The Priest's Graveyard (3 page)

At the precise
moment that Renee Gilmore lost consciousness during her attempted escape from Cyrus Kauffman, Danny Hansen stood in a gutted
warehouse in Pasadena with his legs parted, three feet from heel to heel, gloved hands clasped behind his back, Ray-Ban sunglasses
fixed upon the bridge of his masked nose, at ease and content.

He was oblivious of Renee Gilmore’s fate.

He was not, however, unaware of Paul Birch’s fate. The congressman was strapped to the folding chair ten feet from him. Paul
would either come to his senses and present himself a changed man, or he would leave less pleasantly altered. Permanently.

The need for change was why Danny had subjected Paul to a powerful sedative, secured him in the back of the congressman’s
black Ford Explorer, and then strapped him to the chair in this abandoned warehouse where not a soul could hear or see them.

This task was Danny’s calling, his duty, his privilege, his moral obligation, however unpleasant or challenging: to deliver
justice where a broken system could not. Some would call him a vigilante. Some would call him a criminal. Some, an enemy of
society.

He preferred to think of himself as a servant of the people.

If any man or woman saw Danny crossing the street dressed as he was now—minus the black neoprene ski mask and leather gloves—they
might say,
There goes a pleasant dark-haired
man of about thirty, dressed smartly in tan slacks and a light blue button-​down long-sleeved shirt. No ring, so he probably
isn’t married, but he will be soon because he looks like a catch for any woman longing for a stable, upwardly mobile, kind
husband.

They would be right. Well, half right.

The other half was hidden from their view, the half that exposed the brood of vipers to the truth and—if they were not transformed
by said truth—the half that delivered ultimate judgment.

To date, he’d killed three vile creatures ignored by a flawed system of social justice. The rest had seen the light.

The viper before him now was staring at him with dark, frantic eyes and, if not for the gray duct tape over his mouth, would
undoubtedly be spewing obscenities. The man was still dressed in an Armani pin-striped blue suit. His yellow tie was askew,
his shirt was wet with sweat, and his cuffed pants rode high over black socks and bared shins.

Now in his late fifties, Paul Birch was a hairy man—arms, legs, chest, and back. Nevertheless he kept himself well groomed,
visiting the salon for a manicure and facial wax every Thursday evening. Although his nose was a little too broad for his
face, photographs showed that he’d been better proportioned when he first entered politics and ran for a seat on the San Francisco
city council. Now fully entrenched, he, like so many politicians, could rely on power rather than charm, wit, and sound reasoning
to keep him in his elected office, which happened to be the US House of Representatives.

Danny knew the man intimately, though he’d only touched Birch once, at a rally when they’d shaken hands. The rest of his knowledge
had come from a careful two-month investigation.

“So pleased to meet you, Congressman Birch.” The timbre of Danny’s voice was low and soft. He clasped his hands in front of
his chest. “You must be wondering why I’ve brought you here. Not to worry. I’ll take the tape off your mouth when I’m satisfied
you won’t start barking up the wrong tree like a confused dog. Fair enough?”

No response from the man. Birch wasn’t accustomed to being forced into a corner, much less tied to a chair.

“I want you to listen to me very carefully, Mr. Birch. When I think you’ve understood what I’m doing and why I’m doing it,
then I will allow you to redeem yourself. Nod if you understand me.”

The man hesitated, then finally nodded, and Danny knew by the look of defiance in his eyes that he would not change his ways.
Danny considered cutting to the chase and making it a short night.

But no, he would follow protocol.

“You’re undoubtedly wondering why you’re here, so I’ll tell you before you make your choice. A few years ago, I stumbled across
a pedophile when one of his victims—a thirteen-year-old boy called Tigert by his friends because they said he was as wiry
as a tiger—confided in me. As you may or may not understand, I was deeply concerned. It took some time, but the police finally
arrested the guilty man and put him behind bars. A good thing, yes?”

