Vengeance: Mystery Writers of America Presents

and, to top it off, lived on the same block of East Seventh Street. And, as they liked to joke, both had difficult and devoted mothers.

But what really united them was shared tragedy. Each had lost his younger sister in a misfortune with loose ends, the loss like an open wound that would never heal. The driver of the car that killed Sofia had never been caught, but Lee’s heartbreak was even worse, Aleks thought. His sister, Laura, had disappeared without a trace some years after the accident that took Sofia’s life. When Aleks thought about this, he took some small comfort in the fact that at least he knew what had happened to his sister. Lee Campbell’s tragedy had caused him to go from being a therapist to being a forensic psychologist, while Aleks had given up a promising career as an academic, turning from philosophy to the priesthood.

He looked forward to their monthly Monday-night meetings at the pub, where they talked about everything from Beethoven to Jakob Bohme, the seventeenth-century German mystic. Aleks had written his Columbia honors thesis on Bohme, and when he found Lee Campbell had read the German’s work, it cemented their friendship.

And, Aleks thought as he gazed at those deep blue eyes, it didn’t hurt that Campbell was a hell of a good- looking man. His mother was right about that, at least. Aleks had renounced ways of the flesh when he took his vows, but he had a weakness for Lee’s kind of looks: curly black hair, blue eyes, and ruddy cheeks. He sighed deeply as he drained his first beer and started on the second.

“Are you all right?” Campbell asked.

“Why do you ask?” Aleks said. Was it that obvious?

“You look preoccupied. And it’s unusual for you to show up late.”

The priest gazed into the glass of amber ale and cleared his throat, a nervous habit. “I just, uh — I had a few last-minute things at the church, you know.”

“Okay. I don’t want to pry or anything.”

“I had to take confession from someone, and — let’s order another round, shall we?”

He flung a hand into the air, and the waiter gave a tiny nod of his massive head. Moments later, four more beers were thrust roughly in front of them, a few drops sloshing onto the table. The serving style at McSorley’s was abrupt, bordering on surly. You would never find the androgynous, fey waiters here you saw elsewhere in the East Village. There were no metrosexuals working at McSorley’s Old Ale House.

Father Milichuk took a long swig and wiped his mouth. The beer was good, bitter and cold and comforting. The room was already starting to haze nicely around the edges. He gazed at the words carved into the cabinet behind the bar: Be good or be gone.

“So,” he said, setting the mug down on the table with a plunk, “how are things?”

Campbell smiled. “On one hand, I can sympathize with Sherlock Holmes when he claimed to be bored because there were no interesting criminals in London. On the other hand, it’s creepy to actually wish for something bad to happen.”

“But isn’t something bad always happening?”

“Sure, but in most cases it’s routine stuff the cops can handle without my help. It’s only the really weird crimes where I get called in.”

Father Milichuk drained his third mug and started on the next one.

“You’re thirsty,” Lee commented, raising an eyebrow.

“I guess I am.” Aleks felt his secret gnawing at him, carving a hole in his soul. He felt an overpowering urge to share it with someone. “I don’t suppose —” he began.

“What?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“When you were a therapist, if someone told you he had committed a crime, did you have to keep it confidential?”

“No. If I thought my patient was a threat to himself or others, I was ethically bound to report that to the police.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason; I was just wondering.”

He knew his answer was unconvincing and realized that perhaps he wanted it to be. His friend peered closely at him.

“What’s bothering you, Aleks?”

“Well, we’ve talked about how our jobs are similar, and I—I was just wondering about that particular point.”

“You mean the seal of the confessional?”

“Uh, yes.”

Lee Campbell leaned his long body back in his chair and shook his head. “You’re a terrible liar, Aleks. I knew the minute you walked in something was wrong. You don’t have to tell me what it is — in fact, from what you’ve just said, I’m thinking you can’t. But if there’s anything I can do, let me know, okay?”

Aleks nodded, staring miserably at the empty glasses in front of him. He wanted more than anything to tell his friend everything about the mysterious supplicant and his cryptic confession. And yet he couldn’t; he was bound by his sacred vows.

“I wish I could talk to you about this.”

“It’s okay,” said Lee.

“It’s making me question … well, everything.”

“Your profession? Are you questioning that?”

Aleks took another long swallow and traced his finger in one of the deep hollows carved into the wooden table. “I don’t know.”

“You made a hard choice when you became a priest.”

Aleks ran a finger over the lip of his mug. “Sofia’s death changed everything. You must understand that better than anyone.”

“Yes, but I haven’t made the sacrifices you have.”

Aleks gazed out the window and saw it was raining. He watched the thin, hard droplets slice through the soft pink blossoms on the mimosa trees. “I’ve never told anyone this before, but a few days after it happened, I was lying in bed one night, and I had a vision.”

“In your sleep?”

“No, I was wide awake.”

“What happened?”

“Sofia came to me. She was standing at the foot of my bed, and she glowed, as though she were made of light beams. And I felt a sense of utter peace and joy come over me like I had never felt before.”

“Wow. Did she say anything?”

“No. She just smiled at me. And I knew that she was an angel, and that she was there because God had sent her to comfort me. Suddenly I saw the meaning of Sofia’s death: I was being called by God to comfort those in need, people who had experienced the kind of anguish I had. I knew that if I answered the call, this sense of complete peace might be mine again someday.”

“So you became a priest?”

“The next day I applied to seminary school, and I was accepted.”

“And Sofia? Have you seen her again?”

“No. But sometimes I have a sense that she’s nearby.”

Lee raised a hand to signal the waiter for another round. Aleks took a deep breath. It was now or never.

“I, uh, don’t suppose I could ask you a hypothetical question?”

“What is it?”

Is even that acceptable? Aleks wondered. If he told his friend the story of the mysterious confession as a hypothetical, would that violate the seal of the confessional?

He had never been faced with a dilemma like this before.

“You won’t mention this conversation to anyone, will you?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”