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Chapter Nine – Ezekiel
The morning passed slowly. I caught myself thinking of Giselle Santos often. I’d let her rush off, knowing I’d upset her enough for the night. I also knew I’d touched on a few things too close to home for her. It was a talent of mine, seeing into people’s souls, knowing what they feared, what they desired, what they hated. I’d honed that skill well throughout my life, thanks to the teachings of someone the world hated.
I knew a broken soul when I saw one. I knew someone wearing a mask, too. I was well-accustomed to peering into the souls of monsters; not that I was saying Giselle was a monster, but she was the daughter of one. She’d been touched by one, shaped by one. She was not a normal girl to say the least.
At the end, I’d seen a piece of her that was real. Someone sad. Someone exhausted and weary with the world, a feeling which I understood perfectly. This world was not made for the weary or the weak; this world was made for the strong, and because of that, those with strength always ended up on top.
It was how the world worked, how it would always work. The world would never change simply because you grew tired of it. In fact, it would only continue to throw its worst at you, laughing all the while. The gospel might say the meek inherited the earth, but history had proven differently.
I’d opened the doors to the church a while ago, propped them open so anyone would know they were welcome here. I took in anyone who sought shelter, anyone who needed forgiveness for their sins. I might not be God himself, but I was the next best thing.
A few people came, knelt in their chosen pew, and prayed silently for a while. Today was not a mass day, nor was it the day I took confession. It was simply a day that should be unremarkable, a day like every other.
But it wasn’t. It was not, because I still had that bejeweled golden cross. I kept it in my pocket, feeling its weight as I did my daily duties of upkeep. Every so often I took it out to look at it, to study it. Its craftsmanship was not like anything I’d seen before, and based on its weight, I knew it wasn’t fake metal, painted to look gold. No, I’d known from the very start the cross was as real as it could be.
Giselle had said its owner was dead now, that he’d gotten it in Rome, which led me to believe she’d had dealings with another holy man. Another priest. A priest most unlike myself, based on what I knew both about myself and other priests.
I was not like the others. I never had been. In fact, the entire reason I’d joined and pledged myself to God was because of one thing only.
God forgave. If you repented, if you asked forgiveness, he forgave you, always. No matter what you did, and it didn’t matter if you’d do it again. God listened to your sins, and then he forgave you.
He had forgiven me, just as he would forgive me again.
Giselle. Though it had been dark, I’d seen the shadows in her eyes. I’d known there was something she hid from the world, something she did not want anyone else to know, perhaps not even God.
Of course, I did not know whether she truly believed, whether she was religious or not. The Black Hand as a whole was religion in and of itself, especially when death was concerned—one of their own. They did not care about anyone else’s death. They were selfish like that, but I supposed, when it all came down to it, we each were quite selfish in that regard.
I was the Black Hand’s priest. If they came to me, I offered them what I could. Sometimes I even did private mass, though it’d been a while since I’d been asked to. I knew exactly what they got up to, how good they were at ruling this city, controlling its politics and its police. I knew how good they were at avoiding murder charges.
The Black Hand thought they were special. They weren’t. Special in this city, in Cypress, perhaps, but the world was a big place, and there were people just like them everywhere.
Giselle. I couldn’t get the girl off my mind. Whatever secret she held onto, I must discover. I stood before the altar, before the giant cross hanging behind it, the statue of Jesus weeping, and I dug into my pocket to retrieve the golden cross.
No one else was in the church at this particular moment. Just me, so I let myself examine the cross for what felt like the tenth time this morning. The people praying had left a while ago. I ran my thumb over its jewels, let the golden sparkle capture my focus.
What would Giselle be doing with a fancy cross like this? Just by meeting Miguel Santos in passing, I knew it wasn’t something he’d get for her, not something he’d choose to allow her to wear or have. Miguel was a very controlling man; I couldn’t help but assume he was the one who’d told her to wear white while he showed her off in a den of lions.
A lamb. In white, she appeared a lamb. Innocent and pure, beautiful and naive. If it was a game she and her father played, they did it well. She’d gotten more attention than she knew, and I wondered if that’s exactly what Miguel had wanted.
No, it had to belong to another priest, but it begged the question: who? I could not deny how curious I was about Giselle Santos and where she’d come from. I was drawn to her inexplicably.
The loud, echoing sound of the church’s doors closing behind me caused me to slip the cross back into my pocket and turn around. I slipped both hands into my pockets, watching as a pair of men waltzed into the church after making a big show of locking the doors. One hundred feet away, and yet I knew I’d never seen them before. They weren’t from this city.
No, they were from somewhere else, but what on earth were they doing here, in my church? And with the doors locked… I kept my face neutral as I watched them stroll up to me. The closer they got, the more details I was able to get from their appearance.
Torn clothes. Jeans that were a size or two too large. Leather jackets that each had the same patch on the sleeve: a green snake. Going off my gut and my past experience, I immediately knew these two were in some kind of gang together. Clearly not the kind of men I saw in my church often.
They looked to be around the same age, in their twenties. Younger than me. I’d bet anything they thought they could play me, and that was why they walked up to me with such swagger. What they didn’t know was that their confidence was ugly and totally unnecessary. This was my church, and they were about to see that.
“Hello, gentlemen,” I spoke first, and I sounded quite amiable. A skill of mine when it was needed. “Is there something I can help you two with today? Perhaps you’ve come seeking absolution—”
The man on the left smirked. He had a strange gait to him, and he hardly blinked as he looked at me. Totally unimpressed with me, but the feeling was mutual. Only one was right to be unimpressed, and that was me. “We didn’t come here for you,” he said.
His friend spat, “Yeah, we don’t seek your fucking forgiveness.” He spoke the final word like it was a curse, a swearword. Like a man who’d never asked for it once in his life.
I blinked. “Ignoring the fact that it is not my forgiveness I would give, why are you here? This is a church. It was not made for men who do not seek God.”
The one on the left took a step forward, now standing less than a foot away from me. “We’re here to ask you some questions. You are the Black Hand’s priest, ain’t ya?” He met the stare of his buddy, who nodded along, as if they both already knew the answer.
