Year's Best Horror Stories XVIII Part 14

"She was my own little girl, always was. And she was so beautiful. I couldn't help touching her and holding her and kissing her, even when she was a little baby.

She was the only pretty thing in my life."

"Please, Mr. Arceneaux," the priest tried to interrupt him, "you don't need to do this."

"This is my confession, Father," the man spat out bitterly. "My last confession! Don't you want to hear it? Don't you want to know why I'm going to blow my brains out here so I'll make sure I go to h.e.l.l?"

I know why, the priest wanted to shout back all of a sudden. I know it all.

More than you. Instead, he tried to reason, repeating futilely, "You don't have to do this. You must not do this thing."

Arceneaux ignored him. "From the time she was thirteen, Thompson, I was doing it to her. I couldn't help myself. I would cry afterwards right in front of her, and I'd buy her things, trying to make it up to her. Only how can you -- ?" He broke off momentarily. "Her b.i.t.c.h of a mother never figured it out. The old cow was jealous of her own daughter.

Claimed I was spoiling her." He made a noise that tried to be a laugh.

"Spoiling her!

"I didn't choke her to death last night in the park, Thompson, but I drove her there to whatever b.a.s.t.a.r.d did. All those times, and she was my own little girl."

The priest was looking through the veil now at the heaving shoulders. He could smell the sweaty head pressed against the tiny barrier between him and the grieving father. He didn't look away this time when the man raised his head, but he couldn't really make out the features.

"You know how old she was, Father?" It was only the second time Arceneaux had called him by that spurious t.i.tle. "Seventeen. And now she's gone."

He didn't break down this time. "So why should I go on? Can you tell me that, priest?"

Mr. Thompson swallowed slowly. "Mr. Arceneaux, the man who murdered your daughter is a monster. You are not. You are just a man, a weak man who -- "

He was abruptly interrupted. "You know what the cops told me? They said there was a 'possibility' she had been s.e.xually molested by whoever killed her.

s.e.xually molested! A 17-year-old girl, my little baby." He pressed his face against the wooden grille between him and the priest. "How could they tell, Thompson, when I'd... been with her that very morning? You tell me that, huh?" And he began to cry again.

The priest could feel the vomit rising up, but he forced it back. The aftertaste of burnt scotch singed his sinuses.

"You are innocent of your daughter's death, Mr. Arceneaux. You have made your confession of the other. Please! Don't take this any further."

The big man suddenly wiped his face with a handkerchief he had produced from a side pocket, one hand nevertheless still hanging heavy at his side. The priest tried to find his eyes through the veil.

"G.o.d will -- " started Father Thompson tentatively. He didn't finish.

"To h.e.l.l with this," muttered the kneeling man and quickly raised the other hand to his mouth. The priest caught a glint of the metal off the faint light through the curtains behind him just before the gun exploded. There was only a small flash, but Arceneaux's head flew back from the impact and his body slammed against the interior paneled side of the confessional before slumping to its rest.

The body was wheeled down the side aisle on the ambulance stretcher, but the police photographers were still busy taking the necessary pictures at the scene while the forensics people completed the details of their work. Fr. Thompson sat slumped in one of the pews a few feet away from the activity around the confessional. Lt. Smoak edged himself down the bench in front and sat, half- turned, where he could talk to the priest.

For what he had been through, thought the lieutenant, the priest looked remarkably calm. But of course, he was probably not unfamiliar with death. It was as much a part of his profession as it was the policeman's.

The priest's hands were pressed together between his knees and buried in the folds of the black ca.s.sock while his eyes studied the floor at his feet. He still had the long violet cloth around his neck -- a stole, it was called, Smoak remembered quite inadvertently from his own Catholic childhood. He noticed that the ends were bloodstained from when the priest had been kneeling over the body, administering the church's last sacraments as the police had arrived. Extreme Unction they were called, Smoak remembered again, and marveled at the powers of a.s.sociation. He thought he had just about forgotten everything connected with his dim Catholic childhood, but now the recollections came rus.h.i.+ng back like the turn of an evening tide. He hadn't stepped foot in a Catholic church since he escaped the nuns at the end of elementary school, but this one smelled just like the ones back then, musty and sweet.

