Going Urban

Chapter 1

Castillo

I could see the silhouette through the screen, the slight build shrouded behind the mystical barrier that separates God and man. It separated me from the priest tonight. My swallow felt painful, jagged and hard in the back of my throat.

It had been longer than I could distinctly remember since I stepped into a confessional. I made the sign of the cross. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. My last confession was fifteen years ago...I think. I was seventeen years old.

The head nodded, recited something about forgiveness being granted to the faithful who confess. That most certainly didn't apply to me. My conscience grappled for the reason going to confession seemed like a good idea. I couldn't find it, other than the fact that I was in a backwater town where the bars closed at ten o'clock on school nights—not that I wanted to be remembered or recognized after the fact.

My child, what has brought you to God tonight?

Boredom, the word fell automatically from my lips. Great, another sin to confess.

The priest chuckled. God appreciates honesty, and contrary to popular belief even within our faith as Catholics, he possesses a sense of humor as well. He paused and gave me time to speak.

I was busy biting my tongue.

Seventeen years is a long time. We could be here for years getting to everything.

I'll hit the big ones, I said. Let's skip how many times I lusted sexually or took the name of God in vain. Those are givens in our society, aren't they Father?

His soft voice murmured through the screen, It grieves me to agree, but yes.

I have a partner, Father. We have committed unspeakable crimes.

Against God or man?

Both, I suppose. I clasped my damp palms together and heaved a sigh. Didn't God command us not to kill? Doesn't the state punish such an act?

It would depend on the circumstances. That you are here in confession tells me that the spirit of God dwells within you and compels you to confess your sins. That is the first step in the path of contrition.

I can't turn myself in to the police.

Perhaps you should tell me what you did specifically?

My mind flashed back to the most recent job O'Banion and I had pulled. It had gone to hell almost before it started. I thought I mentioned that it's pretty unspeakable.

God already knows what you've done, child.

Yeah, I supposed that was true enough—if a person chose to believe in heaven and hell. I couldn't conceive of hell without O'Banion's twisted version of punishment. Maybe that was where I should begin. My partner...he was probably the devil incarnate. Catechism lessons began free flowing through my memory. Lucifer, the beautiful angel with free will—fallen from grace, roaming the earth and tempting Eve with forbidden fruit—it sure sounded like O'Banion to me.

I cleared my throat. What came out was still sub-whisper. You're not gonna rat me out, are you Padre? Because O'Banion really wouldn't like that. I promise you. O'Banion is the last person you want gunning for you.

The seal of the confessional applies to all sins, great and small.

Had the priest's voice trembled? Brave guy, opening the door to hear my confession. On a good day I tried to forget what I knew. On nights like this one, I couldn't erase the truth from my brain no matter how hard I tried.

It started about four and a half years ago, I said, not that far from here, incidentally.

That doesn't tell me what you've done, child.

I laughed. Three times he called me a child. I knew it was the metaphoric child of God thing, but I was about as far from the innocence of childhood as a person could stray.

Hold onto your rosary, Padre. If it's the unadulterated truth you want, I'll give it to you.

Chapter 2

Castillo: Four Years, Six Months Ago

It wasn't too hot, more like warm dog piss, a humid stench that rotted the nostrils with each breath drawn. My partner O'Banion was sitting beside me in the front seat of the dirty Buick sedan, circa 1975. Underneath coats of dust, and probably a lot of road kill DNA was the faded black paint. I liked to imagine her as an old beauty that some previous owner had babied the hell out of in her prime.

Those days were long since gone. My old man had been a gear head, and pounded respect for the wheels into my brain from birth. He'd make me wax his piece of shit car until my fingers were numb, knuckles bleeding from contact with chemicals that dried out my skin and cracked canyons into the fleshy grooves.

That's him, O'Banion said.

Where? I didn't look up from the newspaper.

That cantina across the street, you stupid shit. I don't know why I put up with your bullshit, Castillo. Maybe I should take your cut of this job too, huh?