Another slow nod. The man was clueless.

“Not so good. The man was out within a week. It turned out that he was somewhat insulated from the law. His father was a judge,
and a crafty one at that.”

Paul Birch just stared at him.

“Perhaps if that were the end of the story, you wouldn’t be strapped to that chair. Unfortunately for you, the boy and I had
become close during the whole ordeal. Tigert was like a son to me. A month later, he was killed in a hit-and-run. I was very
upset. The police investigated but found no evidence to support a criminal case against any party. They let it go. I can tell
you that I was very, very upset.”

He paced in front of Paul Birch, searching for any sign of empathy. He saw only outrage at the man’s own predicament.

“I couldn’t let it go. So I traced the evidence myself, and it led me back to the pedophile. He’d killed my boy for exposing
the truth.”

Telling the story always filled Danny’s gut with a bitter brew of sorrow and anger, and he took a moment to let the worst
of it pass.

“My world changed that day. Something shifted in me. It took me back to a terrible pain I’d felt as an innocent boy, when
I saw even worse atrocities in Bosnia. I was fifteen then and went by a different name, and there was war all around me. A
part of me died when I was fifteen, but it came back to life when this pedophile killed Tigert. Have you ever felt that kind
of pain, Congressman?”

Sweat raked the man’s red face.

“It took me six months to work up the courage, but I finally did the only thing I knew to do, having learned some valuable
lessons in the Bosnian war. I took that guilty abuser of humanity off the streets and gave him one chance to see the light
and change his ways. When he failed, I emasculated him. I cut off his penis.” Danny lifted a finger. “And before you judge
me, you should know that the apostle Paul suggested emasculation as an option for the wicked in his letter to the Galatians.
So it wasn’t my idea, you see. You’ll have to blame Paul, I was merely being biblical.”

A deep breath.

“It wasn’t my intention to kill him, but I couldn’t stop the bleeding. He was dead in fifteen minutes. I disposed of his body
in the ocean, never to be found. He was my first. I want you to guess how many snakes like him I’ve taken since then.” Danny
approached his subject and ripped off the duct tape. The sound of the adhesive parting from flesh ripped through the gutted
warehouse.

The fact that his name, Danny, meant “God is my judge” was intentional. He had selected it on purpose. He was, after all,
God’s judge on earth, at least for some.

“Guess.”

“What are you doing?”

“Seven,” Danny said. “Whether the number will go to eight after tonight is up to you. Do you know right from wrong?”

“What on earth is this? Do you know who I am?”

“Even more than you do. I’ve been watching you for a long time. You’re a powerful congressman who lies for a living. You hide
behind pork-barrel spending that lines your pockets. Your sole ambition in this life is to satisfy your desire for wealth
and power, and you do it while pretending to fight for the small widow on welfare. In reality, you make your living by enslaving
the poor with laws that keep them poor so they will do your bidding.”

“I’m an independent. This is absurd!”

“You were also once a Democrat and once a Republican—that’s not the point. Political parties are only a means to an end for
you. You trample many to stand tall, don’t you, Congressman Birch?”

The man had the audacity to glare, as if he were the schoolteacher and Danny the unruly student.

“None of this is why you’re strapped to the chair. There are hundreds like you, and I wouldn’t say they deserved to die for
lying through their teeth. I’m here for another reason. But you already know that, don’t you, Congressman?”

“What do you want?” Birch snapped.

“I want you to change your ways. Does the name Camilla Lopez mean anything to you?”

Hesitation. “Should it?”

It was all Danny could do to remain calm in the face of the man’s bold denial.

“Let me help your memory. Do you know the name of Camilla’s six-year-old son?”

“How could I?”

“Bobby. Bobby became a ward of the state when you sent Camilla to prison. He was admitted to a foster home. I have a soft
spot for children whose lives are turned upside down like mine once was.”

“This is utter nonsense!”

