Chapter Fourteen
Rule Caldwell used his key to enter the church rectory.
He set his backpack on the table in the middle of the entry hall floor, then headed to the kitchen, lured by the smell of onions and garlic.
The back of a slender figure with bright blue hair greeted him.
Definitely not Tera, Father Wilkins’s regular cook.
She was a robust woman, who enjoyed her food as much as the priest, Rule, and whatever guests might break bread there.
Rule cleared his throat, capturing the girl’s attention because she turned.
Her eyes were as bright blue as her hair, like the sky on a cloudless day.
Dark blonde brows hinted at her natural hair color.
A heart-shaped face aided her rounded cheeks and bow shaped lips.
She was pretty, but not stunning like his sister and mother.
Whores !
The voice rose so loud in Rule’s head, it made the room spin.
“You must be Rule.”
She knows you.
How? I don’t know her.
She knows you.
Did you send her?
No!
Rule clapped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. Is she real?
Yes!
“Ahhh, Rule. I see you’ve met Freya.”
Father Wilkins’s voice floated from behind Rule, and he jumped, whirling around. Nowadays, Rule stood taller than the old priest, whose bald spot grew larger with each passing year. The hair left had turned white while his waist expanded and his glasses thickened.
Father Wilkins studied him, then grabbed his elbow and led him out of the kitchen. He released him in the hallway and walked away.
Rule drew in deep breaths, wondering if he carved away his ears, would he still hear the voices. At first, they were fun and kept him company. Now, they wore him out. He wanted them to go away.
Jangling keys captured his attention. Father Wilkins strolled past Rule, heading toward the side door.
As usual, Rule didn’t hesitate to follow.
He spent a lot of time here, so the elaborate furnishings barely registered.
Somewhere along the way, the rectory was upgraded and doubled in size.
Rumor was Mom and Dad funded the project.
The short walk from the rectory to the church calmed Rule.
The bracing air cleared his upheaval, and his feral, exposed feeling fled.
Father Wilkins didn’t speak until he guided Rule to the hallway where the confessional box sat.
Made of teakwood and seemingly stolen from another era, two fleurs-de-lis on the twin frosted glass doors added mystery to the elaborate scrollwork.
Father Wilkins glanced at a closed door across the way from the confessional box.
There were two confessionals. Rule tried the one where he went into that room and sat in a wingback chair with a little table separating the other chair.
The room put him face-to-face with the priest. Rule couldn’t unscramble his thoughts at the close proximity.
He shook his head and nodded at the confessional box.
“I won the auction for a new painting,” Father Wilkins coaxed. “It’s in the confessional room. I would love your opinion on it.”
“No.” The word brooked no argument. As much as he loved art, he needed the pretense of anonymity. After his run-ins with Rebel, Rule barely concentrated on anything else. His voices had been overwhelmingly loud, accusing him of ignoring what a Jezebel she was. He’d seen her dead at his feet.
“Do you know what time Mrs. Caldwell is picking you up today?”
Rule shrugged. At least three times a week, he visited Father Wilkins. Either Mom or one of his aunts dropped him off, although Mom always picked him up. Tonight was the family get-together so he wouldn’t have long to spend with the priest.
Goddamn her.
Because she couldn’t keep her legs closed, she’d deserted her duties to Rule’s religious education when she almost died.
“I can see you’re more agitated than usual.” Father Wilkins nodded to the box. “Let’s get started.”
Sometimes, how much Father Wilkins knew about Rule annoyed him, when he didn’t even know the priest’s full name.
He saw documents signed ‘M. Wilkins’, yet despite how much he asked what the ‘M’ stood for, it remained a mystery.
Rule even asked his mother once and she said she didn’t know.
She assumed it was for Michael or Matthew but couldn’t be sure.
The priest settled himself on one side, while Rule did the same on the other and closed himself in. A moment of claustrophobia nauseated him, but he shoved it aside. The priest slid open the slot as Rule knelt and made the sign of the cross.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy. Amen.”
“Amen,” Rule mumbled. Three months after his thirteenth birthday, he’d had his confirmation. Mass brought him peace. Until Mom collapsed, and then nothing worked. Not until he’d begun sacrificing the forest animals and the voices befriended him.
“I’m waiting, Rule,” Father Wilkins said sternly.
Rule didn’t hesitate. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.” He fell silent, not knowing where to begin.
