Blind Instinct

FIFTEEN

Richard's hangover had him in the bathroom, praying to the porcelain god, while Jessica, sympathetic but exhausted with her own headache, tried to recall just how many pubs they had crawled to and from the night before. Sharpe had been in a foul mood, and his anger and sullenness came out in this manner-drink and everything else be damned. But he proved to be fun and even hilarious when, in a crowded pub, he drunkeniy and loudly explained the game of cricket to all “foreign-bom immigrants and tourists.” Climbing onto a bar and bellowing out the explanadon of the game, he had said, “It's all quite simple, really! You have two sides, one out in the field, one in. Do you understand so far? Good!”

“So far, yes,” volunteered someone from the crowd.

Richard continued, adding with a flourish, “Each man on the side that's in goes out, and when he's out, he comes in, and the next man goes in, undl he's out. When they're all out, the side that's been out in the field now comes in-they come in, you see? And the side that's been in goes out to try to get out those coming in. If, however, the side that goes in declares, then you get men still in, not out. Then, when both sides have been in and out, including not outs, twice, that's the end of the match. Now do you comprehend?”

The crowd, Jessica included, roared while Sharpe shouted, “What? Don't you get it now? Shall I explain again?”

“No, no!” