The Sin Eater

By Jack Maro

An unconventional rabble-rousing lawyer is gone. Suspended from an elite firm for the extreme behavior he performed on behalf of his clients, he has now departed with the intent of keeping his whereabouts unknown. The firm needs him back to address a problem that threatens their very existence — and probably their freedom. One of the four partners has died, and another has become comatose. Both hold the key to the inner workings of the firm’s complex financial structure, having been secretly infused into an intertwining set of legal trusts and financial ruses. Bri, the senior partner’s estranged daughter and the firm’s former lead investigator, has been summoned to deal with her father’s condition and to seek out the missing lawyer, a man who happens to be her ex-boyfriend. Jeffrey, her former protégée and replacement, accompanies her on this quest. Their search brings them into contact with a whimsical cast of characters who provide new information concerning the whereabouts of the missing lawyer. Bri and Jeffrey traipse across multiple states, searching for him and the pieces he has left in his wake. Instead they find a story full of intrigue, humor, and philosophical overtones that has the potential to reveal the beginnings of a sordid secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atlantic Publishing Group, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781620235836

Book preview

The

Sin Eater

Jack Maro

The Sin Eater

Copyright © 2019 Jack Maro

1405 SW 6th Avenue • Ocala, Florida 34471 • Phone [phone] • Fax [phone]

Website: www.atlantic-pub.com • Email: [e-mail]

SAN Number: 268-1250

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the Publisher. Requests to the Publisher for permission should be sent to Atlantic Publishing Group, Inc., 1405 SW 6th Avenue, Ocala, Florida 34471.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Maro, Jack author.

Title: The sin eater / by Jack Maro.

Description: Ocala, Florida : Atlantic Publishing Group, 2018.

Identifiers: LCCN 2018005094 (print) | LCCN 2018009748 (ebook) | ISBN 9781620235836 (ebook) | ISBN 9781620235829 (pbk. : alk. paper) | ISBN 162023582X (alk. paper)

Subjects: LCSH: Lawyers--Fiction. | Missing persons--Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction | Suspense fiction

Classification: LCC PS3613.A76725 (ebook) | LCC PS3613.A76725 S56 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018005094

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Printed in the United States

PROJECT MANAGERS: Danielle Lieneman, Katie Cline

INTERIOR LAYOUT AND JACKET DESIGN: Nicole Sturk

At what level is the story being read and by whom? Is it a simple storyline with some intrigue, humor, and sexual exploits, made just to entertain?

Or is it more? Is it an in-depth development of philosophical overtones interwoven in a plot geared toward uncertainty that forces characters to reveal hidden emotions and question themselves, as the reader must?

Or is all of that, sweetened with a sense of intellectual snobbery that allows a feeling of development when one is led to believe they are sharing in something different from the ordinary, something that only certain people can perceive, and thus share in the creation of a reality that may well be fostered by an illusion?

Or is the novel simply a quest for reward fueled by avarice, thus forsaking the sweetness, passion, intellectual prowess, and physical insights to be derived?

The reader must decide whether the story has taken on a new dimension.

Choose wisely!

Table of Contents

First Prologue: Remember the Sweetness

Second Prologue: . . . But Never Forget the Passion

Sequence 3: The Sin Eater

Sequence 4: On the Edge of Goodbye

Sequence 5: Penance, a Lifelong Responsibility

Sequence 6: Don’t Commit to a Degree that a Failure Will Result in Your Total Undoing

Sequence 7: Tomorrow . . . The Favorite Day of the Week, or Quandu Vuelva a tu Lado

