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.