I shrugged. Who am I kidding? I'm in this gig for the booze. O'Banion knows my weakness is rotgut tequila, and keeps a warm case of it in the trunk for me. God only knows what he does to me after I've had a few. It's not something I'd prefer to spend a lot of time pondering. This particular job is our third together, and it seems like it takes more of the bottle to obliterate the memories after every job.

He's going into the motel, just like the boss said he would. What's a guy like that doing in a shithole like this one-dog town?

O'Banion talked too much in my opinion. He fancied himself a philosopher of human behavior or some such. He was a gifted stalker, and after the first hit, I was pretty sure I never wanted to get on the dude's bad side.

A dossier was slapped through my two-day-old edition of the Science and Technology section of the New York Times. Fuck you, O'Banion. I peered at him through the tear in my coveted newspaper. Have you forgotten how long it took me to find this damned paper?

He grinned a toothy, caffeine-tobacco stained rot at me. Faggoty paper boy. Read that fucking dossier to me again.

O'Banion knew at least a hundred ways to torture a man before he died, but the fool couldn't read for shit. I imagined it was dyslexia, a severe form, because he was only able to read road signs by number and shape. Then again, he might've just been an idiot savant—his gift being 101 ways to wring agony out of the human body before death.

I flipped open the folder. Robert Markinson the third, age 50, president and CEO of Bayliss Community Hospital.

Fuckin' uppity shit, O'Banion snorted so hard, the blast from his nose extinguished his cigarette lighter before he could ignite his cancer stick. Like I said, it don't make no sense for this guy to be out here at this motel.

Maybe he made us.

It drew a nasty guffaw from my partner. Ya think, Einstein? Hell, if he knew we been on his tail for the last 70 miles, why the fuck would he stop out in the middle of nowhere?

More chance for someone to hear his screams.

"That ain't gonna happen. Keep reading."

The rest is photographic, I shoved the folder back into his lap. The manila was already stained from O'Banion's oily jeans. I wondered if the guy bathed in 10W-30 motor oil. He kind of smelled like it, and the perpetual black scum beneath fingernails too god-awful long for a guy helped foster the notion.

Pornographic, he cast a leering glance in my direction. Gotta admit—the dude looks hot gettin' his knob polished like that. Poor old boss-man must've popped a vein when he got a look at this shit. Seems like such a waste, doin' a beauty like this gal when we take out Markinson. I been thinkin', Castillo.

That was never a good sign. O'Banion thinking was akin to Satan feeling bored and wanting to mix it up a little bit. It was safer for me to play along with his twisted fantasies than protest. Oh?

Wouldn't it be better to frame the bitch for this?

I don't know, O'Banion. What if she demands that her husband pay for her defense? We could end up owing boss-man more money than the contract is worth.

Hell, you got no sense of humor. Why would he bail her out for offing her lover, when she's been fuckin' around on boss-man like this?

I'd heard that belligerent tone too often. O'Banion had already made up his mind. And just how do you propose that we frame her for this murder?

That's the easy part, dumb shit.

He didn't elaborate, and for that, I felt marginally grateful. The less I knew about the inner workings of O'Banion's mind, the happier I was. Not happier, really, it's just that his twisted mind tends to make me sicker than hell most of the time.

It's almost dark. Markinson's in room eight. If they follow tradition, she'll be here in less than an hour. Let's move. You know what to do.

I folded my tattered newspaper and stuffed it in the glove compartment. Yeah, I know what to do.

In opposite motion of my New York Times, I unfolded my legs from the front seat of the car and tipped my hat low over my eyes. Dust puffed from beneath my shiny black boots when I walked across what was once probably a heavily graveled parking lot. Like everything else in this tiny town, the gravel was more distant memory than anything else.

My knuckles slammed against the Plexiglas window—sort of like a drive-thru job. The metal badge I held to it made a chalky grating sound. The attendant's eyes widened.

What can I do ya for, sir?

I held up a photograph. It was the single pose from the dossier that wasn't pornographic. Have you seen this woman?

Pimple-man shook his head, sending a cascade of greasy blonde curls over his pocked forehead. Hell no. What'd she do?

Ongoing investigation, I said. Would you mind if I stepped inside your office and took a look at your registry?

