At the Hour of Our Death: The Mysteries of San Siddinus

By James Curran

Micah Connaught is a jaded priest confronted with a crisis of faith: Is there any reason to believe in people? After discovering a girl was murdered near his church and a police department that could care less, "Father Mick" embarks on a dangerous quest to find her killer in a city that likes being dirty. Inspired by noir mysteries, "At the Hour of Our Death" explores what happens when a cynical society gives up hope, and maybe welcomes death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483572734

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Prologue

The Penitential Act

Faith is a mystery. People have a problem with that.

People have dark, mysterious secrets. I have a problem with that.

The Bible rested on a steel counter to my left. So did a book on neurolinguistic programming. That book was opened to a page with a flawless round cartoon face, like it was drawn with a compass. Arrows pointed away from the eyes. Each direction the eyes veered toward, each facial expression, the authors wrote, was a key to how our minds contemplate, react, create, and so on. One book tells us not to lie. The other tells us how we make them up.

The steel tabletop was cold to my fingertips. It’s better than twirling the vape I had between my fingers before. I would love to light up. All I heard were seconds passing with little dull clucks from a clock hanging on a tan and faded pink wall over the sink in the cafeteria kitchen of St. Maria’s Catholic School. The kitchen served as our makeshift Saturday afternoon confessional.

I stay seated here for three hours, facing the sink, screened from the door that leads to the cafeteria. That’s where Mass would be celebrated tomorrow. Mass has always been popular. This isn’t. Confession is for the pious and the desperate. The pious cleared out of here after the first 45 minutes, like a lunch rush at a fast-food restaurant. So I sat, feeling my lower back stiffen, waiting for the acutely wretched. The last thing confessors want would be to see me pacing in solitude. Even from behind a light cloth screen, I can’t look distracted or curious. No pens. Can’t appear to be taking notes. No texting. No music. No video games. No snacks. I had covered up shiny metal – even the spigot — that could give a reflection to the other side of the curtain. On my side of the screen, it’s just me and King James. Or Richard Bandler and John Grinder.

The door creaked and a triangle-shaped sliver of light stretched over the floor. Halting horseshoe-like clops echoed off yellowing tile. A clearing throat. That’s one hint… Maybe two…

Bless me, Father Mick, for I have sinned. It has been three years since my last confession.

My name is Micah. It’s not worth arguing over. Everybody calls me Mick. I’m half-Irish, anyway.

I can’t see who he is. I don’t want to know. In my peripheral vision, I could see shadows through the folding panel curtain – the kind in movies that tease you with the silhouette of a nude woman. Racquel, who runs this church, bought it from a home décor retailer after the original St. Maria De Pazzi Catholic Church burned down eight years ago. I was in seminary then. I had never heard of San Siddinus.

I see. I arc back in my seat. I had taken the liberty of borrowing the chair from the principal’s office: one that reclines.

I sort of had a falling away from the church. Pause. He puts his hand to his face. Three hints. I missed Mass a lot. I’ve said the Lord’s name in vein a lot.

I breathed in industrial strength kitchen cleaner fumes. But what you really want to confess is…?

Pause. What?

I look for multiple indicators when somebody might lie or conceal something. It’s not a trick of the trade. But what is the point of calling yourself penitent if you aren’t?

Are you asking me to … get to the good stuff?

No. Sin is not good. My eyes darted away from the taut curtain and scanned the kitchen for signs of uncleanliness – food scraps, bugs, mice. My left elbow planted on the tabletop. I hooked my left thumb under my cheek and let my fingers dangle over my mouth. Judges do this during jury trials. Cover more of your face and nobody can read you with ease.

Yeah, um, you sure this stays between us and God, like, you don’t tell anybody?

Yes. I braced my left elbow. He can’t see my face, but he can see if I pull my head around.

He exhaled through his nostrils. A year ago, I stabbed a dude with a bottle at a high school party.

Frost plummeted down the back of my neck. The utensils aren’t locked. A spatula hung, not sharp enough for him to use on me.

A year ago, I said. I can hear my breath as I think of the next question. Is he…?

Dead? No, Father. He cool. I got him in the arm. It wasn’t like I stabbed him in the neck or nothin.’

How did it happen?

The shadow of a double chin created chubby circles across the curtain, like Alfred Hitchcock’s profile. His voice was deep. I’ve been dating this girl from Goins High School. I ran before the cops came. I have a good job. I’m a truck driver. I didn’t want to lose it. It’s been messing with me ever since.

