Bless Me, Father
Father Gabriel walked down the tree-lined country lane on his way to Nora Munson's cottage. The sixty-eight-year-old parishioner had taken to her bed with a cough and a fever, and the priest believed it was his duty to comfort the sick. He was in no rush. It was not as if Nora were dying, and he was being called upon to give last rites. His ministrations, in this case, would not go beyond sitting beside her bed, sharing a cup of tea with her and inquiring as to the welfare of her children and grandchildren. Thus, he leisurely strolled along, enjoying the feel of the afternoon sun shining down upon him. The diocese provided him with a car, but he only drove it in bad weather or when his priestly obligations took him beyond the borders of Whitewood. All other times, he traveled on foot.
Father Gabriel often recalled a question that appeared on a bumper sticker on a vehicle that had passed through the town. "What would Jesus do?" it read.
"He certainly wouldn't have driven to Galilee in a Subaru Outback!"
The sixty-two-year-old priest did not walk because he wanted to emulate Christ. Nor was he motivated by the many health benefits of regular exercise. He walked because the slower pace afforded him the ability to stop and chat with people he passed and to observe his parishioners as they worked in their gardens, walked their dogs or played with their children. If he were driving a car, the most he could hope to do was wave or toot his horn at them.
As he neared Nora's house, he encountered Elaine Getty pushing her three-month-old daughter in a baby carriage.
"Hello, Father," the smiling mother greeted him.
"Hello to you, Elaine. How is little Sierra doing?"
"Sleeping through the night at long last!"
"And your husband? How is he?"
"Good. Lance got a promotion at work. The additional money will come in handy now that there are three mouths to feed."
"See. It's like the Bible says in Philippians 4:19: 'God shall supply all your needs according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus.'"
"Don't take this the wrong way, Father, but I need a new refrigerator. Does God know where I can get one at a good price?"
Father Gabriel laughed. Whereas many of his more strait-laced parishioners might think Elaine's jokes smacked of irreverence if not downright blasphemy, he saw them for what they were: good-natured attempts at humor. He matched her in kind.
"I don't know, but the next time I speak to him, I'll ask."
"You're all right, Father!" she giggled.
"Why don't you and Lance stop by St. Michael's on Sunday for mass? If you enjoy my humor, you ought to catch my opening monologue."
"Maybe next week," she said, knowing the priest did not expect her to attend, not with an infant to take care of.
They said their goodbyes, and both went on their way.
When he arrived at Nora Munson's house, he knocked on the front door and waited for the woman's sister to answer.
"It's you, Father Gabriel," Audrey Durrell said. "Come in. My sister is expecting you. Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?"
"Tea will be fine."
"If I remember correctly, you take one cube of sugar but no cream."
"That's right. I see there's nothing wrong with your memory."
"Why don't you go in and sit by Nora. I'll bring in your tea when it's ready. And how about a slice of lemon poppy-seed Bundt cake? I made it this morning. Or don't you like sweets?"
"My dear lady, I like to follow the advice of Ecclesiastes 9:7: 'Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for God has already approved what you do.' I'm sure that also applies to tea and Bundt cake."
* * *
Mrs. Hannity, the fifty-four-year-old housekeeper, took excellent care of the rectory and of Father Gabriel. A devout Catholic, she treated the priest with respect and admiration bordering on worship.
"Will you be wanting anything else tonight?" she inquired after having washed the dinner dishes and cleaned the kitchen.
"No, thank you, Mrs. Hannity. I intend to make myself a cup of tea and read in front of the fire."
"Allow me to make the tea for you."
"No, no. You've been working all day. Go on home and relax. I'm perfectly capable of boiling water."
"It won't be any bother," she insisted and filled the kettle from the tap. "There are a few muffins left over from breakfast. Would you like one?"
Although he had eaten two slices of Audrey Durrell's Bundt cake earlier in the day, he was not one to pass up home-baked goods.
"When have I ever refused your muffins?"
Before returning home to her husband, Mrs. Hannity rolled the tea cart into the parlor. She had brewed an entire pot of Earl Grey. Beside the priest's cup were a matching sugar bowl and creamer, a teaspoon, a blueberry muffin, a butter knife, butter and a small dish of blueberry jam.
"This is too much!" he opined, smiling with affection. "You really didn't have to go through all this trouble."
