Vow of Secrecy

By Ray Ventura

Father Jonah Stapleton is a young, strikingly handsome Catholic priest with a bright future. While into his second archdiocesan assignment as associate pastor at Saint Francis of Assisi Church and School, he does his best to impress the old, tough, and demanding monsignor, who maintains a no-nonsense agenda and a penchant for punctuality. When several brutal murders of single women rock their community, the young priest is suddenly drawn into a sequence of events by a mysterious individual who visits him in the confessional booth. Besides desperately trying to remain loyal to his priestly vows, Father Jonah must race against pure evil to somehow protect another potential victim from the killer while also keeping an overly curious detective at bay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504974103

Ray Ventura

Ray Ventura grew up in the suburbs of New Orleans amid the city’s timeless lore and ever-intriguing culture of romance, religion, mystery, and music. He is a University of New Orleans alumnus, having earned undergraduate and graduate degrees. Along with his brother, Robert, he is the coauthor of the compelling space opera novel Octavian.

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© 2016 Ray Ventura. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

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.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/17/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5049-7411-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-7412-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-7410-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016900959

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

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About the Author

For Wendy; Mom and Dad; Robbie; Mary Beth;

and Layla, Jonathan, and Patrick

1

T he early sun shone brightly on another crisp morning in the city of Beggston. The dual steeples of Saint Francis of Assisi Catholic Church, a 1950s Romanesque brick-and-mortar structure situated next to its accompanying grade-school grounds, rose magnificently high into the quickly bluing sky. Its large stained glass windows glistened with the extravagant colors of Hollywood cartoon stills.

Father Jonah Stapleton moved across the soft lawn of the aged two-and-a-half-story Victorian-style rectory toward the side of the massive cathedral amid the far background buzz of parents dumping their children in the designated drop-off areas. A youthful, ambitious witness to the gospel, he was doing his best to build an amiable reputation as the associate pastor of the seasoned church parish. His traditional garb—black pants and a black shirt, along with the white clerical collar—gave his presence away even from afar. With dark, slightly wavy hair that he routinely kept short and a thin, athletic build due to his semicommitment to jogging since his late teens, Father Jonah was a strikingly handsome cleric. At times, he looked more like a young, clean-cut government agent. Just thirty-three, he was celebrating his fifth year in the priesthood. The calling he’d actually experienced twice was still as vibrant and satisfying as ever. The option of parish priest worked better for him rather than joining a specific order like the Jesuits which would have required his service at different schools and provinces all over the nation. His interest leaned more to movement within a very defined geographic area. He was well aware of the early side talk among fellow clergy around the archdiocese about him and his bright future. Despite their misgivings, he was carefully preparing himself for whatever advancement order might materialize within the next few years. His confidence was growing but smartly controlled, a type of balance that he’d learned from several of his mentors during his seminary years. Like any other young, dedicated professional on a clerical career path, Father Jonah was building his résumé with experience and compassion.

So far, Saint Francis had proven a good fit for him, a balance of much-needed experience in school ministry juxtaposed with the traditional priestly duties. Besides saying masses and handling some of the major sacraments, he was already preparing archdiocesan reports. He was also becoming more involved with school liturgical activities. And he still held out hope that maybe he could teach a religion class or two once a week.

On his father’s side, the family was uncommonly Irish. His mother was part Sicilian and part German. His parents’ marriage was an interesting combination, to say the least, as they had often reminded their children in their younger years. Jonah had always credited the Italian bloodline for leading him on his professional pilgrimage, one that was connected to the ultimate authority in Rome.

By all standards, Father Jonah was a prototypical archdiocesan priest. He’d had a traditional Roman Catholic upbringing in a family with two parents who had wed young and stayed married a long time. All his grandparents were Catholic, as were his great-grandparents and theirs before them. When he was young (until his oldest sister had gone to college), his family generally had taken one vacation a year. For his entire youth, they’d all attended Sunday Mass. After Mass, the family would gather together in their home’s formal dining room and use Mom’s good china for a big meal. The four children had been encouraged to read and to study hard. The moral virtues of Catholicism had been drilled into their brains.

