“The answer,” said Father William, “is that we can’t and won’t do any of those things, because there aren’t any halfway measures when it comes to the soul, my children. Your body is just a suit that you wear for the flickering instant of your lives, but your soul is an outfit you’re going to wear for all eternity, and you can’t afford to take any chances with it. You can’t give it an antibiotic and prescribe two weeks of bed rest for it, because it doesn’t have any bloodstream and it can’t lie down—and besides, it’s too damned important to try to cure with halfway measures.” His voice rose in volume and intensity. “Never forget this: There is no such thing as a minor infection of the soul! There’s no breaking it down into serious and trivial, into fatal and nonfatal. There’s just infection, and when you see it you’ve got to cut it out with the holy blade of the Lord!”

Suddenly Virtue felt the point of a knife prodding her rib cage.

“Not a sound, not a movement!” whispered the gaunt man.

Father William cleared his throat. “Some of you want to know: How can such surgery make the soul well again? Well, my children, it’s a damned good question—and you’re not going to like the answer, for the answer is as harsh as the wrath of the Lord.” He paused for effect. “Nothing can make an infected soul well again.” He looked out at his audience, his eyes blazing. “You think you can fool God with false contrition? Hah!” He bellowed the contemptuous laugh so forcefully that the speaker system emitted an ear-splitting whine.

“So why do we cut it out? Because—and here’s the gist of it, brethren—we’ve got to act fast to stop that infection from spreading to other souls. We’ve got to stop the evil from creeping like a cancer from one soul to the next!”

“I could yell for help,” whispered Virtue.

“It might start as a yell,” replied the gaunt man. “I guarantee it’ll end as a gurgle.”

“There’s nothing new about this,” continued Father William. “What did the Lord do when the people of Sodom became infected? He cut out the cancer. He didn’t sit up with his sick patient and tend to its illness. He used the knife! What did He do when He saw that the whole world was wicked? Did He go in and perform microsurgery? Hell, no! He flooded it for forty days and forty nights!”

He paused and wiped the sweat from his face with a black handkerchief.

“He’s due to take a break soon,” whispered the gaunt man. “When he does, get up and walk out very slowly. I’ll be right beside you.” He prodded her with the point of the knife for emphasis.