Page 25 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

And the world roars.

The wind is a physical blow. It screams through the stone louvers and pelts my chest with stinging fists of rain. The icy temperature stretches my lips into a smile. Perfetto.

This tower isn’t a true belfry. The bell ordered centuries ago never arrived. It’s not a sacristy either, despite the remnants left from the last priest they had, the one before McBride. It is a stone cage open to the sky.

I close my eyes and breathe.

This … this I understand.

My prison cell didn’t pretend. It was concrete and steel. It was honest. In there, I was a number. A sin. The cold was a fact I learned to embrace. My cell at the seminary was much the same. A hard cot, a stone floor, and one window. It was supposed to be a tool designed to strip me, to flay the comfort from my skin so I had nothing left but God. But the prison cell had been worse. My room at the abbey is a torture chamber, with thin walls and an unamenable woody, floral scent. Even the oratory is a lie.

But here … here, I can breathe.

That’s all I do for a long, drawn-out moment. I stand there in the dark, hands hanging loosely at my sides, with the wind and rain my only companions.

No one comes here at all, I think. Not since the priest who lived up here went mad and ended his life. The story the nuns tell during confession is that he hung himself on the very trees the Sinners use for their training—the ones with nooses for strengthening their necks. He made his penance a public spectacle, or perhaps a warning.

I don’t fish for these sorts of tales, but the nuns seem to enjoy telling them to me. At first, I thought they just liked gossiping. Then, I thought, they’re simply happy to break from their vow of silence and use their voices. Finally, I realized rather uncomfortably that they wanted me to know things. Being the confessor for a group of sanctioned sinners is a challenging task. They see I have not abandoned these women who risk their lives to make a better world. They think I am here to protect them. And they approve of me.

They shouldn’t.

Ten

Cisco

Ineed a drink.

Before I take the whiskey bottle out, I force myself to do a quick sweep of the belfry. An old single-sized mattress is shoved in a corner, out of danger from the elements. Several empty, dusty bottles are scattered around. A plastic soda bottle has a cut-off garden hose stuck into it, along with a metal funnel—a crude bong. Either the priest smoked weed, or the Sinners actually do use this place on the odd occasion. I check the corners, the rafters holding up the ceiling, and the little alcove where a spider has been weaving the same web since I first came up here.

It seems to watch me as I pull the flask from my pocket.

“Un momento, my friend.” I dip my chin toward it. “Before we share a toast to your—what is the word in English?” In Italy, it is called grinta. “Oh yes, grit. But first, I have one more check to make.”

I cross to the southern louvers and peer through the gaps. It’s misty here on a good night. When it storms, I can barely make out the barbed wire fence marking the boundary. The rain is slowing now, though, so I can see the blurry shapes of security cameras over the wrought iron gates. The little red blinking light is a beacon. I sharpen my gaze until I detect the occult symbols painted on the limestone wall. The rain hasn’t washed them away, but I can’t be sure how much is intact from this distance. I must remember to send Wesley to check tomorrow.

My gaze follows the gravel driveway around the lake and to the mausoleum hidden beneath a copse of trees. No movement there except for a few branches whipping. Turning, I look through the belfry’s east louvers and track the long, winding path uphill to the walled garden. A shudder runs through me when I recall the flies, the sense of them watching me.

There’s nothing to the north except dense woods and a glimpse of barbed wire fencing. By the time I check through the east louvers, the rain has slowed to a drizzle, and vision has cleared enough for me to count the vines crawling over the abbey’s façade a mere twenty-second walk from here.

The behemoth building is more like a castle than a monastery. Three floors of windows are dark. It’s late, or early, rather. Maybe two or three a.m., and so everyone’s asleep. All looks quiet.

Good.

Before I settle in with the whiskey, I look with that other part of me. The one that doesn’t need to peer out of any side of the belfry. Without my collar, it feels more alive. Agitated.

I let it call out to the wild darkness and wait for an answer.

The wind howls.

Water drips.

But nothing calls back.

Exhaling with relief, I move again to the southern louvers. I always like to circle back to the beginning to double-check before lowering my inhibitions. I didn’t really give this side of the abbey a good look at first, with the rain. But as expected, all the windows are dark. Nothing else has changed. Satisfied, I unscrew the bottle cap.

“Okay, my friend. It’s time for⁠—”

The bottle halts an inch before my lips. Third row up, second from the right, a light flicks on inside the abbey. Backlit by the cheap lamp on her desk, Mercy walks into view, hair wet from the shower, a towel wrapped around her body.