Chapter Two

Hastings Mills, NY, forty years ago

Father Doyle Bannon descended the steps of Holy Cross Church and paused to take a deep breath of the brisk November air. It brought with it the smells of winter in upstate New York: dry earth, decaying leaves, and the metallic hardness of frigid water from the Alleghany River, which formed the south boundary of Hastings Mills and the back border of the St. Alphonse University campus.

His stomach growled and he made a mental note to go into town for a quick shopping trip after his walk. His cupboards were almost empty, and while he took most of his meals at the campus friary’s private cafeteria, he liked to keep some sweet snacks around for when cravings hit.

The late afternoon sun glistened off church spires and roof shingles still moist from the morning’s rain. A smattering of cars drove past, people heading home from work or out to early-bird dinners.

“Buon pomeriggio, Padre.” Pasquale Fromo, a neighbor and parishioner, waved as he passed by on the sidewalk. He still wore his blue coverall from his job as head janitor at Hastings Mills Elementary. Although technically Holy Cross was part of the St. Alphonse campus, it primarily served the local community, while the newer, smaller St. Alphonse Church, in the middle of campus, served the students.

“Best o’ the day to you, Pasquale.” Bannon smiled back. “Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?”

“Sure is, Padre. Gotta enjoy them while we can.” He nodded and continued on his way.

Bannon watched him go, thinking that sometimes the most profound statements came from the mouths of ordinary people. Enjoy them while we can. That didn’t just apply to days; it applied to everything in life. People, food, being one with God. He made a mental note to include that in his next sermon.

A tickling sensation on his wrist caused him to look down. He gasped as an enormous insect crawled out from his jacket sleeve and across the back of his hand. With a cry he shook his arm, dislodging the bug, which fell to the ground and scurried toward the church steps. His disgust faded when he saw it wasn’t a cockroach but just a large beetle, shiny black and easily the size of the rectangular pink erasers the kindergarten classes used. He tried to smash it with his foot but it dodged away and disappeared into a crack in the cement. Despite the fact that he didn’t have a fear of insects, the sight of it turned his stomach. He hated roaches with a passion, and made sure to have the church and the small rectory behind it sprayed every three months. The damned beetle looked too much like a roach for his taste, and if beetles could live on the grounds, so could roaches.

And how did it end up in my jacket?

That thought made him pause. It was November. Shouldn’t bugs be hibernating or whatever they did in the winter? And Jesus Almighty, it was huge!

All of a sudden, he wanted nothing more than to strip his clothes off and make sure no other creatures hid inside them. Or his closet. His afternoon walk forgotten, Bannon headed back to the rectory to clean his whole room and then call the exterminator company to arrange a special visit.

There’d be no vermin in the church under his watch.

“Well, that should do it, Father.” The exterminator, a skinny, balding man named Ray who referred to himself as a ‘pest control technician’, slammed the doors of his white van – with the obligatory dead roach painted on the side – and wiped his hands on his blue uniform shirt. “I put down dust along every wall and in every corner, and set bait traps besides.”

“Thank you.” Bannon signed the itemized form and handed it back. The bill would be sent to the archdiocese.

“Gotta say, though, I didn’t see any signs of bugs, ’cept for a few spiders down in the basement. The quarterly treatments are doing their work. You sure that beetle you saw didn’t get on you outside, like off the sidewalk?”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t want to be takin’ no chances.” Just thinking about the creature from Monday made him want to shower again.

“Well, cleanliness is next to godliness. At least that’s what my ma always said.” Ray slipped his pen into his pocket and got into the truck. As he drove away, Bannon found himself mouthing the words, “Feck off, arsehole,” to the departing vehicle.

Shaking his head at the unexpected eruption of what his own mother always called his Irish temper, he said a quick Hail Mary for his transgression and returned to his office, where he’d been struggling all day with his sermon for the Sunday Mass. Usually they came right to him, the words flowing from brain to pen as if the Lord himself spoke through him. He’d always had the gift of the gab, ever since his days in seminary school. But for the past four days he’d been afflicted with a writer’s block the likes of which he’d never experienced. Instead of being unable to find the right words, his mind kept wandering down strange roads.

Strange and dark.

