Father, Forgive Them

"Father Wolfe. Am I glad to see you!" As Larry Curtland got up from where he had been sitting on the cot, he looked as though he might deflate and leave his clothes hanging in air. As though this was all he had waited for and now nothing else mattered. "They won't believe me."

"Father. Larry." Lieutenant Higgins was opening the cell door. "Come down to the lawyer room. We can't talk here. And the ordinary visiting rooms aren't adequate for this."

The two-story jail from the inside looked like an oversized shoebox. Two offices in the very front as you came up the stairs from Landor Avenue, with the visiting room off to the right, and the cells to the south along what looked like an endless corridor from behind the offices to the back of the building. More rooms—offices?—upstairs. In the basement? There were steps going down—to what, a parking garage? Probably not with all of that parking space in back.

The room Higgins ushered them into was a perfect cube. A box. And although apparently clean and painted almond, seemed hesitant to offer its services—for no discernible reason. Three no-nonsense chairs. A small, already tired desk.

The lieutenant led the boy in. Father Wolf followed. As soon as Larry turned around, the priest reached out of nowhere and gave the boy a bear hug. Strong, like hot new-brewed Starbuck's coffee.

"Won't believe what, Lar?" he whispered in his ear.

"That I did what I said I was going to do." His usually neatly parted red hair was wildly disheveled. But he looked Father Wolfe straight in the eyes, as though he wanted to reach out and force the priest's whole being to listen to him. Not truculent. But demanding. And their everyday greenness now seemed to be as distant and deep as the sea to the priest.

"And what did you do?"

"I killed my father."