Flanked on either side, Tess walked down the corridors. Now and then a voice barked or a door opened and closed hollowly. The sound of phones ringing came from everywhere at once; they never seemed to be answered. Rain beat against the windows to add a touch of gloom. A man in his shirtsleeves and overalls was mopping up a puddle of something. The corridor smelled strongly of Lysol and damp.

It wasn't the first time she'd been in a police station, but it was the first time she'd come so close to being intimidated. Ignoring Ben, she concentrated on his partner.

"You two always travel as a pair?"

Genial, Ed grinned. He liked her voice because it was pitched low and was as cool as sherbet on a hot Sunday afternoon. "The captain likes me to keep an eye on him."

"I'll bet."

Ben made a sharp left turn. "This way-Doctor."

Tess slanted him a look and moved past him. He smelled of rain and soap. As she stepped into the squad room, she watched two men drag out a teenage boy in handcuffs. A woman sat in a corner with a cup in both hands and wept silently. The sounds of arguing poured in from out in the hall.

"Welcome to reality," Ben offered as someone began to swear.

Tess gave him a long steady look and summed him up as a fool. Did he think she'd expected tea and cookies? Compared to the clinic where she gave her time once a week, this was a garden party. "Thank you, Detective..."

"Paris." He wondered why he felt she was laughing at him. "Ben Paris, Dr. Court. This is my partner, Ed Johnson." Taking out a cigarette, he lit it as he watched her. She looked as out of place in the dingy squad room as a rose on a trash heap. But that was her problem. "We'll be working with you."

"How nice." With the smile she reserved for annoying shop clerks, she breezed by him. Before she could knock on Harris's door, Ben was opening it.

"Captain." Ben waited as Harris pushed aside papers and rose. "This is Dr. Court."

He hadn't been expecting a woman, or anyone so young. But Harris had commanded too many women officers, too many rookies, to feel anything but momentary surprise. The mayor had recommended her. Insisted on her, Harris corrected himself. And the mayor, no matter how annoying, was a sharp man who made few missteps.

"Dr. Court." He held out his hand and found hers soft and small, but firm enough. "I appreciate you coming."

No, she wasn't quite convinced he did, but she had worked around such things before. "I hope I can help."

"Please, sit down."

She started to shrug out of her coat, and felt hands on her arms. Taking a quick look over her shoulder, she saw Ben behind her. "Nice coat, Doctor." His fingers brushed over the lining as he slipped it from her. "Fifty-minute hours must be profitable."

"Nothing's more fun than soaking patients," she said in the same undertone, then turned away from him. Arrogant jerk, she thought, and took her seat.

"Dr. Court might like some coffee," Ed put in. Always easily amused, he grinned over at his partner. "She got kind of wet coming in."

Seeing the gleam in Ed's eyes, Tess couldn't help but grin back. "I'd love some coffee. Black."

Harris glanced over at the dregs in the pot on his hot plate, then reached for his phone. "Roderick, get some coffee in here. Four-no three," he corrected as he glanced at Ed.

"If there's any hot water..." Ed reached in his pocket and drew out an herbal tea bag.

"And a cup of hot water," Harris said, his lips twisting into something like a smile. "Yeah, for Jackson. Dr. Court..." Harris didn't know what had amused her, but had a feeling it had something to do with his two men. They had better get down to business. "We'll be grateful for any help you can give us. And you'll have our full cooperation." This was said with a glance, a telling one, at Ben. "You've been briefed on what we need?"

Tess thought of her two-hour meeting with the mayor, and the stacks of paperwork she'd taken home from his office. Brief, she mused, had nothing to do with it.

"Yes. You need a psychological profile on the killer known as the Priest. You'll want an educated, expert opinion as to why he kills, and to his style of killing. You want me to tell you who he is, emotionally. How he thinks, how he feels. With the facts I have, and those you'll give me, its possible to give an opinion... an opinion," she stressed, "on how and why and who he is, psychologically. With that you may be a step closer to stopping him."

So she didn't promise miracles. It helped Harris to relax. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ben watching her steadily, one finger idly stroking down her raincoat. "Sit down, Paris," he said mildly. "The mayor gave you some data?" he asked the psychiatrist.

"A bit. I started on it last night."

"You'll want to take a look at these reports as well." Taking a folder from his desk, Harris passed it to her.

"Thank you." Tess pulled out a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from her bag and opened the folder.