At the lieutenant's approach, Fr. Thompson looked up and pulled his hands from between his knees. Smoak could see that the fingers, like the ends of the stole, were stained with dry blood.

"I'm Lieutenant Smoak, Fr. Thompson," he offered, "from Homicide." He didn't offer to shake hands.

"Thank you for keeping the press people outside, Lieutenant. They don't belong in here." The priest gave the church an exhausted look. "It's seen quite enough, don't you think?"

Smoak ignored the last question. "That was Sgt. McNally's work, Father. I just got here." The priest shrugged, so the lieutenant got right to his business. "I hate to go through this again with you so soon, Fr. Thompson, but what more can you tell me about what's happened here than you told the sergeant? Why did this Arceneaux kill himself here of all places? And in confession?"

The priest smiled wanly. "You know what I would like more than anything right now, Lieutenant?" He didn't wait for a reply. "A double J&B on the rocks.

That would be nice."

The policeman only looked at him, and so the priest asked, "What do you know about Catholics, Lieutenant Smoak?"

"Nothing," he lied.

The priest looked past him toward the confessional. "As I told your subordinate, Lieutenant, Mr. Arceneaux came to confess his sins and to kill himself. I tried to talk him out of it -- killing himself, that is -- " (there was a painful grimace) "but he wouldn't listen." His gaze tailed back to the floor. "That's all I can tell you."

"You can't say what he was confessing, or why he wanted to do it?"

The priest looked directly at his questioner. "You probably know as much as I am able to tell you. It was his daughter you found last night in the munic.i.p.al park.

Anna Marie Arceneaux. A 17-year-old girl raped and murdered, then dumped like garbage in a city park. The man was in despair, Lieutenant."

"Did he tell you she'd been raped?"

When the priest refused to answer, Smoak went on.

"We hadn't told him that, Father. When we talked to him last night, we only said it was a possibility -- that's all. Now why would he be so sure of it?"

"Oh, come on!" replied Fr. Thompson angrily. "It's fairly obvious, isn't it?

The girl had no underclothes on. What else was a father to think?"

"We didn't tell him that either, about her bra and panties."

The priest smiled grimly. "You're a good cop, aren't you, Lt. Smoak? You think you know all the answers."

"No, I don't know all the answers. What I do know is that in the past year we've had three young girls around here raped and murdered, probably by the same man. His method stinks of it." It felt good to the policeman to let his own anger show a bit. He didn't like the smug righteousness of the priest. "What's more, talking to the Arceneaux girl's friends this morning, it seems some of them thought the old man might have been showing her something more than fatherly affection.

You get my drift?"

The priest nodded, looking back wearily toward the side where the crime experts were wrapping up their work and packing their tools.

"Furthermore, one of the other victims and the Arceneaux girl knew one another. In fact, they were in the same cla.s.s. The first girl we found lived around here but went to another school." He lowered his voice, but his hand gripped the back of the prayer bench tightly. "It's beginning to fit together, Father. That's what I'm saying. And yeah, I'm a good cop. I do my job, even when it stinks like this one."

"All right," said the priest, pulling his gaze back to the lieutenant, "But you must also realize that I'm a priest. I do my job too, some of it over there." He nodded toward the confession box. "I can't expect you to understand this right now, but I am not at liberty to divulge anything I am told in the privacy of the confession. Whatever Louis Arceneaux said to me in there is now between him and G.o.d. I'm sorry." Much to Fr. Thompson's surprise, the lieutenant only nodded. "I remember,"

he said. "The Seal of the Confessional, isn't it called?" While the priest continued to look at him, Lt. Smoak took a cursory glance around the church. "I was raised a Catholic, Father. Thought I had forgotten it all." He turned back and smiled wanly at his listener. "I guess you never can quite forget it all, huh."

"No, you can't."

Lt. Smoak pushed himself away from the bench and rose to his feet. "I'll be talking to you again, Father. I appreciate your time here, and I apologize if I pushed a bit. I just sometimes get a bit sick of my job."