Uh …

Or I can call and get a warrant, my mouth twisted into a menacing snarl. But in that case, your boss will have to come down here and personally be served the paperwork. I can't imagine that would make him too happy, son.

He pushed a button and the electric lock on the door hummed like a swarm of insane mosquitoes ready to gorge on human blood. I stepped inside. He was reaching for the radio behind him. Leave it up, I said. Great song.

His Adam's apple grew three sizes and bobbed in his throat, as if a lure on a fishing line dangled down his gullet.

You got coffee or soda around here?

He nodded. I got some Cokes in the mini fridge. His thumb hiked over his shoulder.

Ice?

I'll go get some from the back room. There are glasses—

I see them.

His drink was spiked with rohypnol before he was back with a bucket of ice. I grabbed a handful and dropped it into his glass before adding a single cube to mine. I sipped and mumbled over the rim of the glass, You're sure you never saw this lady?

Sure enough, more questions prompted him to drink—guzzle really—to avoid talking much. It wasn't more than five minutes before his breathing slowed. He grabbed the edge of the desk a second before his head slammed into the wood.

I stepped out the door and squinted west into the dirty sunset. I pulled off the patrolman hat and held it in my hands and waited for O'Banion. He was trotting in my direction, the gleam in his eyes brighter than the glint of sunlight on the enormous bowie knife that dangled from his hip.

That's some wicked good shit, huh, Castillo? Hell, he was out in under five. Good job.

Unfortunately, I realized after the first job that any praise he doled out wasn't because I had done my part well. All he cared about were time statistics. If he could draw out his sick cat and mouse game for another five minutes, he was a happy man.

Get your ass down to number eight and knock on the door. Did you remember to wipe the office down?

My prints are on a glass and a Coke can. I'll clean up while you do your thing with Markinson.

He growled at me. Fuckin' pussy. What do you care if this bastard suffers a little before he dies?

I don't, my spine stiffened. I don't know this guy, and I could give a shit less what you do to him. That eyeball thing caught me off guard.

Bet you didn't know they'd ooze all that goop when they get popped, did you? I wouldn't know personally how it feels, but it sure makes 'em scream.

You like this shit too much.

Yeah, well if I'm gonna make this look like something a chick would do, I've got to be far less whatchacallit.

Imaginative.

O'Banion's breath reeked of cigarettes, garlic and onion all the time. When he laughed hard like he did when I contributed something that tickled his fancy, the blast of fetid air from his face was enough to gag me.

Get me inside, go clean up your mess, and get back here. I'm gonna need your help before the missus shows up for her weekend pounding.

I knocked on the door with an eight painted on it in a darker shade of green than the rest of the faded door.

Mindy? The door cracked a fraction of an inch.

O'Banion flattened his body against the wall out of Markinson's sight.

Officer, is there a problem?

I was in the cantina across the street a few minutes ago. Somebody left a wallet. The gal running the place thought it might be yours, asked me if I'd come check with you.

He patted his hip automatically, fingers brushing over boxer shorts. Markinson cursed. Hang on a minute—I'll have to check.

Stupid move, stepping away from the door like that. Even though Markinson left the chain attached, it wasn't enough to stop O'Banion from shoving his way into the room. I turned away and returned to the motel manager's office, trying my best to block out the first of Markinson's startled shrieks.

I won't lie. O'Banion is a sick fuck. Curiosity propelled me faster through the task of cleaning up after myself in the manager's office for no other reason than to see what he thought was mild enough for a crime of passion perpetuated by a woman.

The muffled screams penetrated the door before I opened it. O'Banion must've had a mother with a head as twisted as his. I slipped on a pair of gloves and stepped inside the room.

Markinson's mouth was plastered shut with duct tape. O'Banion delivered a stinging slap to the man's cheek. Hold still you son of a bitch. If I end up with glue all over my fingers, I'm gonna fuck you up the ass before I kill you.

One eye was shut, the lashes clumped with gorilla glue. Didn't I say he was sick? What was it with this guy's eyeball obsession?

Gluing them shut?

Hell yes. I want that bitch to come in here and think he's just sleeping.

