“If you’ll recall, Canelli, I tried to work this out with you privately, before the arraignment, but you were too hardheaded to listen. I was trying to talk sense, and you were giving me your I’m-on-a-mission-from-God routine.”

“I’m filing a motion in limine today, Kincaid. I’m not going to let you drag God into the trial.”

“Oh, heaven forbid that.”

“This case is going to be tried on its merits. And your… your man of God is going to pay for his crimes. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you get away with your little tricks again!” Canelli marched out of the courtroom.

Ben glanced over at the table. Father Beale, of course, had been listening to every word. “I’m sorry you had to hear that diatribe.”

“Not at all,” Beale replied. He was remarkably calm, given all that had been said about him in the last ten minutes. “I found it most illuminating. Are all prosecutors like him?”

“No. He’s one of the better ones.”

“In a way, it’s very encouraging. Think about it-we put a Catholic, an Episcopalian, and a Mormon in a room together. And we still managed to get something accomplished. And no one was killed.”

Ben clicked his briefcase shut. “The important thing is, you’re out of jail. You can return to your church.”

“Yes.” He almost smiled. “Won’t the vestry be delighted?”

“No comment.” Ben tilted his head toward the door. “C’mon, Father. Let’s go pick out your new collar.”

John Phillip Crater never intended to become a social activist. He was a simple unpretentious man who grew up on a small farm in Muskogee. His family was always poor. One summer their house burned down and the whole family lived in a boxcar. He left home when he was old enough and set out to make something of himself. At first, he took what work he could find. He’d been a truck driver, farmer, ore mine assessor, auto mechanic, Dairy Queen cashier. But he never stopped trying to better himself. Twenty years after he left home he was the senior vice-president of ITT Financial. Then he started his own commercial finance company and was partnering in multimillion-dollar deals with major entertainment corporations. He’d done all right, although you would never hear him say that. He’d taken good care of his wife, Deb, and his three children. He’d made his mark in the world. But social activism? No. That just wasn’t part of his life.

Until his next-door neighbor’s girl got into trouble. In the classic sense. He hadn’t held it against her; these things happened, even to sweethearts like Alison. And when she decided to terminate the fetus, even if he didn’t much like the decision, he resolved that he would stick by her, right or wrong. It was her decision.

But no one had the right to do what happened next. Some pro-life organization got a hold of her name and published it in a newspaper advertisement. They held public meetings downtown, flashing her name and others on their roll of “murderers.” She was publicly embarrassed and humiliated. She still did what she had to do-although she went to another state to do it-but the toll on her was profound. She had a total mental breakdown. Even now, years later, after she’d been released from the institution in Norman, she wasn’t the same. She wasn’t the beautiful girl he’d known before. She was something different, and something… less.

And he didn’t blame the abortion, although that was undoubtedly traumatic enough. It was those zealots who thought they had the right to single out and destroy Alison, just to make a petty point that was already apparent to everyone. Just to deny her the right to decide for herself what to do with her own body.

Two weeks after she’d gone into the institution, John had joined the South Central pro-choice organization, and he hadn’t missed a meeting since, regardless of how busy he was, where he was, or how many religious zealots were marching outside, shouting obscenities, showing horrible pictures, throwing blood. He didn’t let anything stop him.

Including tonight. But he was running late, he realized, glancing at his watch. Walking, so he could get some air, had been a good idea in principle. But he was going to have to walk a little faster…

“Going to the meeting?”

That broke John’s stride. He stopped, looking all around him. It was dark out, and since this part of the apartment grounds was dark and spotted with trees, he had trouble locating the source of the voice. “Is someone there?”

“Oh yeah.” A man stepped out of the shadows, someone John did not recognize. He was a thick, sizable man. He looked strong.

“Do I know you?”

“You’re about to.” The man came close, much too close, especially for someone John didn’t know. “You’re going to the PCSC meeting, right?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” He tried not to be intimidated, but the man cut an imposing figure, particularly when silhouetted across John’s face. “May I ask why this is any of your concern?”

“You’re going to meet with the other babykillers.”

John felt a chill race down his spine. “Look, I don’t know who you are-”

“I’m a friend of the unborn.”

John felt his anger rising, and it helped him overcome his growing panic. “We’re not going to be intimidated by your bullyboy tactics. I have a right to hold different beliefs than you, and I’m not going to-”

The man shoved him back hard. “If anyone should be accused of bullyboy tactics, it should be you and the rest of your murdering friends. Have you no shame?”

“I don’t think this is the place to discuss these complex issues.”

“Like what? Like the fact that we want to save lives, and the rest of you want to kill unborn babies? You’re murderers, every one of you. You should be punished accordingly.”

Okay, John thought, now he was scared. He tried to brush past the man. “Look, let me get on-”

The man grabbed his arm, clutching it so tightly it hurt. “You don’t get off that easy.”

John tried to shake free-unsuccessfully. “Just let me go. If I don’t appear at the meeting soon, they’ll-”

“I don’t think so.” He grabbed John’s other arm and squeezed just as tightly. “You’re so fond of killing. Let’s see how you like it.”

The first blow caught John beneath the chin, shattering his jaw. He clutched it with both hands, as if trying to hold himself together. He fell to his knees, but not before the second blow crushed his nose. Blood spurted out, covering his face and hands and neck. He had never been a fighter, not even in grade school, and he lacked even the most fundamental means of defending himself. A quick kick between the legs sent him reeling forward on his hands and knees, broken, like a pathetic oblationer prostrating himself before a cruel god. After that, one kick after another rained down on his ribs and stomach, so fast and furious he couldn’t keep track. All he could feel was the immense pain, like nothing he had ever experienced in his entire life. He would have cried out for mercy, if he could have mustered the strength, and when at last he lost consciousness, it was the sweet release for which he would have prayed, if he could still believe that any God would permit such cruelty to be visited upon one of His children.

Inside his small single-story home, Manly Trussell wiped the blood off his hands and arms. In the fifteen minutes it had taken him to run home, some of it had congealed and matted with the hair on his arms, creating an awful mess.

“Is it done?” Manly’s newfound friend had come inside. Not that that was particularly surprising.

“Oh yeah. It’s done.”

“Good boy. Did you… deliver your message?”

“I think he got the point.” He grabbed a towel off the rack. “Loud and clear.”

“And he’ll pass it along to the others?”

“If he lives.” He winced slightly as he scraped the blood off his hands and face.