The day had been excruciating.
Lies. Perfidy. Adultery. Cruelty. And murder.
Sins teeming and abounding around him while he spent time with his mother and siblings. To offer solace. To provide comfort. But there had been none of that, nor had there been much time for bereavement and grief and murmuring of prayers for safety and sanity. Oh, no…
Oliver’s stomach lurched, threatening to give up its contents as he recalled the visit at the old house on St. Marie Avenue.
There had been talk, all in hushed tones, about what was to be done. How to “handle the situation.” Oliver quivered inside, knew that what was being planned was so very wrong. And yet he didn’t have the strength of character, the conviction for the truth and love of Christ that would help him persevere, so he’d retreated here, to his sanctuary, the church where he so often prayed for a courage he would never know.
The weight of falsehood pressed hard against his soul. Swallowing hard, he knew it was time to end the lies, to tell the truth, to stand tall and let the scandal, the punishment, begin.
He, of course, would be denied ordination, perhaps even excommunicated for his sins, but his soul needed washing. Cleansing.
He was weak.
Oh, Holy Father, so weak.
Perhaps death was the only solution, he thought, lighting several candles and watching the small flames flicker and burn. If he confessed his sins, prayed for absolution, the Father might still allow him into heaven. He was, after all, a forgiving God.
Surely death would be better than this perpetual torment on earth. He’d tried before…But now…Could he commit a mortal sin? Who would receive his confession? Who would absolve him before he died? Father Timothy?
Father, please…Help me.
Listening to the peal of the church bells, he dropped to his knees on the hard stone floor of the church with its high ceilings, tall stained-glass windows depicting the stations of the cross and the altar. The scent of burned incense sweetened the air, mingling with the odor of his own nervous sweat. He needed guidance and penance, a means to see clearly his path, a way to be absolved of so many sins. Deftly, he made the sign of the cross, felt the weight of the rosary in the deep pocket of his jacket. “Forgive me, Father. Please, I beseech you, help me find the strength to stop this.” He fought a spate of tears and the darkness that pulled at the corners of his consciousness. Depression and fear vied for his soul and he was so tired, so weary from the burden of sin he’d carried for three long years, that he didn’t know if he could go on.
He thought he heard the scrape of a shoe behind him and he glanced about. His eyes and ears strained, but no one was entering. He was alone, just nervous, worried about what he had to do. The candles seemed to shift a bit. He saw a mouse dart beneath one of the pews and slip into a tiny crack in the wall. He was imagining things again. Jumping at shadows. Letting the paranoia slip into his life.
Don’t go there. Don’t give in to the fear, the hatred. Remember Neville, the one who was your other half, whose image was identical to your own, but whose psyche was so different.
Oliver began to weep at the thought of his twin.
Stop it, show some spine, some strength of character. Do not fall apart, do not let Satan control you, do not let the weakness send you away, to the hospital, to a place where dreams are broken and lives are destroyed.
He remembered Our Lady of Virtues from his childhood. The darkness that oozed through the hallways, the secrets behind the locked doors, the resident, ever-present evil that stalked all those who had the misfortune to reside in those darkened corridors.
“Deliver me,” Oliver prayed, shuddering inside, once again a frightened little boy. The sound of the ringing bells stopped suddenly, the church again thrown into a dark silence that was pierced only by the sound of his own breathing, the heavy beat of his heart.
Nervously, he slid his fingers into his pocket and extracted his rosary with its worn, well-used beads, hoping to find the comfort it usually brought him. He took a deep breath as he prepared to whisper the prayers that were forever a part of his daily life. His fingers wrapped familia
rly over the crucifix of the rosary and again, he made the sign of the cross. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth…”
Tears of regret filled his eyes as his lips moved and he looked up at the statue of Jesus on the cross. So immersed was he in his prayer that he didn’t notice the soft rush of air as a door opened, was deaf to stealthy footsteps approaching, didn’t realize someone had slipped into the church for a singular and deadly purpose, didn’t begin to understand why tonight, like Christ before him, he was to die for the sins of others…
Chapter 25
Dani’s heart was beating crazily. Her lungs burned and her legs stung where they’d been slapped by berry vines and stickers as she ran down the trail. She had no idea what time it was or how long it had been since she’d escaped, but she had run until she could run no longer, her body screaming for rest. She had shin splints from going downhill, but she kept pushing forward, trying to get as much distance between herself and the cabin. The farther she got, the more likely she would make it to safety.
Keep going. Just keep going! Gritting her teeth she never completely stopped, sliding a couple of times, stumbling on loose rocks, but fortunately never falling or twisting her ankle. Hurriedly, she swept the beam of the flashlight in front of her, keeping as fast a pace as possible, but she was gasping, the only thing keeping her going now was the adrenaline pumping through her blood.
She didn’t know if it was better to run under the cover of darkness, hoping he didn’t see her flashlight, or if, after daybreak, she could make better time, see what was ahead, but be visible herself.
Surely she’d lost him.
Certainly now she was far enough away from him that he wouldn’t find her.
And yet she remembered his steely determination, the way he did his exercises naked on the floor in front of the fire, sweating profusely, his skin shining with perspiration, his dark hair soaked and in strands, the scars on his back slick and gleaming.
He would never give up.