Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

who would listen. Because of his position, he was used to giving comfort and advice to others but was not very good at taking it himself.
    In the weeks after the attack, a lot of people needed help, so he wasn’t alone. Psychiatric wards all over the city were seeing a record influx of patients. Lee Campbell was another patient at the St. Vincent’s clinic, and they struck up a friendship. Campbell’s position as New York City’s only full-time criminal profiler was unique, and Aleks was drawn to the tall, charismatic Scot. After all, they each dealt with matters of morality, good and evil, though perhaps from different viewpoints. They had other things in common: Both loved music, had played rugby in college, and, to top it off, lived on the same block of East Seventh Street. And, as they liked to joke, both had difficult and devoted mothers.
    But what really united them was shared tragedy. Each had lost his younger sister in a misfortune with loose ends, the loss like an open wound that would never heal. The driver of the car that killed Sofia had never been caught, but Lee’s heartbreak was even worse, Aleks thought. His sister, Laura, had disappeared without a trace some years after the accident that took Sofia’s life. When Aleks thought about this, he took some small comfort in the fact that at least he knew what had happened to his sister. Lee Campbell’s tragedy had caused him to go from being a therapist to being a forensic psychologist, while Aleks had given up a promising career as an academic, turning from philosophy to the priesthood.
    He looked forward to their monthly Monday-night meetings at the pub, where they talked about everything from Beethoven to Jakob Böhme, the seventeenth-century German mystic. Aleks had written his Columbia honors thesis on Böhme, and when he found Lee Campbell had read the German’s work, it cemented their friendship.
    And, Aleks thought as he gazed at those deep blue eyes, it didn’t hurt that Campbell was a hell of a good-looking man. His mother was right about that, at least. Aleks had renounced ways of the flesh when he took his vows, but he had a weakness for Lee’s kind of looks: curly black hair, blue eyes, and ruddy cheeks. He sighed deeply as he drained his first beer and started on the second.
    “Are you all right?” Campbell asked.
    “Why do you ask?” Aleks said.
Was it that obvious?
    “You look preoccupied. And it’s unusual for you to show up late.”
    The priest gazed into the glass of amber ale and cleared his throat, a nervous habit. “I just, uh — I had a few last-minute things at the church, you know.”
    “Okay. I don’t want to pry or anything.”
    “I had to take confession from someone, and — let’s order another round, shall we?”
    He flung a hand into the air, and the waiter gave a tiny nod of his massive head. Moments later, four more beers were thrust roughly in front of them, a few drops sloshing onto the table. The serving style at McSorley’s was abrupt, bordering on surly. You would never find the androgynous, fey waiters here you saw elsewhere in the East Village. There were no metrosexuals working at McSorley’s Old Ale House.
    Father Milichuk took a long swig and wiped his mouth. The beer was good, bitter and cold and comforting. The room was already starting to haze nicely around the edges. He gazed at the words carved into the cabinet behind the bar:
Be good or be gone.
    “So,” he said, setting the mug down on the table with a plunk, “how are things?”
    Campbell smiled. “On one hand, I can sympathize with Sherlock Holmes when he claimed to be bored because there were no interesting criminals in London. On the other hand, it’s creepy to actually wish for something bad to happen.”
    “But isn’t something bad always happening?”
    “Sure, but in most cases it’s routine stuff the cops can handle without my help. It’s only the really weird crimes where I get called in.”
    Father Milichuk drained his third mug and started on the next one.
    “You’re thirsty,” Lee commented, raising an eyebrow.
    “I guess I am.” Aleks felt his secret gnawing at him, carving a hole in his soul. He felt an overpowering urge to share it with someone. “I don’t suppose —” he began.
    “What?”
    “Can I ask you something?”
    “Sure.”
    “When you were a therapist, if someone told you he had committed a crime, did you have to keep it confidential?”
    “No. If I thought my patient was a threat to