Collared

By Michael Farragher

A tale of suspense, spirituality
and redemption ripped from todays headlines, Collared is the story of
two brothers abused by their beloved parish priest.

Mitch becomes a reporter tearing
through the shroud of secrecy cloaking around the church. He exposes the
rampant pedophilia rotting the foundation of parish communities and the
dioceses ruthless attempts to avoid scandal at all costs.

His brother Barry is a priest
dedicating his life to making a difference in the lives of the young people in
his care. He gets caught in the media
frenzy created by Mitchs columns and becomes the pawn of a Cardinal who will
stop at nothing to retain his grip on power.

A vicious killer emerges from the
shadows of the church and strikes at the clergy exposed in Mitchs articles. A
trail of bodies leads the brothers to the murderer and an explosive
confrontation with the man who took their innocence all those years ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 13, 2004
• ISBN: 9781414046730

Michael Farragher

Mike Farragher is an Entertainment Writer for the Irish Voice, one of the largest national newspapers serving the Irish American community. He is also a frequent contributor to a number of national publications.  He lives in Spring Lake Heights, New Jersey with his wife and two daughters. This is his first novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It was Barry who first saw Shane’s lifeless body dangling from the tree. The terrified nine-year-old ran into his mother’s room, and she flashed out of bed and down the stairs screaming. It startled Mitch awake.

Call the neighbors and have them call the police, shrieked Nancy Doyle over her shoulder.

As the dawn pushed a dried blood sky over the industrial landscape, neighbors were starting to gather around the house. Mrs. Connor was charged with keeping the boys away from the commotion in the backyard while her husband, a recently retired police officer and a giant of a man known to the neighborhood as Uncle Pete, did his best to manage the crowd.

Let’s all respect the family here, folks, he said solemnly in a thick Limerick accent, corralling the spectators away from the action with his enormous wingspan.

Uncle Pete was peering over his shoulder from time to time, doing his best to avoid looking at the dead boy. He made the sign of the cross before his eyes locked onto the small faces peering from the basement window.

Peggy, for God’s sake, will yeh keep the kids from seeing any of this!

The boys had scurried down the steps to look at the scene outside through the dirty windows on the ground level. The gray pipes that covered the ceiling hissed to life as someone flushed a toilet upstairs, startling the boys as they crouched in front of the window.

He’s not moving, said Barry between choppy sobs. Do you think he’s dead?

Mitch shrugged his shoulders, bobbing his neck from side to side in an attempt to look through the crowd. It was hard for him to see what was going on. They could see the back of Shane’s head above the crowd. Barry buried his head in the bend in his elbow, crying loudly.

Knock it off, growled Mitch, elbowing his little brother in the ribs.

His own stomach churned as he watched a burly firefighter inch up the trunk of the tree, the branches on the weeping willow bending perilously beneath his weight while he made his way to the rope. With a few slices of a knife, Shane’s body fell a few inches, into the waiting arms of the emergency workers that milled beneath the hanging body.

A hush came over the crowd as they stood in the clammy air. Shane was laid on the ground in his mother’s arms with the neighbors forming a circle of muted sobs around them. Mitch swallowed hard at the sight of Nancy holding his brother, and he jumped when she let out an anguished howl. She refused to let go of the body as the police taped off the area around the tree and the neighbors slowly dispersed.

Barry tugged at Mitch’s shoulder.

You think Ma is going to call Father Finbar again?

Let’s hope not.

Mrs. Connor joined them in the basement, burying the boys’ faces in her robe.

Sure, there’s nothin’ more to see here. Let’s get you dressed and get you over to your Aunt Mary’s house for a while.

Mitch looked up in disbelief.

We don’t want to leave Mommy!

We hate going over there, pleaded Barry. She doesn’t like little boys! Please don’t make us go over there!

She rocked on her heels with the boys at her side for a moment, placing her finger to her lips. She guided them up to the main floor of the house. Policemen and emergency workers were milling around the house when they reached the top of the stairs. Nancy was at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the tree while one of the neighbors rubbed her shoulders.

