Repentance

By M. C. Rudasill

From the pen of Michael Rudasill, Repentance is the third and final book in the author's Repentance Trilogy. Set in the small towns, cities and untamed wilderness of Florida, the Trilogy includes three novels: The Ultimate Paradigm (Book One), Age of Decision (Book Two) and Repentance (Book Three).

In Repentance, the man called Streetcar has reached the end of a bitter, harrowing slog. The war that began decades ago in the jungles of Viet Nam still rages within his troubled soul.

For years, Streetcar has fought fire with fire, leaving a trail of dead sociopaths in his wake. He has saved a multitude of innocent civilians from a murderers row of talented killers, but the fight has taken a toll on his battered and weary soul.

Although old age has stolen a step, Streetcar still possesses the violent skillset that has earned the respect of those who walk on the wise side. And when the paranoid Don of New Orleans seeks to kill a decent, harmless man - kind, old Sol D'Agostino - Streetcar will risk his all to save Sol's life. This time, it will not end well. Innocents will suffer. In the end, when he runs out of options, Streetcar will finally ask for help.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. C. Rudasill
• Release date: Jan 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9780972712781

M. C. Rudasill

Michael Carlton Rudasill lives on Amelia Island with his wife, Susann. A native Floridian, he is an accomplished musician, poet, and author with a master’s degree in English Literature.The author's Repentance Trilogy is a hard-hitting literary thriller that careens through Tampa’s parched urban wasteland before crash-landing in the lush wilderness of South Central Florida. The Trilogy includes three novels: The Ultimate Paradigm, Age of Decision and Repentance. You can learn more about the author at LiteraryLights.com.

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© Copyright 2019 Michael C. Rudasill

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. With the exception of obvious historical references to public figures, locations, and events, all characters and incidents in this novel are the products of the author’s hyperactive imagination. Any similarities to actual people—boring or convivial, living, dead, or searching for a brain among the legions of the undead—should be considered coincidental.

ISBN: 9780972712774

This is the third and final book in the Repentance Trilogy.

Book One: The Ultimate Paradigm

Book Two: Age of Decision

Book Three: Repentance

You can learn more about the author at LiteraryLights.com, or purchase these and other works from your favorite retail book supplier.

I dedicate this book to my two best friends.

You know who you are, in Heaven and Earth.

Love is the Light that overcomes darkness.

Grace gives the faith that will carry us home

Chapter I

Safe House

This is Daddy, the fair-haired little girl stated, waving a feral-faced Gash the Goblin action figure high above her head. Although the toy did not look human, it resembled her father in other ways: crafted without a heart from cold-formed plastic, synthetically shiny and hard.

The child spoke with a soft Southern drawl. Daddy wants to kill Mommy, she observed calmly. Carefully placing Gash on the floor, she gazed coolly at her audience of dolls, great and small. Don’t tell anyone, she whispered, smiling sweetly. It’s s’posed to be a surprise.

Lacking brains as well as enthusiasm, her dolls stared blankly at their mistress. This pleased the child well. She had survived to age eight with secrets to share, and sensitive matters required discretion.

The little girl—or more accurately, the little princess—wore a glittering tiara atop her natural crown of golden hair. She sat alone on the floor of the bedroom, hidden among stacks of tightly taped cardboard boxes, a pretty, petite child in green camouflage pajamas and matching tennis shoes.

Her bedroom featured plain white walls, worn oak floors and a neat bed on which a small, tattered teddy bear lay, face-up. With thick curtains shutting out the morning sun, the pervasive gloom lent a grim, Gothic flair to her ominous tale.

You may wonder why we’ve moved to Tallahaz—Talla—to our new town, she continued soberly, and why does Daddy want to kill Mommy? Implacably mute, her dolls refused to reply. "It’s ‘cause Mommy keeps me safe. Daddy has to get rid of Mommy, so he can hurt me, like before. She examined their faces carefully. Now do you get it? Although they did not respond, the little girl remained undaunted. See? This is Mommy, and this is me." As she narrated, she picked up each character in turn. If they had paid attention, the dolls would have seen that Malibu Barbie was representing Mommy, and that Bambi was standing in for their princess.

