If there were still any teenagers left in the village of Crow, the creepy house at the end of Euclid Creek Road would be the kind of place they would dare one another to enter after dark. With its sagging roof and rotting timbers, its litter-strewn stoop and flaking paint, it could earn a place in local legends. It could serve as an initiation ceremony of sorts. You weren’t a man, you weren’t ready for the big wide world, until you’d set foot inside Molly’s Farm and counted to ten.
It would have happened in any other village. Not Crow. There aren’t enough people in this community to produce enough teenagers for adventures. This is a farming community—fields and forests, creeks and rock pools, straggled out at the foot of the Catskills. Economically, times have never been as bad. Today’s residents are incomers who have moved out of the city looking for a different kind of life. They mow their grass with ride-on mowers and maybe buy themselves a few chickens and a goat and tell themselves they are farmers while the yield from their orchard of apple trees turns to mulch on the ground. Most don’t last more than a few winters. The dark months are vicious up here, as if the wind and the snow are possessed of a malicious spirit.
Those resident whose roots go back further have no more affection for the area than those who have been attracted by the falling prices of property and land. There are those who can trace their kin back through the centuries and whose ancestors are buried out the back of their timber homes, headstones bearing names that have cropped up again and again through the generations, daily reminders to the current householders that their problems will not last forever. In such homes are serious, hardworking men and women. The grind of their existence shows in their hands and in their faces. Each line in their foreheads tells of a bereavement, a foreclosure, a bad harvest, or a stillborn calf. Such people have little time for daring one another to enter the spooky house at the end of Euclid Creek Road.
There are even those in Crow who remember when Molly owned Molly’s Farm. She sold up in the seventies. Went to live in Florida with a great-nephew who had taken one look at the run-down house where she was living and did the Christian thing by inviting her to live with him. He sold her house to some city folk for a decent price. Nobody brought over a housewarming basket or a peach cobbler for the newcomer. Nobody was even sure when he took possession, or whether he lived there full-time or used the place as a vacation home. And nobody questioned him about the state of the overgrown lawn or the peeling paint. Only a couple of locals saw him, and when he failed to return their waves, they put him down as an ignorant city slicker. They carried on with their lives, even as the woods closed in around the house and the bumpy, potholed road leading to his front door became more and more difficult to drive down.
Over the years, a few lost motorists knocked on the door in the hope of using the telephone or the gift of a glass of water. A handful of walkers in their hiking boots and waterproofs rapped their knuckles on the rotting wood of the squat, two-story property. Nobody ever answered. And nobody went inside. The windows held firm and the front door was locked and bolted. Sun-bleached curtains still hung at the window, and those who peered through the dusty glass could make out a few sticks of furniture and the signs of habitation. This was not an abandoned property—just an unloved one.
The next town over from Crow is called Summit, and in the bars of that quiet, pretty town, the talk would occasionally stray to the occupant of the old house by the river. On the occasions that the subject came up, people instinctively lowered their voices. Old anecdotes were regurgitated. Even as recently as this winter, old George Severn retold the story of the time he saw the owner back in ’81. Pale, he was, says George, when asked how he looked. Almost see-through. I swear to God I thought he was a ghost. No prettier than his house.
And soon the others would chime in. They would tell and retell their yarns about the occasional pilgrims who have knocked on their doors, asking for directions to St. Anthony’s. They had heard tell of a place of healing. Some had even displayed leaflets glorifying the saint’s name and illustrated with a picture of the old cottage.
The Penitent, Peter Molony, knows it was folly to print the leaflets. He never intended to show them to anybody. But he had journeyed, in his quiet moments, into a world behind his eyes in which Tony Blank was revered by all as a saint. He had imagined how it would be if the world knew the truth about his actions and his sacrifice. He had indulged his whim and incorporated the fantasy into the list of fake charities set up to help launder Pugliesca’s money. To do so was a mistake, and in the moments after he knocked Claudio unconscious, he had allowed his rage at himself to lead him into a bout of violence and destruction. He had smashed up his beautiful home. Torn at his papers as he liked to lash at his skin, spilled precious ashes among the blood and the broken glass.
