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Bless Me, for I Will Sin

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Chapter One

At 0900 hours, Lieutenant Smithers and Sergeant Levins were shown into Major Johnson's office. After acknowledging their salutes, Major Johnson motioned for them to sit down and asked, "Can I get either of you a cup of coffee?" Both declined, so he continued. "I've got a meeting with the colonel this morning, so I'll get right to the point. Sergeant, Lieutenant Smithers told me yesterday that he found an unused detonator at the bridge and barricade demonstration site after yesterday's exercises. Do you have any idea how it got there?"

Sergeant Levins answered, "Well, sir, the demonstration called for twelve one-pound blocks of C4 and one detonator for each block. While Lieutenant Smithers was giving the protocol lecture, I placed half the charges on the backside of the structures. When he finished the lecture, I then placed the remaining charges on the front side of the structures so the class could see the proper placement procedures. After the detonation, both structures were completely destroyed, so ..."

Pausing to take a deep breath, he looked at Major Johnson and said, "The only conclusion is that I somehow miscounted and packed an extra detonator."

Focusing on Lieutenant Smithers, Major Johnson asked, "Are you okay with this?"

Nodding his head, Lieutenant Smithers responded, "Yes, sir. As far as I'm concerned, it was a simple mistake and has been rectified."

Major Johnson lit another cigarette as he spoke to Sergeant Levins. "In the future, Sergeant, you need to be more careful. You're not that far from retirement."

"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir," Levins replied. Once outside, Sergeant Levins walked over to his Jeep and climbed in.

His hands were sweating, and his throat felt very dry. He had almost screwed the whole deal up over a stupid mistake. It had been easy to split the C4 charges on the backside of the structures. He was alone, and he had learned long ago that a half-pound charge of C4 would easily destroy the wooden joints of the two structures. Of course, he had not put the detonator back in inventory but merely juggled the inventory figures. Two-plus pounds of C4 and a detonator would bring a tidy profit, and with his mother's illness and an autistic child to take care of, it was worth the risk. Love, pain, and pressure make people take unfathomable chances. Tomorrow, he would call the Italian in New Orleans.

Thursday, November 23

It was almost dark as the taxi pulled up to Michael Alan Dubose's French Quarter apartment. Michael was twenty-five years old, slight of build, and five eight with a full head of hair tied back in a ponytail and an untrimmed beard and mustache. He'd have blended in very nicely at a rock concert or a protest, but the French Quarter being the French Quarter, he didn't stand out one way or the other. He had always liked the French Quarter, even as a boy. It seemed to have a life of its own; it felt alive, yet wasn't overly demanding and didn't ask for much. The buildings and streets were its body, and the people in and around it were its lifeblood. The place seemed to pulsate, and if you were around it long enough, it consumed you.

When the taxi came to a stop in front of his apartment, Michael reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled twenty dollar bill, and gave it to the driver. As he opened the door to exit, the cabbie said, "Hey, buddy, you gave me a twenty; the tab's only twelve bucks."

Not bothering to turn around, Michael snarled, "Keep the change." Starting up the stairway that led to his apartment, he was struck for the thousandth time by the strange smokey aroma that permeated the dimly lit stairwell. Michael had liked the apartment the first time he'd looked at it six years ago. It was quiet, the rent was reasonable, and the owners didn't pry. Unlocking the apartment door, Michael entered the sparsely furnished living room and settled into one of the old lounge chairs opposite the sofa. Billy Butterfly was sitting in the sofa and seemed to be in deep thought. Billy had roomed with Michael for the past two years, and they got along very well. He was a little shorter than Michael and had a little less hair, but they looked enough alike to be brothers. Looking over at his friend, Michael asked, "Well, Billy, how'd your day go?"

Not bothering to look up, Billy said, "Oh, it's been quiet enough, but what's more important is how did things go at your mother's?"

Sliding back into the old chair, Michael looked at Billy for a minute and said, "It was the same as all the other dinners: bitch, bitch, bitch. 'When are you going to get a real job?' 'When are you going to get a haircut?' 'When are you going to buy some new clothes?' 'You should get a girlfriend. You need to get out of the Quarter and go to college. God only knows you have enough money.' Billy, it never changes, and it never will. Year, after year, after year. It's been incessant, and to be honest, I absolutely hate my mother and the bitch Michelle, her maid."

As Michael paused, Billy interjected, "You know, Michael, even though we've been friends for the last two years, I've never meet your mother or, for that matter, any of your acquaintances, so it's a little hard for me to understand your hatred."

Looking over at Billy, Michael said, "My mother's very pretty on the outside. Even today, at fifty plus, she could pass for a much younger woman. Her hair is dark brown, and she smiles a lot, but behind the smiles and the pretty face, she's totally consumed by herself. Her only real love is herself and what she sees in her mirrors. She spends hours in front of her mirrors, and to her, I have always been nothing but an inconvenience. The harder I tried to love her, the more distant she became. Occasionally, I would get a half smile but never a hug or a squeeze. Most of the time, she just walked away from me. We never talked or joked. She always made me feel unwanted and pitiful."

Pausing for a moment to rub the back of his neck, Michael continued. "About a week after my father died in a motel fire in Metairie, I woke up one night and had wet the bed. I was very confused and frightened, so I went to my mother's bedroom and woke her up. She went berserk and started screaming at me about how I was too old to start wetting my bed and that I wasn't about to get into her bed soaking wet. She told me to go back to my bedroom and sleep on the floor. So I went back to my room and slept on the floor. This went on for about a week, and finally my mother took me to the doctor who examined me and told her I wasn't diabetic and had no urinary or bladder infection. As far as he was concerned, it was probably caused by the fact that I had lost my dad, and said that I'd grow out of it eventually. Needless to say, my mother wasn't happy about any of this, because she hated my father. It was at this point that she told me my father had gotten drunk with a prostitute, and they'd passed out together in the motel room. A cigarette had ignited the bed, and both had died of smoke inhalation."

Getting up, Michael walked over to the window and watched as a light rain dampened the streets below. Turning, he said, "I've thought about all this through the years, and I realize lots of boys have wet their beds, and their mothers have had problems with it, but the hatred I've endured has gone on and on. I need freedom. Think about it: for a six-year-old, the information...