A shrink, Ben thought again as he studied her profile. She looked like she should be leading cheers at a varsity game. Or sipping cognac at the Mayflower. He wasn't certain why both images seemed to suit her, but they did. It was the image of mind doctor that didn't. Psychiatrists were tall and thin and pale, with calm eyes, calm voices, calm hands.

He remembered the psychiatrist his brother had seen for three years after returning from 'Nam. Josh had gone away a young, fresh-faced idealist. He'd come back haunted and belligerent. The psychiatrist had helped. Or so it had seemed, so everyone had said, Josh included. Until he'd taken his service revolver and ended whatever chances he'd had.

The psychiatrist had called it Delayed Stress Syndrome. Until then Ben hadn't known just how much he hated labels.

Roderick brought in the coffee and managed not to look annoyed at being delegated gofer.

"You bring in the Dors kids?" Harris asked him.

"I was on my way."

"Paris and Jackson'll brief you and Lowenstein and Bigsby in the morning after roll call." He dismissed him with a nod as he dumped three teaspoons of sugar in his cup. Across the room Ed winced.

Tess accepted her cup with a murmur and never looked up. "Should I assume that the murderer has more than average strength?"

Ben took out a cigarette and studied it. "Why?"

Tess pushed her glasses down on her nose in a trick she remembered from a professor in college. It was meant to demoralize. "Other than the marks of strangulation, there weren't any bruises, any signs of violence, no torn clothing or signs of struggle."

Ignoring his coffee, Ben drew on the cigarette. "None of the victims were particularly hefty. Barbara Clayton was the biggest at five-four and a hundred and twenty."

"Terror and adrenaline bring on surges of strength," she countered. "Your assumption from the reports is that he takes them by surprise, from behind."

"We assume that from the angle and location of the bruises."

"I think I follow that," she said briskly, and pushed her glasses up again. It wasn't easy to demoralize a clod. "None of the victims was able to scratch his face or there'd have been cells of flesh under their nails. Have I got that right?" Before he could answer, she turned pointedly to Ed. "So, he's smart enough to want to avoid questionable marks. It doesn't appear he kills sporadically, but plans in an orderly, even logical fashion. Their clothing," she went on. "Was it disturbed, buttons undone, seams torn, shoes kicked off?"

Ed shook his head, admiring the way she dove into details. "No, ma'am. All three were neat as a pin."

"And the murder weapon, the amice?"

"Folded across the chest."

"A tidy psychotic," Ben put in.

Tess merely lifted a brow. "You're quick to diagnose, Detective Paris. But rather than tidy, I'd use the word reverent."

By holding up a single ringer, Harris stopped Ben's retort. "Could you explain that, Doctor?"

"I can't give you a thorough profile without some more study, Captain, but I think I can give you a general outline. The killer's obviously deeply religious, and I'd guess trained traditionally."

"So you're going for the priest angle?"

Again she turned to Ben. "The man may have been in a religious order at one time, or simply have a fascination, even a fear of the authority of the Church. His use of the amice is a symbol, to himself, to us, even to his victims. It might be used in a rebellious way, but I'd rule that out by the notes. Since all three victims were of the same age group, it tends to indicate that they represent some important female figure in his life. A mother, a wife, lover, sister. Someone who was or is intimate on an emotional level. My feeling is this figure failed him in some way, through the Church."

"A sin?" Ben blew out a stream of smoke.

He might've been a clod, she mused, but he wasn't stupid. "The definition of a sin varies," she said coolly. "But yes, a sin in his eyes, probably a sexual one."

He hated the calm, impersonal analysis. "So he's punishing her through other women?"

She heard the derision in his voice, and closed the folder. "No, he's saving them."

Ben opened his mouth again, then shut it. It made a horrible kind of sense.

"That's the one aspect I find absolutely clear," Tess said as she turned back to Harris. "It's in the notes, all of them. The man's put himself in the role of savior. From the lack of violence, I'd say he has no wish to punish. If it were revenge, he'd be brutal, cruel, and he'd want them to be aware of what was going to happen to them. Instead, he kills them as quickly as possible, then tidies their clothes, crosses the amice in a gesture of reverence, and leaves a note stating that they're saved."

Taking off her glasses, she twirled them by the eyepiece. "He doesn't rape them. More than likely he's impotent with women, but more important, a sexual assault would be a sin. Possibly, probably, he derives some sort of sexual release from the killing, but more a spiritual one."

"A religious fanatic," Harris mused.

