He bent, kissed the white marble feet.

For a moment he thought he saw the gleam of blood on his hand, and that hand shook.

But no, his hand was clean and white. He had washed the blood of his enemy away. The mark of Cain stained the others, but not him. He was the lamb of God after all.

He would meet with another enemy soon, very soon, and he had to be strong to bait, to trap, to wear the mask of friendship.

He had fasted, made the sacrifice, cleansed his heart and mind of all worldly evils. Now he dipped his fingers into a small bowl of holy water, touched his fingers to his brow, his heart, left shoulder, then right. He knelt, closing a hand over the cloth scapular he wore. It had been blessed by the Pope himself, and its promise of protection from evil comforted him.

He tucked it tidily under the silk of his shirt where it could rest against warm flesh.

Secure, confident, he lifted his gaze to the crucifix that hung above the sturdy table that held the weapons of his mission. The image of the suffering Christ gleamed silver against a cross of gold. A rich man's visual aide. The irony of owning an image carved from precious metals of a man who had preached humility never touched him.

He lighted the candles, folded his hands, and bending his head prayed with the passion of the faithful, and the mad.

He prayed for grace, and prepared for murder.

CHAPTER THREE

The Homicide bullpen at Cop Central smelled like day-old coffee and fresh urine. Eve wound her way through the jammed-in desks, barely registering the buzz of chatter from detectives working their 'links. A maintenance droid was busily mopping up the ancient linoleum.