Nora Roberts - Sacred Sins

Ben buried his face in her hair and cut himself loose.

“I appreciate YOUR making time to see me, Monsignor. Tess took a seat in the front of Logan’s desk and had a quick, not entirely comfortable flash of how her patients must feel during their initial consultation.

“It’s my pleasure.” He was settled comfortably, his tweed jacket draped over the back of his chair, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal sturdy forearms sprinkled with hair just beginning to gray. She thought again that he seemed to be a man more accustomed to the rugby field or racquetball court than vespers and incense. “Would you like some tea?”

“No. Nothing, thank you, Monsignor.”

“Since we’re colleagues, why don’t you call me Tim?”

“Yes.” She smiled, ordering herself to relax, starting with her toes. “That would make things easier. My call to you today was on impulse, but-”

“When a priest is troubled, he seeks out another priest. When an analyst is troubled…” As he trailed off, Tess found her conscious effort to relax was working.

“Exactly.” The fingers on her purse loosened their grip. “I guess that means you get hit from both ends.”

“It also means I have two roads to choose from when I have problems of my own. That’s a matter which has its pros and cons, but you didn’t come to discuss Christ versus Freud. Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”

“At this point, a number of things. I don’t feel like I’ve found the key to the mind of… of the man the police are looking for.”

“And you think you should have?”

“I think being as involved as I am now, I should have more.” She lifted one hand in a gesture that spoke of frustration and uncertainty. “I’ve talked to him three times. It bothers me that I can’t get through my own fear, maybe my own self-interest, to push the right buttons.”

“Do you think you know those buttons?”

“It’s my job to know them.”

“Tess, we both know the psychotic mind is a maze, and the routes leading to the core can shift and shift again. Even if we had him under intensive therapy in ideal conditions, it might take years to find the answers.”

“Oh, I know. Logically, medically, I know that.”

“But emotionally is a different story.”

Emotionally. She dealt with other people’s emotions on a daily basis. It was different, and much more difficult, she discovered, to open her own to someone else. “I know it’s unprofessional, and that worries me, but I’m past the point where I can be objective. Monsignor Logan-Tim-that last woman who was killed was meant to be me. I saw her in that alley. I can’t forget.”

His eyes were kind, but she saw no pity in them. “Transferring guilt won’t change what happened.”

“I know that too.” She rose and went to the window. Below, a group of students rushed across the grass to make their next class.

“May I ask you a question?”

“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-depreciating 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, Mazatlan, 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?”