"It was no trouble at all, Father. I'll be heading home now. You leave the dishes here; I'll do them tomorrow."
"My dear Mrs. Hannity, you remind me of Proverbs 31:27: 'She looks well to the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.'"
"Ah, Father! You always were a sweet talker," the housekeeper teased, blushing at his compliment.
"Have a good evening."
"You, too. I'll be back bright and early tomorrow morning to cook your breakfast."
Once the kindly woman left, the priest poured himself a cup of Earl Grey and buttered his muffin. He took his time sipping the tea and nibbling on the blueberry treat, saving each bite. He was a man of simple tastes, and he was grateful for the small comforts of life. Other men in the Church were ambitious; they wanted advancement: bishop, archbishop, monsignor, cardinal, up to and including pope. Father Gabriel was pleased to be a simple parish priest.
Furthermore, he could think of no place he would rather serve the lord than Whitewood, Vermont. He could not fathom why anyone would want to be assigned to a church in a major city. Aside from the high crime rate, there was poverty and homelessness. A friend from his seminary school days was given a congregation in Chicago. He had to routinely deal with problems that Gabriel never encountered: homicide, robbery, suicide, drug abuse, child abuse and sexual abuse.
"You wouldn't believe the things my parishioners tell me in the confessional," his friend confided once.
When Father Gabriel heard confession, the sins told to him were minor. Edna Crouse admitted to envying her neighbor's new refrigerator. Teenager Jimmy Krebbs confessed he had impure thoughts when he saw girls in skimpy bathing suits at the beach. Alfred Syfret frequently took the lord's name in vain, and his wife often skipped Sunday mass to go to the movies with her sister. The only criminal act divulged to the priest was committed by seventy-one-year-old Fanny Tisdale; she took two dollars out of the church collection basket to buy a vanilla cone from the ice cream man.
"Ah, yes," Father Gabriel sighed with contentment, putting his empty cup down on the saucer. "Life in Whitewood is good! I wouldn't trade it for any other place in the world."
* * *
Father Gabriel woke in the morning and followed the aroma of freshly brewed coffee into the kitchen.
"Morning, Father," Mrs. Hannity said with her usual smile.
"Something smells good!"
"That's the banana pancakes I'm making."
"Mmm! Tell me, does your husband appreciate what a gem he has in you?"
"If he doesn't, there's nothing either of us can do about it. Being good Catholics, divorce is out of the question."
The priest sat at the table where his housekeeper had placed his mug of coffee, the butter dish and a bottle of maple syrup.
"Here you are," she announced, putting four banana-laden pancakes in front of him.
"Heavenly!" he exclaimed after taking a bite.
"If anyone knows about heaven, it's sure to be a priest," Mrs. Hannity chuckled.
He had barely finished two pancakes when she was about to add another one to the pile.
"Whoa! That's enough. I'll be lucky to finish these."
"You'll be needing your strength today, Father."
"Oh?"
"Today's the day you hear confessions, isn't it?"
"Indeed, it is. And if I eat much more, I fear I might doze off while doing so."
"I'll fix you another cup of coffee then."
The added caffeine and a brisk walk around town would recharge his energy, not to mention burn off some of the calories he'd consumed at breakfast. When he passed Nora Munson's house, he avoided paying her a visit. By now, she was on the mend, and he did not want to hurt Audrey's feelings by refusing another slice of her lemon poppy seed Bundt cake, as good as it was.
Maybe I'll stop by tomorrow or later this afternoon after I hear confessions.
After stopping to speak to several parishioners, Father Gabriel returned to the rectory. He had another cup of coffee and made his way to St. Michael's. Moments after entering the confessional booth, the first penitent arrived.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
For the sake of privacy, there was a divider between priest and confessor and a lattice through which they spoke. While Father Gabriel could not see the person who was confessing his sins, he could identify them by their voices.
"It has been one month since my last confession," Edna Crouse recited, according to the sacrament of confession.
The priest listened patiently as the good woman enumerated her venial sins, which in many cases were hardly worth mentioning.
After instructing the penitent say the required number of Hail Marys, the priest concluded with, "I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Go in peace, your faith has saved you."
