Bless Me, for I Will Sin

By Bob Gallagher

Michael Dubose, tortured by recurring dreams and a hatred for his mother, is a force not to be denied. As Mardi Gras begins in the French Quarter, Duboses time has come. Driven by loathing, Michael seeks deliverance from his pain. Five women must die so he can live free.

Along with his roommate Billy, Michael devises a grandiose plan to end two liveshis mother and her maidin the cathedral where he had been forced every Sunday of his youth to kneel and pay homage to a God that was just as unlovely as his mother. But three other women of pain must also dieSister Monica, the lady in black and white who had belittled and berated him because he stuttered; Olivia Pressley, the girl he had thought was his friend until she turned on him his freshman year of high school; and, Martha Cravens, a boss who considered him slow, dull, and bumblingand who was also an older, heavier version of his mother .

As innocent people begin paying the price for Michaels twisted plan, the New Orleans police hope for a miracle to save the French Quarter and its visitors as semantics and subtleties ravage a killers sick mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450275606

Bob Gallagher

Robert Gallagher has been writing for forty years and lives in Sugarland, Texas. He earned degrees in English, criminal justice and psychology from the University of Houston. He was a reserve peace officer for twenty years, a flight instructor for six years, and a high school basketball coach for twenty years.

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Bless Me,

for I Will Sin

Bob Gallagher

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Bless Me, for I Will Sin

Copyright © 2010 by Bob Gallagher

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-7561-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-7559-0 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-7560-6 (ebk)

Copyright Registration Number: TXu-1-691-101

iUniverse rev. date: 2/16/2011

Contents

Prologue Thursday, October 26, Fort Polk, Louisiana

Friday, October 27

Thursday, November 23

Friday, November 24

Saturday, November 25

Wednesday, November 29

Saturday, December 2

Sunday, December 3

Thursday, December 7

Wednesday, December 13

Thursday, December 14

Monday, December 25, Christmas Day

Sunday, December 31 New Year’s Eve

Saturday, January 27

Saturday, February 3

Sunday, February 4

Monday, February 5

Tuesday, February 6

Wednesday, February 7

Thursday, February 8

Saturday, February 10

Sunday, February 11

Wednesday, February 14

Thursday, February 15

Friday, February 16

Saturday, February 17

Sunday, February 18

Monday, February 19

Tuesday, February 20

Wednesday, February 21

Friday, February 23

Epilogue Monday, July 23

For and to Mary, Colleen, and Art

Thanks

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A riddle within a riddle, and a mystery within a mystery. Who is mad, and who is bad? Some are hot, and some are not. Santa’s helper is there to be found, and Dickens’s boy is around. Star and lawyer are intertwined, as are explorers and a whisperer. There are foxes and cock robins along the way and two brothers in one. There’s also a pal, an AKA, and, of course, a DOA. Silver Streak offers help, and a code breaker could be called. Martha Stewart and Eve Arden do appear, and Eddie and Zsa Zsa help make things clear. The Hemingway Hilton isn’t fair, but it’s a tribute to Michael Shane, class of ’54. More than one serial killer does appear, but hidden behind a false career. Issachar’s son patiently waits, and of course there’s some double-talk for literature’s sake. Phlegmatic behavior reaps a price in 114 or 2,736. This is some but not all. At least forty-plus things are there to find—some obvious, some sublime.

Prologue

Thursday, October 26, Fort Polk, Louisiana

The office was sparse, having no pictures or mementos hanging on the walls, and its furnishings were old. Sitting behind its lone desk, Major Asa Johnson slowly worked his way through the daily requisitions and inventory reports. He found them boring, but being the good soldier he was, he persevered.

Major Johnson looked considerably older than his forty-five years because of his graying hair and passé, wire-rimmed glasses. He had gained a few pounds over the years, causing his uniforms to shrink, and although they were quite snug, they were always clean and well kept.

As he was finishing the last requisition form, his intercom rang. Major, Lieutenant Smithers is here to see you. He says it’s nothing urgent, but he needs a couple of minutes with you.

Putting the form down, Major Johnson looked at the ugly little box and shook his head. Leaning over, he pressed the talk button and said, Okay, Sergeant, send him in. As Lieutenant Smithers entered the office, Major Johnson was struck by how classically military he always looked. His boots were shined, his pants were creased, and his flattop looked recently cut. He would have made a great poster.

Lighting a cigarette, Major Johnson leaned back and said, Lieutenant, I hope this won’t take too long, because my wife is having a dinner party tonight, and I need to get home a little early. What can I do for you this afternoon?

Lieutenant Smithers replied nervously, Well, sir, this morning after the explosives and demolition exercise for the new ranger trainees, I found an unused detonator lying on the ground next to the workbench. All of the charges had been ignited, so this struck me as a little strange. I took the detonator back to stores and talked to Sergeant Levins, who had filled the requisition and helped with the demonstration. He said he had no idea where the detonator came from, but he’d check the inventory count and get back to me tomorrow. Sir, I’ve only been posted here for two months, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure if this was a problem or not. That’s why I came to you.