It might be easier to glue them shut if you wait until he's dead, I suggested. I'm not sure why I thought O'Banion needed any help carrying out his diabolical deeds. He grinned over his shoulder.

Then I guess he'll get to see with one eye how he's gonna die.

The bowie knife appeared before Markinson's wide eye. He whimpered from behind the duct tape.

You're lucky I had a change of heart at the last minute, Bob, O'Banion said. I originally planned to make you watch me dissect your married girlfriend before I fucked you up with my beautiful knife. Do you like it?

A single tear rolled from the corner of Markinson's eye into the graying hair at his temple.

You really are a fucking pussy, O'Banion snorted his disgust. Chicks cry. Guys are supposed to fight tooth and nail, not just lay there bawling like a little girl.

You'd better get on with it, O'Banion, I said. She's bound to show up any second.

Yeah, I suppose you're right. All right, Bob. This is gonna hurt like a motherfucker, but if you're lucky, you'll bleed to death fast.

O'Banion straddled Markinson's thighs and gripped his flaccid dick. Remember the Bobbitts?

The whimpering increased.

I see you do, the creepy smile spread wide, peeling O'Banion's lips away from his teeth. This is gonna be a full Bobbitt. She just took the first inch or so, and your lovely lady is gonna take the whole damn thing.

My eyes clenched shut, shoulders tightened as I braced for his muffled scream. It never came. The muted sobs transformed into something different. I cracked one eye open and watched O'Banion jerking Markinson to full arousal.

You a faggot, Markinson? Lucky for you, I never cared either way. I think you should at least come before you go.

Fear, adrenalin, impending death, hope that the whole thing was some kind of elaborate joke—I watched the spectrum of human emotion flicker through Markinson's open eye. His spine stiffened, arched off the bed. The groan of completion was muffled by O'Banion's nasty laughter. He ripped the duct tape from Markinson's mouth, wringing out a little more agony. A second later, the bowie knife flashed in the yellow light from the cheap lamp before it plunged through Markinson's heart.

Blood flooded Markinson's lungs and spattered in wet bubbles up his throat and out of his mouth. The open eye dimmed quickly before glazing over in death.

No fun playing like a girl, O'Banion muttered. He flipped the sheet over Markinson's face and smeared the wet blood spots into the dingy threadbare fabric. He glued the open eye closed, held it and cursed again when his latex glove stuck for a second. Didn't think about the fact that I'll have to leave my knife.

So don't leave it.

Oh no. That's part of the plan. I've got a bottle of chloroform out in the trunk. Grab it and a rag and get back over here. I don't want a mark on the merry whore. We'll knock her out, get her prints on the hilt, make sure the semen is on her clothes and let her figure out how to explain it to the cops. That kid'll wake up just in time to tell the real cops that some state trooper was lookin' for Markinson's girlfriend—

He said he never saw her.

You think this rich prick didn't pay a pretty penny for people out here in Bumfuck to look the other way? Believe me. In a shithole speck on the map, people remember two things—strangers and money.

Then you shouldn't have gone into the cantina.

O'Banion chuckled and crawled off the bed. Who the fuck says I don't pay better than Markinson?

You don't look like a respectable businessman.

Exactly my point. These chicken-shit motherfuckers are terrified of guys like me. A dirty scumbag with a wad of cash strolls into a mom and pop store, and good people think one thing. Drug dealer. That's a piece of trouble nobody wants. Get your ass out to the car before I decide to kill you too.

The Markinson hit was the first time O'Banion came right out with an overt threat. It wasn't that I hadn't sensed it before, because I think anybody who enjoys killing that much is a danger to anyone in his path. Hearing the words sent a chill down my spine, and made me wonder if I shouldn't consider setting a few things right while I still had the chance.

Chapter 3

Father Ryan

Never had the confession of a stranger stirred so many emotions in my heart. Of course I was horrified by the words spoken, the human suffering inflicted at the hands of O'Banion. At the same time, my heart cracked with an undeniable ache for the killer Castillo. Such fear—mingled at the same time with incredible courage—moved me.

Child, are you asking God to absolve your sins?

The voice that had whispered so urgently a confession to one crime hissed a laugh. Not even God can forgive me, Padre. I fear that I am damned no matter what I do.

