There is no crime too big to forgive. In theory.
Then again, beggars can’t be choosers, and madman need better outlets to shop.
Then again, beggars can’t be choosers, and madman need better outlets to shop.
A Small Bit of Absolution by Gerald Sheagren
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Richie Cantalini scrambled up the
marble steps of Saint Patrick’s, entering the cathedral through what had to be blessed
doors. His first order of business was to dip three fingers into the font of holy
water, making a quick sign-of-the-cross. Would his visit here be enough to
relive him of his sins; to void the thirty-five contacts he’d carried out; to
set his poor tortured mind at ease? It was definitely worth a try. After all,
Saint Patrick had rid Ireland of its snakes. Could old Saint Pat also rid him
of the slithery serpents that were crawling through his brain?
Richie walked down the center aisle
of the cathedral, marveling at its high-vaulted ceiling and its many
stained-glass windows. There were a number of people in attendance, probably a
lot of them tourists, sitting in the pews and bowing their heads in silent
prayer. One little boy was looking about in wide-eyed wonderment, captivated by
the cathedral’s vast and infinite beauty. Someone was playing the Gallery
Organ, its musical pipes echoing off the cathedral’s walls.
Richie edged along, thinking that
the last time he’d been in a house of God was when he’d attended the funeral
mass of one of his first victims. He’d sat there, with nothing short of humor,
watching the grieving family members as they mourned for their loved one, who,
in actuality, wasn’t worth a pile of shit. Oh…maybe one, two or three of them
might have had a inkling of what a bastard their sweet departed had been, but
were unwilling to stand up and admit to it. Family pride trumps all.
Richie’s second order of business
was to head to a long stand of votive candles, their flames flickering in
little red jars. Since he had so many victims and there weren’t nearly enough
unlit candles, he decided to light a single one for the combined total. He
smiled when the flame took hold, his black, festering heart twitching with a
small amount of joy.
A now for the final event. Richie
looked around, his eyes finally settling on the required confessional. There had
to be a priest in attendance. And if there was, the dude had taken an oath to
keep his mouth shut, no matter what anyone confessed.
But when Richie hurried over and
tried the door to where the confessor would kneel, he found the door locked. No! Give me a frigging break! This can’t be!
I have sins to confess and I need absolution. Head spinning with anger,
Richie tried using both hands, but the damn door wouldn’t budge, other than
issuing a few little rattles.
Nearly blacking out with rage, Richie
drew a .45 from a shoulder-rig under his overcoat, firing off a shot that
splintered the wood near the lock. Firing again, the door finally creaked open.
Screams sounded and everyone in the cathedral made a mad scramble for the
safety of outdoors. Unconcerned, Richie eased open the ruined door and entered
the quiet of the confessional, taking up a comfortable position on the padded
kneeler. Just being inside here was enough to replace his anger with a warm and
fuzzy feeling.
*
“Bless me, Father, for I have
sinned. My last confession was … was … was so long ago that I can’t remember.”
A croaky voice responded. “And you
have plenty of fuckin’ sins, don’t you, Richie boy?”
Richie scrubbed his head with his
hands. “Who in the hell is this?”
“It’s your old pal, Carmine
Spignoli.”
“But I whacked you ten, maybe
twelve years ago.”
“I’ll tell you this, you little
punk. If you hadn’t snuck up on me from the rear, I would have kicked your ass
a month from Sunday.”
Richie’s heart was beating so fast
that he thought it might burst. A river of cold sweat was flowing down both his
forehead and spine. He tried to speak, but his words couldn’t seem to get
around the walnut-sized lump in his throat. He began to pound his head with
both hands, trying to silence the frigging voice. Sometimes that worked.
“If you’re looking for absolution,
you’ve come to the wrong place, Richie boy. No amount of Our Fathers and Hail
Marys and Acts of Contrition are going to relieve your troubled soul.”
Richie finally found his voice. “Shut
the hell up! This is impossible! I … I bashed your head in with a Louisville
Slugger.”
“You don’t have to remind me,
kiddo. And you certainly don’t have to remind my poor wife and three sons.”
Whining and swaying, Richie
visualized the bat, its hardwood splintered and covered with blood.
“It hurt, Richie. Before the
darkness came, it hurt so fuckin’ bad.”
Panicked and willing himself to
stand, Richie wobbled out of the confessional, head and heart pounding, the .45
once again drawn and in his hand. He hadn’t taken six steps when he spotted the
two cops midway up the center aisle, both taking the shooter’s stance and
double-arming their service weapons in his direction.
“Freeze!” shouted the taller of the
two cops. “Drop your gun and clasp your hands on your head!”
Carmine Spignoli’s voice spoke
again in Richie’s brain. “You’re in a world of shit now, kiddo.”
“I’m warning you! Drop your gun
now!”
Carmine’s voice took on a tone of urgency.
“You can always end things like your fucked-brain father did. Believe me, if
you do some time for this little transgression, you won’t like those shower
rooms in prison. Go ahead, Richie—do what you have to do. You can earn a small
bit of absolution.”
“Drop that gun!
Within the course of two flashing
seconds, Richie fired a bullet into his temple at the very same instant that
two police bullets plowed into his chest.
Gerald E. Sheagren is a 68-year-old retiree, who lives in the historic town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, with his wife Sharon and three cats. His interests include studying history, writing short stories and reading the current bestsellers. Over the past twenty odd years many of his stories have appeared both online and in hard print. He writes everything from historical and inspirational stories to science fiction, horror and westerns. But every now and then, when the urge comes upon him, like having sex for a change, he gets on down and writes a gritty and dark-ass crime story.
