Sacred Sins (33 page)

“Naturally. I'm in the answer business.”

“Does it bother you that this man may be, or may have been, a priest?”

“On a personal level, you mean, because I'm a priest?” To consider it, he sat back with his hands steepled. As a young man he'd boxed both in and out of the ring. His knuckles were fat and spread. “I can't deny a certain discomfort. Certainly the idea of the man being a priest rather than, say, a computer programmer, makes the entire business more sensational. But the simple truth is that priests are not saints, but as human as a plumber, a right fielder, or a psychiatrist.”

“When he's found, will you want to treat him?”

“If I were asked,” Logan said slowly. “If I believed I could be of use, then perhaps. I wouldn't feel obliged or responsible, as I believe you do.”

“You know, the more afraid I am, the more essential it becomes to me to help him.” She turned to the window again. “I had a dream last night. A rather dreadful one. I was lost in these corridors, this maze, and I was running. Even though I knew I was dreaming I was still terrified. The walls became mirrors and I could see myself over and over again.” Unconsciously she put a hand to the glass of the window, as she had to the mirror in the dream. “I was carrying my briefcase, dragging it really, because it was so heavy. I looked in one of the mirrors and it wasn't my reflection, but Anne Reasoner's. Then she was gone and I was running again. There was a door. I just had to get on the other side of that door. When I got there, it was locked. I looked frantically for the key, but I didn't have it. Then the door opened on its own. I thought I was safe. I thought—then I saw the priest's frock and the amice.”

She turned back, but couldn't bring herself to sit. “Oh, I could sit down and write a very detailed and
comprehensive analysis of that dream. My fear of being out of control in this situation, overwork, and my refusal to cut down on that workload. Guilt over Anne Reasoner. My frustration at not finding the key to this case and my ultimate, my very ultimate failure.”

She hadn't mentioned fear for her life. Logan considered it a very interesting and telling omission. Either she had not yet brought herself to face it, or she linked the possibility with her dread of failing.

“You're so sure you're going to fail?”

“Yes, and I detest the idea.” The admission brought a self-deprecating smile. Tess ran her fingers over the cover of the antique Bible and found the carving deep and smooth. “There's something in here about pride going before a fall.”

“I tend to think that depends on the pride. You've given the police everything a trained psychiatrist could, Tess. You haven't failed.”

“I never have, you know. Not really. Not on a personal level. I did well in school, played hostess very properly for my grandfather until my practice cut back on my free time. As far as men were concerned, after one minor disaster in college I always made sure I called the shots. Things have been very safe and tidy until … well, until a few months ago.”

“Tess, as far as this case is concerned, you were brought in as a consultant. It's the police department's responsibility to find this man.”

“Maybe I could have left it at that. Maybe,” she murmured, running a hand through her hair. “I'm not totally sure. But now, how can I? He's turned to me. When he spoke to me, there was a desperation, a plea. How could I, how could any doctor try not to answer that?”

“Treating him at some later date isn't the same thing
as feeling responsible for the results of his illness.” A frown of concern entered his eyes as he linked his fingers and rested them on the desk. “If I had to speculate out of hand, before a thorough reading of this report, I would say he's drawn to you because he senses compassion, and a certain vulnerability. You have to be careful not to give so much of the first that you fall victim to the second.”

“It's difficult for me to follow the rules on this one. Ben—Detective Paris—wanted me to go out of town. When he suggested it, for a minute I thought, I'll go. I'll get on a plane and go down to, I don't know, Mazatlán, and when I come back this will all be over and my life will be as neat and tidy as it used to be.” She paused and met Logan's quiet, patient gaze. “I really detest myself for that.”

“Don't you consider it a normal reaction to the stress of the situation?”

“For a patient,” she said, and smiled. “Not for me.”

“There is such a thing as overachievement, Tess.”

“I don't smoke. I'm a very light drinker.” She came back to sit. “I figure I'm entitled to a vice.”

“I don't have sex,” Logan said contemplatively. “I suppose that's why I feel entitled to smoke and drink.” He looked back, pleased that she seemed more at ease. Confession, he knew well, was good for the soul. “So you're staying in Georgetown and cooperating with the police. How do you feel about that?”

“Nervous,” she told him immediately. “It's an uneasy feeling to know someone's watching you all the time. I don't mean just—” Shaking her head, she broke off. “I have such a difficult time knowing what to call him.”

“Most people would call him a killer.”

“Yes, but he's also a victim. In any case, it's not just knowing he might be watching that unnerves me. It's knowing the police are. At the same time I feel satisfied
that it's the right thing. I didn't cut and run. I want to help this man. It's become very important to me to help him. In the dream, when I was faced with him I fell apart. Therefore I failed him and myself. I'm not going to let that happen.”

“No, I don't think you will.” Logan picked up his letter opener, running the hilt through his hands. It was old and a bit tacky, a souvenir from a trip to Ireland during his youth. He was fond of it, as he was of many foolish things. Though he didn't consider Tess foolish, he was becoming fond of her as well. “Tess, I hope you don't take offense if I suggest that after all this is over, you do get away for a while. Stress and overwork can break even the strongest of us.”

“I won't take offense, but I might take it as doctor's orders.”

