“That can be explained.”

“And I’m looking forward to reading the briefs in which you attempt to do just that. I love fiction.”

“You are really in a mood today.”

Canelli lowered himself into his chair. “Yeah, I guess I am at that.”

“I was kinda hoping you might be inclined to… go a little easy on this guy. Cut him some slack.”

“Because, after all, he’s only killed two people.”

“No. Because he’s a man of God.”

“Jesus and Mary.” Canelli slapped his desk, hard. “You have got to be kidding.”

“I’m not. Be sensible. It’s not like we’re dealing with some crack-addicted gang member here. He’s a priest.”

“Yeah. And you know what? I think that makes it worse.” Canelli swivelled around. “I can occasionally muster some sympathy for a poor kid who’s grown up in a crappy neighborhood with sorry excuses for parents, dumb as a post, who makes a mistake. I can at least understand that. But this man was a priest. A priest, for God’s sake. He had a responsibility to the people in his parish. More than that-he owed them a sacred trust. And he betrayed that trust. In the worst possible way.”

“You’re assuming he’s guilty of the murders.”

“I know he’s guilty of the murders, but even if he isn’t, from what I hear, this man has been betraying his collar for a good long while.”

Ben didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

Canelli cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t know?” He eased back into his chair. “I think you need to a have good long sit-down with your client, Ben. The sooner the better. Because your client offends me, you know what I’m saying? He offends me at the most profound level. I want him behind bars-at the least.”

“You know, Canelli, I love it when you get feisty. You’ve got that great tough-Italian-kid thing working for you and I go for it in a big way. Gives me shivers.”

“Laugh all you want, Kincaid. I’m serious.”

“You’re more than serious. You’re starting to sound like some kind of zealot.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I should be. A man like that, hiding behind a clerical collar. That’s depraved.”

“Don’t be so cynical. You have to have a little faith in-”

“Don’t you dare lecture me about faith!” Canelli’s hand shot out across the desk, finger extended. “I know what faith is. My whole life is about faith-faith in the justice system, faith in God. What have you got faith in, Kincaid? Your ability to put killers back on the street?”

“Canelli-”

“I’m a lifelong Catholic, Ben. Always have been, always will be. I know what faith is. Don’t get me wrong, I got nothing against the Episcopal Church. I mean, I think Episcopalians are Catholics who don’t have the guts to go into the confessional, but that’s got nothing to do with this case. This case is about a man who was charged with the most valuable treasures human beings possess-their souls. And he betrayed them.”

“Canelli, calm down so-”

“That’s a horrible crime, Ben. Absolutely horrible. Worse than murder, or rape, or incest, or anything else you can conjure up. Beale committed a crime against his parish and against God. And you want me to cut him some slack, basically because he speaks the Queen’s English and scrubs up nicely.”

“Be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable. I’m being perfectly reasonable. And you can just forget it. There will be no deals this time. Don’t even bother asking. This man must be punished. And I believe-I have faith-that he will get the punishment he deserves.”

Masterson sat on one end of the organ bench, in such pain that tears nearly rolled down his cheeks. No, he was not suffering an internal distress, nor was physical discomfort being applied. This pain was an aesthetic one, or, one might say, a spiritual one. He was listening to one of his private students play the organ. And it was the godawfulest noise he’d heard in his entire life. Since his last private lesson, anyway.

“Listen to me, Tom,” he said, when at last the hideous caterwauling ceased, “the organ is not like the piano. It doesn’t matter how hard you strike the keys. The volume is controlled by the pedal your right foot is perched upon.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the kid said. “I know.” He was thirteen and in all likelihood hadn’t the slightest desire to play the organ. Lessons were the kid’s mother’s brilliant idea, not his.

“And go a little easier on the pedal keyboard,” Masterson added. He was doing his best not to scream: And get away from my organ, you bloody heathen! And never come back! “All it takes is a slight depression. You don’t have to kick them into submission.”

“Sorry, Dr. M. Guess it comes from playing soccer.”

Soccer. Now there was a worthless occupation of time much more suited to this abominable brat’s talents. Or lack thereof. “Why don’t we try it again from the top”-he couldn’t believe he was saying it even as he did-“and this time remember that this is a hymn, not a marching band tune.”

The boy repositioned himself to give it another try. Before he began, however, Masterson detected the presence of a third person in the church. He couldn’t explain exactly how-it was less than a throat clearing, and yet more than nothing. Like a disturbance in air currents. Or the spiritual discomfort that attended being in the presence of evil. He knew someone was there. He knew who it was, too.

“Just a moment, Tom.” He excused himself from the organ and walked to the back of the sanctuary.

Ernestine Rupert was waiting for him.

“Do I need to ask why you’re here?”

The elderly woman didn’t say a word. She just stared at him, one hand holding her purse, the other clenching her little blue book.

“I suppose you know I haven’t been paid this week. The vestry is in such chaos that nothing’s getting done.”

Ernestine didn’t blink. Masterson was beginning to wonder if the blue-haired bitch ever blinked. Maybe she didn’t have eyelids. Like a snake.

“If you could just wait until next week, it would make a world of difference. Seriously.” He heard his voice crack. He sounded stressed, desperate. Goddamn it but he hated this. “All the difference in the world.”

Still no reaction. And no sign of sympathy. Or mercy.

“I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been regular in the past, is it? I’m probably your most dependable customer.”

He attempted a small laugh, but it fell flat. Ernestine didn’t smile. Not even a smirk.

“Damn you, anyway.” He reached into his pocket and whipped out a twenty. He slapped it into Ernestine’s hand. “Will that do you?”

Ernestine’s hand remained outstretched.

“Damn!” One after another, Masterson slapped four more twenties into the palm of her hand. When he was finished, she slid the money into her pocketbook, then made a notation in her blue book in a tiny, crimped hand.

“Thank you so much,” Masterson said, his voice dripping with contempt.

“And thank you,” Ernestine replied. She pivoted on her orthopedic heel and disappeared as silently as she had come.

Heartless hag, Masterson thought. Can’t stand her. Can’t stand her! But at least it was over, for a while anyway. It was over, and now he could relax and try to soothe-

“Dr. M., do you still want me to play this song again? I’ve got twenty minutes left in my lesson, and Mom won’t like it if I tell her you didn’t give me my full hour’s worth.”

Masterson felt his canines drilling into his molars. Sartre was right, wasn’t he? Hell is other people. And St. Benedict’s, alas, was full of other people.

“Ben Kincaid for the defense, your honor. Waive reading, plead not guilty, request release on bail.”

Canelli, standing beside Ben at the bench, snorted. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“Is that your legal argument? Because if it is, you need a new research intern.”

Judge Pitcock, his eyes busily scanning the arraignment papers before him, ignored the banter. “This is a capital murder case, right, counsel?”