"Inwardly," Tess told him. "Outwardly he probably functions normally for long periods of times. The murders are spaced weeks apart, so it would appear he has a level of control. He could very well hold down a normal job, socialize, attend church."

"Church." Ben rose and paced to the window.

"Regularly, I'd think. It's his focal point. If this man isn't a priest, he takes on the aspects of one during the murders. In his mind, he's ministering."

"Absolution," Ben murmured. "The last rites."

Intrigued, Tess narrowed her eyes. "Exactly."

Not knowing much about the Church, Ed turned to another topic. "A schizophrenic?"

Tess frowned down at her glasses as she shook her head. "Schizophrenia, manic depression, split personality. Labels are too easily applied and tend to generalize." ;

She didn't notice that Ben turned back and stared at her. She pushed her glasses back in their case and dropped them in her purse.

"Every psychiatric disorder is a highly individual problem, and each problem can only be understood and dealt with by uncovering its dynamic sources."

"I'd rather work with specifics myself," Harris told her. "But there's a premium on them in this case. Are we dealing with a psychopath?"

Her expression changed subtly. Impatience, Ben thought, noting the slight line between her brows and a quick movement of her mouth. Then she was professional again. "If you want a general term, psychopathy will do. It means mental disorder."

Ed stroked his beard. "So he's insane."

"Insanity is a legal term, Detective." This was said almost primly as Tess picked up the folder and rose. "Once he's stopped and taken to trial, that'll become an issue. I'll have a profile for you as soon as possible, Captain. It might help if I could see the notes that were left on the bodies, and the murder weapons."

Dissatisfied, Harris rose. He wanted more. Though he knew better, he wanted A, B, and C, and the lines connecting each. "Detective Paris'll show you whatever you need to see. Thank you, Dr. Court."

She took his hand. "You've little to thank me for at this point. Detective Paris?"

"Right this way." With a cursory nod he led her out.

He said nothing as he took her through the corridors again and to the checkpoint where they signed in to examine the evidence. Tess was silent as well as she studied the notes and the neat, precise printing. They didn't vary, and were exact to the point that they seemed almost like photostats. The man who'd written them, she mused, hadn't been in a rage or in despair. If anything, he'd been at peace. It was peace he sought, and peace, in his twisted way, he sought to give.

"White for purity," she murmured after she'd looked at the amices. A symbol perhaps, she mused. But for whom? She turned away from the notes. More than the murder weapons, they chilled her. "It appears he's a man with a mission."

Ben remembered the sick frustration he'd felt after each murder, but his voice was cool and flat. "You sound sure of yourself, Doctor."

"Do I?" Turning back, she gave him a brief survey, mulled things over, then went on impulse. "What time are you off duty, Detective?"

He tilted his head, not quite certain of his moves. "Ten minutes ago."

"Good." She pulled on her coat. "You can buy me a drink and tell me why you dislike my profession, or just me personally. I give you my word, no tabletop analysis."

Something about her challenged him. The cool, elegant looks, the strong, sophisticated voice. Maybe it was the big, soft eyes. He'd think about it later. "No fee?"

She laughed and stuck her hat in her pocket. "We might have hit the root of the problem."

"I need my coat." As they walked back to the squad room, each of them wondered why they were about to spend part of their evening with someone who so obviously disapproved of who and what they were. But then each of them was determined to come out on top before the evening was over. Ben grabbed his coat and scrawled something in a ledger.

"Charlie, tell Ed I'm engaged in further consultation with Dr. Court."

"You file that requisition?"

Ben shifted Tess almost like a shield and headed for the door. "File?"

"Damn it, Ben-"

"Tomorrow, in triplicate." He had himself and Tess out of earshot and nearly to the outer door.

"Don't care much for paperwork?" she said.

He pushed the door open and saw the rain had turned to a damp drizzle. "It's not the most rewarding part of the job."

"What is?"

He gave her an enigmatic look as he steered her toward his car. "Catching bad guys."

Oddly enough, she believed him.

Ten minutes later they walked into a dimly lit bar where the music came from a jukebox and the drinks weren't watered. It wasn't one of Washington's most distinguished night spots, nor one of its seamiest. It seemed to Tess a place where the regulars knew each other by name and newcomers were accepted gradually.

Ben sent the bartender a careless wave, exchanged a muffled word with one of the cocktail waitresses, and found a table in the back. Here the music was muted and the lights even dimmer. The table rocked a bit on one shortened leg.