As a kid, Jonah had played multiple sports. He’d been a Cub Scout and an altar boy. Track and cross-country had been his sports, but his absolute favorite activity had been roller-skating. So, of course, his all-time favorite birthday party was the one held at the skating rink near his grandparents’ home. From age eleven on, he’d developed a passionate interest in two types of literature: biblical history and science fiction. The two genres ultimately had catapulted him onto a path of deeper religious studies that had culminated in a seminary education and priestly vows. Except for a brief period when he was nineteen (when he’d suddenly become a temporary, part-time heathen), by and large, he’d remained true and close to his faith.

It was during that growing pains stretch that he’d come to admire an elderly widow who would drive a dated sedan across town to pick up two other elderly, near-crippled widows to transport them to Saturday Vigil Mass week after week. That ritual had continued until, one by one, each had died. That example of extraordinary faith despite ongoing agonies and end-of-life tribulations had always stuck with him.

Father Jonah was the third child. He had two older, married sisters and a younger, single brother. When his brother, Patrick, had become a pediatric dentist, he’d turned into a kind of loner. Jonah had always imagined his baby brother would eventually find love in the way of an outgoing, type A attorney—or even someone completely off the wall, like a female kickboxing instructor. Either way, he was eagerly hoping an announcement would come one day soon, especially because their parents were aging and their father had early-stage Parkinson’s. Thank God, Jonah thought, it hasn’t become any more debilitating in the last three years. Of course, he wanted the whole family to see his brother take the big marriage step.

At the edge of the cathedral’s side garden, Father Jonah stopped momentarily to look at a brass plaque bolted to the brick facade. It featured one of his favorite quotes from Saint Augustine: Faith is to believe what you do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what you believe.

The challenge to steadfastly maintain one’s convictions, despite secular pressures and emotional pains and struggles, was something even the most-devout Catholics, including clerics, knew well.

As the young priest approached the side door to the church’s sacristy, it suddenly flung open. Two seventh-grade girls, serving as volunteers to collect and stack missalettes before school several days per week, hastily exited with book bags hanging off their shoulders.

Good morning, Father Stapleton, they said in unison.

Well, good morning, responded the young, dapper priest with the copal eyes. Y’all almost scared me, he said in jest, lightly tapping his chest.

Sorry! one girl responded.

Sorry! the second one echoed.

Did you find all the missals this morning?

Yes, Father, one of them responded. Her eyes grew wider as she said, There were three in the choir loft this time. One had some folded papers in it.

Very good.

And I even found one in the ladies’ bathroom, the other girl chimed in with a burst of surprise.

Father Jonah smiled momentarily. I guess the readings and gospels are literally meant to be read anywhere.

The girls looked at each other and giggled before setting out on their short trek toward the school buildings.

Thanks again for your help, girls! he shouted after them. And have a good day in school!

We will! they called back together.

Father Jonah briefly admired several poinsettias one of the volunteers had planted just after the past Christmas season. Though their signature bright-red flowers were missing, they seemed to be growing well. After inspecting a few other shrubs and some nearby rosebushes abuzz with bees, he entered through the old wooden door to find Monsignor Romagosa, the tall, rotund elder head pastor of the parish. The monsignor was watching Earl Robertson, the parish’s maintenance worker, shine a flashlight into some of the lower cabinets while maintaining his balance using his right arm and both knees. After living with the aging, hard-nosed vicar for several years, Father Jonah felt he knew—more than anybody—how tough the monsignor could be at times. Serving under the old guy’s tutelage could either be viewed as a unique experience or a twenty-four-hour-a-day penance (or a little of both). The monsignor had been a priest for many decades, even serving as an army chaplain during the Korean conflict before Father Jonah was born.

Do you see anything in there? Romagosa called out to his handyman.

I don’t see any water, Padre, Earl reported back as he continued to probe with the light.

Well, it must be coming from somewhere, the silver-haired, olive-skinned Romagosa insisted. He seemed to be in one of his categorically irritable moods.

If it’s here, we’ll find it. I promise, Earl calmly assured the grumpy priest. He removed a blue rag from the back pocket of his work khakis and wiped his sweaty forehead.

