The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3) Read online

  The Penitent One

  Brian Shea

  THE PENITENT ONE

  Copyright © 2020 by Brian Shea.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Severn River Publishing

  www.SevernRiverPublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-64875-018-2 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-64875-019-9 (Hardback)

  Contents

  Also By Brian Shea

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Join the Reader List

  You Might Also Enjoy…

  Thanks for Reading

  Next in Series

  SIGN OF THE MAKER: Chapter 1

  Read Sign of the Maker

  About the Author

  Also By Brian Shea

  The Nick Lawrence Series

  Kill List

  Pursuit of Justice

  Burning Truth

  Targeted Violence

  Murder 8

  The Boston Crime Thriller Series

  Murder Board

  Bleeding Blue

  The Penitent One

  Sign of the Maker

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  Unkillable: A Nick Lawrence Short Story

  This one goes out to my father-in-law, Burt, or better known to my girls who absolutely adore him, Pop Pop. Your newfound love of reading is contagious! Thank you for being you and all the tireless support you've shown for all of my endeavors.

  1

  Donovan O’Brien, or Father Donny as he was known to his parishioners, looked out on the congregation spread out amidst the pews. He remembered a time when the bench seats were packed with people. His Masses seemed to fill the rows more than the much older Father Winslow’s services. Father Tomlin, who was closer in age, had not been with the parish long and wasn’t from the neighborhood. His support was growing but he hadn’t garnered much of a following yet. Not that O’Brien was keeping track. More obvious was the disparity in age for the ones he presided over. This morning, the crowd was a good two decades younger than those who attended Father Winslow’s Masses.

  Debbie Shoemaker sat in the front row. He’d known Deb for years. And in a very personal way. That was before his calling. But there she was next to Joslyn Roswell. The two couldn’t have been more different in outward appearances.

  Even though it was only twenty-seven degrees outside, Deb felt the compulsion to wear a low-cut silk blouse accentuating her ample cleavage. She intentionally leaned forward to read her missalette, allowing the soft curvature of her flesh to push against her shirt, testing the strength of the light pink bra. Any onlooker trying to avoid temptation best look elsewhere. Even for a man of the cloth, it was a test of willpower.

  O’Brien had seen old man Haggerty take a beating from his wife when caught ogling the voluptuous woman more than fifty years younger than him. But even with his wife’s mean swing of a purse, he still spent most of every service working to angle himself for one more glimpse of Deb’s partially exposed body.

  Joslyn, on the other hand, was much more reserved in her appearance. But what she held in reserve by dress, she made up for in action. She was a toucher. More than once during her departure from the church, the tight-bodied blonde had made a point of hugging him. The things she whispered in his ears were enough to make a sailor blush and forced him to immediately make an Act of Contrition. If the hugs and whispering weren’t enough, Joslyn, on three separate occasions, had grabbed his crotch. Now, when possible, he avoided her like the plague.

  The two temptresses sat side by side, directly in Father Donny’s line of sight, as he stepped to the podium to deliver his homily. The outside of his left eye, along his upper cheek, was still slightly discolored in a subtle yellowish-purple hue from a punch Mike Kelly had landed during last Thursday’s session at Pops’s gym. It had been a heck of an overhand right delivered by his lifelong friend. He brushed it absentmindedly, the tenderness of the three-day-old bruise temporarily distracting him from Deb’s cleavage.

  He cleared his throat and adjusted his collar as he looked outward.

  “With Thanksgiving around the corner, I wanted to take a moment and talk about cleaning the plate. And I don’t mean after your third trip to the dessert table.”

  A ripple of laughter circulated through the congregation.

  “I’m talking about your spiritual plate. It becomes burdensome to carry the heavy load of sin. Imagine piling on the turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes, and going back for seconds before eating your first. The weight of your dinner plate would eventually slip from your hands and likely shatter on the floor. I know I’ve got your stomachs rumbling at all this talk of food. Don’t worry, you’ll be getting your Eucharist soon enough.”

  The reference to the small, light-as-air wafer earned another chuckle from the group.

  “But in all seriousness, your spiritual health is important to me. Without clearing away buildup on your soul, you run the risk of shattering your faith. I think you can see the number of churchgoers has dropped in recent years. Much is due to the weight of sin. Hard to walk through those three arched doors behind you when you feel unworthy of God’s grace.”