“Three months ago, Bobby tried to hitchhike a ride to the prison where his mother is being held. He never made it. I made
every inquiry known to man in my search for him, but the child simply vanished. He is presumed dead. He left nothing behind
but a weeping mother and a very upset me—that and a trail that led me back to you.”

“Don’t be a fool! I’m a man with responsibilities!”

“The fact is, Mr. Birch, you are Bobby’s biological father, are you not?”

“Ridiculous.”

“In fact, you raped Camilla Lopez dozens of times during her employ as your maid. She was nothing more than a sex slave to
you, a convenience rudely sidelined by her pregnancy, thanks to your overstimulated libido.”

Paul Birch kept glaring. He did indeed deserve the worst.

“I think you had the boy killed,” Danny said.

Silence.

In the name of all that was holy, the man was pathetic.

“Are you as ignorant about the other women as well, Congressman? We both know that Camilla is only one of half a dozen you’ve
‘employed’ over the years.”

Paul was starting to wheeze.

“I’ll give you a shot at walking out of here, but you have to engage me reasonably,” Danny said. “Are you willing to try that?”

“If you think you can bully someone by tying them down and forcing…” The man’s face bulged. “What do you expect me to say?
You can’t do this!”

“I expect you to rethink some things, and the only way you’ll do so is if you’re tied to that chair. I want to present some
thoughts that could make you question all that’s familiar to you. Do you know right from wrong?”

“I…This is—”

“Answer the question!”

“Of course I do.”

“Tell me, what makes something wrong?”

No answer.

“Let me enlighten you. There are two primary schools of moral thought on what makes an act right or wrong. The first is that
an act is intrinsically wrong, so determined by religion or God or what have you, regardless of the consequences of that act.
This is called
categorical
moral reasoning.”

Judging by the blank look in the man’s eyes, his reasoning had stalled. Like most ordinary minds, Birch’s wasn’t well equipped
to think through moral reasoning, but Danny knew from experience that even the thickest person could eventually wrap his mind
around basic truth.

“The second”—he paced to his left, hands clasped behind his back—“is called
consequential
moral reasoning, which is the belief that the consequence of an action determines its morality. Example: lying to the Nazis
is the right thing to do, because it will save the lives of the Jews you’re hiding. Lying, as well as killing, can be right
or wrong depending on the outcome of those actions. Do you think the consequences of your actions matter, Paul?”

“This is crazy.”

“If you subscribe to consequential moral reasoning, which most people do, then even if the law states that it’s wrong for
me to kill you, cutting your throat might actually be the highest moral choice I have.”

“You can’t get away with this.”

“On the other hand, if lawful actions result in terrible consequences, following that law might be wrong at times, and breaking
it might be right.”

“You can’t do this to me.”

“The law’s a decent guide, but the consequences matter far more. I have come to the conclusion that your actions are wrong,
Mr. Birch. Terribly wrong. You rape and abuse women from across the border, and you do it with impunity because of your power.
So now you have a choice to make. Your fate is in your hands.”

“I’ve never heard anything so absurd in my life. You can’t do this!”

“You keep saying that. And yet”—Danny spread his hands—“I am doing it.” His mind ticked through his options in customary fashion.

Choice:
Forever change Birch’s life as planned now, or give him more time.

Consider:
The man wasn’t likely to change his ways, ever.

Consider:
Countless women and children had paid a terrible price to feed the man’s sickness.

Then again…
Consider:
A few hours more with Birch, no matter how disturbing or painful, was a small price to pay for the slight chance he might
change.

On balance, the moral thing to do here was to give the man a fair shake, as planned.

“I’m going to give you some time to persuade me that you have changed, heart and soul. If you fail to convince me, then I
will feel obligated to prohibit you from fulfilling your role as a congressman. That will mean forever altering your life.”

Paul Birch was trembling.
He believes me,
Danny thought.
That’s a start
.

“You have the floor,” Danny said.

