“Open your eyes. Open your eyes.”
Can’t. Got sand in them. Can’t breathe. Chest crushed. Heart’s stopped.
Why was this happening? What did they want from him?
Then the lights went on and they were all around him, dressed like picture cards—jacks and kings and queens, black and red, spots all over them—as if he were being hauled away by creatures from some Lewis Carroll looking-glass world. And one jack raised his spade and brought it down full force onto his face, disintegrating into granules that filled his eyes, mouth, and ears. And all went black.
It’s God’s punishment.
He floated above the scene and could see the bloody knob of his head, a broken bicycle on the street, lights, and people swarmed around the twisted body in the gutter.
“Wake up. Please wake up.”
His mother. She was calling to him over the vast expanse. She wanted him to open his eyes. But every time he did, they would fill with sand.
Then he found himself alone again, moving down a gauzy, featureless corridor. But, strangely, he couldn’t feel his feet or solid ground under his shoes (a bright white pair of Nikes!). Yet he was moving through a dim tunnel as if traversing some realm between consciousness and unconsciousness—or maybe this world and the next. As he moved toward the light, he became aware of how totally alone he was. No more voices, no more people, no more sense of his family and friends by his side. Alone in this funnel of mist.
Then that changed.
Suddenly he became aware of another’s presence—as if someone had sidled up to him. He looked around but saw no one, just the gray nothingness. Yet he knew in his heart of hearts that someone else was near him just beyond the threshold of perception.
As he proceeded, he heard a voice, a familiar voice, saying something in a language he couldn’t decipher. And it was coming from the bright end ahead of him. He picked up his pace, and the harder he listened, the more familiar the voice sounded, but the words were meaningless.
As the light got brighter, he stirred, feeling the softness of the bed beneath him. Summoning every fiber of will, he forced open his eyes. Caked with matter, they cracked open to the light. Bright white light. White walls. White ceiling. White sheets. The impressions of his legs running down the length of the bed. Tubes. Wires, beeps. The same hospital room, of course. And with a burst of air he woke himself up.
“Dad?”
The room was empty. Soundless but for the muffled beeps of machines. But the single syllable resonated in his ears. Alone, he closed his eyes to get back. A moment later, he slipped back into the tunnel, now lost in darkness.
False alarm.
9
On the third day, Roman Pace returned to St. Pius Church just outside of Providence. He had no idea why he had been asked to return for his penance or to further confer with the priest. But he feared a setup.
It was a Tuesday morning, and he showed up two hours early. The church parking lot was empty, and so were the few cars parked on the street of the residential neighborhood. He drove around the block several times, finally convinced that cops weren’t staked out anywhere. He entered the church fifteen minutes before ten. The interior was empty, and two candles burned up front. The only other light streamed through the stained-glass windows.
He walked the full length of the nave to be certain that he was alone. No one, not even the priest, was in sight. He went outside again and saw nobody. And the sixth sense that years in his trade had honed did not alert him to an ambush. When satisfied, he went back inside and entered the confessional to wait for the priest. Even if police were staked out, he had not incriminated himself.
He carried no weapon. In fact, he had not carried one since his last kill. That was four months ago, when he had suffered a heart attack and decided to give up contract work. Yes, he missed the money because the recession had hurt his auto body business as people stopped coming in with dings, dents, and fender benders. Furthermore, as an independent, he could not compete with chains that cut pricing deals with insurance companies. Nearing his fifty-second year, he reminded himself, while sitting in the confessional, that his father had died of a coronary thrombosis at fifty-five and his mother a year later of a stroke.
What had brought him to this booth the other day was his reaching out to God. Lying in that hospital bed four months ago and fearing he was going to die, he had sent up a prayer from the bottom of his soul that he would give up the killing if God would spare his life. The next night, he could have sworn that Jesus had appeared to him. It was probably just a dream, because he looked like the Jesus in the picture his mother had on her bureau—a tall figure in white standing on a hillside with people gathered around his feet, listening. And beneath it the Ninety-first Psalm. He could still recall the words:
He shall call upon me, and I will answer him:
I will be with him in trouble;
I will deliver him, and honor him.
With long life will I satisfy him,
And show him my salvation.
But as Roman sat in the dim light waiting for the priest, he recalled the promise of those words and the bargain he had made. He had fully recovered, certain in the belief that God had answered his prayer and forgiven him. Certain that while he lay in his hospital bed, God had visited him like one of the guys from the body shop or softball team. And he knew because he could feel something happen inside his soul—something that told him that God was real. And that God had actually loved him enough to have intervened, telling him, You still have some work to do, so let me help clean you up.
A little after ten, Roman heard someone enter the other side. Because of the low light and screen, he couldn’t see the profile of Father Callahan.
“Good morning, my son.”
“Good morning, Father,” Roman said. Then he began: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The words tumbled out of his mouth like gravel. It was the second time in forty years he had uttered them.
“Would you care to confess your sins, my son?”
The voice did not sound like that of Father Timothy Callahan. This was a different priest. “I was here three days ago.”
“Yes, I know,” the voice replied. “But I still need to hear your confession.”
Roman felt his chest clench. A setup—the guy on the other side was a fucking cop, his backup hiding in the pews or behind the altar. “You’re not Father Callahan.”
“No, I’m not. I’m a brother in spirit and am bound by the same vows of confidentiality. Father Callahan is a new priest and shared with me the special circumstances. But I can assure you that what is said in this confessional is strictly confidential.”
Brother in spirit? “What about Father Callahan? How can I trust that he’s not shared my confession with others?”
“He hasn’t. He’s bound by the holy sacrament and his sacred vows.”
Maybe Roman’s sins were so awful that the young priest had to call in a heavy hitter—a bishop, maybe, or even a cardinal. “I’ve committed mortal sins.”
“God will hear your sins.”
“I killed some people and want to redeem myself.”
“I see. It’s good that you want redemption. Let us pray that God forgives you for your sins and gives you guidance and strength.”
Through the decorative grate, Roman could hear the man praying. The last time Roman was in the presence of a priest was when he was a teenager. His mother had made him go to church, and he’d hated every moment of it—an hour plus of mumbo-jumbo, half in Latin, half in bloated threats. The only matters that held his attention were stories about saints being crucified or roasted alive. For more Sundays than he cared to count, he sat numb-butted on hard pews that smelled of Murphy’s Oil Soap. But instead of losing himself in it all, he watched others lock into complex rituals of praying, kneeling, standing, and crossing themselves. And never once did he feel any mystery or peace—just near terminal boredom, surrounded by a lot of people going through the motions out of duty, fear, and hope. As for confession, he went because Father Infantino insisted he go. That had always struck him as silly—a way to shed guilt and get a free pass to sin some more.