Mommy is very brave, the little girl explained, but Daddy’s a bad, bad man. Mommy makes good ice tea. She looks like Barbie, but she’s not. When her dolls remained unresponsive, she gave up. This is useless, she decided. The princess was happy to show off her newest word. Useless. After carefully putting Barbie and Bambi back on the floor, she yawned and stood up.

Mommy! she called loudly, turning toward the doorway. I got an idea. Hearing no answer, she grabbed her one-eyed teddy bear and left the room. In the hallway, she paused. Mommy? Hearing no answer, she returned to her room. Once there, she sighed heavily. You guys made a mess, she complained. The tight-knit group of dolls lay scattered across the floor, as if someone had kicked them akimbo. Did I do that? she wondered.

The child did not know it, but her day would soon take another twist. Not far away, a job interview had begun that would alter her life forever.

Chapter II

The Enforcer

Father McGinnis resembled a retired defensive lineman dressed up like a priest for a masquerade. Even when sitting still, the big priest dominated his modest rectory like a gentle Anglican bull enthroned in a china shop. As the priest quietly sipped a cup of tea behind his antique desk, his huge hand, scarred and gnarled with age, dwarfed the delicate teacup. You’re sure you won’t take some tea? he asked his visitor.

Yes, sir. I mean no, sir, the bearded stranger rasped. The visitor’s gaze drifted uncertainly around the office. I don’t drink.

The stranger contrasted vividly with pale, super-sized Father McGinnis. Tall, olive-skinned, long-legged and rangy—with broad shoulders, a charcoal beard and a graying ponytail—the visitor looked like a shaggy Sicilian Wolfhound sitting across from the stout Irish Bull Mastiff priest.

Although a small plaque on the desk read Father Jose Marquesa Vincenzo McGinnis, the rich cultural heritage implied by this name did not reveal itself on the priest’s freckled countenance. With a thick neck, square face, flattened nose and silver crew cut, Father McGinnis fit the stereotype of a veteran Irish heavyweight scrapper from a punch-drunk 1930s boxing movie—a Depression-era classic with a name like Iron Mike Goes to Town, The Fighting Irish Bastion of Beef or Return of the Big Bronx Boomer.

So, Mr. Salvatore Benuto, the priest said thoughtfully, picking up a resume from his desk. You are applying to work at our church as a janitor.

Yes, sir. My friends call me Streetcar, his visitor replied.

Streetcar. Nodding thoughtfully, the priest put on a pair of flat rectangular reading glasses and studied the stranger’s resume as if he were assessing an impenetrable Dead Sea Scroll.

You last worked on a ranch in Montana, the priest observed. Nothing since then? You left the job years ago.

Nothing since then, Streetcar replied.

The priest cleared his throat and continued to peruse the sparsely worded document. Why haven’t you worked since then? he asked.

I needed a break. I worked a lot of years in Montana as a shepherd, night and day, year-round. In the winter we moved down into the valleys, but it was still bitter cold. I didn’t have a family, so I was the guy who stayed when all the other guys went home. I slept with one eye open to protect the flock from predators. Wolves were the worst. I hate wolves!

Me, too.

No kiddin’? Wolves are popular nowadays.

Not with me, the priest said with a smile. I’ve cast my lot with the sheep.

I guess you could say I’ve cast my lot with the sheepdogs.

We were discussing your recent gap in employment.

Oh, yeah. So, after too many years on that job, working 24/7, I figured I was due for a change. You can call Wally if you want. He’ll vouch for me. He owns the ranch where I worked.

Of course, the priest said. His phone number is on your resume.

As he spoke, the priest raised his eyebrows (or should we say, his single, conjoined eyebrow). This majestic act—properly referred to as The Raising of the Brow—stunned Streetcar to silence. The priest did not raise his eyebrows like most mere mortals. His massive unibrow seemed to levitate, remaining perfectly level as it slowly drifted upward.