I couldn’t have
been unconscious more than a few minutes, because when my mind crawled out of that dark fog, the man who’d swept in to rescue
me was still running. How long could a man run while carrying a body, even one that weighed a scant one hundred or so pounds?
I’m five foot two if I wear five pairs of socks, and I’m light as a toothpick, but even a world-class athlete would have trouble
running with a body over his shoulder for more than a minute or two.

Unless, of course, he’s an angel with superhuman powers, which I considered but doubted. I believed in demons because I had
been hearing them all night, but I’d never met anyone who treated me like I imagined an angel might. Angels were the stuff
of childhood dreams.

I was hardly lucid and unable to move, but I remember thinking that something had changed, and for a few long moments I couldn’t
place it. Then I realized that I was no longer hanging over his back, bouncing, but was cradled like a child in his arms.

The rain had lightened but I had to squint to keep it from falling in my eyes. His face came into focus. His jacket and shirt
were soaked. A thick silver chain hung around his neck.

He twisted his head back over his shoulder and I knew there was danger behind us. But my mind was working slowly, and I was
still captured by the look of this man who cradled me in his arms as if I were his Raggedy Ann doll and he wasn’t going to
let anyone touch me.

I saw it all in slow motion. His jaw was strong and his hair was trimmed neatly above his ears. When he swung his head back
around, drops of water flew off his hair and there was a look of urgency above that flexed jaw, but he wasn’t frantic.

I managed a feeble word. “Hello?”

He looked down, face stern. Dark brown eyes. “It’s okay, honey. Just keep your head down.”

Keep my head down? It was already in the crook of his arm. I didn’t know how I could keep it down.

Pop, pop!
Gunshots sounded like they’d come from cap guns. Maybe my head was sticking out past his arm where a bullet that just barely
missed him could hit me in the ear.

I tried to pull my head in but it was hopeless. So I just hung there in his arms.

My angel veered around a corner at full stride, then ducked into an underground parking structure. He pulled up, panting,
and glanced behind us.

I was in such a fog that half of these details could be completely wrong. They were moving around the edge of my mind like
ghosts. I have to think hard to remember exactly what happened, but even those memories could be a hallucination because,
like I said, I was overdosing.

I remembered my broken arm and wondered how it was getting along. “Are we safe?” I asked. I know it sounded stupid, but it
was the question on my mind.

“Just hold on.” His voice was soft but strong. “They’ll see our tracks.”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” I said.

“Do what you need to, honey, just don’t die on me.”

He was hurrying now, headed for a side door, I think. But my mind was on what he’d said. My angel was giving me permission
to throw up while he held me in his arms. I wanted to cry. If anyone had been so kind to me it had been a very long time and
the memory was long gone.

I began to cry. The world was fading to gray and I was floating in his arms and crying.

In fact, I must have been crying loudly, because he hushed me softly as he pulled up next to a door with a small lighted
EXIT
sign above it. Then he pushed through, stepped back out into the rain, glanced both ways, and headed back down the same sidewalk
we’d been on before.

He was retracing his steps?

We veered around the same corner and entered the same garage we’d just left, just as the far-side door slammed shut. Cyrus’s
men had followed our wet tracks into the garage and then back out. But now we were inside again and the ground was wet from
many feet, so no one could follow our tracks.

At least that’s how I remember the scene.

He slid around a car and ran along the wall, heading deep into the parking garage, all the way to the darkest corner, where
he set me down behind a blue truck.

I lay on the concrete and watched him peer over the truck bed to see if anyone was following. Then he was leaning over me.

“Okay, we’re safe for now,” he whispered. He wiped my tears away with his thumb. “Are you still with me?”

I nodded. And I started to cry again.

“Shh, shh…It’s going to be okay.” He carefully lifted my broken arm off the ground and straightened it. “We have to take care
of your arm. You took another hit.”

