“Oh, slow. Like all committees. It takes about three meetings to write one sentence.”

“I appreciate your hard work. If we’re going to hire a top-notch curate, we need a strong and appealing profile. Just remember-the most important thing to emphasize is not the physical plant, or the rites practiced, or the plethora of programming. Christianity isn’t about a new roof, or pledges, or Wednesday-night supper. It’s about helping other people in need. That’s the most important thing.” He turned his head slightly. “Did you know that, Ben?”

“I do now,” Ben said quietly.

“Well, I don’t mean to lecture. You know how we priests are once we get wound up. I should probably arrange for the new glass, now that we’ve got the demolition completed. I just wanted to say hello, Edward, and to thank you again, Ben, for helping me.”

“My pleasure,” Ben mumbled.

“Oh, and-I’ll see you Saturday at nine?”

“Saturday morning?”

Father Beale smiled. “For acolyte class. We should get started right away, I think.”

Even though it was wildly inappropriate, given all that had happened, Ben couldn’t help returning his smile. “I’ll be there.”

Even after all these years, Ben remembered that day as if it were yesterday. Father Beale took a lot of grief from the vestry for destroying the window, but he never once told anyone what had really happened. When Ben heard that Beale was at odds with the vestry at St. Benedict’s, his first thought was-Who is he saving this time?

That was a day everything changed for Ben. His goals and priorities. His sense of what was important. How he should live his life. Father Beale had been an intercessor for him, and many years later, Ben had chosen a career as an intercessor for others. Father Beale had given him a great gift, but the implicit understanding was that Ben would use that gift-would use his life-in a way that mattered.

“Ben?”

He looked up abruptly. “What? Yes?”

Christina stared at him strangely. “You looked as if you were sleeping.”

“Oh, no. Just… daydreaming. What is it?”

“What do you think?” She glanced at Father Beale, then took his hand and clasped it firmly between hers. “The jury’s back.”

In the courtroom, Ben thought, no one can hear you scream. He wanted to rear back his head and cut loose with a big one. But Judge Pitcock would not be amused, and it would only make a hideously bad situation all the worse.

He watched as the twelve jurors (the alternates having been dismissed) filed solemnly into the courtroom. They did not look at Father Beale, did not even glance at counsel table. But that was not uncommon, Ben thought, trying to calm himself. Whether it was the influence of television, or just that they’d been working so long they wanted their big moment not to be spoiled, Ben had observed that most jurors tried not to give away the result. At least not this soon. Later, when the verdict was being read out, they would look at Father Beale. If they had acquitted him.

“The defendant will rise.”

Ben and Christina and Father Beale all stood. Ben noticed that Beale’s knees were shaking, so profoundly that it had to be apparent to everyone.

“Madame Foreperson, have you reached a verdict?”

The middle-aged, somewhat heavy-set woman at the left end of the first row spoke. “We have, your honor.”

She passed the all-important piece of paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the judge. Pitcock glanced at it expressionlessly, then returned it to the bailiff. “Proceed.”

Madame Foreperson cleared her throat. She’s not looking at us, Ben thought, not me, or Christina or Father Beale. She’s not looking at us, damn it!

“In the matter of the State of Oklahoma versus Daniel Samuel Beale, on the count of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant…”

Why did they always pause there? Haven’t we waited long enough?

“… we find the defendant guilty as charged.”

There was a gasp somewhere in the gallery, and a moment later, Father Beale crumbled. Ben wrapped an arm around him, trying to prop him up.

The gallery went crazy. Reporters leaped out of their seats, rushing out of the courtroom so they could switch on their cell phones and report the news. Everyone seemed to be speaking at once. Andrea had her arms stretched out toward her husband. She was sobbing and wailing and looked just as stunned as he did.

“My God, my God…” Beale murmured. Tears appeared in the corners of his eyes.

The sentencing phase was a blur. Both sides called witnesses, but everything Ben did was drowned in the despair that came from too much knowledge. He’d been around long enough to know that if the jury had been inclined to mitigate, they would not have gone for Murder One.

All too soon, they heard once again from Madame Foreperson. “Pursuant to the guidelines set forth in the court’s instructions to the jury, we recommend that the defendant, having been found guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree by a jury of his peers, should be sentenced to execution by lethal injection.”

“No,” Father Beale cried. “My God, no.”

“The jury’s recommendation will be accepted by the court,” Judge Pitcock answered.

Another tumult ensued. “No!” Andrea screamed. She collapsed into her seat.

Amidst the clamor and confusion, the sheriff’s marshals appeared. “We’ll take custody of the prisoner.”

“My God,” Beale continued, his eyes wide and unbelieving. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

The judge was thanking and dismissing the jury, but Ben didn’t hear any of it. Never before had he felt a grown man absolutely crumble into his arms. Beale was like a baby; he couldn’t walk, couldn’t support his own weight.

One of the marshals inched closer. “I’m sorry. We have to take him back to the jail now.”

Christina looked angry enough to tear his eyes out. “Couldn’t you give us one minute alone with him?”

“I’m sorry,” the marshal said, unblinking. “No.”

“Daniel!” Andrea rushed forward, trying to embrace her husband, but one of the marshals held her back while they cuffed their prisoner. It took both of them to hold him upright, but they eventually managed to carry Father Beale away.

“This isn’t over,” Ben said as they departed. “We’ll do everything we can. You can count on it.”

But even as he said it, Ben knew it was balderdash. All they could do-what could they possibly do? Threaten to appeal? Ben knew how futile that would be. The case was over, and they had lost.

Father Beale had given Ben so much, had in a very real sense given him his mission, his life. And now, all these years later, Ben had held Father Beale’s life in his hands… and had let it slip through his fingers.

“Bad news?” Manly asked as his friend hung up the phone.

“You could say that. Father Beale has been convicted.”

“Convicted?”

“Murder one. He’s getting the needle.”

Manly nodded solemnly. “And vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

“Evidently.”

“What are we going to do with this corpse? We have to think of the right place to put it. So people will know we’ve punished the babykillers.”

“Yeah, right. That’s it,” his friend said, but of course that wasn’t it at all. He couldn’t care less about the goddamn abortion cause; that was just a blind he’d used to persuade this simpleminded zealot to do his dirty work for him, to accomplish his end-the death of one Ernestine Rupert. Manly targeted her because she founded and chaired the pro-choice PCSC. But he had far more personal reasons for wanting her dead.

They could just hide the corpse. Bury it. Keep it out of sight. That would be safest-but it didn’t help him any. The whole thing wasn’t worth a damn thing if no one knew she was dead. Because as long as no one knew she was dead-