5:46P.M.
“PLEASE BLESS ME,FATHER, FORIHAVE SINNED, IT HAS BEEN Amonth since my last confession and these are my sins.”
Chris Bozin paused.
“Eight times I let my greed dominate the brotherly spirit I should show others. And I practiced deceit more than I should have.”
“Selfishness is a sin all of us are guilty of at one time or another,” the priest whispered, the face on the other side a shadow through the stitched screen.
“I’m afraid, Father, my sins are of a magnitude more grievous than you realize.”
“Neither Christ nor the church distinguishes among sins. To Our Lord the violation is identical, the penance the same.”
“I’m also afraid, Father, my time may be short.”
“In what way?”
“My health is failing.”
The priest offered no salience. “If such be the case there’s little you can do to affect it.”
“But there may be something I can do for my soul.”
“Do you do this simply because your time may be short?”
“I do it because my eternal soul deserves better than what my mortal consciousness has provided.”
“You do realize that mortal consciousness is a measure of the eternal soul.”
“But is not forgiveness the keystone of both the church and God?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I seek absolution in the name of the Lord.”
“I absolve you of all your sins, including those of greed, selfishness, and vanity, you have committed during the past month. For your contrition please recite three Hail Marys and one Our Father. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, you may go in peace.”
The priest slid the panel shut.
Chris reverently made the sign of the cross, said a quick Our Father, then slowly pulled himself up off his knees.
He was inside the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, which sat in the shadow of the Georgia state capitol, an olden brick-and-stone structure topped with spires, towers, and bells, one of the first Catholic churches built in Atlanta. He’d been a regular attendee for over thirty years, turning to religion for some measure of serenity. Surprisingly, though, he’d found a degree of personal satisfaction.And through the years he’d willingly maintained his membership, becoming a prodigious contributor, his tithes legendary, all the priests becoming close friends. The voice of the associate who just heard his confession was new, the young man obviously yet to hear about Christopher Bozin.
He slipped out of the confessional.
A young woman rose from the adjacent pews and approached. He held the oak door open until she was inside, then crept toward the main altar, his steps cushioned by the crimson carpet runner. High above, from the peaked central nave, murals of Christ and the Virgin Mary gazed down. To his left, rows of tiny candles flickered from a side altar. He knelt in the first row of pews and silently said the contrition of the four assigned prayers.
Then he sat, and quietly waited for the start of 6:00 mass.
7:05P.M.
THECADILLAC WOVE THROUGH EVENING TRAFFIC AND DREW TO Ahalt in front of the church. Slowly, Chris climbed into the back seat and sank into the soft leather. The car belonged to him, the driver one of four domestic aides he employed.
He lived in southwest Atlanta simply because Hamilton Lee and Larry Hughes lived toward the northeast, his home a three-story neoclassical mansion built to reflect a love of things Italian. He’d modeled it after country estates visited in Tuscany, the main house perched among ten lush acres surrounded by sycamore trees and an eight-foot-high brick wall topped by sharpened wrought iron. He’d incorporated all the required amenities. A halo-shaped swimming pool, fountains adorned with Roman statues, and a beautifully manicured Italian garden that had won four Coweta County Garden Club awards.
He possessed no immediate family, his closest relatives a few nieces and nephews he rarely heard from. Most people were nothing but passing acquaintances. Occasionally a friendship would mature, none ever reaching the point of being close, though. OnlyNancy. They’d been together a long time. He trusted her. Probably even loved her. But he could never do anything about it. How could he? Bad enough he lived with the knowledge of his evil ways, no way he could involve anyone else.
Instead, he opted for the solitude of his own thoughts and the occasional adulation others provided. He maintained a reputation as a respected member of the chamber of commerce, past Rotarian, longtime Mason, and active church member. Since he controlled Southern Republic’s purse strings he was the contact point for countless charities. He gave yearly to the Heart Association, Cancer Society, and Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. His picture regularly appeared in newspapers, brochures, and magazines handing out check after check. All part of his crafted façade.