His tone was all matter-of-fact, like he was a medic in a war zone, but I knew he was being brave for me. Or he might have
been in the army for all I knew back then.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie. Can you hold on for me?”

Nausea swept over me and I began to shiver. I suddenly felt like I was going to throw up again. I turned my head away from
him and retched. If I hadn’t been in such a terrible state, I would have been mortified.

The man eased my head back toward him and wiped my mouth with his sleeve. “Just hold on, I’m going to get you out of here.
I’ll be right back.”

He rounded the back of the truck in a crouch. I began to drift into a fog. Voices were yelling somewhere far away—but in the
garage. They had found us?

The monsters were rasping in my ear again.
You can’t throw us up, Renee, we’re inside you and you can’t just spew us onto the ground. You’re sick on the inside, you
filthy whore
.

It was over. My angel had left me in a puddle of my own vomit and the world was collapsing around me. The truck was my tombstone.
It would roll over and smash me into the concrete and I would be dead. Or worse, trapped alive forever.

A shout broke through my daze. “They’re at the back!” Wet shoes slapped the concrete.

Then my rescuer was back, muttering angrily under his breath. He motioned for my silence and scooped me up. “Sorry, honey,
just hold tight.”

He flew around the truck, head low. How he got me into the backseat of another car so quickly, I still don’t know. Had he
broken into it? But I was there on the backseat, lying facedown where he’d tossed me. My broken arm was folded under my belly.

The door smacked my heels when he shut it.

I heard the engine fire.

I felt the car jerk forward.

Bullets were smacking into the metal sheeting and my rescuer was repeating his mantra—“Hold on, hold, hold on”—as the tires
squealed and sped up the ramp.

Something thudded into the car. A body maybe.

We smacked through the wood gate and peeled into the street. One more bullet hit the trunk, and then we were flying into the
night.

“Hold on, honey. Just hold on.”

I mumbled the same command to myself.
Hold on, Renee. Just hold on
.

The night went black.

I don’t know
how long I was in the back of the car. I was only barely hanging on to life and dreaming of floating in outer space. Angels
were hovering over me, whispering, keeping me alive.

They wrapped my shattered arm in a glowing white cloth and poured a green liquid down my throat so I wouldn’t throw up anymore.
They washed my body in warm water and dressed me in a soft white gown, then laid me on a bed.

They brushed my hair and sang a beautiful chorus that made me think of Mariah Carey. It was as if she was kneeling over me,
hands folded, singing about how beautiful I was. She kept singing the same refrain over and over.

“You are beautiful, don’t let the devil tell you wrong; you are an angel in my eyes, so beautiful.”

It was lovely, but it was also terrifying. I’d never thought angels would lie so blatantly, if at all. I kept wanting to tell
her that she was wrong, that I wasn’t beautiful, that they had the wrong girl. Stop lying, please. Please don’t mock me with
these kinds of lies.

I was the worthless one who had thrown everything away because I was so, so stupid. I was the one her father couldn’t love.
I was the one who shot up heroin and threw up in the alleys.

I was the one who washed out her underwear in the sink with a bar of soap because she was scrounging quarters for a fix.

I was the one who did whatever Cyrus wanted whenever he wanted because I was terrified of what might happen if I said no.

I was the one who owned only two pair of jeans, and one of those actually belonged to Sara, who was three sizes larger than
me.

I was the one who cried myself to sleep before my tears had drifted away in the fog of hard drugs.

My name was Renee Gilmore and I was disgusting.

But the angel’s voice kept washing over me, smothering me with such kindness that I thought maybe I had died and they really
had managed to wash away my stains and make me beautiful.

I woke up once and saw that I was in a bedroom filled with soft light. A few images worked their way into my consciousness:
a sheet pulled up under my chin; my bandaged arm resting on top of it. A moose was staring at me.

I wasn’t in heaven. I was in a hospital. No. No, I was in someone’s room. In a house.

Then I slipped into a coma.