“Good girl. Tell me, how is Ben?” When she gave him a blank stare, he smiled. “Oh, come, even a priest can smell romance in the air.”

“I suppose you could say Ben is another problem.”

“Romance is supposed to be a problem.” He put the letter opener down. “Are you calling the shots this time, Tess?”

“It doesn't seem as though either of us is. We're just fumbling around. He—I think we care for each other a great deal. We just haven't gotten around to trusting each other yet.”

“Trust takes time if it's going to be solid. I've had a couple of professional discussions with him, and one rather drunken meeting at a little bar downtown.”

“Oh, really? He didn't mention it.”

“My dear, a man doesn't like to mention he got drunk with a priest. In any case, would you like my opinion of Detective Paris?”

“Yes, I think I would.”

“I'd say he's a very good man, dependable. The kind
of man who probably calls his mother once a month even when he'd rather not. Men like Ben bend rules but very rarely break them, because they appreciate structure, they understand the concept of law. There's an anger in him he keeps well buried. He didn't give up the Church because of laziness, but because he found too many flaws. He gave up the Church, Tess, my dear, but he's Catholic right down to his toes.” Tim sat back, pleased with himself. “Sixty-second analysis is my speciality.”

“I believe it.” She pulled a file out of her briefcase. “I hope you have as much luck with this. I cleared it with Captain Harris. This is my updated report. You'll also find the transcripts of my phone calls. I'd appreciate a miracle.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks for listening.”

“Any time.” He rose to go to the door with her. “Tess, if you have any more nightmares, give me a call. It never hurts to ask for a little help.”

“Where have I heard that before?”

Logan watched her go through the outer office before he closed the door.

H
E
watched her exit the building. It was dangerous to follow her, but he knew the time for caution was almost over. She paused by her car, looking for her keys. Her head was bent, as if in prayer. The need billowed up inside him until his head rang. Groping, he found the white silk in his coat pocket. Cool, soft. It steadied him. Tess pushed the key into the lock.

If he was quick enough, sure enough, it could be over in minutes. His fingers clutched and unclutched on the amice while his heart thudded in his throat. A
few forgotten leaves, dry as dust, rustled around her ankles. He saw the wind blow wisps of hair around her face. She looked troubled. Soon, very soon, she would be at peace. They would all be at peace.

He watched her get into her car, heard the door close, then the sound of the engine. A puff of smoke spurted out of the tailpipe. The car made a gentle sweep of the parking area, then turned onto the road.

He waited until the police car made the turn before he went to his own car. She would go to her office now, and he would continue the vigil. The moment hadn't arrived. There was still time to pray for her. And himself.

T
ESS
hung up the phone, leaned back in her chair, and shut her eyes. She was batting about.500. In her game, that wasn't nearly good enough.

Joey Higgins. How could she treat the boy if she couldn't talk to him? His mother had taken a stand. Joey was no longer drinking, therefore, Joey was fine and no longer needed the embarrassment of a psychiatrist. It had been a painful and ultimately fruitless conversation. She had one more shot. She had to make it good.

Leaning forward, Tess buzzed her secretary. “Kate, how much time do I have before the next appointment?”

“Ten minutes.”

“All right. Please get Donald Monroe on the line for me.”

“Right away.”

While she waited, Tess looked over Joey's file. Their last session remained very clear in her mind.

“Dying's not such a big deal.”

“Why do you say that, Joey?”

“'Cause it's not. People are always dying. You're supposed to.”

“Death's inevitable, but that doesn't make it an answer. Even very old people, very sick people, cling to life because it's precious.”

“People say when someone dies, they're at peace.”

“Yes, and most of us believe there is something after life. But each of us is here for a reason. Our life is a gift, not always easy, certainly not always perfect. Making it better for ourselves and for the people around us takes some effort. What's your favorite thing to eat?”

He gave her a blank look. “Spaghetti, I guess.”

“Meat balls or meat sauce?”

The smile was quick, but it was there. “Meat balls.”

“Suppose you'd never tasted spaghetti and meat balls. The sky would probably still be blue, Christmas would still come once a year, but you'd be missing something pretty terrific. And if you weren't here, say you'd never been born, we'd still have the sky and Christmas, but something pretty terrific would be missing.”

Her buzzer brought her back to the present. “Mr. Monroe on one.”

“Thank you, Kate. Mr. Monroe.”

“Dr. Court. Is there a problem?”

“Yes, Mr. Monroe, I feel there's a big problem. I'm strongly opposed to Joey withdrawing from treatment.”

“Withdrawing? What do you mean?”

“Mr. Monroe, are you aware that Joey missed his last session?”

There was a pause before she caught just a whisper of a weary sigh. “No. I suppose he decided to take off on his own. I'll discuss it with Lois.”

“Mr. Monroe, I've already spoken to your wife. She's decided to take Joey out of therapy. I take it you weren't informed.”

“No, I wasn't.” Another pause, then he drew a long breath. “Dr. Court, Lois wants Joey to resume a normal life, and he does seem a great deal better. We told him
about the baby, and his reaction was encouraging. He's going to help me paint the nursery.”

“I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Monroe. My feeling is, however, that he's far from ready to pull out of therapy. In fact, I still believe he would be helped a great deal by some time in the clinic we discussed.”