the engraved wooden doors of St. Matt's, and smiled again when he knew she couldn't see.
St. Matthew's Church was housed in a small building near Boston's Back Bay area, a small church constantly struggling to stay solvent. That it succeeded was due mostly to Father Jacob Marlo, who held services, counseled the community, talked to police when necessary, fixed the rood when it leaked, and most importantly, though he would never admit it, served as an inspiration for the core of supporters who kept the church going. Reese was one of those supporters, and had been ever since Marlo had saved his life -- and maybe more than that -- almost a year earlier. That was when Reese had joined the Brethren and become an initiate into a world he'd never believed existed.
Rojas had been introduced to them a few months later, by the same mysterious figure -- Gabe, he called himself -- who had delivered Reese into Marlo's hands in the first place. Reese trusted Marlo with his life, and had come to terms with Gabe and the other Brethren -- but still had his doubts about Rojas. He generally made it a policy not to work with women who'd tried to kill him.
Marlo met them both in the foyer.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice. There's a man inside I want you to meet, and I want you to hear his story... I fear it may involve a job for us." He hesitated briefly. "However, you will have to swear on our Oath to treat his story as under the seal of the confessional, and not repeat any of what you hear to outsiders. Are you prepared to do so?"
They swore without hesitation, and Marlo smiled and turned to the open door behind him.
"Mr. Douglass, I'd like you to meet Officer Reese and Dr. Rojas, two companions of mine similarly pledged in the service of the Lord. You have heard them swear secrecy, and I assure you that oath will not be broken in this lifetime. I'd like you to repeat to them the story you have told me."
"OK, Father." The young man was still nervous, and looked the part as well -- tall and thin, with long arms and legs that seemed to jut out at impossible angles as he shifted around.
"I guess it started last week, when the Peruvian shipment arrived. Professor Tolens -- my advisor -- had been trying to get it for months, since his trip to Peru last year, so naturally we were excited. You see, the prof has been researching a legendary Peruvian brujo of the <whatever> era --his name was Ixtatlotl, you see, and he appears in many of the poems and liturgies of that period, like the Maccu Pichu scrolls of '72 -- there's a passage that reads <whatever> , and --" Douglass broke off abruptly, seeing his audience.
"Well, anyway, the important thing is the Mask of Ixtatlotl, an artifact that supposedly dates from that period"