Here, now, Molony is again at peace. This is his church, his occasional sanctuary. He knows that nobody has set foot inside the house on Euclid Creek Road because behind the rotting façade is a state-of-the-art alarm system. The last time he came here was in August, when he discovered that the hole in the roof had grown so bad that rain had found a way through the rafters and watered the grass seeds that had blown into the holes on the moth-eaten couch. The grass has grown tall now. The sofa looks as though it is being swallowed up by nature. So, too, does the man who lies on it, blood on his face, hands bound tightly at the wrists. He woke up on the drive here and Molony was forced to pull over and hit him afresh. There is blood on the lens of his eyeball now and more trickles from his ear, as if something is broken in the man’s head.
Molony feels the same sense of calm he has always enjoyed when visiting this place. He finds it almost remarkable that so many years have elapsed since he drove out here to assess Sal Pugliesca’s estate the day after the poor man had been blown apart. Sal was very clear in his instructions. If anything happened to him, this property was to be Molony’s priority. Tony needed taking care of. He deserved the lawyer’s attention. Molony had made it here within twenty-four hours of the mobster’s death, arriving with a briefcase full of documents that made sense only to a man with Molony’s ordered mind and that divided up the dead man’s assets.
The different companies set up by the murdered Mafioso had interests in two refuse businesses and owned a property on South Broad Street in Philly. He also had a part share in a nightclub and owned half a condo in the Florida Keys. The house was a gift for his brother, Tony, when he was released from St. Loretta’s Hospital in 1976, having been declared sane enough to live alone. It was at once a kind gesture and a selfish one. It ensured that Tony had a place to call his own, and also that Sal had somewhere to hide the occasional shipment of contraband.
Molony had not yet passed the bar exam, but he was already proving an invaluable asset to the law firm that Paulie Pugliesca had set him up with. He was the junior staff member but the partners knew he was the future. He had a gift for numbers, a flair for creativity. Sure, he was a peculiar piece of work, but he was efficient and he made money. Who cared about the sweat patches and the little round glasses, the fleshy face or the perfectly bald head? He was a lawyer, not a pinup, and if their Mob clients wanted him to look after their assets, the senior partners were happy to hand off to him.
The day after Sal and Tony were blown up at Sal’s house in Philadelphia, Molony drove to Crow to assess the value of the property and to ensure that any possessions of questionable origin could be matched to fictional bills of sale should there be any difficult questions. Molony remembers weeping for Tony, though the tears were not of grief. He envied the boy who had suffered so much and who had now been granted his place in heaven.
Here, now, Molony remembers the sight that greeted him. The house was in a poor state of repair. The roof sagged, the wood panels were splitting around the rusting nails. And yet Molony liked it. Tony’s living room was spartan but not uncomfortable. There was a sofa and a rocking chair, books and magazines. The floor was dirty and the sills needed dusting, but for a young man who had spent time in so many dreadful institutions, this was a place of luxury.
It was only when Molony sat in the rocking chair that he felt the breeze coming up from the floor. It caused goose pimples to rise up on his arms. His investigations led him to the basement. And in the basement, he made the discovery that changed everything.
Molony finds himself smiling as he remembers that day.
Now would be a good time, he thinks. I am ready. This is right.
Molony looks at his watch. It has a blue face and a gold band. It was expensive. A gift from Sal Pugliesca. He wore one himself, like his father. Like Tony Blank. Molony had not been sure about taking it, but Sal had been so pleased with him for the work he had done in laundering a huge score from a hijacking that Molony had felt it wrong to refuse. He has worn it ever since. It is as much a part of him now as his cross and his scars.
It is almost seven a.m. The sun has yet to rise but Molony feels no sadness at the thought that he will die by moonlight. It seems right, somehow. He has never been one for sunshine. He burns.
“Wake up,” says Molony softly, and shakes the man on the sofa by the arm. He has to do it quite forcefully. Claudio coughs and retches as he wakes, and Molony can see how much pain he is in. When he pulls the gag from his mouth, he sees with regret that the tape takes some pieces of skin.
“Are you quite well?” asks Molony, peering at him. Claudio recoils a little. “Can you smell me?” he says apologetically. “I’m very sorry. My skin is ulcerous in places and parts of my stomach are rotting away. Cancer, I’m afraid. It has consumed me from the inside out. Would you like some water?”
Claudio nods. He scrunches up his eyes and a drip of blood runs out of his tear duct. Molony produces a ceramic chalice and brings it to the man’s lips. Gently, he pours some into his mouth.
“It does not matter if you spill it,” says Molony, smiling warmly. “The ground here is sacred.”
“Where the fuck am I?” asks Claudio, looking around at the threadbare room.