Father Jonah reached for his vestments and, in doing so, made enough noise to attract their attention. He quickly ducked into the clothes and began to straighten his collar.

How ya doing there, Father Stapleton? Earl asked while looking up with a whimsical smile.

Good morning, Earl. Morning, Monsignor.

Romagosa, who was obsessed with cleanliness and punctuality, gave the slightest nod as he checked his gold watch. You have less than three minutes, Father Stapleton, he said in his typically stern fashion.

I’m all ready. I’ll make it.

The sometimes ornery monsignor was still a great teacher of the gospel. He was also a strong bookkeeper who ran a tight parish. Those who knew him respected him; they also knew when to keep their distance. His reputation was one of no-nonsense efficiency. Celebrating his forty-second year as a Catholic priest, the bushy-eyebrowed Romagosa had earned the kind of unrelenting entrustment from the archdiocese similar to common-day, local martyrdom. With him at the helm, his parishes always thrived financially, and their respective schools consistently sustained safe levels of enrollment, even in tough economies. In his younger years, he had been known for his business aplomb.

Though Father Jonah maintained the utmost respect for his pastor boss, he sometimes felt as if he had to walk on eggshells so as not to displease the monsignor. The young priest scurried through the interior door and onto the altar. He bowed to God, kissed the cold marble table, and proceeded down the long center aisle toward the magnificent apse at the front of church. It was his turn to hear confessions. And he, like most priests, was passionate about them. Repentance often gave the confessors a burst of holy energy. It represented the opportunity to combine their vows and their obedience to the beloved church. Examination of conscience was one of the church’s major conformities, a virtue that extended through its clergy and its congregants. The march down the center ailse toward the rear of church always made him think of Rome and its most holy history. Back in the old days, priests held confessions almost daily, especially during the Lenten and Christmas seasons. But in recent times they were generally held at most two times per week—once before Vigil Mass and once on a weekday morning. At Father Jonah’s very first parish assignment, Our Lady of Prompt Succor Church, Monsignor Everhart had handled all confessions except during Easter season. But Romagosa had the young priest hearing them almost exclusively. Once in a while they would even offer a second weekday-morning penance service, which the elder priest would voluntarily handle.

The lingering smell of incense from an evening service the night before still permeated the air, especially in the center of the gothic basilica. Though Father Jonah tried desperately to quash his human desire to evaluate the awaiting sinners, he stole a quick look. Most of the usual suspects were present. There was the thin, attractive, middle-aged woman wearing the oversize bonnet. Surely a type of disguise, he thought. As always, the older, stately gentleman in the business-executive suit occupied the second-to-last pew. And then there was the young, pretty, innocent-looking teacher. Clutching her rosary beads, she seemed to be a role model for most of the lost ones her age. Directly behind her was the always-nervous man with smoky breath outfitted in a postal uniform. He always sat in the same slumping position. One other figure was present in the dark, distant corner. The male silhouette was bent over and as still as a statue. His face was hidden, and Father Jonah had no intention of staring to try to get a better look. For Catholics, the innocence of the church experience was always at a slightly different level during confession time, especially when compared to the innocent, holy tranquility felt during First Communions, confirmations, and even weddings. Secrecy was the prevailing tenet, and ultimate salvation was the desired outcome. Vows were always of the highest importance.

The young priest stepped into the middle compartment of the walnut-and-mahogany confessional booth and turned the tiny brass lock on its door. He flipped on the dim light inside and sat in the chair, leaning his head close to the small wicker-screen window in the wall that separated him from the right-side sinner’s compartment. The left side of the booth was never used during morning confessions due to the scarce crowd of devout Catholics looking for redemption that early on weekdays. But Father Jonah always felt good even if only one soul was cleansed. Plus, in a generic sort of way, he had become familiar with most of those in this group. The regulars and their idiosyncrasies were always standard and recognizable. He was ready for business as usual.

