by: Washington Maverick | April 24, 2004
As the sun crept low over the walls of the church, Tobias grabbed his spade and his hoe and began to walk towards the tool shed. The dying red glow hovered on the tops of the bushes as he passed, slowly dimming with the day. Outside the door, he threw the spade into the ground, the blade slitting the soil open. He winced, closing his eyes as he laid the hoe against the shack. It kept coming back, those skills permanently implanted in his body. As much as he did to cover them up, the trowel always landed blade down, his footsteps were always lighter than they should be, and his fingers always itched when he thought about the stock of a rifle sitting cradled in his arms.
Closing the door behind him, he stripped the shirt from his back, tossing the dirty fabric to the lone chair in the room. He collapsed onto the bed, allowing his tired body to relax, to ease the tight muscles in his back and neck. Even as he thought about the tight muscles in his neck, that tattoo began to burn his skin. His neck sizzled, the liquid flesh ran down his back as his hand slapped onto the nape of his neck, pawing at the searing heat.
He sat up in bed, still pawing at the memory of the fiery pain at the back of his neck, all but disappeared. He collapsed back into the sheets, the sweat dripping from his face. He stared at the ceiling, afraid to go to sleep again, afraid to dream.
* * * * *
Tobias knelt on the cold stone steps, fingering the worn wooden beads, his face impassive as he prayed. As he reached the end of his rosary, he stood, taking in the flowers that were now arranged around the altar. The sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, flooding the room with the morning rays. High above, the bells began to ring, and Tobias turned to walk towards the confession booth. Stepping into the booth, he knelt on the kneeler and rested his arms on the armrest, his fingers clasped together. Father Vittorio made his way through the sanctuary, through the pews to the back of the church. Parting the curtain, he sat in his old, weather-beaten chair and looked at the screen, surprised to see Tobias’s outline.
"Forgive me father, for I have sinned," came Tobias’s deep, gravelly voice.
"What have you done, my son? Tell me, so that God may forgive you."
"Father... I’ve killed... many people... for pay."
"God’s commandments state ‘Thou shall not kill.’ You have prayed much my son, but only you may define for yourself the amount of prayer needed for the dead."
Tobias’s head drooped as the answer refused to come to him, yet again.
"Father, why do I keep having dreams? Why does this tattoo burn like the sun in every one of them?"
The father’s brow furrowed in thought. "My son, I cannot interpret this vision for you, you must pray to God for an answer. I will pray for you as well, that you might find the answers you seek."
Tobias thanked the priest, and rising from the kneeler, he went again the steps of the dais and retrieved his rosary. The beads passed through his fingers.
Father Vittorio strolled through the courtyard towards the rectory, his hands clasped at the small of his back, the rosary looped around his neck gently bouncing against his chest. The screech of tires reached his ears as he neared the ancient wooden doors, his pace changed direction and quickened slightly to see what was creating such noise outside the Sicilian monastery.
Upon swinging the tall door open, Vittorio was greeted by the sight of an expensive red sports car which had stopped on the side of the road, the bumper mere inches from the flagstone outer wall of the church compound. A short, heavy-set Italian was getting out of the passenger’s seat, his face set in a grimace.
"The church is closed today," was the priest’s greeting.
"Do me a favor," the white-shirted man returned, "And shut up!"
His fist connected solidly with the old cleric’s stomach doubling him over. The white-shirted Italians knee rocketed up into the priest’s forehead as he crumpled to the ground. The man grabbed the violently coughing priest and threw him into the back seat of the Ferrari. Taking a piece of paper from his pocket, the heavy-set figure set it against the door and plunged a knife through the top, piercing the oak wood. The mysterious man jumped back into the car as the driver whipped it around with a power slide to face the opposite direction. Pedal caressed the floor as the deep roar of the Ferrari’s engine enveloped the country side.
