From chapter 16: Two good deeds
Page 183…
Thomas Goodson emerged from Albert’s old print shop, clutching the heavy volume tightly under his arm. A faint light filtered through the clouds. The city seemed quiet, but something deep inside him was wrong.
As he walked down the narrow, cobblestone alley, his phone vibrated. A message from a familiar number, Simon Manning’s.
“Don’t go to the car. You’re being followed. Move quietly through the alleys toward the square.”
Goodson stopped abruptly, his heart leaping into his chest. He looked around. The picturesque district with its old mansions and small cafés looked as peaceful as a postcard scene.
He did not ignore the warning and changed his course, moving away from where he had parked. He began to walk quickly, but not suspiciously, following the instructions. The sound of his shoe heels echoed on the paving stones. Each step was heavier than the last, not just because of his age, but also from the shadow of fear that was slowly blanketing his heart.
Another message arrived.
“Turn into the second alley on the right. Then left. Don’t run, try not to arouse suspicion.”
Goodson obeyed. He knew how to follow orders. But he took out his phone and called the number for an explanation.
“Simon? What’s going on?” he asked in a low voice as he turned into an alley.
“Tom, listen carefully,” a voice came from the other side. It was Simon’s… but not quite. Something wasn’t right.
“You’re being followed. I’ll guide you.”
Goodson gripped the phone. His gaze darted behind him for a moment. Two men in long, dark trench coats appeared from around the corner. They were walking fast. Too fast for him to doubt their intentions. The sound of their footsteps on the cobblestones seemed to be hunting him. Fear was no longer an abstraction; it had flesh and bone.
“I see them. I know you’re not Simon,” he said breathlessly, “…and I don’t want to know who you are. Just tell me what to do.”
The voice on the other end of the line wasted no time.
“Continue straight for two blocks. In the square, at the entrance to the Catholic church, someone will be waiting for you.”
Goodson didn’t answer. He walked briskly, holding the heavy volume tightly to his chest, as if trying to hold his own heart in place.
He reached the square. On the steps of St. Nicholas Catholic Church, a dark figure gave him a subtle nod to follow him inside. A moment of hesitation crossed his mind, but what choice did he have?
He climbed the steps, out of breath. His age was not suited for this kind of excitement, and the heavy volume he clutched in his hands turned every step into an ordeal. He went inside the church and pulled the heavy wooden door, which closed behind him with a muffled thud.
His two pursuers arrived in front of the church in a matter of seconds. With him no longer in their line of sight, there was only one place he could have hidden. Inside the church.
They exchanged a nod and proceeded to the door. Their hands found the grips of their pistols as if on their own, instinctively. They pushed it open carefully, and its long creak echoed in the hall.
A warmth enveloped them as soon as they crossed the threshold, along with the temple’s dense atmosphere. The low light from the oil lamps, the suffocating smell of incense, and the deep, empty silence. Only their footsteps echoed on the stone slabs.
Suddenly, the church priest appeared before them. One of them pulled out his police ID, showed it to him, and motioned for him to get on the floor. He followed the command without a second thought.
They began to sweep the area, moving methodically between the pews. When they reached the confessionals, one of them stopped abruptly. He heard something. He motioned for the other to come closer. Then, he put his finger to his lips, the sign for silence. From inside the confessional came the sound of heavy, labored breathing.
With a silent nod, they took up positions on either side. Then with their fingers, they gestured: one, two, three…
They kicked the door, and it shuddered, making a violent crash that echoed through the church. The priest, lying on the floor, jumped in surprise.
But inside, they did not see Goodson. It was Jeff.
Jeff, with his gun raised to chest level. Cold, motionless, patient. An angel of death.
A single, frozen second was all it took. The deafening sound shattered the sacred silence of the church.
‘BANG. BANG’
He fired twice. In the chest, in the neck. A thud was heard as the lifeless body crumpled. The second man moved to take cover, but he was hopelessly late.
‘BANG’
The third shot was followed by a short, choked cry. The second man collapsed, bleeding heavily onto the blood-stained marble. He tried to get up, a foul murmur of hatred escaping his lips.
“I’ll… find you, you bastard…” he whispered thickly, blood frothing at the corner of his mouth.
Jeff stood over him. Cool, pitiless. His gaze was clear, though a hint of disgust passed through it.
“No. You won’t defile this place any longer.”
He fired one more time. In the forehead.
‘BANG’
The silence returned, heavy, almost sacred. As sacred as it could be with the blasphemous mix of gunpowder and incense in the air.
Jeff looked at the two bodies on the floor without a trace of remorse. Traitors, he thought.
No one liked them. Certainly not the honest people, but not even the criminals. Many of the latter had slid into crime because the former didn’t do their jobs properly. They were the kind of rot that infected everything.
Many have loved the treason, but none the traitor, was the last thought at the edge of his mind. But it was not the time for philosophy.
He went to the chancel. He knelt, opened the hidden door, and helped Goodson out. The old man looked like he couldn’t breathe, his face as white as a sheet. The horror of the events had overwhelmed him.
“What… what happened?” he asked in a trembling voice, his eyes fixed on the bloody shadows on the floor.
“They came for you,” Jeff replied, his voice hard but calm. “They wanted what you’re holding—the same thing I want.”
Goodson nodded slowly, still lost in the nightmare.
“It’s Manning’s. I have to deliver it to him. It’s our agreement.”
“Manning’s finished.”
The news hit him unexpectedly. The judge froze, leaning on the wood of the chancel to keep from collapsing.
“What… what do you mean?”
“They ‘suicided’ him this morning. They found him hanging naked. The narrative was some kinky sex game gone wrong…” A bitter, short laugh escaped Jeff. “The old bastard had plenty of vices, but not that one.”
The judge stared at the blood-stained floor, speechless. The horror numbed him, and the news about Manning hit him like a punch to the gut.
Despite the distance their paths had taken, he was a link to the past, a shared history full of shadows and secrets. Now that this link had been violently severed, he felt even more alone and vulnerable in a world that was collapsing around him.
Jeff approached him, serious and commanding. He gestured with his palm for him to hand over the hollowed-out book. Goodson obeyed.
“Listen to me. Go home and don’t talk to anyone. What happened here will never be known. They won’t risk raising suspicions and investigations for the deaths of two scumbags. The higher-ups will figure out what happened, but they have no reason to touch you from now on… unless you give them a reason.”
Jeff, holding the book, turned his back and moved toward the exit. Approaching the spot between the pews where the priest was hiding, he addressed him.
“You get out of here too, Father. If you tell the police what you saw and what you heard, you’ll be meeting your employer very soon. They’re all in on it together.”
The priest raised his trembling head, still lying on the floor.
“My son… how could you? What have you done in the house of God?”
Jeff continued walking without turning around.
“Two good deeds, Father. Two good deeds…”
