The church in question is much larger than I had imagined it would be. It’s several stories tall with two gothic towers reaching into the sky and stands in the middle of town.
Nova and I stand across the street. It’s just past five o’clock and around us the town is mostly quiet. A few people walking here and there. A few cars driving past. No narcos in sight. No police, either.
Nova says, “This is the one, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Maybe Atticus got it wrong.”
“Maybe. Only one way to find out.”
We cross the street and enter through the ornate doors into the church. The cathedral has a high ceiling and our footsteps echo through the mostly empty space as we advance toward the front.
An old woman sits in one of the pews, her head bent in prayer. At least, I assume she’s praying. For an instant, the image of Gabriela’s grandmother flashes in my mind, and I wonder if this old woman’s throat has also been sliced open.
The old woman shifts in the pew as she grips onto her rosary, running the beads through her fingers.
Nova whispers, “This doesn’t feel right.”
I say nothing as we keep quietly walking down the aisle toward the front of the church. There are several confessionals off to the side. I wonder if anybody’s in them.
As we near the front, a priest appears from a doorway in the corner. He’s in his forties with close-cropped gray hair. For a moment he looks guarded. But when he sees us, he adjusts the glasses on his face and smiles.
“Buenas tardes.”
I smile and ask, “Do you speak English?”
The priest nods as he approaches us. There’s something strange about the way he walks, something that probably nobody else would catch. It’s there for only a second or two, and then he’s standing right in front of us.
“Welcome. How can I help you?”
“My boyfriend and I are on vacation. When we saw this gorgeous church we wanted to stop in.”
The priest beams with pride.
“It certainly is gorgeous, yes.”
“Can we have a tour?”
The smile starts to fade.
“No, I am afraid that is not possible right now.”
“Are you the only one here?”
Now the priest’s brow furrows as he begins to frown.
“I do not understand the question.”
I glance around the vast cathedral, spot the old woman again, and turn back to the priest. I lean toward him, lower my voice.
“May I confess to you?”
“Are you Catholic?”
“Lapsed. But I’m hoping to start over again.”
This isn’t true on either account, but what the priest doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
He stands there for a long moment, clearly conflicted about something. He keeps glancing past us toward the entrance, as if he expects somebody to walk through at any moment.
I say, “Please, Father …”
He blinks, looks back at me.
“Crisanto.”
“Please, Father Crisanto. I did something terrible recently and I need to confess.”
Nova hasn’t moved from my side this entire time. Clearly he isn’t sure where I’m heading with this, but he doesn’t question it.
Father Crisanto stands there for another long moment, still conflicted, before he forces a smile and says of course and motions toward the confessionals.
Before I follow him, I turn back to Nova and whisper into his ear.
“See if you can get the old woman to leave. This may not turn out well.”
He frowns at me for a second, but then he says, “Sure thing, babe.”
I turn toward the confessionals before Nova can say anything else. Father Crisanto has already entered and closed his door.
As somebody who’s never been in a confessional before, I’m not sure of the exact rules, but I figure I can wing it.
I enter and kneel in front of a square panel. It smells stale in the cramped space. Which I guess is to be expected. This is where people come to confess their sins and ask for forgiveness. A whiff of desperation and regret fills the air.
The partition between us slides open, revealing a mesh screen. Father Crisanto on the other side, waiting for me to begin.
Because I’ve seen my fair share of confessions on TV, I say, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been several years since my last confession.”
Father Crisanto doesn’t say anything, just waits.
“I recently hurt someone close to me. Someone who I did not know very long but whom I considered a friend.”
Silence.
“She took me in when she didn’t have to. She gave me a place to stay. She was a good person. A strong person. A person who took care of her grandmother ever since her parents died.”
More silence.
“She wrote for a news hub. She wrote anonymously to protect herself from the cartels and from the corrupt police. She knew what she was doing was dangerous, but she did it anyway.”
Even more silence.
“Because of what she wrote about, there was a bounty on her head. I guess there are bounties on the heads of everybody who writes for that website, but I knew there was a bounty on her head because I was paid handsomely when I told the cartel about her.”
Father Crisanto hasn’t moved at all this entire time.
“Because I am greedy I sold my friend out. I told the cartel who she was and where to find her, and they captured her. And they … they tortured her before they killed her. They filmed all of it, and they uploaded that video to the website, and then—”
Before I can finish, Father Crisanto suddenly shifts from his silent resting place. There’s a familiar click, and then he’s up and out of the booth and is tearing open my curtain, and for an instant I can see the fury in his face, the pure rage, and he has a gun in his hand and starts to raise the barrel toward my face.
But in the priest’s sudden rage, he momentarily forgets about Nova—who steps into view and places the barrel of the Desert Eagle against the back of Father Crisanto’s head.
Nova says, “I’ve done many horrible things in my life, but I’ve never killed a priest and would prefer not to kill one today.”
Father Crisanto freezes. He keeps glaring back at me, but then little by little the rage starts to fade from his face. He takes a deep breath, and his shoulders drop in defeat.
I say, “I had nothing to do with Gabriela’s death, but I wanted to be sure you were the right person. You cared deeply about her, didn’t you?”
“I care deeply about all my writers. How did you know where to find me?”
I don’t answer the priest. Instead, I say, “Nova, I think you can give Father Crisanto space now.”
Nova steps back, slowly lowering the gun to his side.
I stand up and exit the confessional.
“You don’t normally carry a gun on you, do you?”
The priest shakes his head slowly, as if he’s ashamed, but says nothing.
“I could tell when you approached us. By the way you walked. You’re not comfortable having it on you. It digs into your back, doesn’t it?”
The priest nods. He takes a moment to glance around the cathedral and notices the old woman is gone.
“Where did Dolores go?”
Nova says, “She took off right after she spotted my gun.”
Father Crisanto sighs and then turns back to me.
“Did you really know Gabriela?”
“I did. I was with her the past two days before she was murdered.”
He frowns at this, and then a certain understanding enters his eyes.
“You were the one who found the bodies.”
“That’s right. And that’s why we’re here. We’re hoping you can give us some information.”
“About what?”
“The Devil.”