Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

English and Spanish are spoken in equal measure in my parish, so I usually have to guess which language to use to break the silence in cases like this. Now, however, there was no guesswork involved. They say a priest’s chastity increases his sensory strength. I’m not sure that’s true, but I smelled Maria’s rose perfume as soon as she arrived. The hint of lily, vanilla, and white musk gave her away.
    “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” I said in Spanish.
    She repeated the Trinitarian formula. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Her voice cracked with emotion.
    I let a few seconds pass. “Yes?”
    She could barely get the words out. “It’s been four weeks since my last confession. But my last confession was a lie.”
    I let a few more seconds go by. “Why was it a lie?’
    “Because I was unfaithful to my husband. I was unfaithful to my husband … with one of the men that had him killed.”
    As she sobbed, I dreamed of stepping out of the confessional, lifting her in my arms, and comforting her like a man. This pleasant vision flitted in and out of my mind in a nanosecond and was usurped by the reality that a priest must be a judge. He has jurisdiction over the penitent, and the power to forgive sins.
    The role of judge is my least favorite. As a priest, I relish the opportunity to help the penitent heal, but as a man, I’ve never fully forgiven myself for one particular sin, so I am insecure about sitting in judgment of others.
    After absolving Maria of her sins, I waited a few more minutes to let Maria say her penance before turning off the lights and locking the church. I saw her walking to the rectory ahead of me, and as she passed under the streetlamp at the corner of the church lot, the light illuminated her figure. I couldn’t help but notice her hips gently sashaying in the fabric of her capri pants. And once again I insisted to myself that I did not think of her in the way that other men did. I did not want to touch her. I did not want to possess her. I did not love her more for having the strength to confess to her transgression.
    When I got to the rectory, I locked myself in my room and prayed for her and her son’s health and salvation, and for the strength to keep my vows. As I prayed, it occurred to me that if Maria knew who was responsible for her husband’s death, she and her son might be in constant mortal danger.
    By 11:00 p.m., the lights were off in Maria’s and Manuel’s rooms. The prosthesis on my leg is a transfemoral one, commonly known as an AK, because the leg was replaced above the knee. It also uses a myoelectric, battery-powered device that works with a time lag. I have to put on additional socks intermittently because the fit fluctuates during the day. I was taking off the last pair in preparation for my nightly stretching routine when I heard a car door close.
    My bedroom sits atop the living room at the front of the rectory. I peeked through the curtain and saw a Lincoln Town Car parked across the street. I assumed it was a livery car — no one actually
buys
a Lincoln Town Car — and looked around to see if some well-heeled party animal was taking a leak along the fence after a night of drinking at Black-Eyed Holly’s up the street. I didn’t see any such person.
    Instead, a man got out of the driver’s side. He was short and squat and dressed in a suit. He was looking toward the church when a second man appeared in my line of sight, coming from beneath my window, presumably from the steps to the rectory. He was tall and lean and also dressed in a suit, with a fedora on his head. The tall man went to the car, where the short man whispered something to him. Beneath the light of the streetlamp in front of the house I could see their dark complexions. It occurred to me that while no one bought a Lincoln Town Car, people did rent them. At airports. When they were in town on business.
    The men reached inside their suit coats, pulled out guns, and headed down the walkway toward the door to the rectory.
    I scrambled to my feet, grabbed the phone, and dialed 911.
    I cupped my hand over the phone and kept my voice at a whisper. “This is Father Nathan, from St. Valentine’s Church on Huyshope Avenue.”
    “Yes, Father.” It was the same dispatcher as before. Muted voices barked in the background. “What is the nature of your emergency?”
    “Two men with guns. They’re here. They’ve come for Maria and Manuel. The