THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN
BY CHARLES KELLY
Hassayampa Valley
Father Carty O’Toole could see the hard-knocked Dodge pickup beating down on him from a half-mile away, dust huffing from its tires and settling on the mesquite, a tiny torpedo tracing the western edge of the White Tank Mountains. Walberto must have the goods today. Sweat clutched at O’Toole’s crotch beneath his black robes, his heart bounced. The buzzing of the cicadas in the crazy heat tweaked his nerves. He had a Colt .357 Python stuffed full of potential detonations hidden in the confessional. Fine. But the varnish smell of the sin-box was cut through by the stringency of Hoppe’s No. 6 gunpowder solvent, and that could give away O’Toole’s play. He steadied himself, fought for faith. Surely, God would not let that happen, assuming God wasn’t taking a day off. That happened from time to time in the Hassayampa Valley.
O’Toole stood well back in the shadow of the vestibule of Mission Santa Dolores, taking what comfort he could from the relative coolness offered by the packed-earth walls. Built in the 1920s, a replica of older and more-honored antiquities, the church had been long abandoned, replaced by a modern church twenty miles away with the soaring lines of a department store. The mission was too old and shabby and isolated to serve the spiritual needs of the population oozing westward from Phoenix, but O’Toole had not let it languish. Carrying out a bit of personal penance, he had set himself the task of dusting and polishing the pews, swabbing down the tile, cleaning the plaster angels and cherubs that festooned the reredos behind the altar. In this heat, it had been exacting work for a fat man pushing sixty. But the police were so bothersome in this part of the world. Better to stay out of their way.
He’d had to break the lock on the door to get in, but of course that was no problem for him. He’d been at the cleaning for a week, while he waited. It gave him a cover story if someone came by, but nobody did. And aside from the psychic payback it offered him, it was something to do. There was no television or even a radio in the abandoned priests’ quarters out back, his comestible needs and water supplied by a Coleman camp refrigerator, his literary cravings fulfilled by some dusty paperbacks replete with the adventures of hard-nosed men and abandoned women. A small electric generator fed the battery that kept his cell phone alive.
The truck was closer now, growing larger, a Dodge Ram driven with more enthusiasm than sense—that was Walber-to’s way. Slipping through thirsty desert scrub and sandy dirt, it looked shallow and indistinct. Twenty-five yards away, the snarling of its engine snapped off. It clanked and stopped near a paloverde on the perimeter of the dirt-track turnaround. Was there a passenger? Hard to tell because of the dazzling brightness. Apparently not, for only Walberto emerged, closing the door with a thunk. His hands were empty, no package. Disappointed, O’Toole examined the rest of him. A black ball cap, a Dallas Cowboys warm-up jacket over a white T-shirt, jeans, cowboy boots tooled in Texas. O’Toole didn’t like the warm-up jacket, not one bit. In this heat, it must feel like a microwave on full power. He examined Walberto’s bony outline, but the jacket flapped loosely, showing nothing. Walberto darted forward, swift without effort, merging with the darkness of the vestibule.
“You’re hiding, Father,” Walberto said, smiling into the shadow as his eyes adjusted, his mouth slashed across by gapped teeth.
“It’s the heat,” O’Toole said.
“The heat, of course.” He fell silent, making O’Toole ask.
“Did you bring it?” He glanced over Walberto’s shoulder at the pickup. Was there someone else?
“Sure,” said Walberto, stepping in front of O’Toole to cut off his view. “It’s in my pocket.”
O’Toole scanned the outline of the jacket. Those pockets seemed quite small. Without taking his eyes off Walberto, he jerked his head toward the darkness beyond them.
“Come in,” he said. “Let’s go deeper into the church.”
“Sure,” Walberto said. He moved closer, so his whisper would carry. “I had to kill the man.”
O’Toole’s heart went cold, and he cursed his own greed. This is what his self-imposed mission to the illegal migrants had come to. As if he hadn’t known it all along. Two months ago, he’d been at loose ends in Buffalo. No parish for him, nothing he could sneak into at any rate, even with the Catholic Church in America desperate for priests. Then he got a call from an old friend in Arizona. Opportunities existed. Migrants being held in safe houses in Phoenix—indeed, all over the Valley of the Sun—needed to hear the word of the Lord. The smugglers liked the idea—a dose of religion helped the migrants accept the rotten conditions—and the money for a bit of spiritual soothing was good, very good. The smugglers’ money, Walberto’s money.
O’Toole swallowed, but couldn’t lubricate his throat. His voice was a dry wheeze. “Let’s go deeper into the church.”
The black-robed man turned, and his feet clattered on the tile. He listened for Walberto’s feet. At first O’Toole heard nothing, and the sweat on his forehead gathered and flowed. His knees almost buckled, but he kept moving. Then he heard the tick-tock of the cowboy boots, and regained his movement. It’s all about appearances, he thought. Act strong, be strong. And get to the Python.
O’Toole was making for the shadowy alcove just short of the altar. That was where the confessional reared up, encompassing two upright boxes—one for the sinner, one for the dispenser of penance. But Walberto’s voice, very quiet, stopped him.
“Let’s talk here,” the coyote said. “I don’t like to get too far from the daylight.”
O’Toole turned, and Walberto waved to one of the splintered pews. Trying to think of a reason not to, O’Toole shuffled to a seat and settled down. He half-turned as Walberto slipped into the pew behind him, but the coyote put a firm hand on his shoulder and waggled his head. “Face front, Father. Kneel. Act like you’re praying. I’ll do the same. I’ll do my best, but you’ll probably be better than me. You’ve had more practice.”
O’Toole complied, clacking the kneeler down and settling heavily into place, though it was a pointless charade. The likelihood of anyone coming to this abandoned place, anyone who needed to be fooled, was quite remote. He was acutely aware of Walberto kneeling just behind him, like a Mafia assassin in the rear seat of a car. O’Toole knew that situation. The man in front had to pretend everything was all right, or the bullet would come quicker. But in facing front, the target had to fight the panic of not knowing. The muscles in O’Toole’s neck bunched. I’m getting a headache, he thought. Why? Will that help me survive? The stupidity of his bodily reactions confounded him.
Walberto’s breath poisoned the air. “Tell me the story again.”
O’Toole was incredulous. “You mean the story about the relic?”
“Umm-hmm. The relic. The reason I killed the man.”
Wonderful. Story time, as they both sat in the shadow of the gallows. Or was it the shadow of the lethal-injection gurney? Who cared? The result was the same: O’Toole on a slab. He found his voice, heard himself wheedling: “You were to pay him a little, promise him more when we did the deal.”
“He didn’t believe me, he thought I was going to stab him. He was right.”
O’Toole’s breakfast—a stale ham sandwich—rose dangerously. “That wasn’t necessary.”
“Sure it was. Tell me the story.”
And O’Toole did, just as he had told it to strengthen the faith of migrants stashed away in Buckeye, Phoenix, Glendale, even Scottsdale, eating take-out sandwiches, drowsing with the curtains drawn, waiting for the next stage of their journeys. They thought it emerged from deep theological study O’Toole had pursued in shadowed monasteries. In fact, he’d done most of his research online.