The Redemptive Return

Prologue

Prologue

BURYING THE DEAD IS a corporal act of mercy.

No one is more in need of mercy than a murderer and a suicide.

A priest who is both needs mercy the most.

I’m standing under the blazing July sun next to the grave of Father Leonard McCoy, priest of the Roman Catholic Church and confessed murderer. Only child of Meredith and Benjamin McCoy, deceased. Born October 22, 1990; died July 21, 2020, by his own hand using a rope fashioned from his shirt in a cell in the Myer County Jail.

About two hundred yards away, slightly shaded by a large maple, is another grave. There lies Rachel Watson, murdered at the hands of Father Leonard McCoy.Born March 24, 1992; died July 10, 2020. With her is buried her eight-week-old unborn child, fathered by Father Leonard.

Before this July, in my six years as a priest, I had never performed a single funeral.

In a matter of weeks, I performed three.

The first, Rachel Watson, I did before a packed Saint Clare’s parish. If not every member, almost every member was there to pray for the soul of this poor woman.

The second, Winthrop Myer III, Rachel’s brother-in-law, killed by a jealous wife, was even better attended as befitting one of the pioneer families of Western Maryland. Dignitaries from across the state, Washington, DC, Virginia, West Virginia, and Pennsylvania attended. The Governor sent his condolences. There was even a message from the White House.

Father Leonard’s mourners number two. One is Anna Luckgold, my late wife’s mother and more of a mother to me than my own. The other is Helen Parr, the woman I once loved and whose heart I once broke, the detective who brought my wife’s killer to justice, and who maintained Father Leonard’s guilt in the face of my stubborn insistence on his innocence.

The other parishioners of Saint Clare’s, who this broken man shepherded for over six months, could not find it in themselves to pray for the soul of one of Our Lord’s lost sheep.

As I finish the final prayers at the graveside, Portia’s words from The Merchant of Venice pop into my head.

The quality of mercy is not strained.

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

For Father Leonard, mercy was almost non-existent.

I make the sign of the cross over Father Leonard and the duet of mourners. I’m baking in the sun. Underneath my layers of vestments, my body is dripping with perspiration. I’m fairly certain I’m beginning to sunburn. Now would be the time to leave.

Instead, I just stand where I am, my hands clutching my copy of the Rite of Christian Burial, staring down at the casket.

You could have prevented this.

You should have prevented this.

Now, three people are dead because of you.

A hand on my shoulder and the scent of vanilla tells me I’m no longer alone.

Reading my thoughts, Helen whispers, “Tom, this wasn’t your fault. None of what happened was.”

She’s been saying the same thing to me for days now. My eyes remain fixed on the casket.

“I know, Helen,” I whisper.

“Do you?”

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. Concern is etched into every tiny line and every small corner of her face. Her eyes, their deep azure blue usually vibrant, are sad.

Of course they’re sad. It’s a funeral.

Only the sadness, I suspect, is not for Father Leonard.

“Let’s go,” she says quietly, gently pulling on my arm.

“No,” I say, pulling my arm away. “You go on. I’ll talk to you later. I need to see Joan first.”

“I can go with you.”

I shake my head. “I want to be alone.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Helen, please!” I snap. I close my eyes. “Sorry,” I whisper.

Wordlessly, she pats my shoulder and walks away. I take one last look at the grave and turn in the direction of Joan’s.

She’s buried up a slight hill, underneath a large, expansive oak tree. Even under the shade, the heat is almost unbearable. I’m certain to die of heatstroke before I get back to the Rectory.

I don’t care.

I stand in front of the place where my wife is buried. The woman who died in my arms fifteen years ago, murdered by a bullet fired by her emotionally disturbed ex-husband. An ex-husband I knew nothing about before last October.

Like Rachel Watson’s, her funeral was well-attended, with scores of mourners lining the pews to pay their last respects and pray for her soul.

But then, she wasn’t a murderer who died by his own hand. In that, she was very different from Father Leonard.

In one respect, however, Joan was very much like both Father Leonard and Rachel Watson.

I couldn’t save her, either.

My knees weaken and I collapse on the grass in front of her headstone, whether from the heat or the emotions piling on me, I don’t know.

I stare at her name etched in the marble, just above the words, “Loving wife and daughter.”

I cover my face with my hands and bend so my forehead is touching the ground.