Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

had each done a terrible thing, he still bought me mittens and lied to the police and brought me coffee in the morning. And I thought to myself,
This is a good man
. And I said, “Let’s move to the city.” And we never spoke of it again.

SILENT JUSTICE
    BY C. E. LAWRENCE
    B less me, Father, for I have sinned.”
    Father Aleksander Milichuk pressed his fingertips hard against the sides of his forehead in an attempt to stop the throbbing in his right temple. Another Monday morning, another migraine on the way. He really needed to back off on the Sunday-night drinking at McSorley’s. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, as his mother was so fond of reminding him. Maybe she was right; he was nearing forty, and these days just a couple of drinks could bring on a wicked headache. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
    “How long has it been since your last confession?”
    “Three weeks.” The voice on the other side of the confessional was a breathy tenor, the voice of a young person.
    “Is it a venial sin or a —”
    “A mortal sin, Father.”
    Something in the man’s tone made him lean forward.
    “And what was this sin, my son?”
    The answer came in a low voice, barely audible.
    “Murder, Father.”
    Father Milichuk sat up very straight on his narrow bench, his mind snapping into sharp focus. He was no longer aware of the throbbing in his head. Panicked, he tried to think of a response, but his tongue was dry as paper and stuck to the roof of his mouth. There was a rustling sound from the other side of the confessional, as though the man were removing something from a plastic bag. Crazy, improbable thoughts darted through the priest’s head.
What if he brought a gun with him?
His knees shook as fear flooded his veins.
Say something!
He tried to remember if he had ever heard this voice before.
    “Aren’t you going to give me penance, Father?” The man’s tone was patient, weary.
    The priest was very good at identifying voices and was certain he had never heard this man’s voice before.
    “Uh, yes, of course,” he sputtered finally. “Say twelve Hail Marys —” He stopped, stunned by the feeble inadequacy of his response.
    The man on the other side of the booth chuckled sadly. “That’s all?”
    “H-have you confessed your sin to the police?”
    “I’m confessing it to you.”
    “Yes, I know, but —”
    “I don’t want to go to prison.”
    “Who did you — kill?”
    “It doesn’t matter. I took a life; that’s all I’m required to tell you. Give me absolution, Father. Please.”
    “It’s just that —”
    “Please.”
It was half entreaty, half threat.
    The priest looked at the lattice of shadow cast by the metal grille between them, crisscrossed like miniature prison bars.
    “All right,” he said. “But —”
    “Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet,”
the man began,
“me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor, quia peccando …”
    He finished his flawless Latin recitation with a final “Amen.”
    “Now will you give me absolution?”
    Father Milichuk could see no way out of it. Crossing himself, he began to recite the familiar litany.
    “May our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you —”
    “In Latin, Father — please.”
    The priest crossed himself again. His head throbbed, and his palms were sweating.
    “Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat …”
The words seemed to stick in his throat. He coughed and managed to complete the prayer, crossing himself one final time. But he failed to find the usual comfort in the gesture; it felt futile, desultory.
    “Thank you, Father.” The man sounded genuinely grateful. Whatever else he was, the priest thought, he was a true Catholic who believed in the power of absolution.
    “Say twelve Hail Marys,” he began, “and —”
    “I will, Father — thank you. God bless you.”
    “God be with you, my son.”
    Before the priest could say another word, he heard the door hinges creak open, then the sound of rapidly receding footsteps on the stone floor of the church. Father Milichuk peered out through a hole in the carved design of the door, but the lighting was dim and all he could make out was the figure of a man dressed in dark clothing walking quickly away. Medium height, medium build; he could be anyone.
    One thing the priest was certain of was that the mysterious supplicant was a Roman Catholic, not Greek. His perfect Latin was spoken in the Roman way, and he had said “I have sinned” rather than “I am a