Cavanaugh’s message of earlier that night. The formal, cultured, unaccented voice without a personality, a smile, an attitude to color it.

Put it together, Diz, he said to himself. That’s why the call had come from halfway across the city. Cavanaugh had been driving home. Or took a bus or a cab. Or got home and went out again, not wanting to call from the rectory, and maybe not knowing they had automatic tracing on 911 calls.

He played the police tape another time, hearing the voice he’d been listening to most of the night. The voice that had been telling him more than he’d been hearing. Jesus.

There was a safe in the room where he kept some papers and his guns. He opened it, took both tapes from their machines and put them inside, closing it then and spinning the combination.

Going back to his bedroom, he picked up the last dart. He put his weight on his left foot, feeling the tape with his toes. “Double bull’s eye,” he said out loud. He threw the dart.

Sure enough.

Dominus… ” he began, his arms spread wide. Immediately he caught himself. “The Lord be with you.”

Slipping back into Latin. His mind must really be miles away. Raising his eyes to the tiny congregation, he realized that no one, not even the altar boys, had noticed the slip.

He had to concentrate. He was, after all, saying a Mass, and even a sinful priest loses none of his powers. Believing otherwise was formal heresy.

But it was difficult to pay attention. He had the altar boy pour quite a lot of wine into the chalice hoping a little hair of the dog would help the nagging headache. Still, he knew it wasn’t his throbbing temples that were distracting him.

He had so hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but last night with Dismas it was pretty clear that the police weren’t going to be satisfied with their suspects. And that meant the search was still on. If there was no new evidence, though, they would be forced to leave it a suicide, or give up, and his horrible… mistake would never be known.

And he couldn’t let it be known, ever. It would do irreparable harm to the Church, to say nothing of the further pain it would cause all those close to him.

All right, he’d made his peace with God now. He’d confessed, and that ought to be the end of it until he went before St. Peter.

Could God forgive him? He had to believe He could. Could he ever forgive himself? No. He knew that now. Killing Eddie had been far, far beyond the worst peccadilloes he’d indulged in over the years to ease the terrible burden of living a holy life, the unending boredom of sinlessness. He thought he’d grown inured to the twinges of conscience that the occasional sin, the moments of temporary weakness, had driven him to. But killing Eddie had been, if there was such a thing, unforgivable.

When Eddie had come to the rectory that night-Erin’s first son, the son they should have had together-with that special fire that only he possessed, and told him he and Frannie were going to have a baby, he finally could stand it no longer.

How did one boy deserve all he had been given? Surely he, Jim Cavanaugh, who had spent his whole life denying, denying, being denied, should have been given a chance, one brief moment, for this boy’s happiness?

But that had never happened.

And now the son of the love of his life-God forgive him, but it was true-now Eddie would have it all. Everything he had ever really wanted, and now, clearly, would never have. It was too much to bear. He couldn’t let him have it, couldn’t let the privileged happiness go on for still another generation.

So that night, with Eddie’s newfound strength and hope and confidence, he had suggested, since he was planning to meet Cruz anyway, that he go down with him, bring the whole weight of the moral argument to bear. Surely two such charming, persuasive, wonderful people could not help but succeed. In the heady flush of expectant fatherhood, Eddie had lapped up those oily words, believing as only he could that everything was possible.

And Jim Cavanaugh was convincing, wasn’t he? Eddie could save Army, save Polk from himself, save the whole goddamn world. Why shouldn’t he feel that? He was young, strong, his manhood verified! He, Eddie Cochran, could do it all!

Yes, it had just been too much to take. But now, now, living with it, Cavanaugh could see that the light, even the dim reflected light he’d lived for, had gone from Erin ’s eyes.

Still, he had to believe that God had forgiven him, though it was beyond his power to fathom such forgiveness. He would have to put his faith in the Lord. The greatest sin, after all, was despair -despair that God would abandon any, even the most unworthy, of his sheep. Despair was loss of hope, a graver sin even than murder. That was what he was fighting now, the temptation to despair.

Because he knew he had to kill again.

He was walking out to the garage with Dietrick, the sun bright in a deep-blue sky.

“Are you really worried about her?” the young priest asked.

Cavanaugh shook his head. “Ever since”-he stopped-“the Cochran boy-Eddie-died. You haven’t noticed the change?”

Dietrick stopped halfway across the asphalt, trying to remember. “I guess I take Rose too much for granted. Another of my failings.”

Cavanaugh laid a gentle arm on Dietrick’s arm. “She confides in me. That’s all. It’s no reflection on you.”

“Still…”

“I think”-Cavanaugh paused, wanting to phrase it right-“I think my reaction to Eddie’s death, taking it so hard-” Dietrick started to interrupt, but Cavanaugh pressed on. “No, I know it’s understandable, but maybe I should have hidden it from her a little better. It got Rose thinking about her… her own loneliness, I guess. Her husband. All that she’s missed over the years.”

They were walking again. “You think it’s serious?” Dietrick asked.

“I think it’s very serious,” he answered quickly. But then he brought himself up short. “I don’t mean to panic you. I don’t know. She was up when I got in late a few times the past week, couldn’t sleep. Sometimes that’s an indication.”

They got to the garage. Dietrick had parked his car beside it, not wanting to cram his new Honda into the smallish space next to Cavanaugh’s. “Should we get her some help, do you think? Beyond ourselves, I mean.”

“I think it’s worth thinking about. She hides it well, but I believe she really has been very depressed.”

Dietrick got in the car and rolled the window down, thinking about it. “I ought to pay more attention. It’s good you noticed, Jim.”

Cavanaugh waved it off. “I’ve got to be out all this morning, but maybe this afternoon when you get back…?”

“Definitely, we’ll get her straightened out.”

Cavanaugh waited a minute, standing by the garage, watching the car disappear around the front of the rectory. All right, he thought. Dietrick was convinced, he was reasonably sure, that Rose has been badly depressed lately, would swear to it on a stack of Bibles.

Bless Father, always thinking of others, Rose thought.

Father Dietrick had gone down to the airport to pick up one of the Maryknoll missionaries who would be spending the rest of the week at the rectory and preaching next Sunday. Father Cavanaugh, after saying early Mass and having breakfast, had of course offered to make the drive himself to the airport. He always offered, and he would have done it, too, but the younger priest thought it was his duty.

After they’d said good-bye to Father Dietrick, he’d given her his devil-may-care grin and said: “Well, Rose, m’dear, what are your plans on this fine day?”

Naturally, he knew that she’d have to get the rectory especially clean for their guest, so he was teasing and she told him so.