Page 20 of The Reaper

I kicked the door closed behind me; it locked as it hit the jam. I slid the white vertical plastic blinds up—left by the previous owner, according to Emily—until there was a six-inch gap from the frame, enough space for my lens. I retrieved my camera and pointed the lens at Father Saint James’s bedroom window while adjusting the focus manually.

“Perfect,” I said when I could read the time on the clock on the priest’s nightstand. I attached the USB to my laptop so I had a bigger screen to observe his every move. “Fucking perfect.”

The clarity of the video appeared as if someone was filming in his room. Satisfied with my setup and feeling somewhat accomplished, I headed out to pay someone a visit. Someone I’d been looking forward to seeing all year—not even Father Saint James could stop me doing that.

***

The golden color of dusk that bathed everything within its reach needed a special name. Thinking about the very limited memories I had from when I was younger, I closed my eyes, remembering a rich and vibrant laugh with strong arms around me. I rarely allowed myself to experience emotions. Feelings made us weak, clouding our judgment. But for now, I would succumb while I camped between two giant pine trees.

After hours of watching the familiar house next to a sugar maple tree, I carefully surveyed my surroundings. The wooden swing we built, hanging from one of the maple’s sturdy branches, still remained. I watched every vehicle and individual passing through my night goggles, making sure no one managed to trail me without my knowledge. Being here was dangerous, but this was the last shred of myself I wasn’t willing to give up. Yet. The two-hundred-and-twenty-mile annual trek to this quiet town was something I looked forward to. But as much as it wrecked me to admit, this would be the last time. A lot of things had changed over the past few months and it was only a matter of time before those who were after me succeeded. I would be ready when that day came.

Belfast, Maine, hadn’t changed. Residents of this town must not have heard of streetlights, since it was almost pitch-black out so early in the evening. The sleepy coastal community used to be my home. I stepped from my hiding spot before I fell into a rabbit hole of memories that would take me days to unravel. Another reason why I shouldn’t be here. Memories of this town exposed the chinks in my armor, and I needed my shield to be stronger than ever.

I dropped a bouquet of yellow roses and a box wrapped in silver and gold paper on the porch before jogging back to my hiding spot, to wait for signs of movement from the house. My attention traveled back to the old swing and I wondered when someone had last used it.

“Higher!” The voice of the young me echoed in my head. I remembered that carefree kid. He was fun. Loved.

I envied him.

A couple of hours had gone by and still nothing. I stayed put because I knew they were inside. The lights in the Victorian home were on. There was no way they would forget. I had visited on this day every year for the last twelve years, and the mere thought that they had forgotten me made my chest hurt. Even if they had no idea it was me.

My breath hitched when the porch light came to life. I lowered my goggles to see closely and clearly in the dark. I held my breath when the door opened. A couple in their late seventies appeared, slowly making their way outside. My heart squeezed at the sight of the woman using her cane. They were a lot older now, the past decade having taken a toll on them. The older man bent over, slowly, as if he was moving in slow motion, grimacing along the way. He picked up the flowers and gifts, handing the present to his lovely wife.

The older woman beamed and looked around. But, as always, their smiles faltered when they realized the mysterious giver would never be revealed. She wrapped her arms around her husband, resting her head on his chest. They were so beautiful together. That was what love looked like.

I raised my goggles so I could read their lips. “Just like the last one,” the man said.

“They’re gorgeous. I wish I knew who left them.” She looked up and met his eyes.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he kissed the top of her head. They searched the dark one last time, their gaze skimming past me several times, before going back inside.

“Happy birthday, Grandma.” I fought the urge to go after them and hug them. I wanted to tell them that the grandson they mourned was still alive, but I couldn’t risk the lives of the only people I truly cared for. My eyes stung, blinking tears away before they fell. “I love you both.”

Hours later, I was wide awake. The visit to my grandparents had ripped open old wounds. I decided it would be the last time I would ever see them. I was playing with fire, and as much as it pained me to cut the last cord attaching me to my old life, I couldn’t be selfish anymore. It was becoming dangerous for them, and I couldn’t bear the thought of someone hurting my grandparents to get to me.

Thirteen: The Priest

Butterflies filled my stomach at the prospect of encountering the unnamed man again. It had been days since I’d seen him last. Four days, to be exact, but who was counting. I wasn’t going to admit it, but during the confession hours I had hoped to see him, for a couple of reasons: To thank him for saving me from being mugged, and to satisfy my curiosity about him. He was a peculiar man and I wanted to know what made him who he was. Reading people and their behavior was something I’d mastered from the ministry. The ability to extract a deeper meaning enabled me to discover information about them even if they weren’t willing to share, and the only way to get to his secrets was to spend time with him. I was certain he’d be back. Guilt and confession were a mental cycle, and once you were trapped, escape was impossible. Confessing one’s sins was a cyclical Band-Aid, a tool to help one heal without the long therapy sessions.

I began to pray to purge the mysterious man from my thoughts. Sitting in the confessional waiting for the next person could get mind-numbing.

The curtain on the other side of the booth was yanked open with impatience. My lips pulled into a smile; I knew who my confessor was without looking into the partition. The manner at which he sat himself with a flump to announce his arrival before angrily pulling the curtain closed made my heart flip. My speculation was confirmed when our eyes connected. The unnamed man crossed his arms. His black sweatshirt was like a second skin and couldn’t hide his bulky arms, stacked with muscles. He smelled like citrus and mint, a vice I hoped to never begin. “Tell me your name,” I said, trying my luck one more time.

“Not gonna happen,” he said. The man shifted in his seat and my eyes traveled down to his thick thighs. I swallowed hard.

“Why not?” I didn’t know why I was pushing it so hard, but my curiosity about him had reached a level beyond comprehension. “It’s just a name,” I added.

“I don’t wanna have to kill you,” he answered. The intensity in his eyes burned. “Besides, I told you, you can call me anything … any time.” A sinister smile crossed his red lips, exposing his perfect set of teeth.

“You wouldn’t,” I said. “But I’m not afraid of dying,” I admitted. The statement was true. Everyone had a shelf life, and the bliss that came with understanding we would perish at some point freed me from the guilt.

He didn’t respond. It seemed that I’d caught him off guard. We let the uncomfortable silence linger between us; I was hoping he would be the first to budge. He wasn’t. “I haven’t thanked you for saving me from those guys,” I said, breaking the deafening silence.

“They haven’t bothered you, have they?” His jaw tightened and he balled his hands into meaty fists. “Did they come here?” A storm brewed in his eyes. This man had a short fuse. “Are you okay?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I mean, I’m okay, and no, they haven’t bothered me. They don’t know I’m the bishop.” Even if they did know, I doubt they’d remember. Those men were trashed.

“Good. Because I’d kill them.”

---