“How are your friends?”
The voices.
Tears rushed to Rule’s eyes. “They want to commit me.”
“Your friends?”
“No! Mom and Dad.”
Megan wants to commit you .
They were right! “ Mom ,” Rule spat, torn between anger and despair, love and hate. “If she didn’t want me sent away, Dad wouldn’t have thought of it.”
“You’re underestimating your father. I’m quite certain Outlaw sees your distress.”
“He can’t see anything because of her.”
“I assume one of the sins you intend to confess is hate. Another is dishonoring your mother? ”
“How can I dishonor a slut? I saw her sucking Dad’s cock.”
Narrowed eyes peered through the slot. “You spied on a private moment between your parents, young man. What happens in the sanctity of their holy bonds is between them.”
“You allude that I’ve broken a commandment by my dishonor, but she’s broken one, too. There’s more to it. Parents shouldn’t provoke their children to anger.”
“Please, tell me, when Rule’s Bible will debut? I’m sure there won’t only be an amalgamation of Exodus and Ephesians. What about Chronicles and Corinthians? Psalms and Acts? Lamentations and Revelation?”
“That isn’t funny!”
“Do you hear me laughing?”
“You find humor in too much.”
“And you find humor in nothing. One is as bad as the other. Now, enough . What were they telling you when you met Freya?”
“They told me that she knows me. She knows my name. When I’ve never met her.”
Silence, and then: “Were they instructing you to hurt her?”
The belligerent tone shocked Rule.
“Answer me this instant.”
“No, Father Wilkins. But it was a warning.”
“Did Curly, Larry, and Moe even consider that she knew you because I told her about you?”
Rule stiffened. “The Three Stooges do not speak to me. It is God, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
“Quite unlikely.” The priest’s tone had gentled. “She is cooking Boeuf Bourguignon . She’s finally figured out what she wants to do with her life and is studying to become a chef.”
Father Wilkins’s unusual pride almost sounded paternal. More so than when Rule told him how he’d conquer a dark thought or withhold from giving in to a violent idea.
“She will only be here today and tomorrow.”
“H-how do you know her?”
He was silent for a moment before he cleared his throat. “Her mother and I are dear friends.”
That made sense.
“Let’s begin again. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy. Amen.”
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession. These are my sins. Hatred. I hate Rebel and I sometimes hate Mom. Lust.” He wouldn’t go into specifics.
“Envy. I envy how well-liked Rebel is. Everyone just thinks I’m a freak.
Pride. I have an excessive amount. My knowledge of God surpasses everyone I know.
Except you,” he hastily added. “Wrath. I have excessive anger toward Mom and Rebel. Greed. I despise Mom’s power and wealth but wouldn’t give it up for anything. ”
“No sloth or gluttony? You’d hit the jackpot in your smorgasbord of deadly sins.”
“No!”
The priest huffed. “If you wish to become a priest, my son, you must walk away from the wealth.”
He’s a hypocrite . He lives in the lap of luxury.
“Hypocrite,” Rule spat. “You seem excessively wealthy. More so than many of your parishioners.”
“I don’t answer to you,” the priest retorted. “By the by, we aren’t here to discuss my sins.”
The faint scent of incense trailed to Rule.
The confession box sat in a hallway on the right side of the sanctuary.
Evening mass would begin in less than an hour.
Rule served as altar boy at least two days a week.
Even if he was mentally up to the task today, which he wasn’t because the voices had tormented him all day, he had to get to that stupid get-together.
However, Father Wilkins instinctively knew when he couldn’t do it, so Rule could never pretend otherwise.
“Today, Rule,” the priest ordered, annoyed.
“I want to kill Rebel.” The words fell from him in a broken whisper.
A chorus of alleluias and claps rose in his head.
You will kill her. She must die.
Father Wilkins remained silent.
“Don’t be angry with me.”
“Do you deserve such holy consideration?” Father Wilkins snapped. “You are well aware of the seal of confession.”
He was. It was why Rule never confessed to his darkest thoughts anywhere else.
“I cannot repeat what I am told even if it means my death. Which it will be if you hurt your sister and Outlaw finds out I was aware of your plans!” Each word increased in volume until the priest’s voice rose in a furious roar.
“She’s a slut,” he spat. “She led to the deaths of two good men. Now, she’s seducing Diesel.”