Cut it down, said Nancy evenly. I’m not going to look at that feckin’ thing every time I have my tea.

Is Shane dead, Mommy? asked Barry.

The sight of tears streaming down the faces of the bulky workers prompted Mitch to cry when Nancy nodded her head and ran to her remaining children. She said nothing as she knelt in front of them and cupped her hands around her face.

We don’t want to go to Aunt Mary’s, Mom. We want to be with you, said Barry.

I need to do some things by myself, luv. It will just be for a night or two. Will yeh be a brave pair of boys for your mammy?

Barry bit the corner of his lower lip, holding back tears.

Aunt Mary’s house was covered in plastic; clear strips zigzagged across the carpet and the burnt-orange couches were vacuum-sealed in hard shells to remove the near occasion of dirt.

We want to see our mom, said Barry in between heavy sobs upon walking into the small apartment.

I know yeh do, said Mary, kissing his forehead in an awkward moment of affection. Your mother is just sortin’ things out at home, so there would be no fun there. Why not watch TV? I’m sure Bugs Bunny is on by now.

No Bugs Bunny, screamed Barry with a stomp of his feet. I want Mommy.

Aunt Mary shoved him onto the couch.

Listen, we’re all goin’ through a lot, and you gettin’ all hysterical is somethin’ none of us need right now. Keep it together, willya?

She marched into the kitchen and the boys soon heard the clicking of the rotary phone.

I don’t know how long I can keep them here, she whispered to Uncle Pete.

Sure, it’s no trouble at all to bring them here, he said as he packed the boys into his car a few minutes later. We’ve got tons of grandkids, sure, we’re used ta their whinin’ and all.

For the rest of the week, Mitch did his best to lay low. He learned about crying on demand, and at times he found himself bawling simply because everyone else was doing it. He was getting pretty good at it over the last twelve months, having lost his father to lung cancer the year before.

On the first day of Shane’s wake, Mitch stayed outside the viewing room. The strong smell of flowers and the clammy crush of the crowd made him nauseous. In an effort to get his mind off the dead body in the next room, he stared at the cars that whizzed past the door that faced the busy Kennedy Boulevard. He eyed the heavy window treatments suspiciously, his gaze intent on the shadows that lurked in the folds of the dense red velvet drapes.

His body tensed when Sister Wanda, the school principal, filled the doorway.

How are you, Mitch, she said, her tears magnified by thick glasses.

Okay, Sister, he said, bobbing his shoulders slightly.

Your mom says you’re having nightmares. Are they about Shane?

Yes, Sister.

Well, you needn’t worry about him, dear. He is with your father in heaven, and the Lord is taking good care of him.

Yes, Sister.

She rubbed his shoulder reassuringly and walked with the other nuns into the parlor.

The time off from school has been the only good thing to come from this week, he thought as she disappeared from view. The nightmares of Father Finbar running after him with Shane’s head in his hands were taking their toll on his nervous system and he was groggy.

This poor family is cursed, whispered one of the women as they walked past him. I said a rosary that the bad luck wouldn’t rub off on me when I came here.

I know, growled another one. It makes you wonder what they did to bring all of this bad luck on themselves.

A dozen men in gray pants with a navy stripe marched through the door. It was the same one dad used to wear when he worked at the Turnpike. He would hang on the legs inside those pants as his father came home from the midnight shift, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the baked goods that were tucked under his arm. The memory made him miss his father at that moment and he hid his face momentarily as the men passed. One of them recognized him, and put his hand on Mitch’s shoulder.

You’re the man of the house now, little fellow, said one of the uniformed men, stuffing a crumpled twenty-dollar bill in Mitch’s hand as he passed by. A number of the other men with him followed suit, and Mitch soon had a bulging pocket of cash.

Barry ran over to him.

Did you get a lot of money too?

I got some.

How much did you get? asked Barry, shimmying onto the seat.

