The Sins of Moffat Square
Patricia Doherty

THE BOOK

Father Peter Schimmel regretfully resigns a beloved pastorate to pull the bishop's chestnuts out of the fire in a troubled and resentful parish. He soon finds himself embroiled in a battle for the minds—and bodies—of the homeless teens that shelter in the town. Only after murder strikes close to home and the boy he loves like a son disappears does he comprehend the depth of the malice he is facing. Enlisting the help of his friend Father Dismas Shaunessey, he is finally able to come to terms with the forces of evil at work in seemingly peaceful Beluga Point as well as in his own heart.

EXCERPTS

Father Peter Schimmel pivoted slowly, taking in all the details of his church for the last time: wait, not his church any more. He didn't want a new parish: why didn't he tell the bishop where he could shove it? Peter touched the heavy gold band on his right hand. Because, in the glory of a brilliant June morning nearly twenty-five years before, he'd made a promise.Sliding into the front pew, Peter prayed, but the profound sadness lingered. "This is the last time I give my heart to any parish," he vowed softly. "Taking it back hurts too damn much."

* * *

From the start, the celebration of mass of the new pastor at St. Elmo's that Sunday had been a disaster. When Peter had introduced himself to his congregation, the current of hostility in the church swept his concentration before it, and he never recovered it. His homily on the foolish virgins was bloodless, and never communicated the anguish of five desperate young women, stumbling as they raced through half-lit streets, trying to catch the suddenly precious treasure before it slipped away from them. What had come out of his mouth was a sermonette, and he was mortified: he'd heard better in Homiletics 101.

After mass he'd tried again. Smiling into a tight knot of people in the parking lot, however, only resulted in having the word "politics" catapulted in his direction. Sure that the Gospel According to Henry Noble had been enthusiastically spread through the parish, Peter felt persecuted. So when an elderly couple pointedly avoided his handshake, he felt an unlovely urge to shove them into a puddle.

I'm only here to do a job, he told himself fiercely, but he the words were empty. Offering up the nettle of disappointment for the sick of the parish didn't take away the sting, either. So for nearly an hour Peter sat alone in the empty church, trying to place his aching heart on the cross with Christ's own broken body.

* * *

"And you're saying that's all you saw?" Deputy Twitchell fixed Father Jacob with an unfriendly eye. "The boy came running out of the library crying?"

"Yeah, clutching a plastic bag."

"What was in it?"

"How should I know? It was in the bag."

"Did Father Schimmel discuss what upset the boy?"

"No."

"No? Young boy bolts out of the rectory crying, and his priest doesn't explain what the deal was?"

"No. Only thing he said was that the boy'd been to confession. Father Peter wouldn't discuss anything said in confession with me or anybody else."

"He said the boy went to confession."

"Peter was wearing a stole when Billy came through the door."

"A stole, huh?" Deputy Twitchell consulted a notebook. "You said you came to the door because you heard shouting. What was he shouting?" Jacob was silent, and Twitchell added, "You weren't hearing a confession; tell me what he was shouting."

"I couldn't make out any words. The door was shut."

"Would you say Father Schimmel has a problem with anger?"

"He gets frustrated by stupidity and evil wrapping itself in false piety, but I wouldn't say his anger's out of control or misplaced."

The deputy's eyebrow was doing a rhumba, but Jacob stared him down. Twitchell grunted and made a note. "You heard shouting but you didn't knock?"

"Billy came running out before I had a chance to."

Twitchell closed the notebook. "And that's when Pastor Schimmel punched the door frame."

"Yes. He seemed frustrated as hell, upset."

"And he didn't say what upset him."

"Look, a priest can't repeat what a penitent said in confession."

"I know all about sealed files. There usually are ways of opening them."

"Not in this case."

Deputy Twitchell shook his head. "For your buddy's sake I hope you're wrong." With a chillingly pleasant smile, he stalked out of the library.

