Eleventh Hour

to—of course Father Binney had said yes. The man told Father Binney he had to see Father Michael Joseph, no one else, and of course Father Binney had again said yes.
    Father Michael Joseph was very afraid he knew why the man had come again. He’d confessed before, acted contrite—a man in pain, a man trying to stop killing, a man seeking spiritual help. The second time he’d come, he’d confessed yet again to another murder, gone through the ritual as if he’d rehearsed it, saying all the right words, but Father Michael Joseph knew he wasn’t contrite, that—that what? That for some reason Father Michael Joseph couldn’t fathom, the man wanted to gloat, because the man believed there was nothing the priest could do to stop him. Of course Father Michael Joseph couldn’t tell Father Binney why he didn’t want to see this evil man. He’d never really believed in human evil, not until the unimagined horror of September 11th, and now, when this man had come to him for the first time a week and a half ago, then last Thursday, and now again tonight, at nearly midnight. Father Michael Joseph knew in his soul that the man was evil, without remorse, with no ability to feel his own, or another’s, humanity. He wondered if the man had ever felt truly sorry. He doubted it. Father Michael Joseph heard the man breathing in the confessional across from him, and then the man spoke, his voice a soft, low monotone, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
    He’d recognize that voice anywhere, had heard it in his dreams. He didn’t know if he could bear it. He said finally, his voice thin as the thread hanging off his shirt cuff, “What have you done?” He prayed to God that he wouldn’t hear words that meant another human being was dead.
    The man actually laughed, and Father Michael Joseph heard madness in that laugh. “Hello to you, too, Father. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re right, I killed the pathetic little prick; this time I used a garrote. Do you know what a garrote is, Father?”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “He tried to get his hands beneath it, you know, to try to loosen it, to relieve the pressure, but it was nice strong wire. You can’t do anything against wire. But I eased up just a bit, to give him some hope.”
    “I hear no contrition in your voice, no remorse, only satisfaction that you committed this evil. You have done this because it pleased you to do it—”
    The man said in a rich, deep, sober voice, “But you haven’t heard the rest of my tale, Father.”
    “I don’t want to hear anything more out of your mouth.”
    The man laughed, a deep, belly-rolling laugh. Father Michael Joseph didn’t say a word. It was cold and stuffy in the confessional, hard to breathe, but his frock stuck to his skin. He smelled himself in that sweat, smelled his dread, his fear, his distaste for this monster. Dear Lord, let this foul creature leave now, leave and never come back.
    “Just when he thought he had pulled it loose enough so he could breathe, I jerked it tight, really fast, you know, and it sliced right through his fingers all the way to the bone. He died with his damned fingers against his own neck. Grant me absolution, Father. Did you read the papers, Father? Do you know the man’s name?”
    Father Michael Joseph knew, of course he knew. He’d watched the coverage on television, read it in the Chronicle. “You murdered Thomas Gavin, an AIDS activist who’s done nothing but good in this city.”
    “Did you ever sleep with him, Father?”
    He wasn’t shocked, hadn’t been shocked by anything for the past twelve years, but he was surprised. The man had never taken this tack before. He said nothing, just waited.
    “No denial? Stay silent, if you wish. I know you didn’t sleep with him. You’re not gay. But the fact is, he had to die. It was his time.”
    “There is no absolution for you, not without true repentance.”
    “Why am I not surprised you feel that way? Thomas Gavin was just another pathetic man who needed to leave this world. Do you want to know something, Father? He wasn’t really real.”
    “What do you mean he wasn’t really real?”
    “Just what I said. He didn’t really ever exist, you know? He wasn’t ever really here—he just existed in his own little world. I helped him out of his lousy world. Do you know he contracted AIDS just last year? He just found out about it. He was going nuts. But I saved him, I helped him out of everything, that’s all. It