“I would ask you not to curse,” says Molony politely. “This is God’s house, as well as my own.”
Molony reaches into his white robe and removes the other man’s wallet.
“Claudio,” says Molony. “A nice name. More French than Italian. I am surprised Mr. Pugliesca would utilize somebody whose credentials are not entirely Sicilian.”
“I am Sicilian,” says Claudio, and his voice sounds thick and slurred.
“And you work for Mr. Pugliesca.”
“I work for nobody.”
“I believe I know you,” says Molony.
“I’m Philadelphia. I’ve seen you places. You’ve seen me. You’re the lawyer. The fucking Glowworm.”
“Indeed,” smiles Molony. “Sensible, I suppose, to use somebody from out of the city. You are the man Mr. Pugliesca uses for complex matters. I have heard about you. It seems quite neat you should be the one to do me this kindness.”
On the sofa, Claudio screws up his face again. He seems only half-awake and the left-hand side of his body does not seem to be responding to his commands.
“It is not your fault,” says Molony, shaking his head. “It is mine. I never dared hope for a second miracle and yet I was wrong to doubt.”
“The fuck you talking about?” slurs Claudio.
“Was it you who shot Brishen or your excitable colleague?” asks Molony.
“The Irishmen? I did my job. Made the best of it. You can tell Mr. Pugliesca I won’t say a word.”
Molony holds up a hand to quiet him. “This place belonged to Salvatore Pugliesca,” he says. “You remember him?”
“It was orders,” protests Claudio, whose nose is running with blood. He seems as though he is talking to somebody that only he can see. “He was turning rat.”
Molony pauses a moment. Then he grins. “Truly, all things are connected,” he says, clapping his fleshy hands. “The bomb that killed Sal. That killed Anthony. That was your work?”
“You know it was,” protests Claudio. “I did as I was told. Sal was my friend but he had to die. His dumb brother just got in the way. But he was going to inform . . .”
“Sal would not have informed,” says Molony, shaking his head. “He had few qualities but he was loyal. His father should have had more faith.”
Claudio mumbles something and then begins to cough. Molony sighs.
“Truly, the Lord sees all. We close the circle here today. My sin becomes yours as the sins of others have become mine. You, who defaced a miracle because of my weakness. I asked Paulie to stop them, that was all. Told him I would do what he wanted for the Russians if he would only stop Brishen and his young friend from coming here and seeing things they could not understand. I did not know what I meant to ask of him but I believe he read my disloyal heart. He dispatched death. He dispatched you.” Molony angles his head, suddenly puzzled. “I called Paulie as soon as they left. How did you stop them so swiftly? How were they intercepted?”
Claudio’s eyes roll back and there is blood in his words. “Giulio told me New York had a man upstate we could use. He played the traffic cop. Set up the roadblock. I was driving like all hell from Philly. It was close. A matter of minutes. So perfect, it would be enough to make you believe in a higher power . . .”
Molony gives a shake of his head. He has no wish to further expose himself to the details of Brishen’s torment.
“Enough,” he says abruptly. “You will do me the honor of ending my torment, as God has so decreed. With this act, I save Father Whelan’s soul. Those who know of the miracle are no more and he can walk at last in peace.”
Claudio rubs a hand across his mouth. There is fear in his eyes.
“I was a young man when I first came here,” says Molony, rubbing at the concentric keloids upon his skin. “It was only a day after the deaths of Sal and Anthony, as Sal had decreed. I did grieve but not for their deaths. My friend, Father Whelan—he had put such effort into Tony’s salvation and it had been for naught. I was soon to be shown that such doubts were the work of the devil. I, too, should have believed more fervently in the plan the Lord has for us all.”
“What plan?” says Claudio, and blood pools in his lap.
Molony lifts the cord from around his neck and looks in wonder at the leather pouch.
“This was in your possession,” says Molony. “I found it in your pocket. I had not expected to see it again. I felt its absence to my bones. For a time, I feared I had been punished for idolatry, but is it idolatry to venerate a holy relic? Would the bones of the saints be considered idols?”
“Saints? Fuck you talking about?”
“Beneath us,” says Molony simply. “Anthony found a way to achieve salvation. His sacrifice was greater than any I have ever known.”
“Anthony?” Claudio’s eyes roll. “Tony . . . the Dummy . . .”
