Brinkman started to bristle but instead shrugged off the dig at his multiple marriages and divorces. “Lucky you,” he said, and Bentz opened the door.

“I’ll be right in,” Brinkman said as Montoya slid inside. “Order me a light beer.”

“In your dreams, Brinkman. You can order it yourself.”

Bentz let the door close and let the darkness of the bar seep into his bones. He felt the urge for a beer—light or otherwise—but thought better of it and walked up to the bar, where Montoya had already claimed a stool.

The barkeep turned and set two glasses in front of them. A frosted glass of beer for Montoya, a Diet Coke for Bentz. They should be celebrating, the case of the killer who’d stalked the brides of Christ no longer at large, but he was still bothered because of Father John slipping through their fingers.

Then again, Bentz probably always would be. Father John, that bastard, was the one who got away.

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

Some deaths are worth great risk.

But they are necessary, if revenge is to be served.

It takes time, and patience, of course.

I had to wait for five months, had to be quiet, to tamp down the most basic of my urges while each night I listened to the radio and listened to her give out her pathetic advice.

But I did.

I waited.

I planned.

I checked schedules, shift changes, routines, and how one could get into the prison.

It wasn’t as hard as I expected.

For priests still travel to other parishes, and they give counsel to inmates, so with false ID I was able to walk through the doors of the prison where Sister Devota, née Darlene Arness, is incarcerated.

With the same ID and a confident smile, a little glint in my eye for the woman guard, and my hands folded over my Bible, it’s an easy matter to gain access to Devota, in her cell, where she wants to make confession.

Of course, it’s all on camera, but I’m not worried. She opens her arms and heart to me, confessing all, even the murder of my beautiful and wicked Camille and the others. She’s not worried, as I am a priest; her confession is safe with me. She doesn’t see the rage, the telltale tic beneath my left eye, the way my knuckles turn white as I hold the Bible. She not only murdered my child, but also the woman I loved. And I loved Camille, make no mistake. My love for that witch was insatiable.

But, of course, I try to look calm, to act the part of the understanding priest and hear her confession. I’m here to mete out my own special justice, and when she explains about Camille and the baby she was carrying, my child, I feel the need rise.