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finally convinced that cops weren’t staked out anywhere. He entered the church fifteen minutes before ten. The interior was empty, and two candles burned up front. The only other light streamed through the stained-glass windows.
    He walked the full length of the nave to be certain that he was alone. No one, not even the priest, was in sight. He went outside again and saw nobody. And the sixth sense that years in his trade had honed did not alert him to an ambush. When satisfied, he went back inside and entered the confessional to wait for the priest. Even if police were staked out, he had not incriminated himself.
    He carried no weapon. In fact, he had not carried one since his last kill. That was four months ago, when he had suffered a heart attack and decided to give up contract work. Yes, he missed the money because the recession had hurt his auto body business as people stopped coming in with dings, dents, and fender benders. Furthermore, as an independent, he could not compete with chains that cut pricing deals with insurance companies. Nearing his fifty-second year, he reminded himself, while sitting in the confessional, that his father had died of a coronary thrombosis at fifty-five and his mother a year later of a stroke.
    What had brought him to this booth the other day was his reaching out to God. Lying in that hospital bed four months ago and fearing he was going to die, he had sent up a prayer from the bottom of his soul that he would give up the killing if God would spare his life. The next night, he could have sworn that Jesus had appeared to him. It was probably just a dream, because he looked like the Jesus in the picture his mother had on her bureau—a tall figure in white standing on a hillside with people gathered around his feet, listening. And beneath it the Ninety-first Psalm. He could still recall the words:
     
He shall call upon me, and I will answer him:
I will be with him in trouble;
I will deliver him, and honor him.
With long life will I satisfy him,
And show him my salvation.
    But as Roman sat in the dim light waiting for the priest, he recalled the promise of those words and the bargain he had made. He had fully recovered, certain in the belief that God had answered his prayer and forgiven him. Certain that while he lay in his hospital bed, God had visited him like one of the guys from the body shop or softball team. And he knew because he could feel something happen inside his soul—something that told him that God was real. And that God had actually loved him enough to have intervened, telling him, You still have some work to do, so let me help clean you up.
    A little after ten, Roman heard someone enter the other side. Because of the low light and screen, he couldn’t see the profile of Father Callahan.
    “Good morning, my son.”
    “Good morning, Father,” Roman said. Then he began: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The words tumbled out of his mouth like gravel. It was the second time in forty years he had uttered them.
    “Would you care to confess your sins, my son?”
    The voice did not sound like that of Father Timothy Callahan. This was a different priest. “I was here three days ago.”
    “Yes, I know,” the voice replied. “But I still need to hear your confession.”
    Roman felt his chest clench. A setup—the guy on the other side was a fucking cop, his backup hiding in the pews or behind the altar. “You’re not Father Callahan.”
    “No, I’m not. I’m a brother in spirit and am bound by the same vows of confidentiality. Father Callahan is a new priest and shared with me the special circumstances. But I can assure you that what is said in this confessional is strictly confidential.”
    Brother in spirit? “What about Father Callahan? How can I trust that he’s not shared my confession with others?”
    “He hasn’t. He’s bound by the holy sacrament and his sacred vows.”
    Maybe Roman’s sins were so awful that the young priest had to call in a