A week of peace, Father O’Reilly could have asked for more. Still, Job had it worse and he never hid a body murdered by a vengeful cop; at least not in the written records. Despite that O’Reilly was sure he was doing the right thing. Until the phone calls started.
Two weeks without relief the calls came in at exactly nine in the morning. When he answered the voice on the other end said, “I know what you did,” then hung up. Most days it was just inconvenient. On Sunday, like today, things were bit more complicated. Nine was the beginning of mass. If he could remember to silence his phone or leave it in the office he might have been fine.
He could do neither; the infernal machine was as much a part of his life as social media was for misguided teens. It was his penance. Something inside told him the accusations bricked the next steps on his path. So he answered, listened to the condemnation, avoided screaming at the caller and went back to sermonizing.
This Sunday was different. He started plotting. He needed to change up the routine. Thankfully the mass focused around the words of Paul. That bigoted, sanctimonious prick was so easy to remember that Father O’Reilly could devote well over half his brain to how to respond on Monday.
Monday morning. Father O’Reilly was waiting. He answered his phone in that weird, twilight pause between the end of the first vibration and the beginning of the first actual ring.
“I know what you did too, Peter.”
The immediate answer and the use of the vagrant’s name caused an uncomfortable quiet. That made Father O’Reilly nervous. Maybe it was just that the man was a Peter though. As a priest giving certain names power was an occupational hazard. The bum did not give him too long to ruminate on it though.
“S’not as bad as your sins, father.”
“I leave the judgment on the weight of each sin to God alone. You have some things my…” He paused to think of a better word than partner, which wasn’t right between himself and the detective. “…Cohort would like to purchase from you.”
“I know what you want.”
“So, can we deal?”
“You can’t have them. I want to be her friend. She needs my help.”
“These are dangerous people. Those texts are better in my hands.”
“Nothing’s safe in your hands. You’re the enemy.”
“Tread carefully, my son, this is a dark path you walk. If you choose them you risk the world.”
“I’m righteous. Like you should be as a man of the cloth.”
“If you really choose them you should stop calling. My friend deals with enemies harshly. You know that since you know what I did.”
“You can’t scare the hopeless.”
Peter hung up. Father O’Reilly hoped that would be the end of it, until they sought the writings anyway. Unfortunately for him, Peter served the nemesis well. The calls kept coming.
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