Page 168 of Beautiful Obsessions
Then they were outside.
The doors closed.
I listened to their footsteps on the stone outside.
Three car doors slammed.The engine idled.
Still, I waited.A minute.Two.
The car pulled away too slowly.I crossed to the nearest window and stood just out of sight, watching their headlights slide across the wet road.They paused at the corner, watching the church.
I remained still until the red glow of their tail-lights vanished beyond the bend.Only then did I breathe.The breath hurt.
I looked down at my hand.
The candle snuffer was still there.
My knuckles were white around the handle.
I set it down carefully, as though I could still do something foolish with it.
Then I moved.The confessional curtain opened with a soft scrape.
The strange woman was slumped against the wall, her head tipped sideways, her dark hair stuck to her cheek with blood and rain.In the dim red light, the bruises on her throat looked almost black.
“Signorina.”
There was no response.
I knelt in front of her and pressed two fingers beneath her jaw.
Her pulse fluttered against my skin.
It came fast but fragile.She was still alive.
“Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
I checked her pupils as best I could in the poor light.One eye was swollen almost shut, but she reacted faintly when I lifted her lid.Her breathing was shallow, uneven, and far too quick.
Shock.Concussion, perhaps.Blood loss.Exposure.Fear that had pushed her body beyond its limits.
I looked toward the church doors.
The Coccicos would not go far.
Not if they had tracked her here.The young one had seen the smear near the pew.Shame had driven them out, but suspicion would bring them back.And when they returned, they would not ask politely.
I slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her from the booth.Her head fell against my chest.
For years, that strip of white at my throat had been a wall.Between past and present.Between sin and service.Between the man I had been and the man I had made myself become.Her blood crossed it without effort.
I carried her toward the side door, away from the nave, away from the saints with their peeling eyes and silent judgment.
At the threshold, I stopped.I looked down at the woman in my arms.She was a stranger.A life placed in my hands without my consent.I should have called the police or my bishop.I should have done any number of clean, lawful, holy things.
Instead, I carried her into the night through the side passage, locked the church behind me, and went to the one place I knew men like Coccico still feared enough not to enter carelessly.
