Page 48 of Priestly Sins

“What’s your favorite movie?” That’s my lead in as we pull out and onto the Causeway heading for Metairie.

“Frozen! It’s about Anna and Elsa and she can make things turn into ice and there’s a funny reindeer and….”

I barely get another word in. I’m given the play-by-play as we head to school.

Thirty minutes later my head is swimming. Who knew that little girls could talk without taking a single breath for that long? The only two words for it areenlighteningandterrifying.

I grab Sirona’s phone from my pocket and switch it out of airplane mode. There’s been no way to track it since the parking garage. Now I want to make sure if anyone is tracing her location, that it’s available.

I stop at Wal-Mart to buy an iPad and two pair of AirPods and head to Petites Fleurs.

Twenty-Five

The back door creaks open and the heavy squish of shoes greets me. He’s too heavy to walk silently and too cocky to try. The pace is slow, though, so his confidence is in check. Good to know.

The cooler door opens and he walks in, expectant. He turns to pull the door and while his back is to me, I shove a soaked cloth against his nose and mouth—chloroform—and he collapses to the floor. He fights against my hold and against the rag. I straddle him, fighting to keep the rag in place while not losing the battle to him physically. Three minutes later, he is unconscious. I have less than two minutes before he wakes and starts to fight again.

Quickly and efficiently, I roll him and tie his hands in front of him, my gloves squeaking against the rope. Next come his feet. I need him disabled and want his pain to be of his own doing, well, except for the final blow. That will be all mine.

I attach the hook and use the winch—one that is out-of-place in this cooler of butter and cream—to begin dragging him from his place on his back on the floor to hang from his wrists.

I stuff another cloth in his mouth simply to keep him quiet.

I stand, waiting, turning the doubloon over in my gloved hand. I wait and I stew. Everything I’ve done since I was fifteen is for this moment. The days with my absentee father, my college selection, choosing the seminary, all the bullshit with the hoops for priesthood. Grabbing the right credentials, avoiding the wrong vows, allowing an “associate” of my father to help me land the NOLA assignment.

Thank God—and I mean that. This shit can eat you alive and if it took forty years… Hell, I’d have done it. For this moment, I’d have done it, but I’m so glad it wasn’t forty. So glad I can get this poison out of my head and my heart and get on with my life. Take a chance. Choose forgiveness. Begin again.

Soon. So very soon.

I’ll maintain this rage for a few moments more. Fuel for my weary, weary soul.

He wakes and his eyes are the first to show terror. I wish in this moment I could actually smell his fear. I’d bottle it. Make my fucking day!

“Enzo Calabrese. Thank you for joining me.”

He screams and thrashes but finds it useless. His slow moans when he moves bring a smirk to my face.

“Hurts? Move some more. Maybe you’ll dislocate a shoulder.”

Again with the muffled curses and red face. He’s trying to force the rag from his mouth but stops to breathe. He has to use his arms ever so slightly to allow his lungs to fill. It’s poetry. That he’s reduced to this, that he has to choose whether to talk or to breathe. Fucking poetry.

“Never been on the receiving end of your own sick, twisted plans?”

I pace and wait, the patience I’ve employed for twenty years guiding my decisions. I have peace that stills me.

“I’ll remove the gag if you answer my questions.”

The muffled “Fuck you” is evident, but I’m not afraid of him.

“Play nice, you little shit. You scream and this exchange is over.” I yank the gag down, mindful of his teeth.

“Where is she?”

“Sirona? Why do you care?”

“I own her and she hasn’t paid her debt.”

“She has no debt to you.” I stop my pacing to face him squarely. “You, however, have a debt to me.”