The priest got up slowly. "I know what you mean, Lieutenant. So do I." He didn't move toward the aisle as his eyes searched the lieutenant's. "The three murdered girls," he said slowly, "they all belonged to my parish. Did you know that?"

"Not really. I hadn't even considered it. What are you trying to tell me?"

The priest swallowed slowly, trying to control his emotion, but the lieutenant was too much the professional not to read the man's grief as he struggled for words.

"In a sense, Lt. Smoak, they were my children too. They called me Father."

The two men moved toward the side aisle.

"Thanks again for your time, Father." The lieutenant hesitated, running his tongue over the corner of his lip. The priest stood there. "Can you give me anything else at all about what Arceneaux told you? Anything? We'll probably be able to wrap it up ourselves from here on out, but I'd like to be a little more sure for starters."

The white-haired man with the Roman collar and the purple vestment round his neck looked back at the police officer. Shaking his head slowly, he reached out to shake hands when he noticed the caked blood on his fingers.

"I hadn't noticed before," he said, abruptly dropping his hand. Again, he seemed to be searching for the right words while the policeman waited.

"I can tell you this, Lieutenant," he went on after a moment, "and I hope it helps. I... think... you'll have no more of these crimes here. It's in G.o.d's hands now." Lt. Smoak nodded. "Thank you, Father." He took another look around the church and started toward the entrance, leaving behind the priest who continued to stare at the anonymous figure outlined in chalk at the foot of the confessional.

Once inside his rooms in the small rectory attached to the church, Fr.

Thompson loosened the collar around his neck and went to the desk where he kept the scotch. He had taken to locking the liquor in the bottom drawer because of Mrs.

Cybulski. Though he had told her she need not bother with his room -- he could take care of it and the adjoining bathroom -- she would hear nothing of the offer.

She had been minding the rectory and the church for thirty years, she told him, and she'd never heard of a priest taking care of himself like that. He had too many other things to do. So he gave up trying and just locked the bottles in the drawer. He also took care of the empties so as not to upset the good woman.

The first deep swallow was from the bottle itself. Then he filled the small tumbler from the adjoining bathroom and sat down at the desk while the sweet sting of the liquor worked its magic.

Earlier as the police had been leaving the church, Mrs. Cybulski pushed her way through the a.s.sembled reporters and small crowd of curious on-lookers.

Without a word from him, she produced a heavy ring of keys and started to lock up the church.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cybulski," he had whispered to her before turning to the press and television cameras.

"It's a sin, is what it is, Father," she declared loudly, "that you should have to deal with this." She glared at the small group a.s.sembled below the priest on the concrete steps.

"It's all right now," he tried to soothe her. "If you'll just lock up, I'll take care of this shortly."

"I still say it's wrong," she had replied before disappearing into the church.

The questions and interviews had continued for nearly twenty minutes until the arrival of Monsignor Heavenrich from the bishop's office enabled Fr.

Thompson to dismiss the reporters. Another thirty minutes followed with the bishop's man in the rectory office, going over details and diocesan policy in regard to police business and the press. In the meantime the answer machine fielded the phone calls. At each message Fr. Thompson had dreaded hearing the voice of Mrs.

Arceneaux, but she never called. Tomorrow he would have to talk to her, no way out of it. G.o.d almighty, he kept thinking all the while Heavenrich was there, G.o.d almighty.

He went over what he had told the police lieutenant about the confession, and the monsignor nodded sympathetically. "It's the kind of situation we all think about and study in seminary," Heavenrich remarked. "The dilemma of the confessional seal! But we don't think it will ever happen to us."

"Do you know the Hitchc.o.c.k movie?" he asked after a moment. When Fr.

Thompson only stared dully at him, the younger man went on. "I Confess, with Montgomery Clift. A priest hears a murderer's confession who then tries to frame him for the crime. Did you ever see it?"

"I don't like the movies," Fr. Thompson had replied quietly. The monsignor then concluded his business quickly.

In the silence of his upstairs room, Fr. Thompson now tried to still his mind.

He glanced at the folded letter to the bishop he had worked on this afternoon, requesting a change of parish. He hated St. Catherine's, and now things were out of hand. Unless he got a transfer, they could end only one way.