Four more people entered the confessional after Edna left it. For the most part, their sins were no worse than hers. Stifling a yawn, Father Gabriel wished he had another cup of coffee. The tediousness aside, he was glad his flock consisted of god-fearing, law-abiding people, yet the total lack of mortal sins made for dull confessions.
I could use a nap right about now, he thought, forcing his eyes to remain open.
While waiting for the next penitent to arrive, the priest considered various topics for his next sermon, debating whether to talk about the parable of the prodigal son or tell the story of Daniel in the lion's den.
Personally, I like the tale of Moses parting the Red Sea, but my storytelling talents are no match for seeing Charlton Heston perform the miracle in Cecil B. DeMille's epic movie.
As he recalled the iconic scene where Heston as Moses lifts up his staff and commands the waters to part, he heard the door to the confessional booth open. He made a mental note to watch his DVD of The Ten Commandments after dinner and prepared to listen to another of his parishioners recount their sins.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
Father Gabriel frowned. He was not familiar with the voice.
"It has been three months since my last confession."
The priest strained his memory. There was nothing unusual about the man's speech. Its pitch was neither too high nor too low. He had no foreign or regional accent. He did not stutter, nor did he have a lisp. He enunciated his words and spoke at a moderate volume.
Seems to me the man would have a gift for public speaking, the clergyman mused.
"I couldn't help myself," the penitent cried. "I tried to, but my emotions got the better of me."
"And what is it you have done, my son?"
"I killed her."
Father Gabriel assumed he had misheard the man.
"You did what?" "I killed her. I stabbed her. Ten, twenty times. I'm not sure. I lost count."
"Who did you stab?" the priest asked, his heart racing at the disturbing confession.
"I ... I don't know her name. I never met her before."
Was the man telling the truth? Could it be some foolish prank? Maybe the man was delusional and only imagined he had killed someone. Father Gabriel hoped that was the case. Still, he had to assume the man was telling the truth and proceed accordingly.
"Why did you kill a woman who was a stranger to you?"
"Because God told me to."
"My son, you are mistaken. God would not instruct someone to commit murder."
"It's you who are mistaken, Father. God tells me to kill all the time."
Before the priest had the opportunity to assign penance—how many Hail Marys and acts of contrition would he demand for a homicide?—and absolve the man of his crime, the penitent exited the confessional booth and hurried out of the church.
* * *
Father Gabriel entered the rectory that evening, and for the first time, did not take note of the mouth-watering aroma of Mrs. Hannity's culinary offering.
"Supper is almost done, Father," the housekeeper announced. "Why don't you sit down and have a glass of wine while you wait?"
The priest went to the cabinet where the alcoholic beverages were stored and poured himself a glass, not of red wine but of whiskey. Normally, he only imbibed hard spirits on Christmas Day and Easter, and then only to be sociable.
He was on his second glass when Mrs. Hannity put a heaping plate of roast beef, potatoes and carrots on the dining room table.
"I baked bread this afternoon, and I made a cobbler for your dessert."
The priest seemed not to hear her. He stood, looking out the window and clutching his near-empty glass in his hand.
His odd behavior prompted the housekeeper to ask, "Is something wrong, Father?"
Naturally, he could not divulge any information he had heard in the confessional. So, he shook his head and remained silent.
"Eat up then, Father."
The priest was a man with a healthy appetite, but that night, he barely touched his food.
"Are you sure something is not wrong?" the concerned housekeeper pressed.
"It's nothing."
After that terse response, he pushed his plate away and got up from the table. He did not wait for dessert, much to Mrs. Hannity's dismay. She put the cobbler in the refrigerator for the following day and cleared away the dinner dishes.
Meanwhile, Father Gabriel forgot about his plans to watch The Ten Commandments. Instead, he went upstairs and, despite the early hour, got ready for bed.
By the time he set off on his walk the following morning, he had managed to convince himself that the man who confessed to murder had been nothing more than a prankster.
It was a warm day for October. The autumn foliage was at its peak, painting the landscape with vibrant golds, reds, browns and greens. To the priest, Whitewood was heaven on earth. As he neared Nora Munson's cottage, he passed Edna Crouse, who was walking her dog, a Scottish terrier named Hamish.
"Good morning, Miss Crouse."
"Morning, Father. Did you hear about what happened in Grandview two days ago?"
"No. What was it?"