Over a hundred, I think. How about you? I don’t know. Let’s go somewhere and count our loot!

I think there’s a room downstairs. Yeah, but it looked dark down there. That’s what lights are for, dummy. Come on.

They gingerly descended the stairs into the cool basement, where they knelt in front of a folding chair and emptied their pockets. Barry looked uneasy, jumping each time the floorboards above them creaked.

We’re kinda far from Mom down here, said Barry with a gulp, looking up the flight of stairs. Don’t you think we should go upstairs?

This is great, Mitch said in disbelief. Look at all of it! We’re rich!

We gotta save this. Dad’s not around anymore, so we have to watch how we spend.

The boys froze momentarily and panic coursed through them as the door swung open. Someone upstairs flipped the switch at the top of the stairs, and the room went dark as the footsteps moved away. The boys screamed as they fumbled for the staircase. Mitch slipped on the puddle of urine that formed at Barry’s feet, and he howled with pain as his temple hit the railing.

The door opened again, the light slicing the blackness in front of them. When the boys emerged from the top of the stairs, their mother was waiting for them.

What in God’s name is the matter with yehs? She spoke in her thick Dublin accent through clenched teeth. People are goin’ ta think we’re savages.

She looked at the wetness on Barry’s pants.

Are yeh after wettin’ yerself now? For Christ’s sake!

Uncle Pete appeared between the boys and their mother. He brushed Nancy’s shoulder before bending down to the boys’ level.

Nancy, the poor boys have been through a lot, just like yerself, of course. I’ll take care of them; yeh can go back to the crowd in the parlor. Someone told me that Father Finbar just came in.

Uncle Pete took a few large steps into the men’s room, his enormous hand swallowing Barry’s. Mitch’s eyes widened when he saw the priest looking at him. He timidly followed behind his brother, emptying the contents of his bladder into the urinal as Mr. Connor attended to Barry’s pants at the sink. The door swung open and the priest joined them.

Everything all right here?

Fine, fine, Father.

The priest winked at the boys as they emerged from the bathroom together. Father Finbar Foley was an impish man with youthful features and a tuft of thick brown hair that seemed sculpted onto his scalp from a soft serve ice cream machine. He straightened the lapels of his black jacket and smiled with tight lips as he waded through the crowd toward the coffin. He wiped the stream of tears on his tanned cheeks and took a deep breath before Nancy spotted him, and she began to sob uncontrollably into his shoulder when they embraced. They stood motionless for a long moment before Father Finbar pulled himself away and knelt. He stared at the picture of Shane and his father that was perched atop the closed casket for a long moment before making the sign of the cross.

This is how it looks in heaven right now, reasoned Nancy over his shoulder as she stroked the back of the kneeling priest.

A hush came over the room as the priest stood in front of the coffin and blessed himself.

Father in Heaven, we ask you to carry the overwhelming burden of grief that sits on the shoulders of these good people whom you made. Watch over them, Lord, during this most difficult time, and may you hold young Shane in the palm of your hand now and always. May his soul and the soul of the faithful departed through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

The room rustled as the visitors blessed themselves and the noise level gradually resumed.

I had Dr. Hamilton write a prescription for these, whispered Father Finbar as he slipped a small orange vial into Nancy’s hand. You’ll need them.

Nancy sat motionless through the burial ceremony on the following day, her eyelids heavy from the medicine. Father Finbar made the sign of the cross over the clay pit before the men lowered the coffin into it. Nancy turned her head and hid her face in Uncle Pete’s barrel chest as her son’s casket disappeared into the hole. The darkness of the opening would stain the backs of Mitch’s eyelids for days, forming a backdrop for his gruesome dreams in the weeks that followed.

The neighbors had piled a collection of food onto some card tables in the living room to feed the Doyle family upon their return.

Ah, Jaysis, said Nancy as she made her way into the living room. Let’s get the liquor out of here right now. The last thing I need is for Tom to tie one on at a time like this.

Sure, the neighbors will think we’re drunks, agreed Mary as she hid the bottles in the cabinet.