Even the worst sinner can be forgiven through the blood of Christ, I urged him to truly repent.

Nothing in the real world, that place outside the safety of these walls, is that simple. Would you believe that I was raised in the church, Father?

Yes.

Then you must know that I realize confession is only a small part of redemption.

You took that step tonight, child. God loves you. He will forgive you.

Even if I'm killing time while O'Banion restocks his supply of bowie knives so we can move on to the next job?

I wanted to beg this soul to reconsider the next course of action, but hadn't the plan already been outlined? They were on their way to do another job—another murder for hire. It doesn't have to be that way. Stay here—in the church. We'll provide sanctuary.

O'Banion is a cold son of a bitch. He'd just as soon burn your town to the ground, as he would leave without me. Somehow, our relationship has changed over the past few years. I think he believes he needs me to do the work.

Because he's illiterate?

No, Father. I give him something far more valuable than words. O'Banion likes having more time to spend with his victims. I'm the one who facilitates that. Believe me—he might be the one butchering our victims, but I've got as much blood on my hands as he does. O'Banion looks like the monster he is. I … Castillo's voice dipped almost too low to hear.

You what?

I look normal.

Do you? Or is your sin the first thing the world notices about you? I doubted this lost soul had considered the probability that our sins are a cloak that shrouds us. The more we try to hide it, the more visible it becomes to the world.

I don't follow, Padre.

Do you think that people see this dark side of your psyche when they meet you?

Can't say I meet a whole lot of people who live long enough to share the experience with the rest of the world. I suppose you'd like to reach through this screen and clobber me for putting your life at risk.

Excuse me? I hadn't considered what might happen to me if this O'Banion character discovered that Castillo had unburdened his sins to a priest. My hands trembled. I clutched my prayer book, steadying my faith. If this was my time to go, perhaps it was God's will.

Did you miss the part about O'Banion being a cold hearted bastard? He'd probably get off big time on doing a Catholic priest.

Don't be ridiculous. Surely he must know that no matter the sin confessed to me, I am bound by God to hold in confidence everything said to me within the confessional. I don't know your names. I frowned. Honestly, I'm not even certain of your gender. Last names don't tell me much, and your voice is...

Gender neutral. Yeah, I get that a lot, Padre. Maybe O'Banion's taunts are starting to take a toll after years of his abuse.

His taunts?

That I'm a pussy, Castillo said. He doesn't seem to think there's much manly spine running through my backbone. It doesn't matter to me what he thinks. What I want is for God to forgive me.

Then you regret this murder you helped O'Banion commit?

The one I told you about? No, I really don't regret it. What I know is that O'Banion is getting fed up with me. He'll kill me soon, and I don't want to take a chance.

Like Pascal's Wager. I'd seen the phenomenon much in my years in the priesthood. People lived lives without worry of consequences in the afterlife, but something would remind them of mortality, and suddenly they weren't so sure that dead was dead.

Yeah, I suppose it is.

My curiosity piqued. Castillo was obviously educated. What could turn someone's heart so cold toward his or her fellow man? Castillo ignored philosophy, but understood it. This is ridiculous, I said. Tell me your name, child.

Name? Castillo.

That's your given name?

Surname.

That doesn't tell me who you are. What name did your parents give you?

You'd run screaming from this church if I told you the truth.

Has all of this confession been a deception, Castillo?

No, but I glossed over the really bad parts.

I see.

When Markinson's girl showed up, we used the chloroform before she had a chance to see either one of us—or realize what happened to Markinson.

Did O'Banion violate her?

No...he's too paranoid about leaving his DNA behind at the scenes. But he made sure there'd be no question about who killed Markinson when she woke up.

How did he do that?

It's not easy for a woman to drive a blade through the breastbone into the heart. O'Banion thinks of everything. He shot her up with a shitload of PCP before we left. O'Banion says it's like giving steroids to the Incredible Hulk. The police wouldn't doubt for a second that she was fucked up when she killed Markinson.

Except you know that she is innocent, Castillo.

