"Purge the Evil" - a novel

by Bill Dunn

(Note: this is a work-in-progress attempt at writing a novel. Feedback, critiques, plot suggestions are more than welcomed.)
 

CHAPTER 39

Tuesday, November 30th,  6:15 a.m.

            Fr. Dan filled the coffee maker on the kitchen counter at the Rectory. His hands shook as he poured the water. He had already consumed an entire pot of coffee during the previous hour, and he knew more coffee was the last thing his jangled nerves needed right now. But the priest was so anxious, he just had to do something to keep busy while he waited, so he made more coffee.

            The clock radio next to the coffee maker was tuned to WCTR. After the first traffic report of the morning concluded, a voice said, “This is Don Lovello, filling in for Pit Bull Peterson, who is off today. And it’s too bad Pit Bull is not here this morning, because the breaking news from West Hartford, which you heard during the news report a few minutes ago, is simply shocking. I’m sure Pit Bull would have a lot to say about a police officer being gunned down in the line of duty last night. What is this world coming to? So far the details are sketchy. The name of the dead officer has not been released, but we understand the shooting took place inside a car dealership sometime before midnight. We, of course, will bring you updates throughout the morning as they become available. But in the meantime, I’d like to hear from you, the listeners. Please call in with your thoughts and opinions.”

            Lovello, the regular afternoon host on WTCR, did not tell the listeners that he was awakened from a sound sleep at 5:15 by a phone call from the studio engineer, who frantically explained that Pit Bull never showed up for work. Lovello often filled in when Pit Bull was on vacation or, on rare occasion, when Pit Bull was too ill to do the show. But in over two decades of hosting the morning show, Pit Bull had never simply not shown up. Even when sick with the flu, he had always made plans in advance for someone, usually Lovello, to fill in.

            Lovello also did not tell the listeners that the studio engineer had called Pit Bull’s house at 5 a.m., waking up Mrs. Peterson. When she realized her husband was not in bed, nor had he ever come home the previous evening, she became frantic. Repeated calls to Pit Bull’s cell phone were unsuccessful. The show continued with the standard format of opinions, phone calls, and conversation, but all-the-while Lovello wondered what in the world happened to the man who should be sitting in front of the microphone.

            Fr. Dan paced around the first floor of the Rectory as he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. Muffled voices from the radio droned in the background. Every minute or so he pushed aside a curtain and peered out a living room window toward the street. As he walked from room to room, he periodically sighed deeply. He tried to focus his mind and offer up a prayer. But after praying, “Dear Lord, please help. I, I…” he lost his concentration, and the events of the previous evening flooded his mind, filling him with sadness and shame.

            Unlike the radio audience, Fr. Dan knew the identity of the dead police officer. He had received a phone call from police headquarters at 4 a.m. A squad car was scheduled to come to the Rectory at 6 a.m. to pick up the priest. Now that it was going on 6:30, Fr. Dan kept looking out the window and muttering, “So where are you?”

            The coffee finished brewing. Fr. Dan grabbed the glass pot with one hand and a ceramic coffee mug with the other. He began to pour, but his hands shook so much some coffee missed the mug and spilled onto his wrist. He jumped at the burning sensation on his arm, and in doing so he lost his grip on the mug. As it fell from his hand, he tried to stop it with his other hand, still clutching the full glass pot. This caused him to lose his grip on the pot, and it also crashed to the floor an instant after the mug shattered against the hard tiles.

            Broken glass and splattered coffee covered the kitchen floor. Fr. Dan stared at the mess in disbelief and clenched his fists in frustration. He was about to unleash a stream of loud profanity and kick the largest remaining piece of the coffee pot, but before he could do that, he shuddered, then staggered toward the kitchen table and slumped into a chair. He leaned forward onto the table, his face pressed against a placemat and his arms extended out in front of him. Then the distraught priest began to sob uncontrollably. “Oh my God, what am I going to do?!” he wailed. “How can I possibly break this news to Mom?!”

            After a few minutes Fr. Dan stopped sobbing. His head remained down on the placemat and he whimpered quietly. Then he thought he heard a car horn off in the distance. He sat up and listened. He heard it again, coming from the front of the building. He got up from the table quickly and wiped his eyes with a paper napkin. He jogged to the living room and pulled the curtain aside to look out the front window. A police cruiser was parked in front of the Rectory, its motor still running. Fr. Dan put on his jacket and opened the front door. He paused for a moment and said quietly, “Mom will be devastated by this.” Then he walked down the front steps and got into the passenger side of the vehicle.

            After settling into the passenger seat and shutting the car door, Fr. Dan turned to his left and said. “Thanks for giving me a ride. So how are you doing?”

            Det. Mike Cavanaugh looked at his brother the priest and exclaimed, “How the hell do you think I’m doing?! You have no idea what I’ve been through! Like I told you on the phone before, I should be dead!”

            Fr. Dan nodded and listened. Mike continued talking a mile a minute. “I don’t know what the hell happened last night, but all I know for sure is, I should be dead. He was about to kill me! But I’ll tell you one thing, Danny,” the cop said, a bit quieter, “I, uh, I talked to Jesus last night. It wasn’t really a prayer, it was more like a frantic plea. When I thought for certain that I was a dead man, I called out to Jesus, and he answered me, and now I know for sure that he is real.”

            “Real? What do you mean?” Fr. Dan asked.

            “Well, you know, I guess sometimes in the past I haven’t been so sure. But last night, Danny, I put my faith in Jesus and he touched me. I can’t explain it, but I know he’s there and I know there’s something very different about me now.”

            “I’m glad to hear that, Mike,” Fr. Dan said.

            “But I have no idea what happened!” Mike said. “Someone must’ve been in there with me and Bradford. When I heard the shot, I thought I was dead. Then I saw Bradford fall. So I just ran, and I didn’t stop running until I was a mile away. Whoever was in there saved my life. And you wouldn’t believe how crazy things are down at headquarters right now.”

            Fr. Dan nodded again. He sat back in the seat and thought about the previous evening. He thought about Anna in his living room. He thought about Pit Bull’s phone call and his desire to go to confession in advance. Then he looked at Mike and said, “I think I know who.”

            “You do?” Mike said. “You know who was in there with me?”

            Fr. Dan did not answer. Instead he unzipped a pocket of his jacket, reached in and pulled out a large black pistol. “I think this is yours,” he said.

            Mike stared at the weapon in shock. “Mine?” he muttered.

            “Yeah, and I think you’ll find there’s one bullet missing.” He placed the pistol on the dashboard.

            “How did you get my gun?!” Mike yelled.

            “You kicked it to me last night, where I was hiding behind a work bench.”

            Mike was stunned. All he could say was, “Wha— Wha?”

            “I couldn’t let him shoot you, Mike. You’re my brother. It’s bad enough I have to tell Mom that her son the priest actually shot a man. But I’d never be able to tell her that her son the cop was killed.”

            Det. Mike stared at his older brother. Practically in shock, he whispered, “Oh. My. God.”

            The two men smiled weakly, then began to cry. At the same moment each man lunged toward the other, and the two brothers embraced in a long hug.

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