A seemingly endless procession of mourners made their way into the house in the days following the burial. Within two weeks, the visitors stopped.

The whole world has gotten back to their lives, sighed Nancy at the kitchen table one morning as she readied the boys for school. She had poured orange juice into the cereal instead of milk, and the boys decided to eat it in an attempt to keep their heads low. People think they can bring a covered dish and be done with it. They can stick their casseroles up their arses!

Father Finbar was the only person who continued regular visits to the house. Nancy was still devastated, and the priest spent long hours in the kitchen praying with her when she wasn’t in her room sobbing. The priest would encourage her to get out of bed for the sake of her remaining children.

They need you now, he’d say, stroking the red ringlets from her broad forehead as she lay in bed. God put you on this earth to take care of the boys, so why not get up and do the Lord’s work. Offer your suffering up to him.

I’ve tried that, Father, she said. I really have. I just wish he’d lay off this family for a while, ‘cos I’m not sure how much more of his work I can take.

The priest would play ball with the boys in the small patch of grass behind their home in the Heights section of Jersey City to get them out from their mother’s feet.

From the New Jersey Turnpike, it looked as though their block was situated on a step carved into the steep hillside, and the boys lost countless baseballs when they tumbled down into the neighborhood below them.

A little help, Mr. Sawyer, they would call and he would begrudgingly throw the balls up to them when he walked out into his yard to feed the pigeons gathered there.

Keep the fucking balls in your own yard, he bellowed in a voice caked with nicotine as he hurled the ball into their yard one day. His face flushed when the priest waved down to him.

Thanks for your charity, Mr. Sawyer, said Father Finbar calmly.

Sorry, Father. Have a great day.

Mr. Connor hung his meat-hook hands over the green chain-link fence next door. He eyed the priest for a moment before calling out to the boys.

Everything all right, boys?

Great, Uncle Pete, said Barry.

Howaya, Father?

I’m great, Mr. Connor, thanks for asking.

So, you’re over here playing with these boys again? It’s a good thing the parish runs by itself!

Father Finbar looked down at the boys adoringly.

A shepherd’s job is to care for all the sheep, especially the ones that lose their way in the flock.

You sure spend a lot of time with the lambs is all I’m sayin.’

Give my best to Mrs. Connor, said Father Finbar coolly, his fingers massaging the stitches on the baseball. I’ll be seeing you Sunday?

Probably before that, said Connor as he turned back to the house. I am never far away.

After one particularly long workout in the late August sun, Mitch’s skin had turned a soft pink color and tightened around his wiry, seven-year-old frame. He lifted his catcher’s mitt onto the Formica countertop, each move of his muscle rewarded with the sting of sunburn. His workout made him listless; not even the faint smell of pot roast lifted his tired spirits. He just wanted to skip dinner and run right upstairs to get a cold bath.

Not too cold, warned Nancy, her face wrinkling with concern and annoyance. Just run the water warm, otherwise you’ll be shivering. I’ll do it for you.

She huffed up the stairs and hurriedly turned the knobs of the bathtub.

I need you being sick like a feckin’ hole in the head, she bellowed as the water splashed the porcelain. The pastor is here for dinner along with Father Finbar, and I’m up here like a half-boiled eejit drawing a bath for a pair of gobshites who don’t have the sense to stay out of the sun.

The warm water made his flesh recoil and an army of goosebumps marched up his skeleton as he eased himself into the tub and the water grazed his dry stomach.

Nancy’s icy tone calling them for dinner was an indication that this would not be a leisurely bath. The boys dried off their bodies in thirsty towels that smelled slightly musty. Mitch gingerly dabbed the thick knots of towel thread over his stinging skin before putting on his pajamas.

Father Finbar sat at the head of the table, his hands fumbling through the basket of instant rolls in search of one that was not burned at the bottom. He sat next to Father Santos, the pastor of St. Anne’s, whose long limbs earned him the nickname praying mantis among the students. He was talking animatedly about the changes he