Hate the sin, not the sinner.

"I’ve gotten a real taste for it," the madman whispered.

"How many other women have you killed?"

"Millicent was the first. There were other infatuations, and when they disappointed me, I had to hurt them, but I didn’t kill any of them. After I met Millicent, everything changed. I watched her for a long time and everything about her was… perfect." His voice turned into a snarl as he continued. "But she betrayed me, just like the others. She thought she could play her little games with other men and I wouldn’t notice. I couldn’t let her torment me that way. I wouldn’t," he corrected. "I had to punish her."

He let out a loud, exaggerated sigh and then chuckled. "I killed the little bitch twelve months ago and I buried her deep, real deep. No one’s ever going to find her. There’s no going back now. No, sir-ree. I had no idea how thrilling the kill was going to be. I made Millicent beg me for mercy, and she did. By God, she did." He laughed. "She screamed like a pig, and oh, how I loved the sound. I got so excited, more excited than I could ever have imagined was possible, and so I had to make her scream more, didn’t I? When I was finished with her, I was bursting with joy. Well, Father, aren’t you going to ask me if I’m sorry for my sins?" he taunted.

"No, you aren’t contrite."

A suffocating silence filled the confessional. And then, in a serpent’s hiss, the voice returned.

"The craving’s come back."

Goose bumps covered Tom’s arms. "There are people who can-"

"Do you think I should be locked away? I only punish those who hurt me. So you see, I’m not culpable. But you think I’m sick, don’t you? We’re in confession, Father. You have to tell the truth."

"Yes, I think you’re ill."

"Oh, I don’t think so. I’m just dedicated."

"There are people who can help you."

"I’m brilliant, you know. It won’t be easy to stop me. I study my clients before I take them on. I know everything about their families and their friends. Everything. Yes, it’s going to be much harder to stop me now, but this time I’ve decided to make it more difficult for me. Do you see? I don’t want to sin. I really don’t." The singsong voice was back.

"Listen to me," Tom pleaded. "Step outside the confessional with me and we’ll sit down together and talk this through. I want to help you, if you’ll only let me."

"No, I needed help before and I was denied, remember? Give me absolution."

"I will not."

The sigh was long and drawn out. "Very well," he said. "I’m changing the rules this time. You have my permission to tell anyone you want to tell. Do you see how accommodating I can be?"

"It doesn’t matter if you give me permission to tell or not, this conversation will remain confidential. The seal of silence must be maintained to protect the integrity of the confessional."

"No matter what I confess?"

"No matter what."

"I demand that you tell."

"Demand all you want, but it won’t make any difference. I cannot tell anyone what you have said to me. I won’t."

A moment of silence passed and then the stranger began to chuckle. "A priest with scruples. How extraordinary. Hmmm. What a quandary. But don’t you fret, Father. I’m ten steps ahead of you. Yes, sirree."

"What are you saying?"

"I’ve taken on a new client."

"You’ve already chosen your next-"

The madman cut him off. "I’ve already notified the authorities. They’ll get my letter soon. Of course that was before I knew you were going to be such a stickler for the rules. Still, it was considerate of me wasn’t it? I sent them a polite little note explaining my intentions. Pity I forgot to sign it."

"Did you give them the name of the person you intend to harm?"

"Harm? What a quaint word that is for murder. Yes, I named her."

"Another woman, then?" Tom’s voice broke on the question.

"I only take women on as clients."

"Did you explain in the note your reason for wanting to kill this woman?"

"No."

"Do you have a reason?"

"Yes."

"Would you explain it to me?"

"Practice, Father."

"I don’t understand."

"Practice makes perfect," he said. "This one’s even more special than Millicent. I wrap myself in her fragrance, and I love to watch her sleep. She’s so beautiful. Ask me, and after I’ve given you her name, you can forgive me."

"I will not give you absolution."

"How’s the chemotherapy going? Are you feeling sick? Did you get a good report?"

Tom’s head snapped up. "What?" he demanded in a near shout.

The madman laughed. "I told you I study my clients before I take them on. You could say I stalk them," he whispered.

"How did you know-"

"Oh, Tommy, you’ve been such a sport. Haven’t you wondered why I followed you all this way just to confess my sins to you? Think about it on your way back to the abbey. I’ve done my homework, haven’t I?"

"Who are you?"

"Why, I’m a heartbreaker. And I do so love a challenge. Make this one difficult for me. The police will come here soon to talk to you, and then you’ll be able to tell anyone you want," he mocked. "I know who you’ll call first. Your hotshot friend with the FBI. You’ll call Nick, won’t you? I sure hope you will. And he’ll come running to help. You’d better tell him to take her away and hide her from me. I might not follow, and I’ll start looking for someone else. At least I’ll try."

"How do you know-"

"Ask me."

"Ask you what?

"Her name," the madman whispered. "Ask me who my client is."

"I urge you to get help," Tom began again. "What you’re doing-"

"Ask me. Ask me. Ask me."

Tom closed his eyes. "Yes. Who is she?"

"She’s lovely," he answered. "Such beautiful full breasts and long, dark hair. There isn’t a mark on her perfect body, and her face is like an angel’s, so exquisite in every way. She’s… breathtaking… but I plan to take her breath away."

"Tell me her name," Tom demanded, praying to God there was time to get to the poor woman to protect her.

"Laurant," the serpent whispered. "Her name is Laurant."

Panic hit Tom like a fist. "My Laurant?"

"That’s right. Now you’re getting it, Father. I’m going to kill your sister."

Agent Nicholas Benjamin Buchanan was about to begin a long A overdue vacation. He hadn’t taken any time off in the past three years, and it was beginning to show in his attitude-or so he’d been told by his superior, Doctor Peter Morganstern, when he’d ordered him to take a month’s leave. He’d also told Nick that he was becoming a little too detached and cynical, and deep down Nick worried that he might be right.

Morganstern always told it like it was. Nick admired and respected him almost as much as he did his own father, and so he rarely argued with him. His boss was as steady as a rock. He never would have lasted more than two weeks in the Bureau if he had let his emotions control his behavior. If he had any flaw at all, it was his maddening ability to remain calm to the point of being catatonic. Nothing ever fazed the man.

The twelve hand-picked agents under his direct supervision called him Prozac Pete-behind his back of course-but he knew about the nickname and wasn’t offended by it. Rumor had it he actually laughed the first time he heard it, and that was yet another reason he got along so well with his agents. He had been able to hold on to his sense of humor-no small feat, considering the section he ran. His idea of losing his temper was having to repeat himself, though in all honesty, his raspy, years-of-smoking-cigars voice never, ever rose a decibel. Hell, maybe the other agents were right. Maybe Morganstern really did have Prozac running through his veins.

One thing was certain. His superiors knew gold when they spotted it, and in the fourteen years that Morganstern had worked for the Bureau, he’d been promoted six times. Yet he never rested on his laurels. When he was named head of the "lost-and-found" division, he dedicated himself to building an extremely efficient task force for tracking and recovering missing persons. And once that was accomplished, he turned his efforts to a more specific objective. He wanted to create a specialized unit devoted to the most difficult cases involving lost and abducted children. He justified this new unit on paper and then spent a considerable amount of time lobbying for it. At every opportunity, he waved his 233-page thesis under the director’s nose.