Chapter 27

My cell phone lights up and buzzes, doing a little shimmy on the front seat.

It’s Will. “Cate, where the hell are you? If you’re able to answer, do it now. Will’s voice is frustrated as well it should be. Even with all the tech help available, he can’t find my exact location. He’s calling my phone in the hopes of pinging my whereabouts off of one of the many mobile towers even though he knows he won’t get my exact location. The towers can only identify a large general area. .

Startled by Will’s voice, David opens a window, takes my brand-new phone and throws it out onto the street easily eliminating any chance of police help in finding me. The knife cutting through the tape is a slow go but it is working. My fingers are numb..

“You okay? You’re awfully quiet back there,” says David. I’m almost through the tape. Maybe if I play the victim card he’ll fall for it. Getting out of the car is what I need to do.

“I’m so dizzy, David. I feel like I’m going to throw up!”

“Sorry,” he says with little concern. “We’re almost there. You'll be fine.”

My wrists are free. I can try to grab my gun.

“No, you don’t understand. I’m, oh God, stop the car!” I make retching sounds hoping that I don’t really vomit. The truth is that I am feeling very nauseous.

“Look,” he says, “We're almost there. It's only a block away from here. You can hold it.”

“No, I can't, now, please! I’m going to throw up right here!”

Cursing loudly, David pulls quickly to the side of the road. As he breaks to a screeching stop I act. With one quick swinging motion I reach over the seat, grab my gun, and jam it into the back of his head.

“Give me the keys and then get the hell out of the van! Now!”

David does as he’s told, stumbling out and falling to the street. His cap falls off and I see a zigzag scar on the left side of his head near the hairline. Recognition hits me. David is the man in the sketch artist’s drawing; the one Bo’s friend met who said priests deserved to be killed. And I can assume that the van is the same van Bo described; it is dirty but it is white and old. I get out slowly, feeling a wave of dizziness.

“It’s you. You’re the one looking for priests aren’t you? You go scavenge where the homeless are.”

“A lot of the homeless have been victimized by priests; they become drunks and drug addicts because of what was done to them. Someone stronger like me has to find those child molesters and punish them. They deserve to die.”

“Get up and empty your pockets,” I say still pointing the gun at him. “Make no mistake David, if you try anything I will shoot you.”

He does as he’s told. There’s no cell phone in his pocket but he does have a roll of duct tape which I grab.

“Where’s the place you were taking me?”

“Down the block.”

“Where? Which building?”

“The one on the left side, downstairs.”

I look down the street and see a building flanked on either side by vacant lots with demolished parts of what look like factories. There is no street sign. It’s unfamiliar to me; it could be any one of many once thriving areas hit by low socio-economic problems and a higher rate of crime on the outskirts of the city. People leave and it becomes suburban blight.

“How many are in your group, the Memorare?” He doesn’t answer. I nudge him hard with my Smith & Wesson. “How many?”

Staring at me defiantly he says, “Five as of now, but there are going to be a lot more.”

“How many are in the building now?”

He shakes his head, laughing. “Bitch!”

“How many? Answer me!” I smack his jaw with my gun and draw blood. “How many?”

Stunned, David answers me. “Just one person. He’s bringing justice to his abuser. That’s what I wanted you to see.”

“Where are the others?”

“Out canvassing for survivors,” he says angrily. “Fuck you!”

A wave of dizziness hits me and I step crookedly to the side. David suddenly lunges at me knocking me sideways, but I regain my balance. He’s disoriented from the booze and before he can come at me again I swing my gun hard against his temple. He goes down in a dead slump. I check his pulse; he’s still alive. Then, putting the gun in my jeans I quickly wrap his hands tightly behind his back with the duct tape and tape his legs and ankles together before taping his mouth shut. I shove his body as far under his van as I can. With any luck the combination of alcohol and the blow to his head will keep him out for awhile.

My exertions have upped my adrenaline level and that’s good. I try to do a few running steps in place to get my blood circulating, close my eyes tightly and open them, then head down the street to where someone is carrying out the justice of the Memorare.

****

The building that David pointed out is a deserted one that has no sign of life except a few rats that don’t bother to move at my approach. They’re New York rats and fearless. Taking out my penlight and holding my gun, I move around them and head towards the back of the building looking for a basement door. Down a dark flight of stairs behind the building I find it. Cautiously I try the handle and find it unlocked.

The basement is dark and dank-smelling with a dirt floor. There are shelves stacked to the ceiling. It might have been a wine cellar at one time or an old community pantry, decades ago. There’s a faint smell of stale urine and emptied bowels coupled with a stronger odor of old bleach as if someone had tried to clean the area at some point. The body smells however seem to float above the bleach as if they are more potent. I also smell the distinct, coppery odor of blood.

I let my eyes adjust to the dark, which is illuminated by a small crooked-neck lamp on an old desk. Holding my penlight and gun in front of me I squint, canvassing the room, checking corners, and shining the light along the wall. On the far side of the room there’s another door with a thin strip of light coming from underneath it.

