“It was vicious, cold-blooded murder. It was real, and now a man of flesh and blood is dead. Because of you. Don’t try to excuse what you did.”

“Ah, but I was giving you a metaphor, Father, not an excuse. Your tone is harsh. Aren’t you going to give me my penance? Maybe have me say a million Hail Marys? Perhaps have me score my own back with a whip? Don’t you want me to plead with you to intercede with God on my behalf, beg for my forgiveness?”

“A million Hail Marys wouldn’t get you anywhere.” Father Michael leaned closer, nearly touched that evil, smelled the hot breath of that man. “Listen to me now. This is not a sacramental confession. You believe that I am bound by silence, that anything anyone tells me can go no farther than the confessional. That is not true. You have not made a sacramental confession; you are not contrite, you seek no spiritual absolution, and I am not bound to silence. I will discuss this with my bishop. However, even if he disagrees with me, I am prepared to leave the priesthood if I have to. Then I will tell the world what you have done. I won’t allow this to continue.”

“You would really turn me over to the cops? That is very impassioned of you, Father. I see that you are seriously pissed. I didn’t know there was a loophole in your vow of silence. I had wanted you to be forced to beg and plead and threaten, but realize you’re helpless and let it eat you alive. But how can anyone predict someone’s behavior, after all?”

“They’ll throw you in an institution for the rest of your miserable life.”

The man smothered a laugh, managed a credible sigh, and said, laughing, “You mean to imply that I’m insane, Father?”