Skeletons in the Rain

CHAPTER 7 | OVER A MONTH AGO: GOLGOTHA

"You can't fool everyone all the time, little priest," Dark Skull teased him with his phone. "Either keep all hell from breaking loose or try to snatch this recording from us. Otherwise, you'll become an overnight internet celebrity."

The priest tugged at the tablecloth near him, knocking his miniature Sistine Chapel and his journal to the ground. Coughing, he beat the flames with quick but precise strokes while the Skulls fled through the back door. This is not gasoline. They had sloshed only enough fuel to deceive him with the smell. The fire was not engulfing the wooden furniture because they had poured water all over them. They are toying with me.

By the time the threat of a blaze became nothing more than mere smoke, they were already out of reach.

Maybe not, he realized. The alley goes around the church. If I hurry through the front door, I can intercept them.

Ismael didn't look like how most people would picture a village priest. He was six feet tall and broad-shouldered; a few laps a day in the municipal swimming pool kept his back muscles strong. If not for his horn-rimmed glasses and gray hair, no one would have thought he was in his mid-fifties.

Yes. These past few months, he'd drowned his nights in coffee while putting together puzzles of distant places he dreamed of visiting. Yes. He had spent countless nights with Borges, Tolstoy, and Shakespeare because only the classics had something interesting to say in this godforsaken town. And, yes, Ismael was also aware he recently hadn't been able to swim more than a few feet without having to stop altogether, but none of that mattered to him.

I will catch them.

There was no doubt in his mind. His body had different plans, however.

A tingling sensation electrified him from the tips of his fingers to his shoulder as he darted down the center aisle to the exit.

Ismael took off his surplice, clutched his left arm, and stared at it. This can't be happening. He fought against his own muscles until he reached one of the main doors, only to find it padlocked. A distant cloud of smoke grew thicker. How? I put out the fire. Despite the central nave spinning on its axis, he fumbled for the keys in his pockets with determination. Found them! Now I...

It felt as if a knife had pierced his chest.

After he collapsed, pain squashing the breath from his rib cage, he saw a moth fly toward the sacristy, drawn by the growing flames.

And then there was darkness.

San Isidro's priest, Ismael Niebuhr, died at fifty-four years old, alone in his church, after officiating the Sunday afternoon mass.

But he would not stay dead for long.