Sequence 8: What a Day for a Day Dream

Sequence 9: To Define is to Limit

Sequence 10: Enough to Expect, But Too Much to Ask

Sequence 11: Sanctum . . . Sanctum . . . Sanctorum

Sequence 12: The Laugh that Love Could Not Forgive

Sequence 13: Shooters and Neon Lights

Sequence 14: Let Yesterday Go and You’ll Find Forever in What You Don’t Know

Sequence 15: Revenge, a Dish Best Served Cold

Sequence 16: Explaining Everything . . . Settling Nothing

Sequence 17: A Separate Peace

Sequence 18: Every Point of Refuge Has a Price

Sequence 19: There is Always a Price to Pay for Thinking

Sequence 20: No Reasons. Just Appearances and the Way Things Are

Sequence 21: Dismissed Without Prejudice

Sequence 22: E Pluribus Unum

Sequence 23: Can’t See a Storm Cloud but Can Readily Smell the Rain

Sequence 24: There is Always a Right Way to do Something Wrong

Sequence 25: Southern Regions Gone Tropical

Sequence 26: To Have and to Hold and in Time Let Go

Sequence 27: Demand to Win Acknowledges Defeat

Sequence 28: We All Seek Eden . . . Maybe it is Just Around the Corner

First Prologue

Remember the Sweetness

She was dressed in celluloid. He in mild tint. She appeared apprehensive; at first, she denied his advances, but then she allowed herself to slide over his undulating thread-like fingers. It was as if she was granting silent permission to access her every orifice. She positioned herself, allowing a mechanical groan to escape from deep inside her. He, in turn, responded with a shudder and slowed his motion accordingly.

Once again, she paused, as if to tantalize over some foreign concealment or possible revelation of some shameless act. Then, with no further hesitation, she recanted her reluctance and the ritual commenced anew.

Oh, yes, the ritual. One repeated so many times and in so many places only now with a sense of foreboding indecision. After all, these two were no longer in their prime. He appeared to have withstood the stress of age better than she, who seemed to have lost her luster. There was a flatness to her once shining ebony skin. The blemishes, not previously noticeable, were now readily pronounced and appeared all too often. This, in turn, marred her once untainted beauty.

Once again, a warming caress appeared between the two. Oh, how they had grown together. Now, the existence of one was meaningless without the presence of the other. So silent when apart, yet so sound-ridden when united. Stripped of their protective shrouds, they performed well together. Totally naked, they appeared unaffected by the watchful eyes cast upon them, revealing in the darkness their true nature. The two, again, with their ancient history stored on bits and pieces of old perforated plastic, found life together. Now, they reproduced images of places and faces long ago forgotten by most, along with secrets left unattended by others. Yes, together, they were something; apart they were nothing. If ever two inanimate objects found life together, it was the old man projector and his well-threaded lady. Together they turned the hands of time.

Quite the spectacle, he thought to himself, as he watched the unveiling of the 1940s reel-to-reel projector and accompanying newsreel.

With an energetic passion, he dictated those vivid impressions into his hand-held recorder, memorializing a profoundness that could be readily revisited at a later date. It was then that he heard her voice drifting in from afar, as if reaching into the past to re-absorb him back into the present.

"To whom are you speaking?" inquired Bri.

No one, really, I suppose, he said, with an air of disappointment. I was re-playing the taped memorializations of some picturesque impressions that I had recorded while watching this old newsreel and projector perform.

What old newsreel? she responded.

The one that I inadvertently encountered while searching for one of the ancient firm files, he answered, pointing in the direction of the illustrious couple.

As she walked closer, she displayed a wide-eyed look and allowed a warm facial radiance to appear. Looks old. Any idea how old? Bri asked.

I didn’t see, nor could I locate any corresponding file boxes, but judging by the age of the projector and the film reels, it’s definitely more than thirty years and then some, he said. Very early forties, he conjectured.

Well, why would they just be lying around? They appear out of place and out of time, at least compared to the other files strewn about, she said.

Lying around it was not. I discovered it, inadvertently, on that back shelving unit while I was sorting through some labeled boxes trying to locate an old corporate war file for one of the firm’s established families, he responded, referencing the location of his discovery in the far removed darkness with a gesture.

Who keeps files that long? she retorted.

I guess someone either just forgot or it became sentimental and could not be discarded, he answered, shrugging his shoulders. The staff renamed this lower sub-basement The Tombs, you know. It has its history, he said. After a brief pause, he continued, I’ve heard that when things are quiet and dark down here, all types of secrets come out and play between these walls. He raised an exaggerated eyebrow and ended the statement with a slight smirk.