The first penitent entered, and by the strong smell of perfume Father Jonah knew right away it was the bonnet-wearing woman. She spoke in a sensually feminine voice. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was last week with you … I did not return my sister’s call last night. I know it was selfish, but I didn’t feel like hearing her ramble on and on about her problems and some of her past vacations. I wanted quiet time for myself. And I didn’t water my neighbor’s plants as I promised her I would. She’s out of town. Her garden looks much better than mine, anyway.

Father Jonah assumed she was finished. He thought for a few seconds and responded with the psychological push he knew she was surely looking for. Family is important to all of us, vitally important. Your sister probably calls you for that reason. Show her you care, and let her know you also need your time. And keep your word. Do not let jealousy lead to deceit. He then motioned with his right hand. You are absolved of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. For your penance say two Our Fathers and three Hail Marys. And water those plants. They don’t expect rain until Wednesday. He smirked at his own advice.

Thank you, Father.

Father Jonah nodded. Now go ahead and say your act of contrition.

Once finished, she made the sign of the cross and exited, though the strong smell of her perfume remained. It was so strong the next person who entered gagged and coughed several times before he could kneel and begin. Bless me, Father; take away my sins. It was the gentleman in the suit. Even though Father Jonah had not encountered him in a while, he still remembered what to expect. The man was always a bit unorthodox, and his burdens were often heavy. His demeanor was always a dead giveaway.

Father Jonah asked the lead question mostly out of habit. And when and where was your last confession?

He— He coughed again. Here. At this church. About two months ago. With Monsignor Romagosa.

And what are your sins?

I can’t seem to control my anger when I’m around my wife. I’ve cursed at her, I’ve sworn, and I’ve lied to her over and over. Father Jonah gave him time to continue, which he did. I keep going back to my other friend, my friend who makes me feel comfortable when I’m with her. Father, I know I shouldn’t …

Though it meant deviating from the procedural structure, Father Jonah decided to give him a lead statement to confront. The first part of any confession is recognizing the sins.

The man sighed. Yes. I know that constitutes adultery, whether or not I’m intimate with her.

How long have you been doing this?

For about three years now.

Well, you must ask God for his help to stop it. You have to commit to your wife and to your wife alone.

Can I be forgiven?

Of course you can, Father Jonah whispered. Then his voice grew a bit louder. But listen to me. It has to stop—today. Each time you do it, you place a mortal sin on your soul that you must work to remove. You may not make it to a confessional the next time it happens! Father Jonah suddenly caught himself before the rant gained any more momentum. Now in the name of Jesus I forgive you of your sins, and I bless you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Go and say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys. And dedicate a prayer to the Christians being persecuted throughout the world. You may start with your act of contrition.

The man bowed his head as if to reflect a degree of shame. Then he ascended from the kneeler and exited the booth. The world was full of lust, and it seemed adulterous affairs were expanding as people used secular culture to diminish the seriousness of immoral behavior. Contrary to the rumors, Vatican II had not eased up on candid human deficiency.

Father Jonah was there to forgive, but he was also there to provide advice, as some people often used the sacrament as a type of moral consultation. Though he was still considered new to the entire ministry, he desired to establish a reputation built on encouraging individuals to come back to him for their confessions. Certain Catholics often unofficially ranked priests for being either too stern or too uncaring within the penance process. Sometimes these opinions leaked out to the ecclesiastics themselves, especially young ones like Father Jonah whom parishioners felt they could befriend and confide everything from current events to church gossip. He figured he would allow the sacrament to formally play out each time, though he was always ready to make the experience more personable upon request. And it worked for him, especially during Easter season when confession was strongly encouraged as a duty. Some people even called the rectory seeking information on when he would be hearing confession. It was a fine line of encouragement and obligation, the absolute need to convince people that confession was meant to be a practice of regularity besides being a practice of self-purification. Father Jonah perhaps leaned a bit more on the encouragement side, as it was critical to convince even those who considered themselves devout people that confession was meant to be a practice of regularity. Of course, a stern rebuke of immorality was always the goal. The theory, shared by some of the other young seminarians he’d studied with, was fairly simple: penance was meant to be a good endeavor.

Within the next fifteen minutes, several other penitents took their turns before a short, quiet lull. The young priest sat patiently awaiting the next sinner. He expected it would be the young teacher. She was