The minute he sat down, he relaxed. This was his turf, and he knew his moves. "What'll you have?" He waited for her to ask for some pretty white wine with a French name.

"Scotch, straight up."

"Stolichnaya," he told the waitress as he continued to watch Tess. "Rocks." He waited until the silence stretched out, ten seconds, then twenty. An interesting silence, he thought, full of questions and veiled animosity. Maybe he'd throw her a curve. "You have incredible eyes."

She smiled, and leaned back comfortably. "I would have thought you'd come up with something more original."

"Ed liked your legs."

"I'm surprised he could see them from his height. He's not like you," she observed. "I imagine you make an impressive team. Leaving that aside, Detective Paris, I'm interested in why you distrust my profession."

"Why?"

When her drink was served, she sipped it slowly. It warmed in places the coffee hadn't touched. "Curiosity. It comes with the territory. After all, we're both in the business of looking for answers, solving puzzles."

"You see our jobs as similar?" The thought made him grin. "Cops and shrinks."

"Perhaps I find your job as unpleasant as you find mine," she said mildly. "But they're both necessary as long as people don't behave in what society terms normal patterns."

"I don't like terms." He tipped back his drink. "I don't have much confidence in someone who sits behind a desk probing people's brains, then putting their personalities into slots."

"Well." She sipped her drink again and heard the music turn to something dreamy by Lionel Richie. "That's how you term psychiatrists?"

"Yeah."

She nodded. "I suppose you have to tolerate a great deal of bigotry in your profession as well."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes, then it was gone, just as quickly. "Your point, Doctor."

She tapped a finger on the table, the only outward sign of emotion. He had an admirable capacity for stillness. She had already noticed that in Harris's office. Yet she sensed a restlessness in him. It was difficult not to appreciate the way he held it in check.

"All right, Detective Paris, why don't you make your point?"

After swirling his vodka, he set it down without drinking. "Okay. Maybe I see you as someone raking in bucks off frustrated housewives and bored executives. Everything harks back to sex or mother hating. You answer questions with questions and never raise a sweat. Fifty minutes goes by and you click over to the next file. When someone really needs help, when someone's desperate, it gets passed over. You label it, file it, and go on to the next hour."

For a moment she said nothing because under the anger, she heard grief. "It must've been a very bad experience," she murmured. "I'm sorry.

Uncomfortable, he shifted. "No tabletop analysis," he reminded her.

A very bad experience, she thought again. But he wasn't a man who wanted sympathy. "All right, let's try a different angle. You're a homicide detective. I guess all you do all day is two-wheel it down dark alleys with guns blazing. You dodge a few bullets in the morning, slap the cuffs on in the afternoon, then read the suspect his rights and haul him in for interrogation. Is that general enough for you?"

A reluctant smile touched him mouth. "Pretty clever, aren't you?"

"So I've been told."

It wasn't like him to make absolute judgments of someone he didn't know. His innate sense of fair play struggled with a long, ingrained prejudice. He signaled for another drink. "What's your first name. I'm tired of calling you Dr. Court."

"Yours is Ben." She gave him a smile that made him focus on her mouth again. "Teresa."

"No." He shook his head. "That's not what you're called. Teresa's too ordinary. Terry doesn't have enough class."

She leaned forward and dropped her chin on her folded hands. "You might be a good detective after all. It's Tess."

"Tess." He tried it out slowly, then nodded. "Very nice. Tell me, Tess, why psychiatry?"

She watched him a moment, admiring the easy way he sprawled in his seat. Not indolent, she thought, not sloppy, just relaxed. She envied that. "Curiosity," she said again. "The human mind is full of unanswered questions. I wanted to find the answers. If you can find the answers, you can help, sometimes. Heal the mind, ease the heart."

It touched him. The simplicity. "Ease the heart," he repeated, and thought of his brother. No one had been able to ease his. "You think if you heal one, you can ease the other?"

"It's the same thing." Tess looked beyond him to a couple who huddled laughing over a pitcher of beer.

"I thought all you got paid to do was look in heads."

Her lips curved a little, but her eyes still focused beyond him. "The mind, the heart, and the soul. 'Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased. Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow. Raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart.' "

He'd lifted his gaze from his drink as she'd spoken. Her voice remained quiet, but he'd stopped hearing the juke, the clatter, the laughter.

"Macbeth." When she smiled at him, he shrugged. "Cops read too."

Tess lifted her glass in what might have been a toast. "Maybe we should both reevaluate."

