Billionaire’s Sins by L. Steele

23

Edward

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been…many years since I last confessed."

He swallows, shuffles his feet. The air in the booth grows denser. I shift around to make myself more comfortable. Not that I begrudge the fact that he came this late… But the fact that he interrupted my time, when I was talking to God? I’m not too happy about that. Still, I’d never turn away someone who walks in and asks for help. I lean forward, press the tips of my fingers together, "Go on, son, what would you like to tell me today?"

He fidgets around some more, then leans in, "I… I did something very bad, Father." He pauses, gulps audibly, then blows out a breath. "It was because of me that many lives were spoiled."

"How is that?"

"I helped some bad men when I was much younger. I didn’t realize what I was doing then, but it was because of me that many other boys found their futures changed completely." His voice wavers, and he buries his face in his hands. "If I could only turn back time, I’d never have given information of the movements of my classmates to those men."

"How old were you when this happened?"

"I was twelve." His voice breaks. He clears his throat. "I may have put those boys in jeopardy, but it might as well have been me who was taken, as well."

The hair on the nape of my neck rises. "Taken?" I keep all inflection out of my tone. "Who was taken?"

"The boys I spied on." His tone lowers, "I… I couldn’t help it, Father. My parents were well-off, but then they lost all their money in a stock market crash. It was only because they'd been patrons who had made large donations that I'd been able to continue my studies in the same school." He shuffles around some more. "And I needed the money." He glances away, then back at me, "I uh, you…you understand what I am trying to say?"

"What did you need the money for?" I can hazard a guess, but I want him to spell it out for me.

"Alcohol... drugs." I sense him shrug.

"You were an addict?"

"That’s putting it lightly." He barks out a self-deprecating laugh. "Vodka for breakfast, coke, and not the drinking kind, for lunch, all combined with downers for supper. I was in terrible shape."

I stare through the pattern in the partition, try to make out the expression on his face, but of course, I can’t. Who the hell is this guy? Why did he walk in here, of all the churches, and what is he trying to tell me? "How did your school authorities miss that you were an addict?"

"Oh, I was very well-behaved in class, the epitome of the model student. No one, not even my schoolmates, guessed just how far gone I was. If it hadn't been for the fact that my parents lost their fortune..." I sense him shrug, "I could have maintained the status-quo. But it was not to be... I... I—"

"You needed money?"

"You can say that again. And as with all things, when you are desperate, the vultures find you." He drags in a breath. "I was only twelve, Father. You need to understand, I didn’t have a clue about the seriousness of what I was going to do."

I curl my fingers into fists, force myself to breathe, breathe. "What did you do?" I finally ask.

"This stranger approached me when I was trying to track down my favorite dealer, who had refused to take my calls because, of course, they know when you are desperate. When you need them the most, that’s when they desert you. Have you found that, Father?"

He’s blathering now, trying to stray off track, trying to lead himself and me away from the topic at hand. Typical. I’ve found this pattern to be true of many who come to confession. It’s almost like they are in the therapist’s chair here. Though, unlike the reasons that lead them to see a therapist, they come here because their conscience doesn’t permit them to stay quiet anymore.

Yet, even this far into the narrative, self-preservation kicks in and they try their best to wriggle out of it, to place the blame elsewhere.

"This stranger," I prompt him. "What did he want from you?"

"When I finally tracked down my dealer, he was waiting for me."

"Who?" I query. "The dealer?"

"The man," he snaps. "Are you following me, Father?"

I twist my lips. "I am right there with you."

"He was well-dressed, in an expensive suit, sunglasses, a hat... Looked like something out of a Mafia film."

My heart begins to thud. Sweat beads my temple. "Is that what he was? The Mafia?"

"So, I found out later." He swallows. "He wanted me to get information on some boys."

My pulse thuds at my temples. "What kind of information?"

"About their daily routines. How they got to school every day, where they went to football practice, what else they did in the afterschool hours."

"So, you did it?"

"Yeah." I sense him nod. "I got him all the information he wanted."

"And he rewarded you?"

"For my sins?" he says quietly. "Asshole, gave me drugs and kept doing so for the next... I don’t know, many years. They made me dependent on them. I ended up being reliant on them for my next fix, something they exploited, in every way possible."

"And do you still work for them?" I keep my voice even.

"What do you think?" He laughs bitterly, "Once you've interacted with them, they never let you go."

I rub at the pain that stabs at my chest. What the hell am I doing, encouraging him to speak? I should ask him to shut up. I should get the hell out of here, before I do something I’ll regret. I lock my fingers together, tuck my elbows into my sides.

"And the boys on whom you reported. What about them?"

He stays silent.

"You’ve come this far. Get it all off your chest. Pour out all the worries inside of you to make space for the Holy Spirit." I narrow my gaze on the screen and what I can see of his profile. Go on, you asshole, confirm to me what I already know. Do it already. Give me the chance to get even for everything that happened to me and my friends. Say it. Do it.

"The b-boys," he stutters, "the...they were kidnapped."

My heart stops, then picks up speed and slams into my chest. The blood thuds at my temples. My palms grow clammy and I flex my fingers.

"What school?" I force myself to say the words, "Which school did these boys attend?"

He draws in another breath, seems to hesitate.

"Get out everything, my son," I prompt him. "Every last memory associated with what happened. Lay it all out, so you can make a fresh start.

He swallows, moves around again, then finally lets out a sigh. "St. Lucian’s," he mumbles.

I freeze. "St. Lucian’s?"

So, he definitely is talking about me and rest of the Seven. Not that there had been any doubt in my mind. Too much of what he’d told me matched what had happened to us. But I had to be completely sure.