Dude! Streetcar blurted after an awkward pause. How do you do that with your eyebrows? It’s like you’re raising a Venetian blind!

Father McGinnis stared at Streetcar intently. After a few seconds, he decided that the man meant no harm, and he returned to the resume.

We should not judge Streetcar too harshly, for the good priest possessed a remarkable unibrow. Whenever he concentrated, the formidable brow bristled with unruly hairs that rippled and waved like living tendrils warning watchers to keep their distance.

Father McGinnis looked up again. How did you pay your bills for the past few years without working? he asked.

I had a lot of money saved up, but now it’s runnin’ low, Streetcar replied; plus I have a 40% VA disability. I took a round through both legs in Country. Didn’t hit the bones. I’m lucky that way.

Your personal references are impressive, the priest observed. Letters of recommendation from an FDLE agent, a Florida sheriff and a retired police captain.

They like me, Streetcar said cheerfully. They really like me.

I suppose they must. Father McGinnis sighed. Obviously, his visitor lacked social skills, but the priest perceived no ill will. He had excellent instincts. You’re sure that you want to work as our janitor?

Yes, sir. It’s honest work.

Is that why you want the job? Because it’s honest?

That’s one reason.

Do you know anything about our church?

It’s the Thomasville Road Anglican Church.

Is that all you know about us?

Pretty much. You’re Christians, right?

We are. He paused. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?

Yes. I know a man who works for you. Sol D’Agostino.

Solomon? Our gardener?

That’s him. I used to protect one of Sol’s buildings in Ybor City. It was a long time ago, back before the IRS cleaned his clock.

"Anything else?

Yeah. I got into some trouble with the law once.

I know. I Googled your name. The father paused. "Several men were killed in Ybor City—members of the Tampa Mafia. You were tried for murder and arson, but the judge dismissed the case with prejudice."

Yeah. The prosecutors wronged my rights.

Can you tell me what happened?

I guess so.

After a lengthy pause, Father McGinnis sighed and added, Please, go ahead.

Go ahead with what?

Tell me what happened in Ybor City.

Oh, yeah. Sure. Some Ybor City wise guys killed Jumbo, just because he was my friend. Jumbo was my only friend back then.

They killed your only friend?

Yep, but they didn’t just kill him. Their guy killed Jumbo real slow. He strung him up like a side of beef, right in the middle of my living room.

How horrible!

Streetcar nodded. It was a very bad day.

Horrible!

Tell me about it. Jumbo was a great man. Those wise guys behind it had to pay, Father. I hope you can understand that.

I can understand it, but I can’t condone it. The priest sat back in his chair and looked over his glasses at his visitor. After several seconds, he rolled up his right sleeve to reveal a biker’s tattoo on his powerful forearm. Beneath the tattoo, Streetcar saw a small ‘1%’.

Do you know what this means? the priest asked.

You were an outlaw biker?

I was, until Jesus rescued me more than 40 years ago. I kept this tattoo as a reminder of the man I used to be. I would be that man now, if not for God’s grace.

No kiddin’?

No kidding. People can change, Mr. Benuto. But you haven’t changed, have you?

No, sir. I keep tryin’, but it hasn’t been easy.

Leaning forward, Father McGinnis removed his reading glasses and rubbed his remarkable unibrow. Under our nation’s laws, we’re all innocent until proven guilty, he stated. Under God’s laws, we have all sinned. We don’t need His justice; we need His mercy. We need His grace.

What about little kids?

They’re deemed innocent through the gift of God’s grace. What about you? The priest put on his glasses and returned his attention to the resume. Are you innocent?

No way, Jose.

With a wince, Father McGinnis gazed up at Streetcar over the top of his glasses. Streetcar’s eyes flashed to the nameplate on the desk, and his mouth fell open.

"No way! Your name really is Jose. I meant no offense, Father McGinnis—I mean, Jose. I mean—it wasn’t on purpose."

The priest waved his hand and smiled. No offense taken, Mr. Benuto. He paused. Did you know that some of your service records have recently been declassified?

