Forgiving Solomon Long: Chapter One

Monday afternoon. On the last day of his life, Father
Nathan McNally ran his finger along the back of the
pew and found dust. It wasn’t that much, really, but
the young priest thought he might mention it to the
maintenance man—better to hear it from him than
from the grumpy senior priest, Father Summers. It was
cold out, even for November, and the frigid blast off
the streets burst right through the sanctuary every
time someone opened the big front doors of the
church.

There had been relatively few confessions today; only
a little time was left before the session was over. Mrs.
Johnson and old Miss Lawry were up front by the
altar. Father Mac, as he was popularly known among
parishioners, had found out in his brief (but not quite
brief enough) conversation with Mrs. Johnson (bless
her heart) that, among other family news, her nephew
had won some sort of writing award at his school. Old
Miss Lawry had little to say—she seemed barely
aware of where she was. Too bad. After this stop, the
ladies were attending a birthday party for a young
niece who had just turned two.

A couple visitors were sitting toward the middle of the
sanctuary, here to admire the church design or,
perhaps, to simply come in out of the cold. They tried
to chat quietly but, of course, the acoustics of the big
open room meant the sound still echoed. Father Mac
had wondered whether he should offer to speak with
them (he did, after all, have a growing reputation as
“the people’s priest”) but decided they would rather
be left to their visiting.

As the new priest in the Kansas City–area church, he
was also generally considered the most accessible.
And chose to be so. He was a modestly handsome
young man with soft brown hair and black-rimmed
glasses that made him look more well read than he
sometimes was.

As Father Mac waited for last-minute confessions, he
began a mental checklist for the week ahead: The
local high school had some sporting event coming up.
The kids from church would be glad to see him come
show his support. They weren’t the best players on
the court, generally, but they worked hard.

There was another meeting scheduled for the Urban
Church Coalition, too, later in the week. He was still
waiting to hear where it would be held. The group,
made up of local church leaders and prominent
residents, hoped to finally break the grip of organized
crime on the neighborhood. Father Summers had told
him to leave things be, that it was not the place of “the
new priest” to meddle in local politics.

But Father Mac knew these people needed to be free.
Free from the tyranny of the local despot. Free from
the shadow of fear hanging over the neighborhood.

Besides, as he explained to Father Summers, if the
local merchants weren’t bleeding all their money on a
“protection” racket, that meant more money left for the
church. That wasn’t the young priest’s priority, of
course, but it seemed like a good point to make.

Father Mac was pulled from his thoughts by the snap
of the confessional door. Turning toward the aisle, he
made his way to the booth. Stepping inside, the
silence was thick. He waited for the person to speak.

Finally: “I’m not too good at this.” A man’s voice.

“Well, it’s not that hard, really,” Father Mac replied
gently. “As the cliché goes, ‘Confession is good for
the soul.’ And clichés are generally true. Just tell me
what’s on your mind.”

Father Mac could hear the faint noises of the others
out in the sanctuary. Someone coughed.

Then the man said, “I should probably tell you I don’t
have much faith in God.”

“I see,” Father Mac replied.“Do you mean you feel He
let you down at an important time in your life? Like He
was too distant?”

“Actually, I have a hard time believing there is a real
person called ‘God.’ And even if there is, he has more
important things to do than worry about our little lives.
You live, you suffer, you die. Death is a gift.”

Father Mac furrowed his brow. “This really is not the
proper place for such a discussion,” he replied slowly,
calmly. “If you would like to schedule an appointment
with my office, we could discuss this topic at length. I
could share with you some of the resources available
on this topic. However, the real purpose of
‘confession’ is to admit to the sins you have
committed.”

“I’ve done a lot of bad things.”

Father Mac couldn’t place it, but there was something
off about this man’s voice. Something out of place.
“Could you be more specific?”

“You mean, like, you want me to tell you about my
childhood or my relationship with my dad or something
like that?”

“If you feel the need to,” the priest replied. “But I’m not
an analyst. This is not about what others have done
to you. It’s about what you have done. We can go in
any direction you like—the important thing is getting
your sins out in the open so the Lord can deal with
them.”

Another lengthy pause. Father Mac pulled off his
glasses and wiped them with his robe, his attention
wandering. He could hear Mrs. Johnson finish
murmuring her prayers at the altar and then try to
convince feeble Miss Lawry it was time to go.

The man on the other side of the screen spoke again.
“I kill.”

“I…I’m sorry,” the priest stammered, replacing his
glasses on his nose, dimly aware he had only
smeared sweat on the lenses.“What did you say?”

“I kill people.”

Father Mac couldn’t help thinking of a recent news
program about a priest caught between his vows and
becoming a federal witness. “Do you mean that you
killed someone by accident?”

“No.” Another pause. Waiting. “For money.”

Father Mac mentally sorted through any articles he’d
read and movies he’d seen that might prove relevant.
He’d read that The Sopranos was not as true-to-life
as many assumed, but it certainly left a vivid
impression. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Father Mac noted
the sound of heels clacking out the door, Mrs.
Johnson and Miss Lawry headed for the niece’s
birthday party. He couldn’t hear the other visitors;
they must have already left.

“Why not?”

The stiffness of the answer shocked the young priest.
His mouth went dry. He’s been stalling.

Father Mac tried to speak, his words catching on
sandpaper. The room was silent—he was alone with
this man.“Wh-what do you want?” he finally coughed.

“Fat Cat had a good thing going. You church types
should have left well enough alone.”

As the first bullets splintered through the wooden
confessional wall, Father Mac didn’t recognize what
was happening. What were those popping noises?
Then he saw blood. His blood. As he fell against the
confessional door and out onto the floor, he felt numb.

A tall man in a tan overcoat stepped out of the other
door. Holding his gun with a steady black-gloved
hand, he fired two bullets into Father Mac’s head. The
priest’s last thoughts in this world were about
apologizing to maintenance for the blood pooling on
the floor.

The man grimaced. “You’re welcome.” Shoving the .
45 Taurus and the silencer in separate pockets,
Solomon Long walked briskly toward the big doors
and pushed confidently out into the sun. As he
reached the street corner and checked his watch, he
pulled his collar up against the wind. He removed his
gloves and pulled an antibacterial towelette out of his
pocket, wiped his hands, then crumpled and tossed it.
Pulled a wrapped sandwich from one pocket and,
munching on tomato and bacon on whole wheat,
headed to the bus stop.

With a stiff face, he glanced at the gray sky. Looked
like snow.