Sacred Sins

cloth-covered haunches, were less than half full for the nine o'clock service. It was quiet, with the occasional cough or sniffle echoing hollowly. A pleasant, religious light came through the stained-glass windows on the east wall. The altar stood at the head of the church, draped with its cloth and flanked by candles. White for purity. Above it hung the Son of God, dying on the Cross.
    Ben sat with Tess in the back pew and scanned the congregation. A few older women were scattered among the families toward the front. A young couple sat in the pew across from them, choosing the rear, Ben thought, because of the sleeping infant the woman carried. An elderly man who had come in with the help of a cane sat alone, two private feet away from a family of six. Two young girls in their Sunday best sat and whispered together, and a boy of about three knelt backward on the pew and ran a plastic car quietly over the wood.

    Ben knew he was making the sounds of the engine and screeching tires in his head.
    There were three men sitting alone who fit the general description. One was already kneeling, his thin, dark coat still buttoned, though the church was warm. Another sat, passing idly through the hymnal. The third was in the front of the church, and sat unmoving. Ben knew Roderick had the front, and the rookie, Pilomento, was situated in the middle.
    A movement beside Tess had Ben stiffening. Logan slid in beside her, patted her hand, and smiled at Ben. “Thought I'd join you.” His voice was a bit wheezy. He coughed quietly into his hand to clear it.
    “Nice to see you, Monsignor,” Tess murmured.
    “Thank you, my dear. I've been a little under the weather lately and wasn't sure I'd make it. I was hoping you'd be along. You'd have a sharp eye.” His gaze traveled around the half-empty church. Mostly the old and young, he thought. Those in the middle of their lives rarely thought God needed an hour of their time. After digging a Sucret out of his pocket, he looked at Ben again. “I hope you don't mind my volunteering. If you happen to get lucky, I might be of help. After all, I have what we might call house advantage.”
    For the first time since Ben had met him, Logan wore the white clerical collar. Seeing it, Ben only nodded.
    The priest entered, the congregation rose. The service began.
    Entrance Rite. The Celebrant in green vestments, stole, alb, the amice worn harmlessly under the flowing robes, the gangly altar boy in black and white, ready to serve.
    Lord have mercy.
    A baby five pews up began to cry lustily. The congregation murmured the responses in unison.
    Christ have mercy.

    The old man with the cane was working his way through the rosary. The young girls giggled and tried desperately to stop. The little boy with the plastic car was shushed by his mother.
    A man with a white silk amice next to his skin felt the drumming in his head ease with the familiar flow of Celebrant and congregation. His palms were sweaty, but he kept them clasped in front of him.
    The Lord be with you.
    And with your spirit.
    It was the Latin he heard, the Latin of his childhood, of his priesthood. It soothed, and the world stayed steady.
    The Liturgy. The congregation sat with shuffles, murmurs, and creaks. Ben watched, not really hearing the priest's words. He'd heard them all so many times before. One of his earliest memories was of sitting on a hard pew, his hands between his knees, the starched collar of his best shirt rubbing against his neck. He'd been five, or perhaps six. Josh had been an altar boy.
    The man in the thin black coat was slumped back in his seat as if exhausted. Someone cheerfully blew his nose.
    “For the wages of sin is death,” the priest intoned, “but God's gift is eternal life in Christ Jesus, our Lord.”
    The amice was cool against his skin, against his heart, as he murmured the response. “Thanks be to God.”
    They rose for the Gospel. Matthew 7:15–21. “Be on your guard against false prophets.”
    Isn't that what the Voice had told him? His head began to ring with the power of it as he sat very still. Excitement, fresh and clean, sang through his tired body. Yes, be on your guard. They wouldn't understand, they wouldn't let you finish. She pretended to understand. Dr. Court. But she only wanted to have him put in a place where he couldn't finish.

    He knew the kind of place—white walls, all those white walls and white nurses with their bored and wary looks. A place like his mother had been