No, sir.

I found them on the Internet. In Vietnam, you earned a Distinguished Service Cross, two silver stars and a bronze star. That’s impressive, to say the least. There are also indications that you were awarded some medals that are still classified.

The guys who gave their lives deserve the medals. Not me.

I was stationed at Ke Sanh during Tet, the priest said.

Ke Sanh? Whoa. The NVA hit you guys hard.

VC, too, but we won in the end. I lost some good friends there. The best.

I get it. For a minute, they sat in silence, and then Streetcar spoke. War is an egg-sucking dog.

Amen. The priest shuffled papers on his desk before looking up. What would you like me to call you? Would you prefer Mr. Benuto, or Salvatore?

Call me Streetcar.

Streetcar? You’d prefer that I use your nickname?

Yeah. Like I said, it’s what my friends call me.

Okay. Do you mind telling me where you got that nickname?

I was a cop in San Francisco. When the Tampa cops found out, they hung the name on me.

Well, Streetcar, the priest replied, standing to shake his hand. I’m giving you a chance. If you own any guns, don’t bring them onto church property, okay? Does that sound reasonable?

Sure. Are you inviting me to your Sunday Service?

I am, if you’d like to attend, the priest smiled. I’m also inviting you to work here. You’ve got the job.

Chapter III

Friends

Streetcar carefully twisted his key, unlocking the top deadbolt in the heavy front door. After that, he used another key, and then another, continuing the process until he had unlocked four deadbolts and opened his door wide.

Honey, I’m home! he called as he stepped into the living room. Punching a code into the alarm system, he looked around warily. I’m here, ol’ buddy! Don’t make this hard, okay? He carefully crept toward the kitchen. Hey, Cat; guess what? I got the job. Sol wasn’t there, so I’ll be goin’ back in a few to tell him.

As he looked down the hall, something stirred beneath the couch. Deep in the shadows, two large blue eyes blinked slowly. Behind the eyes, hidden in darkness, a furry tail twitched with intense irritation, dispersing dust bunnies to the wind.

Without further delay, the big cat launched.

If Cat’s greeting lacked kindness, it did not lack enthusiasm. Unleashing a howl, the huge feline rocketed out from under the couch, hurtling toward his master like a red-hot missile shrieking from a Cold War silo.

The Maine Coon slammed into Streetcar’s shin full-bore, biting and gouging his jeans with powerful rear claws. Howling with pain, Streetcar hopped over and raised his cat-encumbered shin onto a chair. With great trepidation, he seized the back of Cat’s neck.

Let go, you crazy critter! he grunted through clenched teeth. With all his might, he tugged at the furry assailant, persevering in a painful battle of wills that ended when the cat released his hold. You’re dumb as a stump, Cat. I got the job, okay? Wha’d’ya think about that?

Ignoring Streetcar’s words, the big Maine Coon tried to spin about and grab his arm, but he failed to overcome gravity. Streetcar shook the cat gently back and forth, adding just enough downward impetus to defeat his efforts. Cat screamed in rage.

Gotcha! Streetcar exulted, ignoring the pain. He lifted Cat high for an inspection, face-to-face and eye-to-eye.

Angry and unsettled, the Maine Coon stared back with his ice-blue eyes opened wide. The crazy cat looked as if he had just stuck his sandpaper tongue into an electrical outlet. He eyed Streetcar angrily: unbowed, fierce and ferocious. Around his face, an unholy halo of variegated charcoal hair splayed out wildly in every direction. His teeth gleamed like ivory nails, deadly from root to tip.

What am I gonna do wit’ you, Cat? Streetcar asked his friend. In reply, Cat screamed and clawed the air. I could’a waited around for Sol to show up; but, no! I was too stupid. I had to come home for this. The cat tried once again to swat his face, yowling angrily.

Rowrr! Streetcar boomed with all his might. Hssss! he raged. Raaawrr!