Unwholesome images kept creeping into his thoughts, visions of sexual perversion and physical violence. At the age of fifty-two, Bannon was no stranger to the sins of the flesh – any priest worth his weight in sacramental wine would admit, at least in private, that lustful urges came as part of the human condition. He’d confessed to his fair share plenty of times over the years. But having an urge and acting on it were two different things. A cold shower, a sleeping pill, and a few passages of scripture in bed usually kept the demon of self-satisfaction at bay. It had never concerned him, because his dreams and fantasies had always involved adult men and women doing what came naturally.

Not young boys.

His hand went down to the lowest drawer of his desk. His fingers brushed against the metal handle and then pulled away. Denied its recently acquired prize, the temptation roared inside him like a caged animal, throwing its invisible body back and forth until Bannon’s arms shook and sweat rolled down his face.

Not now, he told the beast. Not during the day, when someone might come in. Later. When we’re alone.

He returned to his sermon. The words blurred on the page and imaginary movies of naked, writhing flesh filled his head. Bannon sat back and rubbed his eyes. When he looked down at the paper again, the words he’d just written stood out from everything else on the page.

If the Lord didn’t want us to have sex with little boys, then why are they so beautiful? The pleasures of the flesh are not to be ignored, for surely God gave us the ability to feel that pleasure. There is a reason angels and cherubs flock together in Heaven. This is God showing us that men and children are meant to share His love.

“Blasphemy,” Bannon whispered. What if he’d read that aloud during Mass? His blood pounded in his temples and heat spread through his body. His clothes rubbed against skin that had grown so sensitive he could feel every hair springing to attention. His legs rubbed together, delivering waves of pleasure that caused him to moan.

This time, his hand didn’t hesitate. It opened the drawer and removed the magazines hidden in the folder labeled Liturgical Research. The ones he’d bought that morning, at a tiny store over the border in Pennsylvania, where no one knew him. Lurid images on the covers made his heart beat faster. Naked boys on the laps of smiling men. Teenagers and adults nude in the forest, holding hands.

He opened the first one and undid his pants. This was for the best, he told himself. Eliminate the urge and he’d be able to concentrate on holy matters again. And later he’d go across town to St. Anthony’s and confess his weakness.

He’d just begun stroking himself when the door opened and the new altar boy, Bobby Lockhart, walked in.

“Father Doyle, I— Oh!” The boy’s face turned red and his eyes went wide.

Bannon leaped up from his chair, which only exposed his shame even further.

Why shame? There’s no shame in sharing God’s love. The voice in his head was low and confident. That’s your job, isn’t it? To spread the teachings of God. And doesn’t he teach us to love one another?

Yes. Yes, he does. Bannon smiled at the boy, who still stood frozen, his eyes locked on the staff sprouting from its nest of red hair.

“Shut the door, Bobby. I’ve got a special lesson for you today.”

Father Doyle Bannon stood at the front window of his office and stared at the crowd gathering in front of the church. He knew why they’d come. Knew it before he even saw the police car parked there.

I really fecked things up.

He should have expected the Lockhart boy wouldn’t keep his promise of silence. Who had he told? His father? His mother? It didn’t matter. Someone had believed him, had gone to the police. And now there’d be hell to pay for his transgressions.

I’m soiled. Dirty. Unclean to the very depths of my soul. For the first time, he understood his own hypocrisy. How could a man who took pleasure in the sins of the flesh, right in the house of God, carry Jesus’s word to the people?

As he unlocked the window, he found himself wondering why God allowed such things to happen under his own roof. He’d never questioned the Lord’s motives before, and certainly never objected to the advances of the parish priests when he’d been an altar boy, or a novitiate.

Still, he’d always known they were wrong, and he’d made sure to do his penance after. But this….

I must atone.

A firm knocking on the door turned him away from the view of the street.

“Father Doyle? Open the door, please. It’s Officer Rose.”

Bannon sighed. Alex Rose. Of course. A parishioner of Holy Cross, his family had deep roots in the community, from long before Bannon took over as pastor. They’d shared more than a few whiskeys on cold winter nights, both in the rectory and down the street at the Hickory Tavern, discussing everything from the church to politics to movies. He considered the officer a friend.

And now he’ll be the one to put me away.

How can I possibly explain to him what happened, when I can’t even explain it to myself?

“It’s open,” Bannon said. A second later, Rose entered, wearing his blue uniform beneath a rumpled overcoat. His graying hair stuck out at angles, as if he’d been running his hands through it. A mixture of regret and anger showed in his eyes, but when he spoke, his voice was calm.

