“What happened?”

“The lights went out,” replied an older female voice. Ruth? Ernestine? He couldn’t be sure. “We were conducting our meeting, having the usual titanic shouting match with our priest, and then suddenly everything went black.”

“Father Beale? Are you there?”

There was no answer. Ben felt the short hairs rise on the back of his neck. Where was he?

“Father Beale?” Still no answer. Clinging to the wall to guide himself, Ben entered the main corridor. “Father Beale?”

The response came as a thunderclap of shouts and ear-piercing screams. The tumult sideswiped him like a knockout punch from a prizefighter. He reeled, trying to figure out from which direction it came. How many times had he heard screams in this church? he asked himself as he raced down the corridor. How many times had his flesh crawled and his knees knocked, dreading what he might find?

He was one of the last to make it to the utility area behind the parish hall. Most of the vestry were already there, and one of them-George-had managed to locate a flashlight. Courtesy of the illumination of the narrow beam, Ben could see that the room was in disarray-folding chairs fallen and scattered on the floor, overturned tables. The breaker box was hanging open.

And Susan Marino’s upright body was in the center of it all, the side of her head covered with blood, her eyes lifeless.

She was dead. Ben could see that in an instant. And he could also see how she managed to remain upright.

Father Beale was behind her, cradling her in his arms.

The Gospel According to Daniel

As we posed there in the darkened room, transfixed like some twisted version of the pietà, I could only think, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken us? Is this the twelfth plague, a visitation from the Angel of Death? Yes, God works in mysterious ways, but he’s not normally sadistic about it. If ever there was to be a time when my faith might waver, this was it.

And it did, in my heart at least. True, I did not run, but I certainly considered it. I knew what this latest tragedy would mean-more infamy, almost certain revocation of bail, perhaps even defrocking. The temptation to run-to let this cup pass from me-was great. In another world, in another time, I very well might have done it.

But not here, not with Susan. One instinct overcame another. I took her into my arms and cradled her, hoping to bring some comfort to her passing, if she was not dead already. I gave her unction, performed the last rites. Requiescat in pace. And I did not run. I trusted God to take care of me.

Dear, dear Susan. At one time we had been close, we had held one another and it had meant something to both of us. And now there was nothing left. Not of us. Or of her.

The police were as shocked as I was to see that it had happened again. Few words were spoken. I was taken into custody, read my rights. My attorney did his best to intervene, arguing about my readiness for the impending trial, but there was no point. I had blood on my hands again-literally-and even I could see it would be gross misconduct for the police to do anything other than what they did. And so, like Paul in Rome, I was once again imprisoned, if not for my faith, then certainly because of it.

If I were one to believe in omens, I would have to think that this new murder, on the eve of trial, was not a good one. Forces were at work that seemed determined to see me punished, humiliated. And yet, as they led me from my cell to prepare for court, I thought that as hideous as the night had been, as ghastly as the trial was sure to be, I at least had the comfort of knowing that it was coming to an end. It could not possibly get worse. Nothing could happen that could be any more horrible than what had already occurred.

In retrospect, my naÏveté seems pathetic. The trial, not the legal trial but the spiritual trial, was just beginning. The worst was yet to come.

BAIL REVOKED.

The notice was waiting for Ben when he arrived in the courtroom. It was no surprise. As it stood now, Judge Pitcock looked like a fool for having granted bail in the first place, when Father Beale was a suspect in two murders. Now he was a suspect in three, if not virtually convicted in the minds of most, and the only act Pitcock could take to save face was to revoke bail as fast and fully as possible.

Ben crumbled the notice and tossed it into the nearest wastebasket. He was tired. He’d had less than an hour’s sleep. He’d spent the night dealing with Mike and the rest of the homicide department, who questioned Father Beale well into the wee hours. They wanted to interrogate everyone immediately, before memories faded, before Beale had a chance to concoct a story or have one fed to him. But Ben fought it all the way. He’s going on trial for his life, tomorrow morning, Ben argued. To deny a man sleep on the eve of his trial was a violation of the fair trial provisions of the Constitution.

Ultimately, they compromised. Mike questioned Beale for an hour, then said he would continue it the next night-and as many nights thereafter as it took to get it done. After Beale was in bed, Ben went through the usual motions he made for the newly incarcerated, including an all but preposterous request that he be released on bail.

Outside the courtroom, in the hallway, Ben heard the buzz rise among the huddled throng of reporters. Beale was on his way.

The hallway was jam-packed with press, more than Ben had seen in his entire career, even when the city’s mayor was on trial. Sadly enough, by the time a case went to trial, it had usually been bumped from the top of the news list. Not this time. With a fresh victim only the night before, this was the story of the day. It was taking on the tone of a tabloid soap opera-exactly the kind of story reporters seemed to love most.

As soon as Ben was back in the hallway, questions started flying his direction.

“Is it true God told him to kill that woman? Or Satan?”

“How can you explain the blood all over him?”

“How many women does he have to kill before he gets the needle?”

“Are you going to make a deal with the DA?”

Although he normally assiduously ignored the press while a trial was in progress, Ben felt he had to answer that one. “No deals.”

Accurate, if somewhat uninformative. Ben had in fact visited Canelli this morning to discuss the possibility of a deal. Canelli told him to go climb his thumb.

“Why no deals?” one reporter followed up.

“Because Father Beale is innocent!”

Ben’s statement was met not only with disbelief, but outright laughter. The reporters seemed to think it humorous that a lawyer would so tenaciously argue the innocence of someone who so clearly wasn’t. A bad sign. Because those journalists would be sharing their opinions, however subtly, with their readers and viewers. Or to put it another way-the jury pool.

Ben wished Christina was here, but he knew she was in the clerk’s office prepping for jury selection. Christina got along well with the press; many of these reporters were her friends. Not so he. Ben knew he should be more open-minded about people who did, after all, fulfill an important role in a democratic system, but he’d seen too many cases screwed and too many jury pools tainted by reporters trying to boost their ratings or to get a scoop on the competition.

Ben spotted the two marshals escorting Father Beale down the hallway. At Ben’s insistence, he was out of the orange coveralls and into a suit and tie, shaved and groomed. Choosing his clothes had been a bit of a problem. Beale wanted to wear his clerical collar; he always did, at least when he wasn’t in prison. But Ben worried that the jury would see it as putting on a show, trying to shove his holiness down their throats. Beale finally agreed to wear a blue suit, with a regular button-down collar. Ben was relieved. No one would ever have an opportunity to forget that he was a priest; he didn’t need to be costumed for it.