The Darker Side (31 page)

“You atone. You don’t forget. You don’t justify. You
change
. You’re raising the daughter of your friend. Raise her well. Be a good mother to her. Teach her to love life. You have a man in your life? Love him. If you marry him, don’t keep secrets from him. You have a job that lets you imprison those who would take life from others. Do that job well, and you’ll save countless lives. It’s right that you’ve suffered for this sin, but you’re not evil, Smoky, and it’s time, if you won’t forgive yourself, to let someone else forgive you. I’ve given you your penance. Maybe it will take you a lifetime to do it. Now, I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

They’re just words. I’m not right with God, and I’m not sure I ever will be. I may never see the inside of a confessional booth again, and I secretly think Jesus might just have been a carpenter. But Father Yates had been right: saying it to someone else, out loud, and seeing that the world didn’t end as a result, gives me a relief I had never expected. I feel…clean. The sorrow is still there and that’s okay. Only the men I hunt don’t regret.

“Thanks, Father.”

I don’t know what else to say.

“It’s my pleasure.” I can almost feel him smiling. “You see? There’s plenty of adventure to be had, doing what I do.”

“No kidding,” I agree.

Some people explore the outer world. They climb mountains, sail the oceans, hunt with the natives, so to speak. Some find their adventure in excess, as Hemingway did, running with the bulls, downing the booze, living larger than life. Then there are the Father Yates and me types, we spend our days spelunking through the inner world, where something new and maybe terrible always lies beyond the bend. “Here there be tigers” the old explorers used to put on the maps. That warning applies most to the territory between the ears and inside the heart.

To think that you could come inside this wooden box and talk to another human being about the things you could never tell anyone else…

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

“Smoky…”

“Oh my God.”

Immerse yourself in the environment.
I sure as shit had done that. And the answer had been staring me in the face. It was simple, it was direct, it was right.

“Smoky, are you all right?”

I stand up. Where did he get access to their secrets? Where else?

“Father, I think I have some bad news. I think someone else has been inside your confessional, and I’m not talking about God.”

29

“IT IS KIND OF A PERFECT ENVIRONMENT FOR PLANTING A
bug,” Alan observes. “It’s dark inside, and people have their attention fixed on themselves, not on what’s around them.”

We’re standing just outside the confessional. I’d rushed out with my tears still drying on my face.

It makes sense. We’d looked at the idea of support groups, AA meetings, things like that, but why cast such a wide and imperfect net, if secrets were what you were after? The Preacher was all about religion. If you’re a religious person, who do you tell your deepest, darkest secrets to, the kinds of secrets we’ve been seeing on those video clips?

Your priest.

You close that confessional door and let it all hang out. I had, and I was the ultimate lapsed Catholic. The obvious worry in terms of confidentiality would be the priest, that’s where the penitents’ concerns would lie, not on the esoteric possibility of someone bugging the confessional.

Father Yates paces back and forth. He is troubled, angry, perhaps a little sick. I understand. I think about what we just did in there, and I shiver a little thinking about someone else listening in. It must be ten times worse for him, because he’ll feel responsible.

“If this is true, it’s terrible, just terrible,” he mutters. “Parishioners won’t feel safe coming to confession. The ones that have are going to feel betrayed. There will be crises of faith.”

The poor man looks more agitated and upset than anytime since I met him. It’s disturbing; I’ve become used to the comfort of his un-flappability.

“Father, I need to ask you something.”

He stops pacing. He runs a hand through his hair.

“Of course. Anything.”

“I need confirmation. You said you hadn’t watched any of the video clips of his victims. What about the one of Rosemary? He included that in his initial ‘thesis.’”

“Absolutely not. I skipped through it. I couldn’t watch that.”

“I need to ask you about the secret she revealed in that clip. It was something pretty bad, and it was something he already knew. I’m going to tell you what it was, and I need to know if she revealed it to you in confession.”

“I can’t break the seal of confession,” he protests. “Her death doesn’t absolve me of that.”

“Come on, Father! Even if it helps to catch her murderer? He’s told us he’s going to kill a child soon if we don’t catch him!” I stab a finger at him. “You don’t get off the hook that easy. This is a difficult issue for you, I understand, maybe some advanced canonical interpretation is required, but you need to take a hard look at the right and wrong here. Her big secret is already sitting out there on the Internet for everyone to see. How can you make that worse? Seems to me you can only make it better.”

“Really?” His voice is harsh. “Let me ask you something, Smoky. If you died tomorrow, would you want me to reveal what we just talked about inside the confessional?”

The question takes me aback. My immediate, visceral response:
Fuck no.

Touché, Father.

“Under normal circumstances, of course not. But if I’d been murdered like Rosemary? Forced to tell it all again, and then had it exposed to the world?” I move in close to him, make him look down to meet my eyes. “I’d want you to do whatever it took to bring that fucker to justice.”

I can see the struggle going on inside him, can understand it. Father Yates is a man of conviction, a true believer who practices what he preaches. He lives his life by certain inviolate concepts. The stability of those concepts, the black and white of them, are what keeps him anchored to his faith while he toils away in the gray areas. The Rosemarys of the world are complicated. Dealing with them must be difficult. I can understand his need for certainties.

“Fine, tell me,” he says. “If I think your theory has merit, I’ll give you a sign. I won’t speak directly to the content of Rosemary’s confession, but I will give you a sign.”

I can see that even this compromise has cost him.

“Thank you, Father.”

I tell him about Rosemary having sex with her brother, and about how Dylan then took his own life. Father Yates’s face is a mask throughout. When I finish, he looks right into my eyes and makes the sign of the cross.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he murmurs. “Amen.”