He poured a little more into the empty gla.s.s and stared at the small footlocker at the bottom of the bed. It had been with him since his first a.s.signment as a priest, seven parishes and four counties ago. Twenty-one years in all.

Somewhere along the way, he had taken to storing the records of his accomplishments in the insignificant black trunk, the press clippings from the religion sections of various papers and the small parish pamphlets which tracked his progress to what he once was sure would be the bishop's office. A long time ago that seemed now. Just when those dreams died and the others started, he wasn't sure. But there were records. The footlocker told everything. What a confessional it would make, he thought drunkenly as he set the empty gla.s.s on his desk and started fumbling for the key chain in his pocket.

He lurched over and stumbled to his knees in front of the small black trunk, strands of hair hanging in his eyes as he worked the tiny key into its inconsequential lock. He pulled at the clasps on either side and pushed the lid open, pitching forward with the movement. He caught himself in time, but the white collar came loose from his neck and fell on the bra and panties lying on top.

He tossed it aside and picked up the girl's underclothes. He paid no attention to the tawdry photographs, the lurid magazines, the yellowed news clippings, or even the other girls' things lying in the footlocker. He knew he should get rid of all of them someday, but he was never able to bring himself to do it. Just as he had hoped there would be no more victims after the last one. He always hoped that, but G.o.d never heard him. All he ever really wanted was to help, to rea.s.sure them, to show them that he cared more than anyone else.

But G.o.d had d.a.m.ned him, and he was lost until he found his own peace.

Fr. Thompson buried his coa.r.s.e face in Anna Marie Arceneaux's delicate underthings and sobbed. "I'm sorry," he cried to no one in particular. "I'm so sorry.

I won't let it happen again."

It was a familiar ritual, with no absolution at the end.

The Deliverer.

by Simon MacCulloch.

Simon MacCulloch was born in Edgeware, North-West London on April 22, 1960, and has lived there ever since, working since age 19 for the Department of Social Security. While "The Deliverer" is his first published piece of fiction, MacCulloch has for some time been contributing articles and reviews to such magazines as Fear, The British Fantasy Newsletter, Dagon, Skeleton Crew, Iniquities, and The Blood Review. He has short stories forthcoming in Fear, Aklo, and Fantasy and Terror. Aside from his lifelong interest in supernatural fiction, MacCulloch professes a consuming pa.s.sion for heavy metal rock music. Is that M.R. James on the drums? MacCulloch adds: "A novel, needless to add, is being worked on, under the t.i.tle Dreams of the Dead."

"And that concludes this morning's service." These words, uttered in the Reverend Piper's customarily soft yet somehow vibrant rasp, emerged raw and steaming into the chill air of the little church. To Tim, at seven years old the youngest member of the spa.r.s.e congregation, they were the most welcome he had heard that morning. It was unlikely that he was alone in this, for the Vicar was not popular among the inhabitants of the village in which he had taken up residence less than a year before. He lived alone, having dispensed with the services of the housekeeper, a fiercely voluble widow by the name of Mrs. Atterby, with quite remarkable ease shortly after his arrival. He took no part in the village's admittedly limited social life; if he was seen at all on weekdays it would be only on a visit to the butcher or greengrocer, where those who served him proved notably unsuccessful in drawing him into conversation. It was hardly surprising that attendance at the church, patchy at the best of times, had dwindled. The combination of the Vicar's aloofness with a predilection in his homilies for esoteric topics, abstruse arguments and dubious conclusions had seriously eroded what little loyalty to the Sabbath tradition had existed among his spiritual charges. By Christmas, it was generally predicted, he would perform his offices alone.

Yet interest in the Reverend Piper himself had increased even as the attraction of his liturgies diminished. Thus it was that, when Tim and his elder brother Robert were released after that Sunday's lunch from the confines of their terraced cottage in the upper part of the village into silvery ineffectual late autumn suns.h.i.+ne, their talk and their footsteps turned simultaneously towards the church again. "Mum's decided we're not going to church any more," declared Robert.

"Why?"