  The group seemed to sense the seriousness in his normally uplifting tone and grew solemn. Even Deb adjusted her shirt, partially shielding her breasts from view.

  “There is a simple way to wipe clean your plate. To start fresh in the eyes of God. And that’s through the Sacrament of Penance. I haven’t seen many of you lining up at the confessional lately. But not to worry, I have faith today will be different. After Mass, why don’t you take a bit of your busy Sunday to stop in. Lighten your spiritual load before you tackle the turkey of life.”

  A little laugh enlivened the group. Joslyn seemed to take the invitation to stop by the confessional as some secret code for a romantic tryst, because she bit the bottom of her lip and winked. Father Donny felt warm and knew his normally pale cheeks had reddened.

  “Let us stand,” he said, concluding his sermon and resuming the ritualistic aspect of the Mass.

  This priest was good, the man in back thought to himself. It seemed as if today’s homily was written just for him. The words were powerful in and of themselves, but he knew now the importance of his life’s purpose. God spoke to him. The priest was a mere vessel to deliver his message, but he heard it loud and clear. Whe
n he first entered the church, he wasn’t exactly sure of his direction. He had it now. A cleansing in the biblical sense. And what better place to do it.

  Although not a parishioner of this particular church, the man had been raised Catholic, and the routines of most services were universal. Up, down, kneel. He had never been inside this church before today, but he’d been called to it.

  The Mass ended, but the man remained. He lowered the cushioned hassock and knelt. The closing hymn echoed along the vaulted ceiling as the priest and his entourage of altar boys solemnly paced down the center aisle toward the back of the church. As they passed each row, the members of the congregation began their clamorous departure. The man did not look up when the priest passed by. His hands were folded in prayer, and he rested the center of his forehead on his scarred knuckles. His eyes were closed, and he slipped into a deep prayer, beginning his own private penance before meeting with the priest. His spiritual plate was full and needed cleaning before he set about adding to it.

  The last person in the short line to the confessional had exited. A woman with an incredible chest. The man wondered what sorts of sins a woman like this confessed. He would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall in there. She hadn’t spent long inside the closed room and was leaving in a huff without completing whatever prescribed number of Hail Mary or Our Father prayers she was given to receive her full absolution.

  As the woman passed, he wondered what his penance would be for the things he’d done.

  The back door to the church boomed as it closed, leaving the interior in a hushed silence. Nobody around except for the kneeling man and the priest enclosed in his section of the confessional. Forty-five minutes until the next Mass was to begin.

  The man rose and walked down the middle aisle toward the closed door of the confessional, his footsteps noisy against the tiled floor. He genuflected in front of the altar.

  As he neared the door, the priest opened his section and looked out, startled when he saw him.

  “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The man secretly enjoyed this unexpected face-to-face interaction with the holy man. “Do you have time for one more?”

  The priest looked down at his watch and smiled. “Sure. I don’t mean to rush you, but the next Mass will be starting soon, and I’ve got a little prep to do.”

  The man bowed slightly and smiled. “It won’t take long at all.”

  The priest retreated inside and closed the door.

  Before entering his section of the dim confessional, the man looked around. Still alone. Satisfied, he disappeared inside. He knelt on the pew facing the small covered window. He could feel the warmth of the knees of the woman who’d preceded him.

  The priest slid back the solid divider. A dark screen separated the two men. “Do you know the rite? Or would you like me to guide you?” the priest asked, looking forward, away from the kneeling man.

  “I know it well, thank you, Father,” the man said. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.” The man recited the words with no hesitation or fumbling.

  “Very well, my son. How long has it been since your last confession?”

  “Twenty-seven days.”

  “What sin is it you seek to confess before God?” the priest asked.

  “Murder.”

  The priest shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Go on.”

  “Can you absolve me from something I haven’t done?”

  The priest gave a sigh of relief. “So you’ve thought about killing someone? And you’d like absolution?”

  “I’m going to kill this person and I’d like forgiveness before I do,” the man said softly.

  “I’m not sure I can. If you told me who this person is or what they’ve done to you to make you want to kill them, then maybe I could help.” The priest’s voice no longer exuded confidence and he choked on the words.

  “This person has done nothing to me personally. But they know what they’ve done.”

  “I don’t understand,” the priest said with a tremor. “Who is this person you speak of?”

  “You.”

