A peaceful life.
But as the minutes passed, that dream seemed to blur with black, his life’s tapestry catching fire and disappearing from existence with every lick of new flame. And in its stead was a new path, this one more of a nightmare than a beautiful dream.
Look after your brother. Love him, for both of us.
He had to save James. He had to get to James.
For that he would have to sin. He would have to stray from his devout ways.
Joseph would have to earn his place in Purgatory.
Chapter Three
Joseph shook as he opened the doors to Holy Innocents Church. It was Tuesday night. On Tuesday nights the priests held a meeting in the back office of the church. Joseph hovered on the threshold of the doors and looked down at the marble floor beyond. The knife in his robes felt like a ten-ton weight. When his eyes caught sight of Mary’s painting on the wall, he quickly averted his gaze. But it didn’t matter; Joseph could feel the knowing stares from the saints and archangels painted on the ceilings, of the apostles from the stained-glass windows warning him against what he was about to do. Joseph couldn’t even face the crucifix that stood center stage.
A sacrifice, he reminded himself. For James. He needs me. I gave my vow to protect him. A vow I must fulfill. This isn’t about me.
Joseph took in what he knew would be his last pure inhale of breath. He counted to ten, then entered the church. Eyes pinned straight forward, he walked with determination to the office. Joseph didn’t hesitate. He turned the knob of the private room, and, without pausing to second-guess the upcoming sin, he withdrew James’s knife from his robe and charged. His feet pounded on the wooden floor in the direction of Father Quinn. Father Quinn glanced up in surprise, then his eyes widened on seeing Joseph rush his way. It wasn’t until Joseph had plunged the blade through Father Quinn’s shoulder that any of the priests seemed to react.
They trusted me, he thought. They never thought I would fall so badly from grace.
Joseph knew that for as long as he lived he would never forget the horrifying feeling of the blade sinking into Father Quinn’s flesh. The sickening feeling of hurting another, harming someone with his own hand. An incredible rush of nausea threatened to bring Joseph to his knees, but he held firm, pulling out the blade, readying to reluctantly strike again. As the blade slid from the flesh, he saw the blood on the metal. The evidence of his betrayal of the church, of God, and of the future he had so desperately craved. But just as he raised his arm to strike again, a strong hand gripped his wrist. Gripped it so hard that Joseph cried out. The blade slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground. Another hand wrapped around his throat, but Joseph kept his eyes on Father Quinn. On his favorite priest, his mentor, who was now looking at Joseph like he was the devil incarnate.
Pain wrapped itself around Joseph’s arm. He gritted his teeth to bite back the cry of agony caused by his sore wrist. But he couldn’t take his gaze from Father Quinn. From the blood that ran down his arm, the red blending in with the black of his shirt. Father Quinn got to his feet, his palm covering his wound. When he withdrew his hand, it was coated with red. Father Quinn stood before Joseph. Joseph fought the need to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness. To confess, and tell him it was all for James. But he had a role to play. If he was to see James, he had to see this through. He must become a devil-like sinner in their eyes.
“Joseph,” Father Quinn said. His voice was neutral, without emotion. Joseph glared at the priest just like he had practiced in the mirror. He had pictured the face James wore when he was racked with rage. And he emulated that malicious stare now. Father Quinn’s nostrils flared—the only indication he felt anything about the situation at all.
As Father Quinn went to open his mouth, Joseph spat in his face. The saliva hit the priest’s cheek and ran down his clean-shaven face. Joseph maintained his glare, but inside, his heart broke in two. He had desecrated the man he respected most in the world.
He didn’t see Father McCarthy to his left. He only knew the other priest was there when a hand struck his face. Joseph’s head snapped to the side. The tinny taste of blood burst in his mouth. It is justified, Joseph thought. Blood for blood. Sacrifice for the pain he had caused.
Harsh fingers gripped his chin and yanked his face forward. Joseph was met with Father Quinn’s stony eyes and tight-lipped mouth. “Two sinners born from the same set of heathens,” Father Quinn said calmly, measuredly . . . coldly. A spark of true ire burst inside Joseph. His mother. Father Quinn talked of his mother. A heathen? She had been anything but.