Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

again.”
    “My s-son,” he said, hearing his voice shake, “you need help. Please —
please
tell the authorities what you have done.”
    The man laughed softly. “That’s not likely to happen, Father. I’m not going to tell anyone else what I’ve done, and certainly not the police.”
    “Then why are you telling
me?
” Milichuk cried, his voice ragged.
    “I enjoy talking about it. And my secret is safe with you.” There was a pause, and then he said, “It is safe with you, isn’t it?”
    When Father Milichuk spoke, it was the voice of a dead man.
    “Yes. It’s safe with me.”
    “Good,” the man said. “I would hate to be the cause of your breaking your solemn vows to God.” His tone was mild, but Aleks sensed the threat lurking beneath it.
    The man went on to tell him the details of his crime. He preyed on prostitutes, he said, the unfortunate women who prowled Tenth Avenue near the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. Some were runaways whose families had no idea where they were; some were transvestites; and others were strung out on drugs, trying to earn enough money for their next fix. The man owned a nice car, and it was no problem getting them inside. Once there, the women were his prisoners; he could do what he liked with them. When he described just what that was, Father Milichuk’s stomach lurched and churned. The throbbing in his head crescendoed, and he vomited.
    “Oh dear,” the man said as the sour smell rose to engulf them. “I’m sorry. I’d better go so you can get cleaned up. I’ll come back again soon — maybe even tomorrow.”
    Before Aleks could respond, he heard the door latch click open and then the sound of retreating footsteps.
    But this time something inside him rebelled. He whipped out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth, then stuffed the hankie back into his pocket. With trembling hands, he ripped off his soiled cassock. Dropping it to the ground, he threw open the door to the confessional and charged out into the church.
    He dashed down the aisle just as the man reached the front of the church. Not noticing his pursuer, the man pulled open the heavy front door. Daylight streamed into the foyer, and he was briefly silhouetted in a blinding halo of sunlight. Shielding his eyes as pain shot through his cranium, Father Milichuk staggered after him, following him out into the street, where the man headed west, toward Third Avenue.
    To his relief, the man didn’t look behind him as he rounded the corner to join the parade of people on the avenue. Aleks put his head down and shoved his hands into his pockets, losing himself in the crowd, just another pedestrian in New York. All the while he kept an eye on his quarry, following half a block behind as he headed for the Astor Place subway station. As before, the man was dressed in dark clothing — a straight black raincoat over gray slacks. His head was bare, with curly brown hair and a tiny bald spot in the back. Aleks focused on the bald spot, following it through the thick weave of bodies. As Aleks walked, Jakob Böhme’s words echoed through his aching head.
God’s power . . . moving and working
. . .
    He followed his quarry past the Cooper Union Building to Astor Place, where people were lined up in front of the pumpkin-colored Mud Coffee truck, waiting for their caffeine fixes. The man took the stairs down to the uptown-subway track. Aleks hung back, head lowered, blending in with the crowd, keeping an eye on that bald spot. The jagged interruption in his vision narrowed his line of sight, and he held on to the railing as he stumbled down the steps, heart pounding.
    Joining the swarm of people on the platform, he could see the man in the black raincoat ahead of him, peering down the track in the direction the uptown train would be coming from. Aleks slowed his pace, then strolled toward him in a deliberately casual manner. He stopped in front of a map of the subway and pretended to study it, glancing up from time to time to see if the man had moved. But he still stood in his spot, waiting patiently for the local train. Aleks stared at the map, the colored grid of the subway lines dancing in front of his eyes as he fought to focus, trying to control the blinding pain in his head.
    There was a faint rumble from the tunnel, and a shaft of yellow light spilled across the tiled wall of the track. The train was arriving.
    The crowd surged forward, a great mindless beast driven by force of instinct and habit. The priest