"Yeah, I guess she's innocent of murder. How can you, as a priest, condone her sin of adultery as less than killing someone? The way I see it, a sin is a sin. You lie; you may as well kill, because you're still a bad person. If those commandments are listed in order of importance, people who take God's name in vain or dishonor their parents or ignore the Sabbath are more fucked than murderers anyway."

No, no, Castillo. In a sense, you're correct. Sin is sin. But to take another human being's life is something that cannot be undone with an apology. Even man's laws that enforce punishment on killers … prison, not even death can undo that crime. Do you see the difference?

Yeah, but we didn't kill Markinson's lover.

No, you left her set up to be punished for the rest of her life for something she absolutely didn't do.

Isn't she responsible anyway?

I watched the shadow of Castillo's shoulder roll. He was rationalizing what he had done. The lack of empathy made me decide that name or no, gender neutrality issues aside, Castillo was certainly a man.

In what way is she responsible for the death of someone she loved?

The way I see it, she knew damn well that she was married to somebody else, and that her husband doesn't exactly have the most temperate reputation in the world. She could've divorced him first. She could've been faithful, or given this Markinson dude the opportunity to decide if her cunt was worth the risk to his longevity.

His matter of fact vulgarity and apparent disrespect for others, the woman he helped O'Banion frame for murder ate at my resolve to remain compassionate. God's job is hard, after all. I'm not sure I could forgive someone like Castillo without my bias pushing me into feeling his atonement could only be attained through a single act of contrition—turning himself in to the authorities.

Castillo, you know that God will only forgive the penitent man.

Yeah. What's your point?

You told me that you're not really sorry for what you've helped O'Banion do.

That's a problem, huh?

I'm not sure what prompted you to seek confession beyond fear that God will punish you.

I guess that sums it up. This won't fly with the big guy, will it?

His sigh puffed through the screen. If I could've curled into a tight ball out of sight in the far corner of my side of the confessional, I would've done it. The man—or whatever he was—unsettled me for some reason. Perhaps it was the knowledge that of the pair, Castillo possessed a scrap more humanity than his partner.

I would like you to pray about what you're doing, Castillo. I don't know the circumstances that put you in this … profession. Redemption is more than confession, my child. Without abstaining from committing the sin again, I'm not sure that redemption is possible.

Even if I haven't actually killed anybody?

You're helping O'Banion, facilitating his ability to kill without getting caught. From what you've explained, I doubt that this man would have the cunning to kill without getting caught.

He's paranoid about DNA. Don't doubt for a second that he's very good at what he does, Padre. If I think about what I'm doing and am completely honest, I'm actually saving lives.

Because O'Banion would kill anyone who got in the way? That young man you drugged …

He'd have his throat slashed if I hadn't drugged him.

But you're still helping him kill others.

"Look, I get what you're saying. I don't need to pray about jack shit, Padre. Some of us don't have the luxury of choice regarding a chosen profession. I do as I'm told. I accept the fact that I exist for one purpose."

Tell me what you think God would say if you stood before him right now and posed that as a justification for what you've done, Castillo.

"He'd probably tell me to go straight to hell. Do not pass go. Do not get through the pearly gates for eternal bliss. I don't deny that I deserve it. Maybe I figured he'd cut me some slack on how I die if I owned up to the shit I've done in my life."

I'm not sure it works that way, Castillo. The best any of us can hope for is the eternal reward when God removes all memory of our earthly suffering and wipes away our tears. Please consider what you're doing with your life, how much those who miss your victims continue to suffer. Something beyond fear prompted you to seek the confessional tonight.

So you're not gonna give me a bunch of Hail Mary's or anything, huh?

If you're not sorry for what you've done, I can't offer peace or forgiveness. I will implore you to resist this calling you claim to have.

You want me to let O'Banion kill anybody that gets in his way?

No, I want you to stop facilitating his murders. I'll pray for you, my child, that God will give you strength to choose a different path for your life.

I suppose that's more than I deserve. But who prays for you, Padre? he asked.

I confess my sins to another confessor, child. I'm not exempt.

You confess all of them? he pressed a bit further. What was he insinuating? Surely my confessor hadn't broken the seal.

"Of course