"A girl was murdered!" the old woman cried, aghast that such evil doings happened in their neck of the woods. "Stabbed again and again. Can you imagine that?"
Icy cold fingers seemed to trace the lines of the priest's spine and grip his heart.
"Was the perpetrator caught?"
"No. He managed to get clean away." Edna's face lost its color, and she asked, "Do you think he might strike again? Grandview isn't far from here. We might all be in danger."
As the head of St. Michael's Church, it was Father Gabriel's duty to comfort his parishioners, so he hid his own fears and tried to assure her that she was safe.
"The police will be on the lookout. And I'm sure Hamish will protect you."
Mention of her dog brought a smile to the woman's face.
"You take care, Father."
"You too, Miss Crouse."
After a brief call on Nora, whose health had greatly improved since his last visit, the priest returned to the rectory. He passed by the generous helping of cobbler Mrs. Hannity had left out for him and went straight for the whiskey in the alcohol cabinet.
* * *
Somehow, despite being unable to keep his thoughts from straying to the alarming confession he had heard, he managed to write and present an interesting sermon and conduct the Sunday mass. Once he finished the benediction, he waited at the door of the church to speak to every member of the congregation as they exited.
He smiled at the women and shook the hands of the men, paying close attention to each male voice. He was certain he would recognize the radio announcer-like speech of the man he believed was a killer. When the last congregant left the church steps, he acknowledged his defeat.
He's not here. Either he skipped mass today, or he's not a member of St. Michael's Church.
The latter option was preferable. No priest wanted one of his flock to be a murderer.
But if he's not one of my parishioners, what was he doing in my confessional?
Before meeting with the Sunday afternoon Bible study group, Father Gabriel went to the secretary's office and found the current church member roster in the filing cabinet. He made a copy of it, sat down at the desk and crossed off all the women's names. Then he drew a line through the names of the men who had attended the morning mass. That left six names. One of them, Truman Reddick, was a ninety-two-year-old Alzheimer's patient who was in hospice and not expected to live much longer.
I think it's safe to rule him out as a killer, he decided and drew a line through his name.
Five names remained. He wrote down their addresses on a Post-it note, which he stuck in his pocket. Once Bible study came to an end, he visited each of the five men in turn. None of them sounded like the voice on the other side of the confessional booth.
I don't know who the man was. Maybe he was from Grandview and came to Whitewood to confess instead of going to his own church, where the priest might recognize his voice.
That hypothesis seemed the most logical to Father Gabriel.
And what would I do if I did learn the identity of the confessor? I couldn't go to the police. I'm bound by my vows to respect the seal of confession.
So, with a clear confession, he returned to the rectory to enjoy Mrs. Hannity's lamp stew and not one but two generous helpings of cobbler.
* * *
November brought the first snow of the year. Father Gabriel sipped a hot chocolate before donning his winter coat, wool hat and boots and walking the short distance to St. Michael's. Given the inclement weather, he was not surprised to see that the pews were empty. Believing he had a short day ahead of him, he took his seat in the confessional booth.
Ten minutes later, Nora Munson, fully recovered from her illness, knelt on the other side of the booth.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
The priest smiled as she described her minor verbal altercation with her neighbor as if it were a heavyweight championship bout. After assigning her a light penance, he pardoned her sin.
"I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Go in peace, your faith has saved you."
Moments after Nora departed the church, a second penitent took her place.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
Father Gabriel had not experienced such a profound chill since he participated in the 2014 ice bucket challenge to raise money for ALS research.
It's him!
"It's been one month since my last confession."
"Y-yes, my s-son," the priest stammered.
"God spoke to me again. I didn't want to listen, but I had no choice. I had to do what I was told."
"And what is it you think God demanded of you?"
"To kill him."
Father Gabriel felt as though Muhammad Ali had punched him in the solar plexus.
"You are wrong, my son. God would not command you to commit murder."
"It was not murder. It was divine justice. I am but God's instrument."
"Why are you here?" the priest asked, unable to contain his distress. "You're not a member of my congregation. Why have you come to St. Michael's?"
"God is everywhere. Right now, he is here."
Again, the man quickly exited the confessional without receiving absolution. Father Gabriel opened his door, hoping to get a glimpse of the killer, but all he saw was the church door closing. The priest followed him to the exit. No one was outside, and no car was leaving the parking lot. The only proof of the man's existence was the footprints he left behind in the snow.