* * *

As soon as he closed the rectory door behind him, Dismas felt his spirits lift in the tentative sunshine. Though it was too late for a proper fishing trip, a jaunt round the Beluga Bay in one of those little motorboats might be fun. The fun wasn't about to start immediately, however, since Dismas first had to coax Peter's venerable Dodge off the church grounds. Despite his considerable driving guile, the beast stuttered and chuffed its way down to the church, reminding Dismas of his first driving lesson. Courtesy of a speed bump on the far side of the parking lot, the transmission floundered into second gear, and, roaring like an old prop plane revving for takeoff, the wagon lunged onto the vicious grade of St. Elmo's Hook Road. Since it clung tenaciously to second, the car was an embarrassment: three consecutive cars cut around him and his dubious chariot, their drivers offering him ingenious variants on the one-fingered salute.

Recalling techniques he used on the rattletrap he'd driven in high school, Dismas depressed the clutch and tried goosing the stick into third. The transmission still wasn't having any, so the steep incline soon had the wagon going a little faster than prudence demanded. When it finally slid into third and the engine kicked like a frisky colt, banishing the sense of free-fall, he felt ridiculously pleased with himself.

Could he drive or what?

But a hairpin curve was rushing at him, so he sensibly applied the brake.

Nothing happened.

He began to pump the unresponsive pedal, but then he was into the curve clutching the wheel, struggling to keep the tires on the rain-glossed road. Once through that curve itself, he found himself slung frighteningly close to an impregnable-looking stone wall, yet the next moment the road swung out toward the horizon, threatening to spill him over the cliff. For what seemed like hours Dismas faced the constant choice of smearing his brains on stone or tumbling into a watery grave. After a series of vicious S-curves, however, he thought that the speed was a mite less breakneck, the grade a tad gentler, no longer akin to the harrowing dive of a roller coaster.

Then the Dodge was picking up speed again, so Dismas hauled on the brake handle, arching his back with the effort, only to have the damned thing come off in his hand. Another massive chunk of gray stone suddenly loomed, filling the windshield, and an eerie shriek of over-stressed metal reverberated in his skull. After that, all visual points of reference became jumbled: the tires rode up and over something; his body slammed against the door before sliding with a sickening sensation toward the roof. Even his attempt at a prayer seemed hemmed in by the metal box apparently bent on his destruction.

* * *

Peter paused and Dismas braced for more pain, but Peter was done hugging. "Well, I didn't know what to think. Twitchell was sure your brain had exploded, and that you and your ice cream cone were sprawled in a ditch somewhere."

"I'm sorry. I just started wandering around and got engrossed. You know how it is."

"Well, I told the Sheriff's office they could call off the search," Peter said, helping Dismas adjust his seat belt. "Main thing now is to get you home."

"Peter, I'm fine."

His friend searched his face. "You're sure? Then let's make one quick stop. You had me so worried, I clean forgot about the damn car." As Peter executed a neat three-point turn in front of the Carpentorium, Dismas glanced out the window. In the dark alongside the hardware store a pinpoint of red caught his eye. Someone was standing there smoking. For how long, Dismas wondered? He glanced over his shoulder and saw a black-coated figure step into the light from the hardware store and stare in their direction.

A horrendous clashing of gears distracted him from the spooky figure. Peter was immediately apologetic. "Sorry. I'm not used to transmissions that work." A moment later, he pulled into a gas station with a Mechanic on Duty sign. Dismas saw Peter's car in one of the bays. He was fumbling for the door handle when the door was wrenched from his grip and flung open.

Deputy Twitchell had things to say to him.

"You know on the cop shows they're always telling people not to leave town? Well, you won't hear that from me, buddy. I just finish telling the Coast Guard to keep an eye out in case you'd fallen in the drink, and then hafta turn around and tell 'em to forget it, like I'm some kind of nut case. Where the hell you been?"

"I was looking for the little boy who's lost - "

Twitchell jabbed a finger in Peter's face. "You hold this guy's leash, you hear? Of all the crazy - "

"What about my car?" said Peter, edging toward the Dodge. "How soon can I get it back?"

"You can't. Brake line's been cut, and we'll be holding it."

"Cut? How can that - "

"Maybe 'cause somebody wants you dead."

"I just got here!" roared Dismas before Peter tapped his arm.

"I think he means me."

The deputy drew himself up. "I think you and me should have a little talk, Father." He surveyed Peter's haggard face, and his expression softened. "Let's say tomorrow morning at the station. About ten?"