“We got a situation, Father. You’re gonna have to come to the station.”

“I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

Rose stared at him and said nothing, the silence dragging on until it became uncomfortable. Bannon wished he’d say something. Anything. An accusation, or perhaps an apology of his own for what he had to do. Even an angry condemnation for his act of perversion.

“You must respect those in authority, Doyle.”

Bannon jumped at the words. That voice! It couldn’t be…. It was his old parish priest, Father Brendan Donahue. The man who’d introduced a young Doyle Bannon to the dark pleasures of sex back in Dublin more than forty years ago.

Bannon opened his mouth, but no words came out. Rose continued speaking in the long-dead priest’s voice. “Take off yer trou, boy. Let Father Brendan show you how to be a man.”

Memories came flooding back. Bending over the chair. The sharp pain as something entered him. Donahue’s animal grunting, in time to the sound of flesh slapping against flesh.

“A good shepherd tends to his flock.”

“The spirit of God flows through us all.”

“Jesus gave himself up for us.”

Every Friday, in Donahue’s chambers. He’d teach the Bible and more.

“You know what you have to do.”

“What?” Bannon opened his eyes. Rose still stood several feet away, his mouth closed, his features twisted in a manic grin. Had he even spoken? Was I hearing things?

The officer pointed at the window. It took Bannon a moment to understand. Then everything became clear.

It wasn’t his old friend speaking to him. It was God the Almighty. Using Rose as a tool, a human burning bush. Like he’d done with Samuel, Ezekiel, and Moses, the Lord had descended to personally deliver a message to a mortal man.

And that man is me.

The time had come for him to pay the price for his sins.

A sense of peace came over him, and he knew the weight of guilt had been lifted from his soul. Rose continued to stare, his arm still extended. A sign that couldn’t be ignored.

“Forgive me, Lord,” Bannon whispered, “I was weak in the face of temptation.” He went to the window. When he opened it, a pigeon leaped from the ledge, startled by the movement. The sounds of the neighborhood came to him from twenty feet down, the twittering of birds and squirrels, music from a nearby house, the muted growl of someone blowing leaves. A delicious odor wafted in, the mouth-watering scent of frying hamburgers from the Barton Hotel a block away.

He loved the town, and he’d tried to do right by it, despite his personal failings. Now he’d never see it again. Never get to say goodbye to his family. He turned back to look at his old friend as a new thought came to him. If he committed suicide, what would happen to his soul?

“Is there no other way?”

Rose reached out and approached him, moving swiftly across the office. Bannon’s heart soared and wonder filled him when he saw his friend’s feet weren’t touching the ground.

A miracle! I’ve been forgiven. Truly this is a wondrous day and the Lord has—

The officer’s hands struck him in the chest and then he was falling over the ledge, sailing through the air. As he plummeted, he saw another face superimposed over Rose’s.

A twisted, evil visage with yellow eyes and a laughing mouth.

He had time for one last thought – the Father of Lies has deceived me! – and then Bannon’s back and ribs shattered as he landed on the iron railing of the church stairs.

Dead on impact, he never saw the large, iridescent-black beetle that launched itself from the window ledge and flew away.

Boston, MA, forty years ago

Father Leo Bonaventura hung up the phone and tugged his sweater tighter around his shoulders in an attempt to ward off a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the November weather or the poor insulation in his office.

“You’ve been transferred, Leo. A big opportunity. Your own parish plus a teaching position at a university. This is just what you’ve been asking for.”

Yes, it was. But when he’d heard the name of the school from the archbishop, he’d gone cold and momentarily lost the ability to speak.

St. Alphonse.

Memories of the beautiful upstate town of Hastings Mills and the terrifying events that had led him there that summer came flooding back. Fifteen years had passed and he still had nightmares.

And the scar on his arm to remind him it all really happened.

He remembered the drive to the campus on the morning he’d learned the impossible insects had disappeared. How he’d thought he’d love to settle down in a place like that.

“Be careful what you ask for,” his mother had been fond of saying.

Now he understood the truth of that old adage.

Praying he hadn’t made the worst decision of his life by accepting the position, he returned to the sermon he’d been writing and flipped over a new page in his notebook.

The subject of his talk would now be decidedly different.