Sacred Sins

the man the police are looking for.”
    “And you think you should have?”
    “I think being as involved as I am now, I should have more.” She lifted one hand in a gesture that spoke of frustration and uncertainty. “I've talked to him three times. It bothers me that I can't get through my own fear, maybe my own self-interest, to push the right buttons.”
    “Do you think you know those buttons?”
    “It's my job to know them.”
    “Tess, we both know the psychotic mind is a maze, and the routes leading to the core can shift and shift again. Even if we had him under intensive therapy in ideal conditions, it might take years to find the answers.”
    “Oh, I know. Logically, medically, I know that.”
    “But emotionally is a different story.”
    Emotionally. She dealt with other people's emotions on a daily basis. It was different, and much more difficult, she discovered, to open her own to someone else. “I know it's unprofessional, and that worries me, but I'm past the point where I can be objective. Monsignor Logan—Tim—that last woman who was killed was meant to be me. I saw her in that alley. I can't forget.”
    His eyes were kind, but she saw no pity in them. “Transferring guilt won't change what happened.”
    “I know that too.” She rose and went to the window. Below, a group of students rushed across the grass to make their next class.
    “May I ask you a question?”

    “Naturally. I'm in the answer business.”
    “Does it bother you that this man may be, or may have been, a priest?”
    “On a personal level, you mean, because I'm a priest?” To consider it, he sat back with his hands steepled. As a young man he'd boxed both in and out of the ring. His knuckles were fat and spread. “I can't deny a certain discomfort. Certainly the idea of the man being a priest rather than, say, a computer programmer, makes the entire business more sensational. But the simple truth is that priests are not saints, but as human as a plumber, a right fielder, or a psychiatrist.”
    “When he's found, will you want to treat him?”
    “If I were asked,” Logan said slowly. “If I believed I could be of use, then perhaps. I wouldn't feel obliged or responsible, as I believe you do.”
    “You know, the more afraid I am, the more essential it becomes to me to help him.” She turned to the window again. “I had a dream last night. A rather dreadful one. I was lost in these corridors, this maze, and I was running. Even though I knew I was dreaming I was still terrified. The walls became mirrors and I could see myself over and over again.” Unconsciously she put a hand to the glass of the window, as she had to the mirror in the dream. “I was carrying my briefcase, dragging it really, because it was so heavy. I looked in one of the mirrors and it wasn't my reflection, but Anne Reasoner's. Then she was gone and I was running again. There was a door. I just had to get on the other side of that door. When I got there, it was locked. I looked frantically for the key, but I didn't have it. Then the door opened on its own. I thought I was safe. I thought—then I saw the priest's frock and the amice.”

    She turned back, but couldn't bring herself to sit. “Oh, I could sit down and write a very detailed and comprehensive analysis of that dream. My fear of being out of control in this situation, overwork, and my refusal to cut down on that workload. Guilt over Anne Reasoner. My frustration at not finding the key to this case and my ultimate, my very ultimate failure.”
    She hadn't mentioned fear for her life. Logan considered it a very interesting and telling omission. Either she had not yet brought herself to face it, or she linked the possibility with her dread of failing.
    “You're so sure you're going to fail?”
    “Yes, and I detest the idea.” The admission brought a self-deprecating smile. Tess ran her fingers over the cover of the antique Bible and found the carving deep and smooth. “There's something in here about pride going before a fall.”
    “I tend to think that depends on the pride. You've given the police everything a trained psychiatrist could, Tess. You haven't failed.”
    “I never have, you know. Not really. Not on a personal level. I did well in school, played hostess very properly for my grandfather until my practice cut back on my free time. As far as men were concerned, after one minor disaster in college I always made sure I called the shots. Things have been very safe and