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Damon
An hour has somehow slipped by, and not one person has entered the confessional, but that doesn’t exactly trouble me. I’m not here for the parish, I’m here to find a killer, a ruthless murderer, who, in spite of what Father Javier says, is thought to be responsible for unspeakable atrocities. Including the slaughter of my family.
I thought the church would be a good cover and help me lay low, but there’s something odd about the way the street kids, orpajaros, as Javier called them, seem to be connected to this place.
As if they’re protecting it from outsiders.
Why?
I’m guessing the only way I’ll ever truly know is by asking, and I’d have to get close enough to do that, which would put me well within spray painting distance.
With a huff, I exit the confessional. While it’s been a good opportunity to sit and reflect, as I’ve always enjoyed, there’s no sense wasting anymore time. About a dozen bowed heads greet me as I exit the stuffy box, not one of them bothering to look up at me as they kneel, scattered throughout the pews.
Javier stands off to the side of the sanctuary, speaking with an older woman. He smiles and kisses the top of her head, before leading her toward the confessional.
As I make my way back inside, Javier sets his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take her confession, Damon.”
Rolling my shoulders, I glance to where the woman has stepped inside already. “Of course.”
“I know you’ve had quite a day. Perhaps you’d like to get some rest in preparation for tomorrow morning’s mass.”
“That’s probably wise.”
“Have a good night, Damon.” With a pat on my shoulder, he disappears inside the box, and simply out of curiosity, I wait a couple minutes to see the woman step out, and another enter after her. A few of the others glance up from their prayer, as though gauging their turn.
Shaking my head, I make my way back to the Sacristy to remove my vestments, and take the back entrance toward my graffiti-laden car. I’ll have to Google what effectively removes spray paint without messing up the paint job itself.
The moon is high and bright here, where the open spaces and lack of big city lights make the stars pop. I round the church on my way to the rectory, and a force hits my spine, knocking me forward. Pavement scrapes against my skin, tearing my palms as I smack the cement. Before I can turn to face my attacker, another whack hits the back of my thighs.
Red heat climbs my muscles, where an aching throb has settled down to my bones, and I can damn near feel the bruise taking hold there.
“Ah, fuck!” I twist just enough to catch the business end of a baseball bat raised above the masked face looming over me, and I lift my arm to shield what little I can.
“Hey! What are you doing?” A distant voice calls out, and when the masked man startles, I steal the opportunity to kick his legs out from under him.
His body crashes to the ground, spine-first, and the bat rolls onto the street.
The pain in my legs turns numb for the rage that seethes in my blood, offering just enough adrenaline to scramble over top of him, fist drawn back, and yank his balaclava mask away to get a good look at the face I’m about to mutilate.
It’s the boy from earlier. The one who flipped me off and watched me from the rectory window. No doubt, the one who spray painted my car. Brows pinched together and hands raised to shield his eyes, he looks like a frightened child beneath me.
“Why are you doing this? What is this church to you?”
The voice from before belongs to an older man, who hobbles alongside the two of us, and I glance to the side to see him bent forward, catching his breath. “Phew! Time to trade this model in for a new one.” He doesn’t carry a Spanish accent, and the redder tones of his skin that I can make out under the street light tell me he probably isn’t Mexican. In fact, his graying beard and silvery hair, pulled back into a slick ponytail, makes him look like Santa Claus in the off season.
I lower my fist, and the boy slides out from beneath me, scrambling to his feet.
The old man straightens himself, and the small bit of amusement on his face hardens to something more threatening as he points a finger toward the kid. “I’m watching you. Get your ass home, before I tell yourmadrewhat happened here.”
The kid swipes up his bat and mask, and books it down the street.
The pulse in the back of my legs and between my shoulder blades is a reminder that I just got my ass kicked by a teenager, as I push off the pavement to my feet. As soon as he’s out of sight, I turn to the good Samaritan and extend my hand. “Thank you for saving my skull from an aluminum bat. I’m Damon.”
“Ah, yeah, you’re the newPadreat the church.” His accent is terrible, spoken like a true Gringo. “I’m Gordon. Gordon Tuefel. Nice to meet ya, Father.”
“Please, call me Damon.” I rub my thumb over the burn on my palm from the scrape there, wishing I had some water to douse the flames across the heel of it. “You know that kid’s mother?”
“Oh, yeah. I know just about everyone in this town. Knew that kid when he was running around his front yard in diapers.”
