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heavy hitter—a bishop, maybe, or even a cardinal. “I’ve committed mortal sins.”
    “God will hear your sins.”
    “I killed some people and want to redeem myself.”
    “I see. It’s good that you want redemption. Let us pray that God forgives you for your sins and gives you guidance and strength.”
    Through the decorative grate, Roman could hear the man praying. The last time Roman was in the presence of a priest was when he was a teenager. His mother had made him go to church, and he’d hated every moment of it—an hour plus of mumbo-jumbo, half in Latin, half in bloated threats. The only matters that held his attention were stories about saints being crucified or roasted alive. For more Sundays than he cared to count, he sat numb-butted on hard pews that smelled of Murphy’s Oil Soap. But instead of losing himself in it all, he watched others lock into complex rituals of praying, kneeling, standing, and crossing themselves. And never once did he feel any mystery or peace—just near terminal boredom, surrounded by a lot of people going through the motions out of duty, fear, and hope. As for confession, he went because Father Infantino insisted he go. That had always struck him as silly—a way to shed guilt and get a free pass to sin some more.
    Now, sitting in this oaken box, he could not repress a deep unease that took him back to those days at St. Luke’s at the south end of Hartford, where Father Infantino tried to pound the fear of God into his adolescent brain.
    “Were you were raised Roman Catholic?”
    “Yes—early on.”
    “So, you strayed from your faith.”
    “Something like that.”
    “What made you choose this parish to return?”
    “I guess it’s like the traditional Catholicism I grew up with.”
    From what he knew, St. Pius Church still held sacred pre–Vatican II dogma, resisting efforts to modernize the Church—holding fast to the sanctity of the literal Bible, the Latin mass, the dress codes for women, the firm stand on divorce, and the conviction that there was no salvation for those outside the Roman Catholic Church. The parish also rejected reconciliation with the Jews. From what Roman had heard, St. Pius Church was a small, white, conservative enclave of traditionalist worshippers who upheld Catholic purity within a Church that had become too liberal and a culture that rejected God’s Word. Given his sins, Roman figured that he needed a ministry of severe unction.
    “Then we welcome you back, my son, but know that your sins are very heavy.”
    “I know and I’m asking forgiveness.”
    “Good, and no matter how heavy, there is a way back to God, my son.”
    “Thank you, Father.”
    “But for such special circumstances, special sanctions are necessary. Do you believe in God the Father Almighty and his son Jesus Christ our savior?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you believe that God answers prayers?”
    “Yes, and I ask that He save my soul.”
    “He will because God sees you and He loves you. And He will welcome you home.”
    Roman took in the comfort of those words. “Thank you, Father.”
    “Do you believe in evil?”
    “Evil?” The question caught him off guard. “I guess. There’s a lot of it out there.”
    “So it seems. Do you believe in the devil?”
    “No, not really.”
    “So you believe only people are evil.”
    “Yeah. Because evil is what people do, what gives them pleasure.”
    “I see. Did you get pleasure from your profession?”
    Roman picked up on the careful wording, though he was beginning to wonder about the direction of the interrogation. “It was a job, and I was good at it.”
    “You did it for money, correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “And what do you think are the motivations of evil?”
    “I never thought about that. I guess lots of motivations—power, money…”
    “No, only one: revenge. It is the one true source of evil in the world. All other motivations—power, money, lust—they’re mere variations. Revenge. It’s what Satan taught