"Only the most exclusive private school in the country," he scoffs. "You wouldn’t think kids from such an exclusive school would be involved in something like that, would you?"

I stare at his profile through the screen. This is the person responsible for turning the lives of me and my friend’s upside down. If he hadn’t shared information on us... Someone else would have? Maybe. Maybe not. Right now, as the facts stand, it is this man—this pathetic, wretched excuse of a human being—who shared information on us, who is partially responsible for the emotionally deficient, heartless men that we have become. And maybe he hasn’t fared that well either. But it doesn’t change the fact that if he hadn’t reported on us, if he had turned down the offer of the Mafia, there’s a small chance we might have turned out normal. Normal? Hah! What’s that? What do I know about it? Except, that it is what most of the Seven now have.

Not me, though.

Never me.

And this guy… This bastard sitting on the opposite side of the screen is responsible for the sodden, tragic-comedy farce that my life has become. My vision tunnels and my senses pop. I rise to my feet, walk around and yank the curtain open.

The man stares up at me. "Father?" He frowns. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing." I smile at him. "Everything is just how it should be. You couldn’t have picked a better church and a more apt priest to confess your sins to."

His shoulders sag in relief. "Thank you, Father. I’m so grateful that you listened and did not judge."

"Me, judge?" I chuckle. "No, I wouldn’t do that. Why would I? After all, kids are young and resilient. They bounce back from such traumatic memories, don’t they? Assuming they survived to tell the tale, that is?"

"Oh, they did." He bobs his head up and down. "They all survived, thank God for that."

"You sure ‘bout that?"

"What?"

"That it was better that they survived?" I lean down and peer into his face, "Are you positive it was better that they survived?"

He blinks rapidly. "Uh... Yes. Of course. I mean, better to live than to die, right?"

"Wrong."

He gapes at me. "F…father, is everything all right? You…you…seem pale."

"Do I?" I reach out and clamp my fingers around his neck. "Wonder why that is?"

His gaze widens. I tighten my grasp and he coughs, then grabs at my hand. I haul him up to his feet.

"Wh… what are you doing?" he chokes out.

"What does it look like?"

I drag him out of the booth and toward the altar.

"Father…" He tries to speak, but I squeeze his neck, apply even more pressure. His body jerks. He opens and shuts his mouth, then digs his fingernails into my wrist. Pain shivers up my arm; all noise in my head fades.

"Do you know who I am?" I stare into his widened gaze. "Answer me."

He opens and shuts his mouth, but no words emerge.

"Nod, if you recognize me," I order.

"I... I..." He gags. "Edward Chase." He finally says, " I know who you are."

I blink. "And yet you came to me to confess?" I say in a low voice. "Why is that?"

His gaze widens, but he doesn't speak.

"Tell me, what game are you trying to play with me? Why did you walk into my church? Why choose to confess to me?" I squeeze harder, and his eyes bulge. He begins to choke, to scratch at my wrists. His shoulders shudder, tears leak out from the corners of his eyes.

"Did you think you'd get Absolution for your sins? After all isn't Absolution an integral part of the Sacrament of Penance, is that why you came to me? To be forgiven? And who better to do so than one of the Seven who was a victim of your wrong doing?"

He shakes his head, and a cold sensation grips my chest. My belly knots, and my pulse rate slows down.

"Or maybe you came, knowing if you confessed to me, it would push me over the edge. Maybe you hoped I'd lose control enough to grant you eternal redemption. After all, it’s thanks to what you did that I found my faith. So, it's only right that I use the authority conferred on me to grant you eternal peace."

His gaze widens.

"Normally I take the vow of confidentiality during confession very seriously, but in your case, I'll be making an exception."

He tries to speak, but only a choking sound emerges.

"By the power vested in me my by the Church, I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost." My vision tunnels. Anger thrums at my temples. I release the grip on his throat with one hand while I continue to choke him with other. I raise my right hand. "In the name of the Father." I squeeze his throat, as I lower my hand. "Son." I increase the pressure on his throat as I swipe my free hand to my left, "Holy Spirit." I bear down with every last sliver of strength left in me. "Amen." I complete the benediction by moving my hand to my right.

When I loosen my grip on him, he slumps down to the floor. I lower my arms to my sides, then glance up at the figure on the cross above me. "So, this is what you wanted from me? This is the answer to my prayers then, my Lord?"

I stare up at the face of Christ, rake my gaze across His features frozen in agony.

"Tell me, my Lord, is this the way You repay me for the years I spent in Your service, in making sure I did everything that was my duty to You, in ensuring that I would leave no stone unturned in my loyalty to You? It was all a test, wasn’t it? Every single thing I did has led up to this moment, and I am helpless to stop it. For I am not in control… You are…or so You’d have me think?" I tip up my chin glare at He who does not speak to me anymore.

"Well, guess what? Not anymore. From this day on, I am no longer in Your service. No one controls my destiny. Not him—" I stab my finger in the direction of the figure on the ground, "not You, not anyone else. Me, I am the master of my destiny. Me, Edward Chase, from here on, I renounce my association with You."

The wind blows in through the open side door, which slams shut. The sound ricochets around the space, coils into my guts. "Oh, no, you don’t." I smile up at the figure on the wall. "You can’t stop me, not now. You had Your chance and You lost it. You lost me, my Lord. This is where we part ways."

I snatch the collar from around my neck and drop it on the man on the floor.

Then walk out the side door, through the garden, to my cottage. I pick up my phone, stare at it, then dial the one number I’d sworn never to call.