Sacred Sins

let the curtain fall, she wondered why that didn't ease her mind.

    S HE'D looked out at him. He'd known, somehow; he'd known the moment her eyes had focused on him as he stood on the street below. What had she seen? Her salvation?
    Almost sobbing against the headache, he let himself into his apartment. The corridor was dark. No one ever watched him come or go. Neither was he worried that she'd seen his face. It had been too dark and too distant for that. But had she seen the pain?
    Why had he gone there? He stripped off his coat and let it lie in a heap. The next day he would hang it neatly and tidy the rest of the apartment, as was his habit, but tonight he could hardly think over the pain.
    God always tested the righteous.
    He found a bottle of Excedrin and chewed two pills, welcoming the dry, bitter taste. His stomach was rolling with a nausea that came every night now and lingered through the mornings. He was dousing himself with over-the-counter drugs just to keep functioning.
    Why had he gone there?
    Perhaps he was going mad. Perhaps it was all madness. He held out his hand and watched the tremor. If he didn't control himself, they would all know. In the aluminum range hood that he kept clean of grease and grime, as he'd been taught, he saw his distorted reflection. The priest's collar was white beneath his haggard face. If they saw him now, they would all know. Perhaps that would be best. Then he could rest, rest and forget.
    Pain sliced through the base of his skull.

    No, he couldn't rest, he couldn't forget. Laura needed him to complete his mission so that she could finally find the light. Hadn't she asked, begged for him to ask God for forgiveness?
    Judgment had been quick and harsh for Laura. He'd cursed God, lost his faith, but he'd never forgotten. Now, all these years later, the Voice had come, showing him the way to her salvation. Perhaps she had to die again and again through another lost one, but it was quick, and each time there was absolution. Soon it would be over, for all of them.
    Going into the bedroom, he lit the candles. The light flickered on the framed picture of the woman he'd lost, and the women he'd killed. Clipped neatly and lying beneath a black rosary was the newspaper picture of Dr. Teresa Court.
    He prayed in Latin, as he'd been taught.

    B EN bought her an all-day sucker, swirled with red and yellow. Tess accepted it at the door, gave it a thorough study, then shook her head.
    “You know how to keep a woman off balance, Detective. Most men go for chocolate.”
    “Too ordinary. Besides, I figured you'd probably be used to the Swiss kind, and I—” He broke off, aware that he was going to start rambling if she kept smiling at him over the round hunk of candy. “You look different.”
    “I do? How?”
    “Your hair's down.” He wanted to touch it but knew he wasn't ready. “And you're not wearing a suit.”
    Tess looked down at her wool slacks and oversized sweater. “I don't usually wear suits to a horror-movie double feature.”
    “You don't look like a psychiatrist anymore.”

    “Yes, I do. I just don't look like your conception of one.” Now he did touch her hair, just a little. She liked the way he did it, in a gesture that was both friendly and cautious.
    “You've never looked like my conception of one.”
    Wanting a moment to align her own thoughts, she set the sucker down on the table beside a Dresden platter, then went to the closet for a jacket. “And what is your conception?”
    “Someone pale, thin, and bald.”
    “Hmmm.”
    The jacket was suede, and soft as butter. He held it for her as she slipped her arms in. “You don't smell like a psychiatrist either.”
    She smiled over her shoulder. “What does a psychiatrist smell like? Or do I want to know?”
    “Like peppermint, and English Leather aftershave.”
    She turned to face him. “That's very specific.”
    “Yeah. Your hair's caught.”
    He dipped his hand under the collar of her jacket and freed it. He took a step forward, almost without thinking, and had her against the closet door. Her face tilted up, and there was a wariness in her eyes he'd noticed before. She wore little makeup, the sleek, polished look that was so much a part of her image replaced by a warm accessibility a smart man would recognize as dangerous. He knew what he wanted, and was comfortable with the swift rush of desire. The degree of it was another matter. When you wanted too much, too quickly, he thought, it was best to