“He was mute, yes,” says Molony. “He witnessed terrible things as a child. He wished so very fervently to be able to speak but he could not force himself. I witnessed that frustration. His eyes would pop, his bones and tendons would stretch and crack, and yet he could make no sound save this pitiable mewling. He longed so desperately to hear his own voice in prayer. When he received the Word from Father Whelan he could not even say ‘Amen.’ It pleased me to imagine he found this new life, a new home, a place to call his own for however short a time. And only when I opened the door to this sacred place did I learn the lengths he had gone to in order to make his confessions.”
“Untie me,” drools Claudio. “I can’t breathe . . .”
“The man you shot. The man called Brishen. He was my blessing and my temptation.”
Molony stops talking as he remembers that day. The floorboards in the cellar were pulled up like a storm hatch. In the dark of the basement he found the girl, with her dark skin and her almond eyes. He knew her from church. She was a kind person, helpful and honest. She had been plump enough to conceal the child. The perfect, spotless child. And now she was dead beneath Tony’s floor, with a newborn child clutched to her breast. Molony felt his strength leave him. He collapsed to his knees at the magnitude of Tony’s sin. And then the child cried and everything changed.
“He was a miracle,” says Molony, eyes shining. “He came to life in my sight. Truly, at that moment, I thought terrible things of Anthony. I felt lost and alone, and yet I knew myself to be in the presence of something wondrous that was too colossal for just one man. I needed counsel. I drove to Summit and called Father Whelan. I told him where I was and what I had found. I drove back to the house and waited. Eventually, to silence his cries, I lifted the child from his mother’s grasp. How hard he clung to me, Claudio. How desperate he was to live and be loved. And yet his face was hidden from view. A thick web encased his features. He had found his mother’s breast through the tiniest hole in the mesh that smothered him. I peeled it from him. I helped him to breathe and to see. I was the first thing he saw. I still held him as Father Whelan arrived. The weight upon Father Whelan’s soul was a terrible thing to behold. He spoke of what he knew. Perhaps it was confession, but we were both men of God and together we shared truths. He had cemented them in, Claudio. Runaways. Vagrants. Prostitutes. Poor unfortunates. In their company, he found his voice. He could not bring himself to speak in the company of the living. Anthony had spoken his last words as he clutched his dying mother when he was still a child. And in that doorway between life and death, he found himself able to speak. As these girls slipped away, in that place between life and death, he gave them his prayers. He made his confession. He recorded his words of confession for Father Whelan.”
Molony smiles up at the sky and moves to where he placed the tape recorder that has been his spiritual nourishment for so many years. This is where the recordings were made—the recordings that have been his companion in his brutal prayers. He selects a reel at random and plays it back in the silence of the room.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been five months since my last confession. In that time I have wished harm upon the men who slayed my mother and father and I have prayed for your help in learning their names. I have behaved jealously toward my brother, whom I have envied for his possessions and for the many women he has lain with. Last month I helped my brother to dump parts of a man in woodland on Staten Island, near the place where you saved me and set me on the path of righteousness. In order to make this confession I have been forced to take a girl called Nadina. She is a prostitute, and curses when I ask her to pray with me. She will be at your side and beseeching you for mercy before the dawn, Father. Please help her to know that her sacrifice is Your will. In her company I can hear my voice. In her company I can seek absolution. Thank you, Lord. Amen.”
Molony smiles beatifically. “Father Whelan seemed to stagger for a time under the weight of Anthony’s sacrifice. It took me time to make him see. After all, how else could Anthony make confession? He could not speak. He could not write. Only in the presence of the dying could he find his tongue. Father Whelan saved us both in Saint Loretta’s. He told us of God’s love and set us on the right path. I made my sacrifice and removed temptation with one swift slice of the knife. Anthony was the most lost of God’s lambs, but Father Whelan set us on the road to righteousness.”
“The baby,” says Claudio, eyes wide.
“Father Whelan was willing to make a sacrifice to continue his good works far from home. Two nuns from Ireland carried the child overseas. He spent time in their care in Tuam. Soon afterward Father Whelan was moved to a neighboring parish. It surprised me when word reached me that the child had been adopted by a gypsy family, but Father Whelan said they were good people. He always remained close by the child. He witnessed the child become a man and a good man, too. He never denied me comfort or friendship. He would return home often with photographs and news of how the boy called Brishen was maturing. I felt almost as a father toward him, despite the distance.”
“Brishen,” says Claudio, and sniffs back blood. “The one who came back to life . . .”