So, what buried secret did you find in that old reel-to-reel projector and the marred up film? she inquired, exaggerating her own question with a frown.

It appears to be an old series of spliced together, multi-news reel tapes, referencing a large illegal salvage event and the resulting scandal. It is difficult to tell exactly when this happened or the whole story, since there appears to be pieces missing. However, judging by the nature of the clothing and the type of boats involved, I would have to guess that it was not within the last thirty years. It appears that some salvage items found were an issue between Florida and Mississippi. Eventually, the federal government became involved since the Spanish government had also laid a claim to the bouillon and artifacts that were discovered, he said. As he paused, Bri interjected, So, why would you be interested in this?

Actually, I was not, but I originally thought this might be one of those old porno flicks. You know, the ones where the guy wears black socks and a mask, he said, hoping for a reply.

That’s it? she responded in a playful voice while pushing on his shoulder.

Well, it appears that the salvage was unauthorized. Not all of the bounty was recovered. There were indications that there were some special coins, something to do with the National Treasure of Spain, and those coins were to be returned to Spain. All of this was occurring in the midst of some type of treaty negotiations on a military base in Europe. The United States government did not wish to offend the Spanish government and managed to quiet the matter down. However, it appears people did go to jail, he continued.

Maybe this firm represented some of those people? she interrupted.

As of now, I don’t believe the firm was doing criminal work thirty years ago, he answered.

Or, maybe they had a different sin eater back then, she interjected. Nonetheless, it sounds exciting, she muttered. Tell me more.

It appears that coins came from the Jesuits, who had been in Mexico. I remember from my history lessons that the Jesuits were attempting to Christianize the local Indians. During that era, they were also obtaining and smelting gold for the king of Spain. According to the newsreel commentators, the gold, jewelry, artifacts, and coins were aboard one of the ships on its way back to Spain when it sank. The question became who owned its bounty, he said.

Getting more and more intriguing, she replied.

Actually, it is getting intellectually stimulating, he responded with a wink.

You know, I remember something about a tabloid that was in one of the museums concerning a map leading to gold buried by the Jesuits. There was discussion about that in my art and human history courses when I was doing post-graduate work on the European effect relating to pre-American cultural history, she said.

I think you might be confusing this with the lost treasure of the Jesuits, which has quite a questionable historical documentation, he answered.

Maybe so, but there are some cross-overs. At least, to the best that I can remember, she continued.

Like the fact that everything originated out of Mexico, that the Jesuits were actually stealing gold from the king of Spain to finance the Church, he responded.

So, you are up on your Jesuit folklore, she grinned.

Actually, I’m a Christian Brother’s boy. I had no choice but to dabble in religious historical culture, he responded.

Since my curiosity has peaked, let’s look about and see if we can locate file boxes that correspond with these news reels, Bri suggested.

Why not? he responded without hesitation.

Look at this place, it would be a monumental chore. I mean, where would we even start to look? This place is like a library without a filing system. It is a forest of boxes. These files appear water damaged from the old flood; there are no labels on anything. In fact, it appears that some of the older sub-basement files may have been transferred from damaged boxes to these newer looking ones. There was once a catalog card system, but I don’t know if it was ever updated, she said.

How do you know so much about this place? he questioned.

Not so much this place, but these files, she answered. Unfortunately, I had to deal with some that came from here. I did encounter the follow-up to the flooding problem, and judging by the looks of things down here, it now appears to have been more prevalent than we originally thought. This appears to have been an area that sustained the most water, she answered.

But, why store these files for all of these years? he asked.

I guess things just get away from you, she said.

Life has a way of doing that to people, he replied. Besides, it would be difficult to update a filing system for what readily appears to be a haphazard grouping of dead-headed files.

You’re right, she answered.

Right, about what? he responded.

About secrets coming out and playing between these walls, she answered.

I guess we’ll just have to make time to look and listen on another day, he said in a soft voice.

My schedule has caught up with me, she replied as she looked at her Movado. I need to be at an appointment at noon; if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.