My breathing slowed, but I could still hear it hiss lightly against my lips. Are you armed?

What? his voice spiked like an alarm. Aw, naw. I got more sense than that.

I peered at his silhouette out of the corner of my eye. He shook his head widely and settled in his folding chair again. The chair groaned when it shifted on the floor.

I cleared my throat. But that’s not why you stopped going to confession.

Another exhale through the nostrils. No, I … Well, you know, I really was into porno three years ago. … The girl. She jealous. Told me I had to stop. I did.

Do you believe God loves you?

The silhouette didn’t nod. Yeah.

These things are sometimes hard to comprehend, but God’s love for you is stronger than human beings can have for each other.

His spine straightened and curled at the shoulders. It looked like a cobra. The one seeking absolution was offended.

Are you saying I should stop seeing her?

Is she still underage? The silhouette nodded. Then yes.

But she got me off of porn. I love her. He settled back into his seat. From his perspective, he could see a stove, an oven and a furnace. He didn’t piece together the metaphor.

You need to.

The silhouette lifted up both hands and lightly slapped them down on his thighs. This is why I stopped going to church. Judgmental.

Where has the church judged you?

Every time I go to church, I feel judged.

Let’s take a moment. We’ve never met, so I’m not judging you. As a matter of fact, Jesus died for your sins in the first place.

Then why do I have to confess? his voice raised, as if he were accusing me of a wrong.

It’s a ritual. We do rituals to show God we are thankful for his mercy. You can’t just have faith without works.

Because faith without works is dead.

Precisely.

So I should give up seh… Oh, I’m sorry, Father.

Sorry for what?

You know … talking about sex to a celibate man.

This isn’t about me. It’s about you coming closer to God. That matters to me.

Well, I don’t steal. Don’t physically attack people, other than that one time. He touched his fingers as if counting down a checklist. I believe in God. I don’t really covet things. I think it’s mostly the cussing and missing Mass. … And the girlfriend.

And the bottle. … That’s not judgmental, is it?

I guess.

The girl…

Father, it ain’t that serious. Her parents ain’t calling the cops and she’ll be 18 soon.

But you know it’s sinful, right?

I ain’t havin’ it, Father.

After a pregnant pause — waiting for him to reconsider, to add, to bargain – I gave him the nonjudgmental perfunctory sense of closure to stabbing a young man in a fit of jealous rage over his underage girlfriend: God the Father of Mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has brought forgiveness of sin to the world. Through the ministry of the church, I grant you pardon and absolution for you sin in the – he recognized this part and jabbed his fingers to his forehead – name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I gave him a penance of three rosaries. I had the option of suggesting he turn himself into the police. Instead, when he left, I asked him to turn the sign on the door handle from Do not disturb to Welcome.

And I was alone with my thoughts again, stroking the curtain as if it were a kitten.

In seminary, one of my teachers was a kindly Filipino whose command of English hadn’t been matched by any foreign priest I’ve met since. He had this large rectangle brown forehead that continued down his face and tapered off into a U where his chin should have been. The lifetime of study gave him knowledge. The forehead gave him gravitas. His mastery of a second language enabled him to do that which many intelligent people can’t – use analogies with Americans. He likened the priest’s role in confession to that of a garbage collector. After a while, you looked at sins as another pile of garbage to drag out to the landfill. It was almost not worth listening to. Tell your flock that, he said, and they would be more likely to confide in you.

But I do listen.

How exactly does that foster a sense of hope?

Chapter 1

New street lamps didn’t take affect well on Alito Drive, the fault line of a turbulent city. In an attempt to make Old Siddinus look gentrification-ready, the council replaced the street lights with low-hanging lamps that looked like they should be burning gas. The glow left the streets a faded-newspaper yellow at night. There was a slight chill in the air. It graced Lake Dionne, condensed and spilled a bank of mist that carried over the street.

Alito could have used a new blacktop instead, but the street could look quaint if you twisted your imagination dial to denial. After confession, I needed a few moments of self-delusion. I returned to the rectory for a moment to remove my collar and change shirts first. I also grabbed a sweater and scarf.

