Read Online ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) by Susan A Fleet - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan A Fleet
Ads: Link
to remain chaste. I was just going to my room to write up my notes.”
The Monsignor’s stern expression softened. “All right, Father Tim. But don’t you dare miss your appointment with Ida Thierry tomorrow.”
“ Mrs. Thierry’s a dear sweet lady. I’ll see her first thing tomorrow.”
“ What happened to your hand?” said Father Cronin, fixing him with an icy stare.
His heart broke into a gallop. He’d hidden the cuts on his knuckles with Band-Aids, but Father Cronin missed nothing.
“ A silly accident. I was in a rush and shut my hand in the car door.”
“ Haste makes waste,” Father Cronin said with a nasty smile.
Seething with anger, he stalked down the hall to his room, went inside and locked the door. Damn Father Cronin to hell, reminding him of last night’s disaster. On his car radio this morning, he’d heard a woman announce a prayer vigil for Patti Cole. But Patti didn’t deserve prayers. Patti had ripped his skin with her nails. Patti deserved to die.
Patti defeated you , said the voice in his mind.
He took a half-eaten Mr. Goodbar out of his desk drawer, bit off a chunk and gazed into the full length mirror mounted on the back of his door. Mud-brown eyes stared back at him, dark and accusing: Father’s eyes, always judgmental and critical. Mother was different, cuddling him as she read to him at bedtime, a sweet closeness he hadn’t experienced since. And then Mother was gone, forever. He finished the Mr. Goodbar and licked chocolate from his fingers. Love shouldn’t be like that. Love should last longer than a candy bar. After Mother died, he had learned not to expect love from anyone, not from Father, and certainly not from Nanny.
He studied his face in the mirror, an ordinary face, the type that didn’t draw a second glance. As a child he’d hidden behind it, blending in like a field mouse, hiding from the spoiled-brat classmates who ridiculed him, never speaking or calling attention to himself.
Now he had no need to stand out. His deeds spoke for him.
But Dawn and Patti had defeated him. That was unacceptable. Moreover, the urge was back, stronger than ever, tormenting him.
He unlocked his cherry-wood armoire: six feet tall, three feet wide, solid cherry-wood doors and a heavy-duty lock. Inside were his treasures: manila folders with articles about him, and videotapes with innocuous labels, Cooking with Emeril and Health Line, that contained news about his Absolutions, taped on the combination TV-VCR on his bedside table, not that anyone would ever see them. Or the tongues in the jars on the top shelf.
Two inches tall and three inches in diameter, the glass jars had once contained marinated artichoke hearts. Now they held the tongues, preserved in alcohol, reminders of his prior sins, and his mea culpa for them.
Sending a message to every slut out there: Be chaste or be punished.
He took down jar number three and caressed the glass, picturing Lynette’s fearful expression as she lay naked before him in her bed.
Erotic images flooded his mind, fueling the fire in his groin.
_____
Tuesday 12:10 P.M.
Having learned nothing significant from Officer Charlie Malone the previous night, Frank skipped lunch and went to see Father Daily instead. St. Elizabeth’s Church was a massive stone structure with a fifty-foot bell tower and gorgeous stained-glass windows, but the paint on the trim was peeling, and the school across the street appeared to be vacant: no kiddy-art in the windows, weeds poking out of cracks in the blacktop. A sign with an arrow pointed him to the rectory, a two-story cottage with azalea bushes bracketing the front steps. A woman with chiseled features and warm brown eyes opened the door, wearing an apron over a paisley-print dress.
He flashed his ID. “Detective Frank Renzi. Is Father Daily in?”
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Yes, he is. Come in, Detective Renzi.” She turned and called up a staircase, “Father Daily, someone to see
The Monsignor’s stern expression softened. “All right, Father Tim. But don’t you dare miss your appointment with Ida Thierry tomorrow.”
“ Mrs. Thierry’s a dear sweet lady. I’ll see her first thing tomorrow.”
“ What happened to your hand?” said Father Cronin, fixing him with an icy stare.
His heart broke into a gallop. He’d hidden the cuts on his knuckles with Band-Aids, but Father Cronin missed nothing.
“ A silly accident. I was in a rush and shut my hand in the car door.”
“ Haste makes waste,” Father Cronin said with a nasty smile.
Seething with anger, he stalked down the hall to his room, went inside and locked the door. Damn Father Cronin to hell, reminding him of last night’s disaster. On his car radio this morning, he’d heard a woman announce a prayer vigil for Patti Cole. But Patti didn’t deserve prayers. Patti had ripped his skin with her nails. Patti deserved to die.
Patti defeated you , said the voice in his mind.
He took a half-eaten Mr. Goodbar out of his desk drawer, bit off a chunk and gazed into the full length mirror mounted on the back of his door. Mud-brown eyes stared back at him, dark and accusing: Father’s eyes, always judgmental and critical. Mother was different, cuddling him as she read to him at bedtime, a sweet closeness he hadn’t experienced since. And then Mother was gone, forever. He finished the Mr. Goodbar and licked chocolate from his fingers. Love shouldn’t be like that. Love should last longer than a candy bar. After Mother died, he had learned not to expect love from anyone, not from Father, and certainly not from Nanny.
He studied his face in the mirror, an ordinary face, the type that didn’t draw a second glance. As a child he’d hidden behind it, blending in like a field mouse, hiding from the spoiled-brat classmates who ridiculed him, never speaking or calling attention to himself.
Now he had no need to stand out. His deeds spoke for him.
But Dawn and Patti had defeated him. That was unacceptable. Moreover, the urge was back, stronger than ever, tormenting him.
He unlocked his cherry-wood armoire: six feet tall, three feet wide, solid cherry-wood doors and a heavy-duty lock. Inside were his treasures: manila folders with articles about him, and videotapes with innocuous labels, Cooking with Emeril and Health Line, that contained news about his Absolutions, taped on the combination TV-VCR on his bedside table, not that anyone would ever see them. Or the tongues in the jars on the top shelf.
Two inches tall and three inches in diameter, the glass jars had once contained marinated artichoke hearts. Now they held the tongues, preserved in alcohol, reminders of his prior sins, and his mea culpa for them.
Sending a message to every slut out there: Be chaste or be punished.
He took down jar number three and caressed the glass, picturing Lynette’s fearful expression as she lay naked before him in her bed.
Erotic images flooded his mind, fueling the fire in his groin.
_____
Tuesday 12:10 P.M.
Having learned nothing significant from Officer Charlie Malone the previous night, Frank skipped lunch and went to see Father Daily instead. St. Elizabeth’s Church was a massive stone structure with a fifty-foot bell tower and gorgeous stained-glass windows, but the paint on the trim was peeling, and the school across the street appeared to be vacant: no kiddy-art in the windows, weeds poking out of cracks in the blacktop. A sign with an arrow pointed him to the rectory, a two-story cottage with azalea bushes bracketing the front steps. A woman with chiseled features and warm brown eyes opened the door, wearing an apron over a paisley-print dress.
He flashed his ID. “Detective Frank Renzi. Is Father Daily in?”
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Yes, he is. Come in, Detective Renzi.” She turned and called up a staircase, “Father Daily, someone to see
Similar Books