Startled by the strange sounds emerging from his best friend, Cat stopped struggling and stared curiously at Streetcar. As he studied the big man, the cat’s expression changed radically. His blue eyes flashed with surprising intelligence and uncommon depth of feeling. He seemed deeply concerned about the agitated mental state of his human companion, conveniently forgetting that he had viciously attacked him. Meow? he inquired gently.

Yeah, it’s me, Cat. It’s Streetcar the bum, you crazy idiot, he said. "Only I ain’t no bum, but you really are crazy. No brag, just fact."

Meow?

You think someday, maybe, you can remember who I am? At least, when I walk into my own house? The cat opened his mouth and uttered a faint response that sounded like, ah-ya.

You are without a doubt the craziest cat I’ve ever known.

The Maine Coon looked massive up close, with his unkempt grey-black stripes adding an outlaw caste to his edgy Goth look. He opened his mouth wide in an apparent yawn, but the noise that emerged sounded like the squeak of a tiny monkey. Eee-yee?

Crazy cat! Streetcar hugged him tightly, and the big Maine Coon began to purr. I gotta go back so I can tell old Sol that I got the job. Is that all right with you?

The cat purred loudly in reply. With his rough tongue, he tried to lick the scratches on the back of his best friend’s hand.

I came all the way home to put you outside. I thought that maybe you’d like some exercise, and this is how you reward me.

Cat began to nurse on Streetcar’s shirt collar. His hard claws dug in, and he closed his eyes blissfully. Within seconds, his purr became a roar.

Stop that! Go nurse a squirrel or somethin’. Give me a break!

Ak! the cat replied as his master carried him out of the house.

I’m outta here, Cat. On his front porch, he put down Cat and pulled out his keys to lock up.

Cat purred contentedly. Executing a series of figure-eight maneuvers, he rubbed repeatedly against Streetcar’s legs.

Don’t go killin’ any dogs while I’m gone. You got that?

The big cat purred with profound delight, but he refused to make any promises.

Chapter IV

Living Space Exploration

After playing with her dolls for two hours, the little girl entered her mother’s bedroom to find her asleep on the bed. Poor Mommy. She carefully put down the teddy bear and covered her mother with a thin bedspread from an open box. That’s better. Retrieving the bear, she left the room, threading her way past stacks of sealed boxes until she reached the front door.

Mr. Mortimer, she suggested to the bear, I think we should go find some berries for Mommy’s pasketti dinner tonight. Although her pronunciation of spaghetti left much to be desired, the one-eyed Mr. Mortimer did not complain. Weighing his silence, the child imputed consent. Good. She exchanged her tiara for a camouflage ball cap and opened the front door.

The child left the house and skipped across the yard to the edge of the quiet street. Looking both ways, she crossed the road and ran straight ahead to the back of a vacant lot, where she found a footpath leading into the woods. She paused, stroking the bear as she squinted through the dense foliage.

There may be monsters, Mr. Mortimer. Keep an eye out. Glancing down at his face, she winced in dismay. Oops!

The toy bear glared at her angrily. In truth, he had no choice but to keep an eye out. On the left side of his face, an empty socket and a broken thread offered evidence of the bear’s heroic affliction.

You know what I mean, Mr. Mortimer, she replied archly. Keep an eye out for monsters. Let’s go find some berries.

She walked quietly, following the well-worn path deep into the woods. Soon, she entered a large, sunny clearing.

In the middle of the clearing, with his back turned to the child, a man stood in a brilliant patch of sunlight. His clothing seemed normal—blue jeans, running shoes and a pale brown tee shirt—but his fiery hair did not fit his ensemble. A wild spray of bright red hair fluoresced atop his head, like luminous needles spiking out of a poisonous plant. Mommy would want me to hide now, she told herself. Her mother had trained her to recognize and avoid danger, and she tried to comply with her wishes.

Carefully placing her hand over Mr. Mortimer’s mouth, she retraced her steps, dropped to her knees and slid silently underneath a clump of thick bushes at the edge of the clearing. She squirmed forward, burrowing deep into the center without rustling the leaves. Years of hard experience avoiding her father had taught her the art of stealth, and the man in the clearing did not hear a thing.