"I'll be there."

"One more thing." Twitchell's eyes slued momentarily to Dismas. "Come alone."

* * *

"We haven't seen each other in, what, two years? And you're saying I need saving?" Though he attempted to invest his words with humor, Peter was clearly irritated.

Dismas was not amused. "Ministry dies when a priest begins to feed off it."

"If you're accusing me - "

"Who am I to accuse anybody? But I tell you, the first couple of years at St. Francis made me face devilish parts of me I'd been passing off as Christian for years. I was needy and controlling. I loved everybody who made me feel good about me. Luckily I had some tough parishioners who forced me to see what I was doing. Talk about a kick in the rear! But I'm a better priest for facing those demons, especially pride. Ego's a hook the devil's built into the priesthood, and none of us can pretend it isn't there."

"What else has me hooked?" Peter's face was stony, but his voice had softened.

"Billy's not your son. Carrie's not your daughter. But when they don't meet your expectations, you go nuts. Do you think that's healthy?"

"The paradigm of the family - " began Peter, but Dismas blew him a Bronx cheer.

"Whenever I hear the word paradigm, I start smelling a smoke screen. Jesus Christ is the head of our parish families. You and I are not."

"You're way out of line." Dismas saw anger waxing in Peter's face and braced himself for combat. He was taken aback when his friend abruptly sat down on the ghost-white seawall and crossed himself. "Would you please hear my confession, Father? I've got a stole right here."

After a long silence Peter spoke. "Pride, yes, but the insufferable kind that hides behind obedience. Never a protest when they handed me a dirty job. I could handle it: I was tough. And besides, someday there'd be a big payoff. Yeah, payoff! More like a kick in the balls. When I realized St. Elmo's was a total disaster and beyond my help, I felt cheated because I wouldn't be able to strut my stuff and pull off another miracle. So much for servanthood."

"It's hard to focus on the ones we're serving if we're staggering under a too-heavy load."

"I know it, I saw the signs, but I didn't want to admit I'd met my match. So I let myself get angry."

"Getting angry's not necessarily a sin."

"It is when you use it to bleed off your own frustrations. Hell, pornography didn't make me angry because it was an offense against God. It attacked my values, made me feel impotent, and I couldn't stand it. So I took my rage out on Billy. I didn't listen, I wouldn't understand. I destroyed his faith, mocked his hope, thereby demonstrating that love means nothing. How's that for a pastoral trifecta?" He blotted his eyes. "And for these and my many other failings, I beg the Lord's forgiveness."

DEDICATION

THE AUTHOR

A native of Washington, D.C., Patricia Doherty grew up a myopic bookworm who adored reading. A dabbler in writing as soon as she could print, she confined her earliest efforts to snippets of wildly romantic stories and rude poems describing nuns who were less than amiable. Only after her husband Tony gave her a copy of James Agee's masterpiece, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, did she think about becoming a writer. Eleven years later Pat slammed a mystery story shut in despair, declaring she could write better herself. Her husband challenged her: stop thinking about it and do it. Be a writer! Articles for the Encyclopedic Dictionary of Religion, compact disc liner notes, a novella, poetry, and children's stories followed, but Pat didn't start thinking about writing a novel until after a move to California.

As a cradle Catholic, she found it natural to draw on the majesty - and tribulation - of the Catholic Church as subject matter. The first two Dismas Shaunessey novels, The Face of Evil and The Sins of Moffat Square, were the result.

Pat took a break from churchly matters, however, to work with Olympic Gold Medalist Don Bragg on the manuscript of A Chance to Dare: the Don Bragg Story (www.TARZANBragg.com). Not only was the experience a tutorial in collaboration at its best, but Pat also feels that her co-author's penchant for unblinking honesty prepared her to deal with the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, the subject of one of several short stories included in Visitations of Grace.

In between stints of gardening and bread baking and learning Greek - the latter necessitated by her joining the choir at St. Demetrios Orthodox Church - Pat's currently writing the next two books in the Dismas Shaunessey mystery series, with more on the back burner. "Writing keeps me out of trouble," she says. "Sort of."

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