I’ve got the same problem. I really would like to get back to this. My curiosity has been piqued. However, we’ll have to wait, he said, as he glanced at his dated Elgin. Certainly an antique, he thought. The pawnshop broker had told him it was one of only a few in existence when he bought it years ago. It must be true, he thought, after all, he hadn’t seen another one.

Before they departed, they both paused and looked back, catching a glimpse of the old projector and the now closed newsreel canisters. They looked at each other, not speaking, and yet both knew that they would be back. Sometimes things are just too exotic or too unsure to leave unattended. As he left, he glanced over his shoulder and viewed the projector and his lady. He knew that he would always remember the sweetness presented by the interaction of the two aged objects.

Second Prologue

. . . But Never Forget the Passion

Bri looked about, remembering the old-time and water-­stained plastered walls, as she stepped down into the bowels of the aged tombs. The Tombs had become a synonym for the third sub-basement, located in levels beneath and adjacent to the main basement floor of the firm building. Each level was defined by an irregular and somewhat confusing perimeter boundary. The first-level basement could be reached using the elevator. Level two could be accessed by a set of concrete battleship-stained gray steps, paralleled on both sides by a well-worn cast iron railing. The third level could not be accessed by any means other than from the second sub-level after traversing an integrated set of pitted hardwood oak stairs well-ripened with age. This level was divided into small, irregular caverns that required traversing additional levels of stairs to gain further access. Even though Bri had never ventured past this area, those who had referred to it as a place, where day was night and the darkness had fingers. This level always had an aura of eeriness about it. This was as far as she had ever gone, even with him, and this was as far as she was going for now. She continued to look about. Things appeared to have remained the same since her last visit some five years ago. It was hard to believe that such a sullen place could hold secrets, stored away hopes and dreams, shared by people who, most assuredly, were no longer concerned with the trials or tribulations faced by those left behind. It was here that she started to learn life’s lessons.

They had come back on several occasions. At first, it was to seek the files that accompanied the old newsreels and projector. Each time, they were unsuccessful. But the looking became a prelude to the real reason they cobbled down, away from the populace of office life. Although their initial efforts were sparked with keen interest, it quickly became a half-hearted attempt to encounter some type of information that would shed light on the extended newsreels and surrounding intrigue relating to the Jesuit coins. The truth was, they came down here, in turn, to find each other. Bri paused in her thoughts, continuing to oversee the endless forest of boxes stacked shelves high. She also noticed the remnants of the colored tape that had been left on the designated boxes, the ones that had been opened and searched in an effort to find some unknown treasure trove of information. The tape seemed frail and discolored compared to her memories, which remained vivid and alive.

After a moment or two, she allowed her eyes and mind to drift about and quickly reminisced. She thought of the times they had planned picnics down here. She remembered that very first picnic. It was going to be a special morning: absolute privacy with no people and no phones. She knew it was going to be special. She had consulted her horoscope, written in French, as she found the future to be more intriguing when read in a foreign language. Besides, the French were such optimists. No goodbyes, just adieus.

Bri’s thoughts became temporarily disrupted, allowing for an Oh my to escape her parted lips. She felt a warmth pass over her body as she envisioned the affair.

It was quite a morning picnic. It was held just at the rear of the third level, before the commencement of the catacombs and adjacent to where he had found the projector. She initiated her movement in that direction as she continued to revisit the picnic in her memory. He had hung an old hotel Do Not Disturb sign as a joke. She had taken slices of fruit and slid them from between her lips to his. His lips were soft, yet firm; at times, they were even demanding; oh, so demanding. Thereafter, when the fruit was gone, the tips of her breasts were substituted. Each breast remained in place just long enough to experience a prolonged mouth-suckling endeavor. She remembered the sweetness of apple nectar on her strawberry nipples. All went well until what remained of the apples and her skirt wound up over her head. She remembered that dark flared skirt. She figured out various ways to wear it, yet the experience of wearing it over her head was definitely intriguing and the most satisfying.