I walk slowly over to the desk. By the dim low-watt bulb I see what look like strips of paper. Getting closer I can see that they’re not paper at all; they’re clerical collars. Neatly printed letters inside the collars are words in Latin: peccatum vestrum: your sin; iustitia nostra: our justice; Dei poena: God’s punishment. There are also what appear to be some types of surgical tools. Someone is getting ready to commit a murder and mutilation and leave the body behind with a message.

I hear a moan coming from behind the second battered old door and the sound of sobbing. As quietly as possible I move towards the sound and gently slide the door open a crack. The overhead light is bright and I blink my eyes against the glare. A man is standing with his back to me but I can see he’s holding what looks like a surgical scalpel in one hand as he leans over a body on a table in front of him.

“Joey, Joey, don’t do this, Joey!” pleads the man lying naked and restrained on the table.

There’s that heavy coppery smell and I see a lot blood on the towels under the man.

“They hurt me so much Joey, those men with you, they hurt me. Why did you let them hurt me? I’m bleeding. Help me. I need a doctor Joey.”

“I’m not Joey! Joey’s dead. I’m not the weak boy who obeyed you, you sick fuck!”

“Joey, please help me. I love you like a son. Joey, help me, I hurt so much.”

“Shut up! Don’t call me that name! My name is Joshua. You deserve the pain, you deserve more!”

Cautiously I inch the door open and move forward and squint in the light. I quietly suck in my breath. A young man is standing over his abuser. From the archdiocese picture I saw of him online, even bloodied and battered, there is no mistake that this person is Monsignor Bernard Moore. I have to act fast.

Standing in the doorway I point the gun at the man with the scalpel and demand that he drop the weapon. When he turns to look at me, I find myself looking into familiar hazel eyes sprinkled with brown flecks. Eyes I had seen sad and crying, and just once, laughing; Marie McElroy's eyes. But this time I am looking into the eyes of her brother. Joshua McElroy is standing in front of me, a male version of sweet Marie. The scalpel in his hand is held expertly. I have a strong feeling that he knows exactly how to use it.

I take one step sideways so that I can have full view of what Josh is doing.

“Joshua, drop the weapon,” I say calmly, holding the Smith & Wesson level.

“No! You drop your gun.”

“You know I can’t do that, Joshua. You know I won’t.”

“Who are you?” he asks with a touching simplicity, the question of a lost child.

“My name is Cate Harlow. I’m a private investigator hired by your sister Marie to find you. You need to drop your weapon.”

“Marie?” He looks at me with so much sadness and pain that I feel heartsick.

“She wants to see you, Joshua. Marie misses you so much. Put the scalpel down. You don’t need to do this.”

“I don’t want to commit murder, that’s not who I am. I want justice.”

“Then let me call the police, Joshua, and they’ll put this criminal in prison.”

“No! I’m not taking the chance that he’ll get away with what he’s done. There is no justice for people like me. David says we have to make our own justice.”

“Not true Josh. David’s wrong. The system isn’t perfect, but I promise you that this bastard will get what he deserves and you and all his victims will get justice.”

I ease forward slowly so as not to startle him. “You know what happens to child molesters, pedophiles, in prison Josh? They’re on the bottom of the food chain in there.”

I nod towards the man on the table keeping my eyes on Joshua. “He’ll spend the rest of his life rotting in a jail cell somewhere being raped repeatedly by sadistic prisoners who hate child molesters and rapists, and the guards will turn a blind eye to what’s happening. Josh, they’ll turn away from his screams and his pleas to stop, just as this monster turned a deaf ear to your pleas.”

“God will punish you if you don’t help me, Joey. He will send you to Hell!” screamed the man on the table in terrified desperation. “You will burn in Hell forever!”

Josh gasped and tears rolled down his cheek. When he said that to Josh I wanted to smash my gun against the monsignor’s mouth. That disgusting monster! Still using the name of God to try to instill fear. Slowly I edge closer towards Joshua.

“Monsignor Moore," said Josh quietly, “I know what it is like to be in hell. You brought me there, remember? Don’t talk to me about God. Your God is the one who abandoned me to a hell of your making. I stopped believing in God a long time ago, you child-sodomizing bastard.” He takes a deep breath and continues. “Do you even comprehend what you have done to me? How you stole my innocence and destroyed my life? I will never be a whole man. You made me see life as perverted, dirty, and sick. How many other children’s lives did you destroy after me? How many?

“You know," Joshua laughs, “David slits the throat of the priests he punishes and watches them die. It’s rather quick if you cut the carotid artery just right. Not a whole lot of suffering. Then, after they’re dead, he cuts off their dirty, ancient pricks.” Joshua wipes away his tears.

“But me, see, I’ve been thinking about this day for a long time, ever since I joined this group really. When I found out that the church was going to pay you off to disappear I thought we’d never catch you. Oh yes, David found out that information about you through one of his contacts. You were so protected. But David, he was patient, he told me to just keep waiting and that the day would come when you were caught off guard and brought to justice. My justice.” He laughed again. “You came to me so willingly! So happy to see me! Did you think we were going to resume our…relationship? This place should remind you of that old school basement where you brought me to do my special penance, what you called the bad-boy penance.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep ragged breath. “Anyway, I’m not going to do what David has done to those child molesting priests.”