Lighting another cigarette, Major Johnson watched the pale blue smoke drift up toward the ceiling. Lieutenant, why didn’t you go to Captain Warren with this?

Sir, Captain Warren is at Fort Benning for recurrent training, and he won’t be back until next week.

Well, Lieutenant, I don’t see how a recovered detonator can be a problem, but get with Sergeant Levins, and we’ll meet tomorrow morning at 0900.

Ten minutes later, Major Johnson was headed home. When he was assigned to Fort Polk three months earlier, he had been fortunate enough to have found a lovely off-base bungalow only twenty minutes from his office. It was a very quaint place and made going home something to look forward to.

As Major Johnson pulled into his driveway, he felt his body relax because he knew that when he walked through the kitchen door, his wife Susan would be there with a big smile and warm embrace. Susan was the proverbial girl next door—cute, perky, and caring. She was never too tired to listen to his day’s events or problems.

They had met when Asa was in Officer’s Candidate School, and they had fallen in love almost immediately—six weeks, to be exact. The day after Asa received his commission, they had gotten married. Twenty-two years later, they were still very much in love.

As Asa put his briefcase down on the kitchen counter, he could not help but notice that Susan was grinning from ear to ear. Undoing his tie, he asked, What are you so happy about? Did you win the lottery or something?

Smiling, Susan said, Well, handsome, it took me two months, but I finally beat Colonel Goodwin’s wife at golf today! At last, my superior athletic ability has come to the forefront. Who knows? Maybe next month I’ll do the tour.

Leaning over, Asa gently kissed his wife on the cheek and said, I’m so proud of you, but I wouldn’t worry about the tour right away. Moving toward the kitchen cabinet, he added, I think I’ll have a little scotch. Would you like a Pepsi?

Five minutes later, as they were both sipping their drinks, Susan asked, Anything interesting happen to you today besides the standard military hum drum?

Putting his drink down, Asa frowned. Nothing in particular, really. Just more papers to go over and more forms to sign. God, I’ll be glad when my transfer comes through in March, so I can get back into the real side of soldiering.

When he took the stores-coordinator assignment three months earlier, he knew he would not like it. In the army, though, it is best to go with the flow. Pushing himself out of his chair, he turned to his wife and said, I’m going to take a shower. Be back shortly. After Asa left the room, Susan got up and went over to the bay window. She looked out at the backyard garden. It was a beautiful area with the setting sun painting various shades of gold and orange through the trees and across the lawn. They were very lucky to have found this house.

Friday, October 27

At 0900 hours, Lieutenant Smithers and Sergeant Levins were shown into Major Johnson’s office. After acknowledging their salutes, Major Johnson motioned for them to sit down and asked, Can I get either of you a cup of coffee? Both declined, so he continued. I’ve got a meeting with the colonel this morning, so I’ll get right to the point. Sergeant, Lieutenant Smithers told me yesterday that he found an unused detonator at the bridge and barricade demonstration site after yesterday’s exercises. Do you have any idea how it got there?

Sergeant Levins answered, Well, sir, the demonstration called for twelve one-pound blocks of C4 and one detonator for each block. While Lieutenant Smithers was giving the protocol lecture, I placed half the charges on the backside of the structures. When he finished the lecture, I then placed the remaining charges on the front side of the structures so the class could see the proper placement procedures. After the detonation, both structures were completely destroyed, so …

Pausing to take a deep breath, he looked at Major Johnson and said, The only conclusion is that I somehow miscounted and packed an extra detonator.

Focusing on Lieutenant Smithers, Major Johnson asked, Are you okay with this?

Nodding his head, Lieutenant Smithers responded, Yes, sir. As far as I’m concerned, it was a simple mistake and has been rectified.

Major Johnson lit another cigarette as he spoke to Sergeant Levins. In the future, Sergeant, you need to be more careful. You’re not that far from retirement.

Yes, sir, and thank you, sir, Levins replied. Once outside, Sergeant Levins walked over to his Jeep and climbed in.

His hands were sweating, and his throat felt very dry. He had almost screwed the whole deal up over a stupid mistake. It had been easy to split the C4 charges on the backside of the structures. He was alone, and he had learned long ago that a half-pound charge of C4 would easily destroy the wooden joints of the two structures. Of course, he had not put the detonator back in inventory but merely juggled the inventory figures. Two-plus pounds of C4 and a detonator would bring a tidy profit, and with his mother’s illness and an autistic child to take care of, it was worth the risk. Love, pain, and pressure make people take unfathomable chances. Tomorrow, he would call the Italian in New Orleans.