Two days later, another body, that of a thirty-seven-year-old man, was found stabbed to death.
* * *
Father Matthew, the priest at Holy Trinity Church and a classmate of Father Gabriel's at the seminary school, walked into his study and warmed his hands by the fireplace. In anticipation of a biweekly visit from his old friend, the chessboard had been set up on the table. He did not have long to wait.
Mrs. Polaski, Mrs. Hannity's counterpart, showed the visiting priest into the room.
"How was your day, Gabe?" Father Matthew inquired.
Although he appeared nervous, Father Gabriel insisted nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
"I visited Truman Reddick at the hospice this morning."
"How is he doing?"
"I'm afraid he doesn't have much time left."
"That's a shame. As for me, I officiated at a marriage ceremony today. Weddings and christenings are my favorite duties as a priest."
"They are the more pleasant tasks we have to perform."
Mrs. Polaski entered the study with a tea tray.
"I've got a surprise for you, Fathers. I've made pumpkin spice scones, and there's homemade apple butter to spread on them."
"Excellent!" Father Matthew exclaimed. "I hope you saved some for Father Gabriel to take back to his housekeeper."
"I've made a dozen, so there are plenty to go around."
No sooner did Mrs. Polaski return to the kitchen than Father Matthew reached for a scone.
"Aren't you having one?" he asked his friend, who seemed preoccupied.
"Oh, yes. Yes, of course," Father Gabriel said but took neither tea nor scone from the tray.
"Is anything on your mind? You're very quiet today."
"I heard something quite disturbing in the confessional the other day. I'm afraid I can't get it out of my mind."
"We both know you're not allowed to repeat what you've been told."
"Don't worry. I don't intend to break the seal of confession. Although I'm not sure it applies in this case."
"Why not?"
"Because the man is not one of my parishioners. He is a complete stranger to me."
"It doesn't matter," Father Matthew insisted. "You're a priest. If someone unburdens himself to you during the sacrament of confession, you are not able to betray his privacy."
"I suppose you're right, Matt," Father Gabriel sighed, reaching for his teacup.
"Have a scone," his friend offered. "They're very good with or without the apple butter."
After two scones, three cups of tea and a game of chess, Father Gabriel bid his friend goodbye.
"I'll see you in two weeks," he promised. "And it'll be my turn to provide the baked goods. I'll ask Mrs. Hannity to whip up a batch of her apple-pecan tartlets."
"Speaking of Mrs. Hannity, don't forget to share these scones with her," Father Matthew said as he showed his friend to the door.
* * *
Before opening the door to the confessional, Father Gabriel took note of the people inside the church. He knew them all by face and name. The killer was not among them. He went inside and took his seat. One after another, the penitents entered the booth, confessed their sins and received absolution. Elaine and Lance Getty, Audrey Durrell, Edna Crouse, Jimmy Krebbs and Fanny Tisdale. He had recognized all their voices. They were all guilty of actions that the Catholic Church had deemed sinful, but none of them had committed two homicides.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
Father Gabriel, who had dozed off after hearing Alfred Syfret's confession, woke with a start.
Am I dreaming?
"It has been three weeks since my last confession."
I'm not dreaming. It's HIM!
"Why has God chosen me to be his instrument of justice?" the killer sobbed. "I'm not a violent man by nature. I have a wife and child. I don't want to harm anyone."
"Then you must seek help, my son."
"That's why I'm here, Father. I want you to help me. I asked Father Matthew, but ...."
"Father Matthew?" the priest echoed with astonishment. "From Holy Trinity?"
"Yes. I went to him for help, but it did no good. I have since killed three more people."
Although his superiors might not agree with his advice, Father Gabriel suggested the killer seek help from a psychiatrist rather than a clergyman.
"But I'm not mentally ill, Father. I'm as sane as you are. Tell me. What would you do if God commanded you to kill? You'd do so, wouldn't you?"
"No, I wouldn't. I don't believe what you're hearing is God's voice."
There was silence on the other side of the booth, and Father Gabriel thought the killer had run away again. Then he heard a soft whimpering, like that of a child.
"I guess you can't help me any more than Father Matthew could."