“Last year, I discovered I was dying. I knew the time had come to make my peace. I have done things that I am not proud of. I have helped men of questionable virtue to conceal their funds, and not as much of it as I had promised myself has gone to do God’s work. I made my own self comfortable when better men lay dead. And I was under instruction to do even more for new associates of Paulie Pugliesca. For much of my life I have been sacristan of Saint Colman’s. I have been responsible for disposal of the water in which we wash the plates and chalices onto which the body and blood of Christ are poured. I have felt God’s love and seen His miracles. Despite my sacrifices I know I have strayed from His path and though Father Whelan has absolved me of all future sin, I know in my heart that I can only truly atone through pain.”
Moving slowly, as if the act pains him, Molony strips himself of his vestments. He stands naked before Claudio. Upon his chest is a mass of scarred flesh, concentric circles of ridged purple scar tissue.
“There are sinners within me,” he says, pointing at the scars. “Those who have died unforgiven. I am their intercessor. I who am absolved. I take their mortal remains and make them one with me so through my sacrifice they, too, may be absolved. And through my penitence, I am moved closer to God. I have helped so many sinners through the gates of heaven.”
“You’re insane,” says Claudio.
“In the secret places in my home you will find many wonders. Human remains. Blessed ground. There is a splendid golden tree containing the names of all those touched by Anthony’s sacrifice, from those he placed beneath the ground on which we stand to those who have found heaven through my own intercession. You say I am insane. No. I was found to be a good and clever man. My sin was to doubt the Lord. My sin was to indulge my earthly pleasures and close the gates of heaven to myself. But through Father Whelan’s counsel I found a way to become a good man, if not a whole one. Yes, my friend . . . I have made a room of wonders. That room contains the earth onto which I drain the holy water of Saint Colman’s. I nourish it with the ashes of the unforgiven—ashes which it has been my privilege to acquire and use for a higher purpose. Through my perfect blood, I help them know their way to heaven. I ask, now, for forgiveness once more.”
Swiftly, his skin rippling obscenely, Molony crosses to Claudio. From the case containing the tape recorder he retrieves a knife and gun.
“These are yours, yes? You cut off Brishen’s nose the way I cut free his caul. You used this gun to put a bullet in his head.”
“It was Luca Savoca,” says Claudio urgently. “He wanted to show off. Enjoyed the blood and the cries. I ended the Irishman’s suffering. I buried him. Left Luca on the tree and tended to the Irishman. I thought he was dead. I didn’t know anything other than the fact that New York wanted them dead. Paulie is New York and I swear, Paulie would kill Christ himself.”
Molony stands in front of him. He cocks his head, waiting for more.
“The Irishmen were the targets,” says Claudio, and his eyes seem to darken. “I didn’t know why, I just got the call. I had to get upstate and stop these two men. Paulie was the one who ordered the hit and I know how the twisted bastard’s mind works. He saw a chance to whack Luca without Nicky turning sour. Luca came down from the hills and set off toward the city. I was heading upstate, not far behind the Irish boys. I told Luca how to run the job. A diversion off the interstate and a quiet road in the forest. He did as he was told. Couple of traffic signs and a blue light and next thing he’s got them down Silver Spur Road and he’s got his gun on them both and he’s waiting for me. But he’s a sick fuck. By the time I got there he’d been drinking and getting himself high. He was slapping them around. And there was some fucking Russian in the trunk. It got out of control. Next thing bullets were flying. I had to take control. Luca said he wanted to send a message that he was still a player, still a Savoca. He cut Brishen’s nose off, not me. And then the Russian ran. So did Helden. Luca went after them. Helden fell and I finished him as gently as I could. Chebworz—the Chechen—he came back. Got me from my blind side. Skewered Luca. It was chaos and I was all blood and blindness. I tidied up best I could and got the hell out of there. New York and the Chechens have been asking questions ever since.” Claudio gives a tight smile. “It was nothing to do with turf, or territory, or war. I was sent to kill the men who were a threat to you and Pugliesca. They were going to learn the truth . . .”
“Brishen,” says Molony, fascinated. “You left him for dead. And yet he rose again.”
“I thought he was dead. He should be dead.”
“He was not your sin,” says Molony thoughtfully. “He was mine. I prayed to see him again. I prayed to be allowed to gaze into eyes that had first gazed upon me. And when I fell ill, my prayers were answered. Father Whelan told me that despite his attempts to persuade him not to, Brishen was coming to New York. He told me the importance of not telling him of his origins. But as a kindness to me he did what he could to facilitate the trip. When I saw him he was all I had hoped. He was kind, strong, and warm. I even gave him this pouch, which has been my constant companion.”