It was still drizzling when they turned back into the parking lot at headquarters. The gloom had brought the dark quickly, so that puddles shone beneath streetlights and the sidewalks were wet and deserted. Washington kept early hours. She'd waited until now to ask him what she'd wondered all evening.

"Ben, why did you become a cop?"

"I told you, I like catching bad guys."

The seed of truth was there, she thought, but not the whole. "So you grew up playing cops and robbers, and decided to keep right on playing?"

"I always played doctor." He pulled up beside her car and set the brake. "It was educational."

"I'm sure. Then why the switch to public service?"

He could've been glib, he could've evaded. Part of his charm for women was his ability to do both with an easy smile. Somehow, for once, he wanted to tell the simple truth. "All right, now I've a quote for you. 'The law is but words and paper without the hands and swords of men.' " With a half smile he turned to see her studying him calmly. "Words and paper aren't my way of handling things."

"And the sword is?"

"That's right." He leaned over to open her door. Their bodies brushed but neither acknowledged the physical tug. "I believe in justice, Tess. It's a hell of a lot more than words on paper."

She sat a moment, digesting. There was violence in him, ordered and controlled. Perhaps the word was trained, but it was violence nonetheless. He'd certainly killed, something her education and personality completely rejected. He'd taken lives, risked his own. And he believed in law and order and justice. Just as he believed in the sword.

He wasn't the simple man she'd first pegged him to be. It was a lot to learn in one evening. More than enough, she thought, and slid aside.

"Well, thanks for the drink, Detective."

As she pushed out of the car, Ben was out on the other side. "Don't you have an umbrella?"

She sent him an easy smile as she dug for her keys. "I never carry it when it rains."

Hands in his back pockets, he sauntered over to her. For reasons he couldn't pinpoint, he was reluctant to let her go. "Wonder what a head doctor would make of that?"

"You don't have one either. Good night, Ben."

He knew she wasn't the shallow, overeducated sophisticate he'd labeled her. He found himself holding her door open after she'd slid into the driver's seat. "I've got this friend who works at the Kennedy-Center. He passed me a couple of tickets for the Noel Coward play tomorrow night. Interested?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, politely. Oil and water didn't mix. Neither did business and pleasure. "Yes, I'm interested."

Because he wasn't sure how he felt about her agreement, he just nodded. "I'll pick you up at seven."

When he slammed her door shut, she rolled down the window. "Don't you want my address?"

He sent her a cocky smile she should've detested. "I'm a detective."

When he strolled back to his car, Tess found herself laughing.

By ten the rain had stopped. Absorbed in the profile she was compiling, Tess didn't notice the quiet, or the dull light from the moon. The take-out Chinese had slipped her mind, and her dinner of a roast beef sandwich was half eaten and forgotten.

Fascinating. She read over the reports again. Fascinating and chilling. How did he choose his victims? she wondered. All blond, all late twenties, all small to medium builds. Who did they symbolize to him, and why?

Did he watch them, follow them? Did he choose them arbitrarily? Maybe the hair color and build were simply coincidence. Any woman alone at night could end up being saved.

No. It was a pattern, she was sure of it. Somehow he selected each victim because of general physical appearance. Then he managed to peg her routine. Three killings, and he hadn't made one mistake. He was ill, but he was methodical.

Blond, late twenties, small to medium build. She found herself staring at her own vague reflection in the window. Hadn't she just described herself?

The knock at the door jolted her, then she cursed her foolishness. She checked her watch for the first time since she'd sat down, and saw she'd worked for three hours straight. Another two and she might have something to give Captain Harris. Whoever was at the door was going to have to make it quick.

Letting her glasses drop on the pile of papers, she went to answer. "Grandpa." Annoyance evaporated as she rose on her toes to kiss him with the gusto he'd helped instill in her life. He smelled of peppermint and Old Spice and carried himself like a general. "You're out late."

"Late?" His voice boomed. It always had. Off the walls of the kitchen where he fried up fresh fish, at a ball game where he cheered for whatever team suited his whim, on the floor of the Senate where he'd served for twenty-five years. "It's barely ten. I'm not ready for a lap robe and warm milk yet, little girl. Fix me a drink."

He was already in and shrugging his six-foot lineman's frame out of his coat. He was seventy-two, Tess thought as she glanced at the wild mane of white hair and leathered face. Seventy-two and he had more energy than the men she dated. And certainly more interest. Maybe the reason she was still single and content to be so was because she had such high standards in men. She poured him three fingers of scotch.