Now, all of these years later, she returned. She knew that the essence of this place had to be recaptured. She knew that it was futile to try to turn her memories into a pitted chart. Nonetheless, she thought it was a good place to start, since possibly remembering might lead to forgetting, something that she was not able to do over the years. However, it might be just too late to try. It was odd, she thought, to now find herself in the middle of this intellectual desert of conformity looking for a person who was an oasis of rebellion. Things were different with him. There was always an ante, but money had no value. You just had to be there, had to be willing to experience little one-of-a-kind things that, in some way, contributed to a sense of well-being. At times, it became just what it was and nothing more.

It was then that she saw the tape recorder. Pausing, she caught her breath. Could that be the one that he had held all those years ago, she asked herself.

She remembered that he would always bring it down with him to capture some discovery about the coins, the Jesuits, even the people encompassed in that celluloid prison. The search started with a wealth of enthusiasm, but soon it became half-hearted. It was a great endeavor, accompanied with the appropriate spirit, but within an hour of searching, they started looking for each other.

She wondered if he had been back, feeling almost jealous. She tried to sense his presence. She moved to see if she could feel where he had been or where he had stood, but she was still alone. After all, it was she that had left the employment of the firm, at the request of her father. Well, that’s what she led everyone to believe, including her father. However, he and she both knew the real reason. They both knew that they were losing the ability to maintain a deep-seated desire to do what they each pleased, without caring what the other one thought. Each knew that there was so much more below the surface, just waiting to be touched. A member of the Rodentia family, one who appeared to have lost his way, interrupted her thoughts.

"He’s probably coming to visit some kin in the family tree," she spoke aloud. Hopefully, he would have better luck finding family files than they had experienced in their prior quest for the Jesuit gold, she thought.

Again, her eyes drew tight as she saw the recorder. The recorder appeared to be the same brown and black boxy hand-held mechanism that would be more at home in someone’s knapsack than here. Nonetheless, for some reason, it had been his pride and joy. However, the pedestal that it now rested upon was something that she was uncertain about. She didn’t remember it being there. Maybe she was wrong, and it had been there the first time that he had dictated his impressions as he viewed the unraveling of the newsreel and projector. It would be so nice to hear his voice again after all these years, she thought. Actually, his voice was something that was regularly delivered by the windmills, especially after the third glass of Bordeaux. Vividly, she remembered his voice saying, ‘Don’t commit to a degree that a failure will result in your total undoing’," which she now mimicked aloud. This was the last thing she remembered him saying to her except for the last adieu.

Bri stiffened as she felt the movement of air. She quickly turned and looked about. That was odd, she thought. There are no windows and no reasons for drafts.

Hello? Hello? Is anybody there? Bri called out, thinking that someone may have been about and caused the unsettling draft. There was no answer.

With a continued hesitation, she approached the recorder. Reassuring herself, she took a breath and reached out, grasping the recorder into her hand as if grabbing an old and comforting prayer book. She was surprised that she was able to do it with such steadiness. Taking a deep breath, Bri fingered the open button. It released effortlessly. Once open, it revealed nothing. In disappointment, she continued to stare. It was truly empty. After a moment or two, she noticed something. By turning the recorder upside down, it allowed for something to fall into her open palm.

A penny, she gasped. Not the crackerjack prize that she had hoped for; it was more like the booby prizes that she received on occasion, especially at costume parties. Oh, how she hated costume parties, she thought. A new resounding emptiness engulfed her. There was a numb and hollow silent ringing that seemed to manifest itself throughout her body. Time and disappointment, once again, had done their work. If ever a realization occurred, it occurred right then. It became clear to Bri that what really mattered was finding him, not because she was hired to do just that but because she needed to. She desperately needed to hear his voice, especially here, in a place and a time where she had been so full of life, lost her innocence, and started to understand life’s lessons. Refreshing her thoughts, she decided that this wasn’t such a bad place after all.

Again, she remembered those parting words. This time, she mimicked his voice and said them aloud as she clutched the penny in a tight fist: Don’t commit to a degree that a failure will result in your total undoing. She returned the recorder to its resting place