I couldn’t tell you why I felt safe walking on Alito. It cut a straight line through the heart of San Siddinus, two blocks away from the lake – which was popular with fishermen and college students, so long as fish that have suffocated from an algae bloom didn’t float to the surface. If I continued west, Alito would crest up a foothill to the vacant San Siddinus International Airport. The airport – with nary a plane in a hangar since the naval air base that preceded it closed decades before – had become a flashpoint in the city. Should it eventually open, everybody would want to take ownership of Alito Drive. A black civil rights group wanted to name it for Martin Luther King. Latinos wanted it for Julio Cesar Chavez. The City Council suggested Phoenix Boulevard – you know, rising from the ashes. Too white, civil rights leaders complained.

Eastbound from the airport, you would pass the business district, The Dugout and other bars. Terra Vista Parkway then split Alito perpendicularly. Terra Vista was the border for how much trouble people wanted to get into. Students and young adults turned north on Terra Vista and continued partying back at the college. Well-to-do families headed south toward pricier homes on the lakefront. Continue east past Terra Vista, Alito became government housing, abandoned storefronts and eventually, a bike path, an outlet channel to the lake, attractive street lamps and St. Maria De Pazzi Catholic Church. At night, traffic this way vanished unless you’re looking for trouble. When I moved here four years ago, it took me two months before I understood the skinny girls who loitered in sweats were prostitutes. Working girls were supposed to dress provocatively, flaunting cleavage and short skirts, fishnets, and actually walking the streets, like on television crime dramas my dad loved to watch. These girls were dressed for a Laundromat. One asked me if I date. She was about eight years younger than I. Her eyes seemed to be losing a struggle to remain inside their lids. One of her lower front teeth was gone. It was only the second time in my life a woman had expressed interest in me. I didn’t know how to react other than to let her down easy. I told her I was committed. I had no idea dating took on a different meaning this side of town.

Innocent thoughts made me smirk. I celebrated naiveté by jamming the vape pen in my mouth and sparking up. If I still smoked cigarettes, maybe I would look pretty cool. Tasting the smoke of watermelon with the blend of hazel nut? Maybe not.

And then I thought of tomorrow. Blessed Advent, Christianity’s original celebration of the four weeks prior to Christmas. Immigrants to North America changed it slightly with Thanksgiving and later, corporate America overwhelmed us with Black Friday. Whichever way people looked at it, this was still a weekend for joy, as sweet as the artificially flavored steam dancing through my turbinates. Parishioners often tell me they look out for others as they do themselves. We’ll have a barrel for toys for the needy tomorrow. Black Friday is a time to walk the talk. It has been filled before. Once, we even found video game consoles.

My smile lifted with ease. I haven’t walked far, my stride slowing and shoulders easing down. The burdens of confession replaced with joy. Holy, wonderful, fleeting joy.

I had written pages of notes that won’t make the homily tomorrow. Little wishes. But calls to action make me feel like I was ordering people around. I can’t resist dissecting Bible readings in my homily. Philosophy is an essential part of many college curriculums, and I would put the intellectual abilities of the apostles with the Greeks, Descartes and so on. Aquinas often referred to Aristotle in his thinking. If the wisdom of men is the foolishness of God, I’m a happy court jester.

Vape pen at my hip, I inhaled fish genocide from Lake Dionne deep through my nostrils.

The moon was swollen and beaming like a young lady who remained physically fit during the third trimester of her pregnancy, when her belly was a perfect, firm globe and her face gleamed with bliss. So much attention toward her and the baby. So little attention to dilapidated Section 8 housing down the street. I admit I ignored looking that way. I like to think my faith saved me every time I walked through the angriest neighborhood in a city with chronic double-digit unemployment and more than one-third desperately needing the table scraps of government assistance.

Lake Dionne opened off to the right, trimmed by trees. It didn’t shimmer from this angle. Not tonight. I needed to head back to the outlet channel for that.

A horizontal steel pole, chained and latched, closed off the bike trail adjacent to the channel. It stopped fitness seekers from making a bad choice, riding the backwoods of San Siddinus after the sun went down. St. Maria De Pazzi bordered the opposite side of the channel. A chain-link fence followed the bike path down the channel. On our side, we erected decorative fencing, topped with doves carrying olive branches. We did that to stop students from climbing the fence and falling 30 feet into the current. The doves and branches were thin layers of forged steel. Not sharp enough to cut, but narrow enough to sting. So be it. I was struck on the hand by a ruler from the nuns who led Sunday School when I was a child.