Excitement thrills through me, overtaking everything else.

“I need access to the confessional tomorrow, Father. First thing in the morning. I’m going to get someone over here to sweep the confessional booth and the rest of your church for bugs.”

He sighs. “Of course.”

“Alan, can you give us a moment?”

My friend nods. “I’ll meet you out by the car.”

When we’re alone, I gesture to the front pew. “Take a seat, Father.”

He does. I sit down beside him.

“I know this is bad for you.”

He’s gazing at Jesus again. He doesn’t seem to be finding that same peace and contentment I’d seen earlier.

“Do you?” he asks. “Do you really?”

“Yes. You feel violated. You feel like the one thing you could always count on has been shattered.”

He turns to look at me, still troubled but intrigued. “That’s a fair assessment.”

“I know all about it. My profession betrayed me, led a killer to my house who took away my family and my face.” I open my jacket to show him my weapon. “I always believed in my gun and my FBI ID. I was sure they’d keep me safe. I was certain of it, no doubt allowed.” I shrug. “I was wrong.”

“So what do you do then, when that happens?”

“You go to sleep, wake up the next morning, and get back to work. The work matters, Father.”

He smiles now, and I’m glad to see it. He’s still sad, but this is better.

“You’re saying that my work matters, Smoky. Does that mean you’ve reconciled with God?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m still plenty pissed at God. I don’t know about”—I gesture to indicate the church that surrounds us—“all of this. What I do know is you helped me. Real help, no bullshit. So yes, if that’s any indicator of what you do, your work matters.”

Those troubled eyes, again. “I let the devil into my church.”

“So? The first time you get knocked down you give up? Where’s the tough guy from Detroit? Yes, it’s fucked up. Acknowledge it, take a drink or pray or whatever it is that priests do to blow off steam, and then get back to work.”

Another smile. I get the feeling it’s in spite of himself. “I’ll consider what you’re saying. In the meantime, you need to stop swearing in my church, Smoky.”

“I’ll promise to stop swearing if you promise to stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

He actually laughs. “It’s a deal.” His face gets somber. “Please catch this man.”

“I’ll catch him.”

“Good. Now, leave me alone. I need to pray.”

ALAN IS LEANING UP AGAINST
the car, staring up at the starless LA sky.

“Ministering to the minister?” he asks.

“He’s okay.”

“How do you want to play this?”

I glance at my watch. It’s after eleven.

“Let’s wrap it up for tonight. I’ll call Callie and James and tell them to go home. We’ll hit the ground running in the morning.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m beat. You call, I’ll drive.”

“MR. HARRISON BESTER IS APPARENTLY
not a security-conscious Internet user,” Callie says. “I’m sitting in front of his home right now, choosing the paper stock for my wedding invitations.”

“Did the surveillance show up yet?”

“No.”

“They’ll be there soon, I imagine. I need you to stay put until they arrive.”

She emits a long, loud, noisy sigh. “You really have no respect for the pressure I’m under. Planning a wedding, working this case, riding herd on Kirby, and trying to fit in my nightly sex-a-thon with Sam. Very stressful.”

“Poor baby.” I smile.

“Thank you, honey-love. That’s all I need, just a little sympathy now and again. How did it go with Father Yates?”

“It was positively enlightening. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. We need to start early.”

“I’LL GO TO BED WHEN
I feel like it, thanks. You’re my superior, not my mother.”

“Have it your way, James. I have a lead, though, a good one. I want everyone in early.”

“I’m always early,” he retorts, and then hangs up.

I shake my head as I close the phone.

“How’s Damien?” Alan asks.

“Charming, as always.”

“You know what the strangest thing is for me about James being gay?”

“The idea of him being intimate with anyone?”

He grins. “That’s right. Before he said he was gay, I honestly kind of thought of him as a eunuch. Sexless. I can’t imagine anyone putting up with his shit long enough to hop in the sack with him.”

“Takes all kinds to make the world go round.”

“I’m glad about it.”

“Why?”

“He’s an irritating little fucker, and sometimes I want to punch his lights out, but he’s still family. I’m glad he’s got something going on in his life besides the j-o-b.”

I smile at him as he drives. “You’re a big old softie, Alan.”

“Don’t tell anyone. Hey, I was watching Father Yates when you were telling him about Rosemary and the video clip. The guy is good. Really good. I couldn’t read his reaction at all.”

Alan reads people the way others read books. Pupil dilation, changes in breathing pattern, even something simple like the nervous turning of a ring around a finger, all have their place in ferreting out the truth. He’s saying that Father Yates is very, very good at restraining these reactions.

“Kind of interesting,” Alan observes. “Maybe we should take a closer look at the priest. That kind of control is rare unless you’ve been trained to do it.”

“He’s not the guy,” I say.

“You sure?”

I shouldn’t be. I’ve been fooled before, trusting angels who turned out to be devils in disguise. But I am, this time.

“I’m sure.”

“You seeing things clearly on this one?”

This is as close as Alan will ever get to asking me what happened inside that confessional booth. He knows to leave it alone, just as I would if our roles were reversed.

“Go ahead and pull his background, Alan. Dot the i’s. But I’m telling you, he’s not our guy.”

“Okay, okay.” He goes quiet as we continue to drive through the darkness. The city lights are everywhere, like dirty diamonds on a gray velvet background. This is LA, beautiful and flawed. Rough-cut forever, somehow endearing in all its shallow fumbling for greatness. “So does this mean you’re going to start going to Mass and taking Communion and all that stuff?” he asks.