Murder One by William Bernhardt

Author:William Bernhardt [Bernhardt, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-4532-7720-1
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2012-09-04T17:32:00+00:00

28

KIRK FELL TO HIS knees and flung himself prostrate across the stone bench that flanked the north side of the prayer garden. His arms cradled his head. He thrashed back and forth, riddled with torment, unable to stop the flow of tears that poured forth from his eyes.

“My God, my God,” he moaned to himself. “What have I done?”

He turned his head up, just enough to see the statuette of St. Francis of Assisi. The saint had kindly eyes; he seemed to look at Kirk sympathetically, as if he truly cared about him, as if he shared the torment that wracked Kirk’s soul. St. Francis loved the little animals, right? Would he love Kirk, too? He felt like an animal, torn and battered, barely surviving from one day to the next, isolated from everyone he ever knew or … loved.

He tossed his head back, peering upward, like a wolf howling at the moon. The reminders of his sins were everywhere, all around him. Sins of commission, sins of omission. The first sin was perhaps the worst, but certainly that was forgivable, wasn’t it? The second sin was an atrocity, but given what had gone before, what choice did he have? Surely most people—even St. Francis—could understand where he had been, why it had happened. But the third sin—no one could forgive that. Not even God.

He turned his head, peering into the deep-set stony eyes of the saint. Would you forgive me? he wondered. Could you forgive me?

He felt wasted and empty. Is this what it’s come to? Talking to garden figurines? Begging forgiveness from statuary? He was in even worse shape than he had imagined.

“God hears your prayers,” a voice said softly. “He knows you’re suffering and he wants to help you.”

Kirk’s head shot up. Did the statue—?

He relaxed. No miracles this night. The tall bearded man hovering over him was entirely corporeal and all too present.

“I’m Father Danney,” he said. He was wearing a beret, cocked at a jaunty angle. “Can I possibly be of help?”

“Why are you here?” Kirk growled. Don’t be so damn rude, he thought to himself, almost simultaneously, but the deed was already done.

“This is my church,” Danney explained. He didn’t seem put off in the least by the insolence. “I work here at St. Dunstan’s.”

“Kind of late to be out priesting, isn’t it?”

Danney smiled. “Paperwork,” he explained. “It gets the best of us, even in the ministry. And I do like to walk the garden at night.”

“I don’t think you can help me, Father.”

“Why don’t you give me a try?”

“You can’t imagine what I’ve done.” He turned away, unable to meet the man’s glimmering eyes. “I’ve done something horrible.”

“We all have, son.”

Kirk shook his head. “Not like this.”

“You might be surprised.”

“I’ve made a terrible mistake. An unforgivable error. And it’s like I can’t stop somehow. Everything I do, I follow up with something even more terrible. Like I think that might make it better. Might cancel it out. But it never does. It just makes everything worse.

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