Paranoia (Michael Bennett #17)

CHAPTER 31

KEVIN DOYLE SAT in the third row of pews at the Church of St. Agnes on East 43rd Street in Manhattan. He preferred the smaller parish church to the huge St. Patrick’s Cathedral over by Rockefeller Center, but his father had appreciated the architecture and would tell him wonderful stories of how Irish workers helped build some of the greatest structures in New York, such as the cathedral. Doyle wasn’t sure if his father had known what he was talking about, but Doyle certainly had liked the stories. His father’s pride in the accomplishments of the Irish and his interest in community service were some of the reasons Doyle had gone into the Army in the first place. He didn’t like to think how far he had drifted from his original ideals.

He’d been coming to St. Agnes on and off for over a decade. That’s why he recognized a couple of the priests as they walked past and nodded a greeting.

One stopped and said, “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been traveling. I hope to come to mass on Sunday.”

The priest patted him on the shoulder. As he walked away, the priest said, “I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

There was something about the priest’s manner that made Doyle smile. Those were the kinds of interactions he’d had growing up. Comfortable and friendly.

Doyle couldn’t run away from the fact that he had some serious questions about his life. He regretted taking on a job that required him to kill retired cops. To him it was as distasteful as killing retired veterans. Anyone who had given so much for their country shouldn’t be repaid with murder. And Doyle was starting to doubt whether he was the one who should be doing it.

He waited until there was an opening at the confessional. He knew there were ways to schedule appointments, and Doyle had heard some churches even allowed confession via Zoom. He figured he was traditional enough to actually come to a church and speak to a living, breathing priest—but at a booth with a privacy grill, not face-to-face as many preferred nowadays.

He slipped into the confessional. When the priest slid back the old-fashioned wooden panel so they could speak through the ornate grill, Doyle said, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have not treated people correctly and I regret it.”

It was an older priest with a deep and comforting voice. “Would you like to be more specific, my son?”

Doyle simply said, “No, no, I would not.”

“I usually get some specifics.”

“And I usually don’t talk to people. So let’s meet halfway.”

The priest was a little more tentative. “Did you hurt someone?”

“You could say that from one perspective.”

“What about from another perspective?”

“I’m helping someone else.”

The priest was clearly frustrated but after a brief further interaction gave Doyle a penance far too light for his sins.

Doyle didn’t feel any better as he walked away from the confessional toward the front door. His penance was nothing compared to his horrendous actions recently. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his leather wallet with FORT brAGG inscribed in black. He pulled out all of his cash, about three hundred bucks, and stuffed it into the donation box next to the exit.