Where the foliage met the ground, the bushes formed a dense, protective umbrella with a narrow gap for viewing, like the shooting slot in a bunker. Lying on her belly, with her face at ground level, the child could see without being seen.

The man in the clearing reached up and grasped the end of a rope that dangled from a branch in the tree above him. He smiled as he hung a large cat by the neck. The body of his victim neither twitched nor moved.

That cat must be dead already, she decided. The thought gave her comfort. She whispered her next words so quietly that even her toy bear had trouble understanding them.

The big cat’s dead, Mr. Mortimer, she breathed reverentially. The bad man can’t hurt him anymore.

Chapter V

Watching Evil Unfold

When the bizarrely-coiffed man finished hanging the cat, he turned and gazed in the child’s direction. At that moment, she beheld the killer’s face.

The man’s crimson smile matched his fiery red hair. Evil triangles over his eyes jabbed their jagged points harshly at the heavens, insulting the sky with their impertinence. When he laughed, his mouth resembled an open wound: red-raw and rotten, as if gnawed by rats. His festering mouth contrasted starkly with his dead-white skin, bloodless and pale as a corpse.

By the extreme nature of his style, the evil clown somehow managed to look both ridiculous and terrible. For all of that, the child felt no terror, only pity and revulsion.

The man donned a moss-covered ghillie suit before crossing to the other side of the clearing. Sliding into the undergrowth, he instantly vanished.

He’s the Moss Man, the little girl reflected as she lay motionless. He’s a bad, bad man. Her young mind could not make sense of his incongruent apparel. Why had he hidden a clown’s mask beneath the camouflage of a ghillie suit? An adult might have realized that two such disparate disguises—one styled to seize attention, the other to shun it—hinted of a pathology bordering on madness.

The Moss Man had modeled his clown mask after Pogo the Clown, a twisted abomination invented by a notorious serial killer. If the little girl had known this, she would not have been shocked. After her life with Daddy dearest, evil no longer surprised her.

Chapter VI

The Gardener

In a colorful garden set against the south wall of the Thomasville Road Anglican Church, Solomon D’Agostino knelt down beside a rose bush. The fragrant yellow roses blazed radiantly in the morning sun, but the gardener gazed past them. Focusing intently, he carefully clipped off a branch.

When a heavy finger tapped his shoulder, Sol turned his head and squinted up into the sunlight. A look of fond recognition crossed his face, and he put down his shears.

Salvatore, is that you? Father McGinnis said you’d been pokin’ around here. The octogenarian rose stiffly to his feet and wiped beads of perspiration from his brow. In his plaid cotton shirt and thin gray trousers—small and wiry, with wrinkled olive skin and a crown of pure white hair—Sol D’Agostino looked more like a happy home gardener than a working professional. Long time no see, Sally boy. He looked Streetcar up and down. I think you’ve shrunk.

Streetcar, who towered over the diminutive old man, guffawed loudly. This, from an Ybor City Leprechaun.

There ain’t no more Leprechauns in Ybor City, Solomon asserted. They’ve all moved to the suburbs.

God bless the Irish.

Is it really you, Sally? I don’t see so good nowadays.

I think I’m really me. I’m the only version I’m aware of.

I read some bad stories about you a few years back. They say you’re badder than Capone. I never knew that about you, Sally. The old man pronounced Capone’s name in the Sicilian manner, ‘ca-pony.’

They say a lotta funny things, Streetcar answered flatly, but they got nothin’ on me, Sol. Nothin’.

"You sure do sound like Capone. The old man grinned and tapped his head. Be smart, Sally. We both messed up plenty in this life. Let’s leave it behind us, where it belongs."

Hey, I’m just a janitor, okay? Streetcar smiled. I’ve got a new job at this nice little church. That proves I’ve reformed, right?

Ha! Sol guffawed skeptically. That proves you got a job.

What a coincidence! Streetcar continued. Me gettin’ a job where you work. Who’d a thunk it?

The old man tucked his clippers into his apron pocket and signaled for Streetcar