Thursday, November 23

It was almost dark as the taxi pulled up to Michael Alan Dubose’s French Quarter apartment. Michael was twenty-five years old, slight of build, and five eight with a full head of hair tied back in a ponytail and an untrimmed beard and mustache. He’d have blended in very nicely at a rock concert or a protest, but the French Quarter being the French Quarter, he didn’t stand out one way or the other. He had always liked the French Quarter, even as a boy. It seemed to have a life of its own; it felt alive, yet wasn’t overly demanding and didn’t ask for much. The buildings and streets were its body, and the people in and around it were its lifeblood. The place seemed to pulsate, and if you were around it long enough, it consumed you.

When the taxi came to a stop in front of his apartment, Michael reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled twenty dollar bill, and gave it to the driver. As he opened the door to exit, the cabbie said, Hey, buddy, you gave me a twenty; the tab’s only twelve bucks.

Not bothering to turn around, Michael snarled, Keep the change. Starting up the stairway that led to his apartment, he was struck for the thousandth time by the strange smokey aroma that permeated the dimly lit stairwell. Michael had liked the apartment the first time he’d looked at it six years ago. It was quiet, the rent was reasonable, and the owners didn’t pry. Unlocking the apartment door, Michael entered the sparsely furnished living room and settled into one of the old lounge chairs opposite the sofa. Billy Butterfly was sitting in the sofa and seemed to be in deep thought. Billy had roomed with Michael for the past two years, and they got along very well. He was a little shorter than Michael and had a little less hair, but they looked enough alike to be brothers. Looking over at his friend, Michael asked, Well, Billy, how’d your day go?

Not bothering to look up, Billy said, Oh, it’s been quiet enough, but what’s more important is how did things go at your mother’s?

Sliding back into the old chair, Michael looked at Billy for a minute and said, It was the same as all the other dinners: bitch, bitch, bitch. ‘When are you going to get a real job?’ ‘When are you going to get a haircut?’ ‘When are you going to buy some new clothes?’ ‘You should get a girlfriend. You need to get out of the Quarter and go to college. God only knows you have enough money.’ Billy, it never changes, and it never will. Year, after year, after year. It’s been incessant, and to be honest, I absolutely hate my mother and the bitch Michelle, her maid.

As Michael paused, Billy interjected, You know, Michael, even though we’ve been friends for the last two years, I’ve never meet your mother or, for that matter, any of your acquaintances, so it’s a little hard for me to understand your hatred.

Looking over at Billy, Michael said, My mother’s very pretty on the outside. Even today, at fifty plus, she could pass for a much younger woman. Her hair is dark brown, and she smiles a lot, but behind the smiles and the pretty face, she’s totally consumed by herself. Her only real love is herself and what she sees in her mirrors. She spends hours in front of her mirrors, and to her, I have always been nothing but an inconvenience. The harder I tried to love her, the more distant she became. Occasionally, I would get a half smile but never a hug or a squeeze. Most of the time, she just walked away from me. We never talked or joked. She always made me feel unwanted and pitiful.

Pausing for a moment to rub the back of his neck, Michael continued. About a week after my father died in a motel fire in Metairie, I woke up one night and had wet the bed. I was very confused and frightened, so I went to my mother’s bedroom and woke her up. She went berserk and started screaming at me about how I was too old to start wetting my bed and that I wasn’t about to get into her bed soaking wet. She told me to go back to my bedroom and sleep on the floor. So I went back to my room and slept on the floor. This went on for about a week, and finally my mother took me to the doctor who examined me and told her I wasn’t diabetic and had no urinary or bladder infection. As far as he was concerned, it was probably caused by the fact that I had lost my dad, and said that I’d grow out of it eventually. Needless to say, my mother wasn’t happy about any of this, because she hated my father. It was at this point that she told me my father had gotten drunk with a prostitute, and they’d passed out together in the motel room. A cigarette had ignited the bed, and both had died of smoke inhalation.

Getting up, Michael walked over to the window and watched as a light rain dampened the streets below. Turning, he said, "I’ve thought about all this through the years, and I realize lots of boys have wet their beds, and their mothers have had problems with it, but the hatred I’ve endured has gone on and on. I need freedom. Think about it: for a six-year-old, the information about my father was overwhelming. Anyway, two nights after we’d been to the doctor, I wet the bed again and, of course, had to sleep on the floor. Then on the third night, just after I’d gotten into bed, mother and her maid, Michelle, came into my room with lengths of torn cloth and proceeded to tie me to the bed. I really did try to fight back, but as you know, I have never been physically strong, and it didn’t take them long to tie me to the bed. After they’d finished, I begged them to untie me. I promised never to wet the bed again, but they just looked at me and before Mother turned the light out. Michelle said, ‘After you spend the night in your own pee, you’ll be cured soon enough.’ Then the light went out, and I laid there in the dark hoping I wouldn’t have an accident that night, but ever so slowly, I felt the warm urine wet my bed. It was sticky, and then as time went by, it chilled. I pulled and twisted, but they had tied the knots quite well, so I spent the night lying in my own wet and cold urine.

"The next morning when they untied me, Michelle told my mother not to let me bathe and that once I’d spent the day sticky and smelly, I would never wet the bed again. As soon as they left the room, however, I grabbed some clothes, ran out the back door