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I’ll keep my promises to my grandmother, and help her find the peace she’s searching for, which means I’m definitely going to need to pay Father Damon another visit.
7
Damon
“I’m telling y’all right now, something ain’t right about this one.” LaRonda Franklin sits forward, hair pulled back into a gold and burgundy scarf that almost looks majestic against her dark skin tone. She’s head of the Safety Gang Committee, a meeting that assembles once every two weeks, to discuss neighborhood safety and ways to keep the kids engaged and off the streets. Although I’m not officially a member, I do try to make the meetings whenever possible, as I appreciate their efforts on a more personal level. I’m certain, if there had been more vigilant neighbors like LaRonda Franklin, my wife and daughter might still be here. “This girl has a disorder. Nobody just let her mess around on her own for very long.”
“She went missing last Tuesday?” Something cold and troubling moves through me, as I listen to her offered details on the newest young girl to go missing. A seven year old from the neighborhood, named Camila, who was last seen playing outside of the apartment building where she lived.
“Yes, right out from under her mama’s nose. One minute she was there. The next? Poof! Gone.”
“And you said … she had a disability?”
“No, a disorder. She’s autistic.”
“Did she happen to have a service dog?”
“I think she might have. Can I ask why you’re asking, Father?”
“No reason. I just wondered if the mom may have been alerted?”
“She didn’t notice any dogs barking, or nothing like that.” She nods toward the blonde across from her, who sets down some print-outs of the girl’s face. “Gina’s gonna pass out some flyers that we could really use some help distributing.”
Each of the six members sitting around the table grab from the stack out of images.
“If each of you could take a few and post them around, I know her mama would be grateful. Poor lady hasn’t eaten in a week, she’s so distraught over this. I’ve rounded up some neighbor ladies to make her and the boys some dinners for the week, too. If you could mention something during Sunday mass, that would be helpful, Father.”
“Of course. I’m happy to help in whatever way I can.”
The meeting keeps on, but my thoughts swirl over the missing girl. Bits of conversation from the penitent’s confession surface, like when he mentioned that drinking helped quiet the screams. What if he had another child the night of his confession, when he was clearly drunk?
More importantly, what if he still has her?
* * *
Itell myself that my intentions for seeking him out are to urge him to go to the authorities, but I know better. If Camila is there, I’m not leaving without her.
It’s a little over three miles from downtown up North Broadway, and I turn the car down Casanova Street. Tucked between two sloping hills, the road bends ahead, looking like a dead end, but just before the curve stands a bungalow-style house, set back from the others, surrounded by high chain-link fences. Half-hanging from its hinges is a decrepit sign that readsPaws For A Cause. Old and rundown, the neighborhood bears the signs of apathy in the ratty yards and trash scattered about.
I stop the car and kill the lights. Fingers curled around the steering wheel, I take a moment to breathe, stealing a quick glimpse of the gun sitting on the seat beside me. Not that I plan to kill anyone. It’s simply for protection, to defend myself in the event things take a very dangerous turn. I’d be lying if I said I was nervous about having it.
There was a time, up until the age of twenty-one, right before Isabella was born, when carrying a gun was everyday business. Back then, I worked as a bagman for one of the more notorious criminals in Queens: my father, Anthony Savio. Hated every second of it, and so did Val, so we packed up and moved as far away from New York as we could possibly get. Haven’t talked to my father since.
I always had a love for carpentry and working with my hands, so I started up my own business installing cabinets up by Montecito Heights, where we lived. Found a nice fixer upper there, and life seemed to be damn near perfect, until Isabella was diagnosed with Leukemia. That’s when everything went to hell, but not even that could match the lows I sank to after Val and Isabella were murdered.
Police claimed it was a simple break in, and that might’ve made sense, considering a few small things had been stolen. But any good criminal would’ve surely sniffed out the safe in my home office that sat untampered, so I didn’t quite buy thesimple break-intheory. And as a result, I stared down the barrel of that gun more times than I can possibly count, until the night I stumbled drunk into the local church and had a rather long and candid conversation with Father Thomas. Can’t even pinpoint where in the course of my drunken rambling he turned my thoughts around. Maybe I just never allowed myself to open up to someone like that before.
Over the six months that followed, I changed my name, got clean, and enrolled in St. John’s Seminary. Everything about my former life dissolved with the memory of my family, and I started anew.
Drawing in a deep breath, I clamp my eyes and exhale. I’m stalling, and I shouldn’t, because every moment I waste on thoughts that don’t matter anymore is another moment a child might be suffering inside that house. I can’t just stroll up to the door, either. Old instincts tell me to case the place first and make sure it’s just the one guy. That’s what the son of Anthony Savio would do, and even if I hardly know that man anymore, I can appreciate his innate sense when approaching another criminal.
Tucking the gun into my coat pocket, I stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror. The white collar nearly glows in the surrounding darkness, and I remove it for this, as every moment hereafter goes against everything it stands for. Nabbing a pair of gloves from the glovebox, I stuff them into my slacks, then I exit the vehicle and cross the sidewalk to the narrow walkway that leads to the front of the house.
A light is on in the upper part of the property—a bedroom, I presume—but every other room stands dark. Dogs bark in the distance, and I round the perimeter to find a row of cages covered by a roof, within the fenced in lot behind the house, each occupied with a different dog breed.
Staying out of sight, I slink back toward a window at the front and peer into the room within. Too dark to see anything there, but what I can make out seems to be tidy, in spite of the aging exterior of the home. Rounding the corner brings me to a side door, and when I peek through, I can see a stained laundry basin and an old washer and dryer.
Reaching for the knob, I pause. An innocent man wouldn’t think twice about leaving his prints there, but one practiced in breaking into places knows better, so from my pocket, I pull out the gloves and slip them on. Gripping the knob, I give a light twist, surprised when it opens easily. The rattle of loose hardware is a warning not to push too hard, and I slip inside, careful while I close it behind me.