He looked over at the desk piled with papers and folders and notes. That was his Tess, he thought as he took the glass from her. Always one to dig in her heels and get the job done. He didn't miss the half-eaten sandwich either. That was also his Tess. "So." He tossed back scotch. "What do you know about this maniac we've got on our hands?"

"Senator." Tess used her most professional voice as she sat on the arm of a chair. "You know I can't discuss this with you."

"Bullshit. I got you the job."

"For which I'm not going to thank you."

He gave her one of his steely looks. Veteran politicians had been known to cringe from it. "I'll get it from the mayor anyway."

Instead of cringing, Tess offered her sweetest smile. "From the mayor, then."

"Damn ethics," he muttered.

"You taught them to me."

He grunted, pleased with her. "What about Captain Harris? An opinion."

She sat a moment, brooding as she did when gathering her thoughts. "Competent, controlled. He's angry and frustrated and under a great deal of pressure, but he manages to keep it all on a leash."

"What about the detectives in charge of the case?"

"Paris and Jackson." She ran the tip of her tongue along her teeth. "They struck me as an unusual pair, yet very much a pair. Jackson looks like a mountain man. He asked typical questions, but he listens very well. He strikes me as the methodical type. Paris..." She hesitated, not as sure of her ground. "He's restless, and I think more volatile. Intelligent, but more instinctive than methodical. Or maybe more emotional." She thought of justice, and a sword.

"Are they competent?"

"I don't know how to judge that, Grandpa. If I went on impression, I'd say they're dedicated. But even that's only an impression."

"The mayor has a great deal of faith in them." He downed the rest of his scotch. "And in you."

She focused on him again, eyes grave. "I don't know if it's warranted. This man's very disturbed, Grandpa. Dangerous. I may be able to give them a sketch of his mind, his emotional pattern, but that isn't going to stop him. Guessing games." Rising, she stuck her hands in her pockets. "It's all just a guessing game."

"It's always just a guessing game, Tess. You know there are no guarantees, no absolutes."

She knew, but she didn't like it. She never had. "He needs help, Grandpa. He's screaming for it, but no one can hear him."

He put a hand under his chin. "He's not your patient, Tess."

"No, but I'm involved." When she saw the frown crease his brow, she changed her tone. "Don't start worrying, I'm not going to go overboard."

"You told me that once about a box full of kittens. They ended up costing me more than a good suit."

She kissed his cheek again, then picked up his coat. "And you loved every one of them. Now I've got work to do."

"Kicking me out?"

"Just helping you with your coat," she corrected. "Good night, Grandpa."

"Behave yourself, little girl."

She closed the door on him, remembering he'd been telling her the same thing since she was five.

The church was dark and empty, but it hadn't been difficult for him to deal with the lock. Nor did he feel he'd sinned in doing so. Churches weren't meant to be locked. God's house was meant to be open for the needy, for the troubled, for the reverent.

He lit the candles, four of them-one for each of the women he'd saved, and the last for the woman he hadn't been able to save.

Dropping to his knees, he prayed, and his prayers were desperate. Sometimes, only sometimes, when he thought of the mission, he doubted. A life was sacred. He'd taken three and knew the world looked on him as a monster. If those he worked with knew, they'd scorn him, put him in prison, detest him. Pity him.

But flesh was transient. A life was only sacred because of the soul. It was the soul he saved. The soul he must continue to save until he'd balanced the scales. Doubting, he knew, was a sin in itself.

If only he had someone to talk to. If only there were someone to understand, to give him comfort. A wave of despair washed over him, hot and thick. Giving in would have been a relief. There was no one, no one he could trust. No one to share this burden. When the Voice was silent, he was so alone.

He'd lost Laura. Laura had lost herself and taken pieces of him with her. The best pieces. Sometimes, when it was dark, when it was quiet, he could see her. She never laughed anymore. Her face was so pale, so full of pain. Lighting candles in empty churches would never wipe away the pain. Or the sin.

She was in the dark, waiting. When his mission was complete, only then would she be free.

The smell of votive candles burning, the hushed silence of church, and the silhouettes of statues soothed him. Here he might find hope and a place. He'd always found such comfort in the symbols of religion, and the boundaries.

Lowering his head to the rail, he prayed more fervently. As he'd been taught, he prayed for the grace to accept whatever trials were ahead of him.

When he rose, the candlelight flickered over the white collar at his throat. He blew them out, and it was dark again.