The door opened, and the killer exited the confessional.
"Wait!" the priest called, but the man once again hurried out the door of the church.
* * *
Despite the semi-weekly chess game being four days away, Father Gabriel drove to Holy Trinity Church to meet with Father Matthew. He intended to speak to his old friend about the man who had confessed his heinous crimes to both of them.
"I'm sorry, Father," Mrs. Polaski apologized when the priest showed up at the rectory. "Father Matthew isn't here. He has an appointment with Sister Magdalena at the school, but I don't know if he's left yet. He might still be at the church."
"Thank you, Mrs. Polaski. I'll see if I can catch him there."
When Father Gabriel entered Holy Trinity Church, he saw the sexton replacing used altar candles with new ones.
"Excuse me," the priest called. "Is Father Matthew here?" Without turning around, the sexton shook his head and answered, "No. He left about ten minutes ago."
Had the statue of the Virgin Mary stepped down from her niche on the wall and offered him tea and pastry, he could not have been any more flabbergasted.
"It's ... you," he managed to say.
The sexton paled, knowing the priest recognized his voice from the confessional. When he fled the church, Father Gabriel made no attempt to stop him.
* * *
Father Gabriel did not go to the rectory when he returned from Holy Trinity. Instead, he went inside St. Michael's. He knelt before the altar and prayed for guidance.
"Dear Lord, I know breaking the seal of confession could result in my excommunication, but how can I turn my back on this dire situation? There is a sick man, a dangerous killer, working in Matthew's church. He suffers from delusions and will likely kill again unless he is stopped. If one more innocent life is taken, and I did nothing ...."
The troubled priest paused at the sound of the outer door opening. He craned his neck to see who had entered the church. The two adversaries—one good, one evil—stood at opposite ends of the church, the priest at the altar and the sexton in the nave. As the killer walked up the aisle, Father Gabriel glimpsed the knife in his hand. It had been wiped clean of blood, but he knew it was the weapon that struck down the murder victims.
"You've come for me now," the priest assumed. "And who will be next? Father Matthew? Mrs. Hannity? Your wife and child?"
The sexton's tortured expression bore testimony to his remorse and emotional torment.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," he sobbed. "I hate what I've become. I can't kill anymore."
Despite his fear, Father Gabriel stood his ground. To his credit, he did not run but remained calm when face-to-face with the sexton. He did not even flinch when the killer raised his knife. Surprisingly, the sexton did not strike. Rather, he placed the knife on the altar and stepped back. Clearly, he had no intention of stabbing the priest.
"I'm done with killing."
"Thank God," Father Gabriel sighed, closing his eyes with relief.
"I wouldn't thank him just yet, Father," the weary sexton warned. "You see, he's chosen you to take my place."
* * *
After finishing the last of Mrs. Polaski's pancakes, Father Matthew washed them down with a second cup of coffee and got up from the table. He then left the rectory and headed for his church. As he made his way to the confessional booth, he noticed the candles on the altar had not been replaced.
What's up with the sexton? he wondered. The grass hasn't been cut, and he hasn't seen to the candles. If he's sick, he should have phoned and let me know. I'd have gotten someone else to mow the lawn.
Father Matthew was unaware that the sexton was dead. His body, stabbed seventeen times, would soon be discovered in front of the altar of St. Michael's Church.
The priest took his seat in the confessional and prepared to hear the members of his congregation confess mainly to venial sins. Of course, there were the occasional mortal sins, adultery and divorce being the most common. He felt no qualms about absolving people for cheating on their spouses or ending their marriages. This was the twenty-first century, not the Dark Ages, and he was much more open-minded than his medieval counterparts. In fact, in all his years as a priest, there was only one penitent he was hesitant to forgive. But like Father Gabriel, he had not recognized the voice of the man who had confessed to murder.
At least he hasn't come back here for several months. Maybe ....
Father Matthew's train of thought was interrupted by the sound of someone entering the booth.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
"Gabriel?" the priest cried with surprise. "Is that you?"
"He was right," the anguished priest answered, gazing down at the sexton's blood on his hands. "God wants me to take his place. Please, Matthew, help me. I don't want to kill again."
Salem claims it was his ancestor, not Moses, who parted the Red Sea. Funny, but Salem can't even part his hair.