“I knew you couldn’t hurt me, Joey. I knew you still loved me,” babbled the old priest with relief. Looking at Joshua's face, I knew Monsignor Moore didn’t understand that Joshua had a different torture in mind.

“My justice, do you want to know what my justice will be?”

“You want me to say I’m sorry if I hurt you and that I’ll make it up to you? I have money, Joey, I’ll help you. I know that’s what you want from me. You help me and I’ll take care of you.”

“You sick, sick bastard!” Joshua's voice rose in anger. "Sorry? You think that’s what I want? Having you say you’re sorry and giving me money? No!” His voice lowered and he said softly, “No, no, you don’t get to say you’re sorry and have that mortal sin absolved, oh no. I don’t want you to say you’re sorry.” He took a step to the side and stared at the wall sighing. “Don’t worry though; I’m not going to slit your throat.”

The man on the table was blubbering hysterically and watching Joshua with hopeful eyes.

“Thank you, thank God,” the priest mutters.

Joshua smiles almost sweetly, boyishly, as he walks closer to the table.

“No, I’m not going to do that. I already told you, my justice is different from David’s. I would never cut your throat.” His voice is as soft as if he were speaking to a frightened child. “That would be too quick a death. I… want… you…to fucking suffer.

“Don’t curse Joey. That’s a sin.”

“A sin? Well, one more won’t matter now will it Monsignor because I’m about to commit a mortal sin. You see, you miserable pedophile, what I'm going to do is this; I’m going to castrate you slowly so that you feel every single cut of this scalpel, I’m going to slice off that part of you that you used to punish me. I remember your bad-boy penance all too well, do you? You should; you enjoyed it so much. Well, I will enjoy castrating you. Then, I’m going to watch you bleed out slowly and die in agony. I want to hear you beg me to stop the way I begged you. That’s my justice. Where’s your God now?”

Monsignor Moore screams a high-pitched scream of terror. I’m standing a few feet away from them and I say his name softly. “Joshua.”

“I have to do this. I have to do it alone! He is mine to punish, don’t you see?”

“All I see, Joshua, is a young man who has suffered the most horrible abuse a child can suffer. I also see a disgusting pedophile who isn’t worth your being sent to prison for murder. Let him be the one who goes to jail.” I edge closer. “You’re not a murderer, Josh, you’re a good, decent person.”

“No, I’m not. I…I know what terrible things have been done here and I never tried to stop them from being done. I have hatred in my heart. I want him to pay for what he did to me.”

“He will pay, Joshua. I promise you, I do, that I will make sure this bastard goes to prison and gets exactly what he deserves. You have no idea how horribly he will be treated by other prisoners. They’ll make him suffer agony. Please, for Marie’s sake, drop the weapon and let the police and prosecutors go after him. You deserve better, Joshua. You deserve a chance to begin the normal life that was denied you. Let the man who did this to you rot in jail.”

“Whore!” screams the monsignor. “Don’t listen to her. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Help me. I need a doctor, a hospital. I’m bleeding.”

Joshua looks at the monsignor but lowers the scalpel. He turns towards me.

“I love you like a son, Joey,” babbles Monsignor Moore. “You know deep in your heart that I love you.”

If he hadn’t said those words the tense situation might have turned out differently. But those cruel words, the words of a true pedophile, squashed any chance of Joshua dropping the weapon and letting me call the police. He turned and with a cry of rage slashed a gash in the right leg of Monsignor Moore close to the pubic area. Angry tears blinded Joshua and his aim was off. Still the blood from the leg wound began to pool. He raised the scalpel once more.

“Joshua, stop now or I will be forced to shoot you.” My voice and my hands are steady but I feel sick to my stomach. He ignores me and is about to slice again when I fire, making sure to only nick his arm but causing him to finally drop the scalpel.

I move forward and kick the scalpel away. Josh is bleeding but a quick look tells me my aim was true; just a flesh wound.. I put my gun in my pocket and grab a cloth from a nearby shelf to bind his arm.

“Don’t move Joshua. I’m sorry but I had to do that. I don’t want you going to prison for murder. Just don’t move.”

Moving over to the table I feel myself gag. The leg wound looks deep. For a minute I think of letting this monster bleed to death but that would be too good for him. I wanted to see him tried and convicted. I look around for something to stop the bleeding and press the extra towels I find on the table to the wound.

“Joshua, do you have a cell phone?” He nods, dazed. “Give it to me and tell me exactly where we are, street name and location.”

It’s an old phone and the signal bars are low but I’m able to call 911. After I give our location and situation, the dispatcher assures me they’ll arrive within ten minutes. I also tell her where the cops can find David and the van.

Until the EMTs arrived I held the towel to the monsignor’s wound, saving the life of a brutal pedophile and watching his innocent victim, Joshua McElroy, sobbing on the dirt floor.