  The silenced pistol in the man’s hand was already positioned against the wood paneling of the thin wall separating the two rooms. The shot toppled the priest from his chair. The man rose and took aim through the screen, preparing to fire an additional bullet for good measure but quickly realized it wasn’t necessary.

  Then he knelt once more into the dimpled fabric and completed his prayer.

  2

  The shopping cart’s front left wheel wobbled wildly, pulling it to the left and forcing Michael Kelly to pay extra care to navigating it past other shoppers. He did so with some failing, crashing the side of the cart into the grocery aisle refrigeration section's retaining wall for the second time in less than a minute. He now understood the purpose of the black rubber bumper lining the knee-high retaining wall of the fruits and vegetables, a guardrail designed to protect against any wayward cart drivers cruising the thoroughfare of Stop & Shop's tiled aisles. As if adding insult to injury, his latest crash was accompanied by a deafening squeak of the wheel, drawing the attention of a few nearby shoppers. Kelly smiled, throwing his shoulders up into a shrug.

  He leaned down and reached for a bag of Brussels sprouts as the timed mist sprayed down from above, dampening his outstretched arm. Perfect! When it rains it pours. He wasn’t a big fan of grocery shopping, and this latest venture only added to his dislike. The one bright spot was the company he’d brought along with him.

  Kelly fished out a family-sized bag of sprouts and tossed it into the cart. Embry looked up at him, her green eyes wide with fear, as if she had just seen a bear pop out from behind a tree.

  "Are you kidding me, Dad?" she asked, staring down at the newest item added to the cart.

  Kelly smiled. "Come on, they're good for you. Plus, the way I cook them, they're not that healthy. Trust me, they’ll be delicious. I think you're old enough to at least give it a try. I'm going to be cooking them with bacon. You love bacon."

  Embry stuck her tongue out in a gagging gesture and slowly shook her head from left to right, eyes still holding a feigned, wide-eyed look of shock at his suggestion that she try something so horrible as fresh Brussels sprouts on Thanksgiving. “Great, now I don’t even get to look forward to bacon.”

  “Don’t worry. I bought two packs. One for the sprouts and one for the pancakes the next morning.”

  “As long as they’re not Brussels sprout pancakes.”

  Kelly’s turn to roll his eyes.

  "So, tell me more. When is she coming?" And just like that his daughter flipped the conversation back to their previous discussion. She batted her eyes with a coy, mocking gesture as she continued to subtly tease her father, which she had done since they first entered the store.

  Actually, the taunting began when his daughter learned about their guest at this year’s Thanksgiving dinner. Embry had met Kristen Barnes before, but not since the two of them decided to try their hand at a relationship. And much to Kelly’s misery, Embry was taking far too much pleasure in tormenting him for it.

  "Look, like I told you before, Kris will be stopping by. No big deal. She's just a friend. Kris isn’t coming to dinner. She'll only be over for dessert." Kelly tried to downplay his excitement, but he could see by Embry’s eye-rolling that she wasn’t buying into it.

  "Maybe she’s skipping dinner to avoid your Brussels sprouts?"

  Kelly laughed. Embry would make a hell of an interrogator someday, although he said a silent prayer every night that she would never choose to follow in his footsteps.

  "I’m sure she’s very upset at the prospect of missing out on my secret recipe. But she's got a family tra
dition of her own. Kris has never missed a Thanksgiving dinner with her parents unless work interfered, and I don't want to be the reason she misses tomorrow’s."

  “Why?” Embry asked with genuine interest.

  "It's an important time for her. I don’t know if I told you, but she was in foster care for a long time.”

  “Her mom didn’t want her?”

  It was a foreign concept to a child like Embry, who’d never experienced anything like that. Kelly thought of the recent revelation regarding his own biological mother and his secret adoption, something he had not yet shared with his daughter. He wasn’t sure when the time would be appropriate to do so, especially since he was still processing the news himself.

  “Not every mother can keep their child.”

  “That’s sad,” Embry said solemnly.

  Kelly was always impressed with his daughter’s ability to empathize. “It is, and I’m sure it was for Kris, but some good came of it. She was eventually adopted by a loving family who couldn’t have children of their own.”

  “But I still don’t understand why she can’t come to our house for dinner.”

  Kelly was delighted to hear his daughter so intent on having Barnes over. If for no other reason than to have a partner to commiserate with her suffering in having to eat the sprouts.