“God, Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Angel read along silently from the form as the priest droned the prayer, and then she said “Amen,” as it directed the penitent to respond. She raised the pistol slowly, bringing the bulbous makeshift silencer in line with the small rectangular screen over the kneeling rest.

“There’s one more thing,” Angel said.

“What?” Father Moros asked.

“This is your lucky day,” Angel said. “I think you’re going to see God.”

“I don’t quite understand. .,” Father Moros said.

The texture of light in the screen shifted slightly, and Angel placed the end of the green bottle dead center in the grille and extended her arm. “Tell me, Father Moros, why did you have to leave the parish in Albuquerque in such a hurry?”

“Wait a minute. .” Moros tensed, combative.

“I thought you guys went in for little boys. But your thing is teenage girls, huh?” Angel said.

For a moment Moros was stunned. Where did this come from? How? Then he gritted his teeth to contain the welling anger, raised his fists, and shouted at the screen. “Lies, all lies. Not even lies; more like stupid gossip. .”

Angel jerked the trigger twice in rapid succession, the sound of the hammer falling on the chamber louder than the muted clap-clap of the muzzle. Relax, stop shaking, see, it works-the bottle soaked up most of the blast. Furniture crashed on the other side of the partition followed by a meaty thump on the carpet. Then nothing.