"Let's head back to the car," he said.

He kept a protective arm around her shoulder as he guided her back down the hill toward the drive. He couldn't bring himself to break physical contact with her. Not yet, anyway.

He finally let go when he opened the door for her on the passenger side.

"What do you think?" she said as he started the car.

She was so hungry for an explanation—he wished he had one for her.

"I don't know. I'm not a horticulturist. But surely you of all people know that Jim wasn't possessed by the devil or any of that nonsense. We know he was an atheist, but the idea of Satan was as unacceptable to him as the idea of God."

"But what about the hair on his palms? You heard them out there when they said it. They called it 'the Mark of the Beast.' They said it's a sign that Satan dwells within."

"Jim was a hairy guy. A hairy palm means he was born with hair follicles in an unusual spot, and that's all it means. Nothing more. Probably genetic. If he was really a clone of that Hanley fellow, then I bet Hanley had hairy palms as well."

"Well," Carol said slowly, "Hanley did look pretty hairy in those old photos."

"What'd I tell you? Really, Carol, all that Satan garbage is just that—garbage."

In the ensuing silence he glanced over and saw her shocked expression.

"Bill!" she said. "You're a priest!"

He sighed. "I know I'm a priest. I've spent the last decade studying theology—studying it intensely—and believe me, Carol, no one in the Catholic intellectual community believes in Satan."

She smiled. Sadly.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

" 'Catholic intellectuals,' " she said. "I can hear Jim now."

Bill's throat tightened. "So can I. He'd say, 'That's an oxymoron if I ever heard one.' "

"Oh, God, Bill!" she said, sobbing. "I miss him so!"

"I know you do, Carol," he said, feeling her pain, sharing a part of it. "So keep him alive inside you. Hold on to those memories."

4

With an effort Carol pulled herself together.

"But what you said before, about not believing in Satan— you sounded almost like Jim!"

"Well, Jim and I rarely disagreed on ethics or morals, just on their philosophical basis. And we'd both agree that there's no such being as Satan. Frankly I don't know of a single Jesuit who believes in Satan. There's God and there's us. There's no single being who embodies evil skulking through the world trying to get us to commit sins. That's a myth, a folk tale that's useful in helping people grasp the problem of evil. The evil in the world comes from us." He jabbed a finger against his breastbone. "From in here."

"And hell?"

"Hell? Do you think there's a place somewhere, a room or a cavern where all the sinners go to be tormented by demons? Think about it, Carol."

She thought about it, and it did seem kind of farfetched.

"It's all personification," he said. "It's a way of giving people a handle on some complex problems. It's especially useful with children—they have an easier time with theological concepts if we dress them up in myths. When we tell the kids, 'Resist the devil,' we're really telling them to hold out against the worst that's in them."

"Lots of adults believe in those myths as well—I mean, really cling to them."

Bill shrugged. "A lot of adults never grow up when it comes to religion. They could never accept that Satan is just a symbolic externalization of the evil that lurks in all of us."

"But where does that evil in us come from?"

"From the merging of the spirit and the flesh. The spiritual part of us comes from God and wants to return to Him. The physical part of us is like a wild beast that wants what it wants when it wants it and doesn't care who gets hurt in its drive to get it. Life is a process of striking a balance between the two. If the spiritual part prevails, it is allowed to return to God when life is over. If the baser drives and emotions of the physical aspect taint the spirit too deeply, it is not allowed to return to God. That, Carol, is hell. Hell is not a fiery place with pitchfork-wielding demons. It's a state of being bereft of God's presence."

5

Carol was still trying to digest Bill's words when they pulled into the driveway of the mansion.

"I know it sounds pretty radical," he said, "but really it's not. It's just a different perspective. We tend to take what the nuns taught us in school and tuck it away in the backs of our minds and accept it at face value without question for the rest of our lives. But real grown-ups need a grown-up theology."

"I'm working on it," she said.

"And just think about this 'Mark of the Beast' or 'Vessel of Satan' or 'Gateway for Satan' crap. Even if you want to cling to the old mythology, remember that God doesn't move in obvious ways, that's why it's a trial at times to keep one's faith in Him. If Satan existed, don't you think he'd avoid the obvious as well? Because finding proof of the Ultimate Evil—Satan—would make it so much easier for us to believe in the Ultimate Good—God. An' dat wouldn't be to dat ol' debbil Satan's liking, would it now?"

Carol couldn't help laughing—the first time all week.

"You make it sound so simple."

"That's probably because I'm oversimplifying. It's not simple. But I hope it helps."

"It does. Oh, believe me, it does."

She felt so much better. She saw the whole idea of Jim being possessed by the devil for the juvenile, superstitious silliness it was. The fear, the uncertainty, all slipped away, to be replaced by a sense of peace.

All thanks to Bill.

But as Bill opened the mansion's front door for her and ushered her inside, the gratitude evaporated in a blast of rage.

You smug, sanctimonious son of a bitch!

She staggered a step. Where had that come from?

She didn't feel that way about Bill at all! Why that instant of hatred? He was only trying to soothe her, doing his best to— impress her with his pseudo intellectual bullshit and make himself look so infinitely superior, so far above the petty fears of the common folk like her. Pompous, self-righteous Jesuit bastard! So fucking aloof! Thinks he's immune to the insecurities and frailties of the flesh! She'd show him!

Carol didn't understand this sudden rage within her. It was a wild, alien emotion, coming out of nowhere, imposing itself on her, enveloping her, making her want to claw at Bill's blue eyes with her nails, making her want .to bring him down, degrade him, humiliate him, break him, drag him into a mire of self-loathing and make him wallow in it, rub his face in it, drown him in it.

As soon as he was in the foyer she closed the door behind her. Passion was suddenly a white-hot flame inside her.

"Kiss me, Bill," she said.

He stared at her incredulously, as if trying to make himself believe that he really hadn't heard her correctly. A small voice deep inside her screamed, No, I didn't mean that! But a much stronger voice was overpowering the first, shouting that she did mean just that. And more.