The clockworks of my mind recycled thoughts about the symbolic importance of water and faith when my eyes embraced Lake Dionne. Like a comforting checklist, I leaned against the railing of the bridge that crossed over the channel. Running water and the calming effects in Eastern religion. The great flood in Genesis. A God that can part the Red Sea. Amazing. John the Baptist. I imagined him along the shores of Lake Dionne as my eyes headed up the channel. I thought of Jesus walking on troubled waters when I saw the exposed nude behind of the skinny black girl floating in the debris.

When my knee gave out, my right wrist smacked against the railing. Gasps aren’t supposed to sound like the one I gurgled. I could see the body sway in the water through the gaps in the fence. Her red hoodie had caught on something. The flowing water had pulled her pants down, exposing an ashy bottom. Neither one of us so much as twitched for seconds.

Eventually, my eyes hurt and I blinked. Then my hands broke free from shock-freeze and fumbled for my smart phone. My mind screamed at the rest of my body. Help that girl. You don’t know.

Only I did know. I hadn’t seen the body plunge into the shallow current. No splash interrupted my contemplation. I lifted my legs over the closed pipe barrier to the bike trail. I heard nothing other than running water. A low billboard with scraps of faded ads faced west, screening anyone there from a clear view of what happened. No lights hovered over the bike trail.

The 911 voice system asked my name, then if I wanted police or fire.

It’s a dead girl! I yelled over the rushing water. I don’t know if … I don’t see any flames.

I babbled while the dispatcher – detached and focused – asked questions that I don’t really remember answering. I told her I was going to put her on speakerphone so that I could try to save the girl. The dispatcher instructed me not to. She was right. I took a first aid class. The instructor told us many people attempting to rescue a victim die because they rush in without checking to make sure the area is safe.

I clutched the chain-link fence. I can climb this. The fall into the water would break my bones. And she still was not moving. I squeezed cold metal, started to pull myself up. Fencing wasn’t made for dress shoes. I drop and flick them away, heel to heel. Back up. Pulling. Metal pinching my feet through the socks.

Through the speaker, the dispatcher called out to me: Back away from the fence! The first responders are the professionals.

Then I made it to the top, my torso clearing the bar like a paunchy gymnast.

I looked straight down at the girl. The back of her head bobbed slightly in the light current. There was a dent, somewhat round, in the back of her balding skull. Wispy trails of blood floated free off the body and coagulated before the water flow can whisk it away to Lake Dionne. No bubbles rose from escaping breath. Off in the distance, sirens blared. Different squeals and rhythms. A brigade of first responders was near.

There’s just no way she’s alive.

Micah!

I dropped back to the ground, leaned against the fencing and ground my face into the palms of my hands.

Micah! Are you still there?

I didn’t go over the fence, I said, looking off in the distance. My right hand glanced my forehead to start the sign of the cross.

There’s a crack on my wristwatch. It wasn’t there before.

* * *

The EMTs and fire department arrived simultaneously. Every profession has its tricks of the trade. For example, an idiot wanting to fish a dead body out of a water channel would climb the fence and cannonball in. Firemen knew where the rungs next to the bridge are. They unlocked the gate and one, with a harness attached to the bridge, swiftly descended into water less than hip deep – which meant I would have broken my back if I had jumped in. He shuffled his legs like a child testing the ocean for body surfing and flipped the girl over. He leaned over. No pulse. He attached a harness to the body.

I regretted looking into the channel at that moment. The flowing water pried her mouth open, same for her eyes. She was silently screaming in terror from beyond the abyss. Her sweat pants were still down, filled with water. She wore little black shorts underneath. Water pulled those down below her knees. I had only known that part of a woman’s anatomy on a textbook level.

I had seen death before. It had been traumatic — for the people around me. I would hover over the bed of a person whose body had been ravaged by illness. I could feel the energy of relatives and friends standing behind me. They were trying to be seen by the patient as I would administer the Sacrament of the Sick, what TV dramas call the Last Rites. People do this, I believe, so that the soon-to-be-dearly-departed would be aware that they were surrounded by love as they slipped into the afterlife. And then I would offer grief counseling, starting with the spouses coming to grips with having been left to fare for themselves. Sometimes, I embraced guilt-ridden parents instead. Those ones are tougher.

I hadn’t administered the sacrament to a partially nude drowning victim.

The first police squad