Molony strokes the pouch and presses it to his heart. “He came to my home later that night. There had been trouble. Violence. He even struck one of his friends in my living room. There was blood upon his hand and upon his face. Even then, I saw the repentance in him. He left and went to recover his friend. But I was in such pain. I took my medication and I drank the wine and thanked the Lord for His mercy in allowing Brishen to enter my life once more. And then he came back.”
Molony looks at his naked feet. He smiles at his plump, pink toes.
“May God forgive me but he found my secrets. Played Tony’s confessions. And through fear and regret and weakness I told him all. I told him he was a living miracle. He crumpled under the weight of it. And then the devil whispered in his ear and he hurt me. He beat me and demanded to know the truth. About his mother’s name. About his father. About where this had all taken place. In my weakness I told him all. Told them of his father. I saw Sal in him. Saw the girl, too—the girl Salvatore took the way that other men would take a cookie from a jar. Father Whelan, in his weakness, explained all. He told me of the way Salvatore looked at Alejandra. Perhaps Tony saw in her an even greater sacrifice. Perhaps that was why he chose her to hear his confession and allow him some form of absolution. God forgives, but in his absence, there is only Father Whelan. Ask for redemption and it shall be yours. And God helps those who help themselves. They left me bleeding and I was alone with my regrets and my sins. They had to be stopped. I could not expect Brishen to understand the nature of Anthony’s sacrifice.”
“You called Pugliesca,” mutters Claudio. “They sent me.”
“And now you are here to complete the circle.”
Molony cuts through the bonds that hold Claudio’s wrists. He sags.
“I have made my confession,” says Molony, nodding at the tape recorder. “I am ready.”
He picks up the gun and hands it to Claudio.
“Please,” he says. “Suicide is a sin. I need your help.”
Uncertainly, Claudio takes the gun. His hand wavers. He seems at first to be trying to grab the air next to the weapon.
Molony steps back. He stretches his arms wide. Claudio gulps drowsily and wipes the blood from his chin with the back of his hand.
“I killed him too,” says Claudio slowly, standing up. “Tony.”
“The explosion, I know.”
“He was still alive afterward. Tried to cut his arm off with a cleaver. Didn’t say a word.”
“He died . . .”
“I know. Mine was the last face he saw. And the next one was never going to be Saint Peter’s. He was going straight to hell.”
“No,” says Molony, shaking his head. “He made his confession. He met God with a clear conscience.”
“And so will you, yes?”
Molony smiles, wide and happy. “Please.”
Claudio raises the gun. Molony raises his eyes skyward.
The door comes off its hinges as McAvoy throws himself against the wood. A huge figure in a dirty black coat, he slithers onto the grimy floor in a shower of splinters. Without a word, Claudio turns. Fires. The bullet thumps into the smaller, red-haired man who stands in the open doorway.
Molony lets out a screech of frustration and grabs for the knife.
On the floor, clutching his arm, McAvoy tries to get to his feet. He slips on the snow that billows in through the open doorway. Behind him, he hears Valentine crying out in pain. Red pours from the wound in his shoulder like spilled Communion wine.
McAvoy scans the room. Sees Molony, naked and horrifically scarred. Swivels his gaze to the other man. Old. Tanned. Blood dripping from a head wound and a gun in his hand.
McAvoy pushes himself upright as Claudio pulls the trigger. The bullet whistles under his arm and through the tails of his coat. McAvoy hurls himself sideways as Molony slashes at him with the knife. McAvoy lashes out with a boot, and something snaps in the Penitent’s knee. He howls and falls back.
Claudio catches the stumbling Molony by the wrist. He spins him, takes the hand that holds the knife, and turns it back upon Molony.
Close enough to kiss, close enough to see each other’s souls, Claudio forces Molony’s hand back and into him. The blade enters the Penitent’s heart in slow increments. His soul does not leave his body until the hilt touches skin.
In his dying moments, Molony sees his own hand holding the blade. He knows himself a sinner. His last vision is of Claudio, face emotionless. His last thought is the absolute certainty of his damnation.
Claudio lets the body drop to the floor and turns to where McAvoy lies in a carpet of leaves and snow.
“Amen,” says Claudio, and he slips to the floor.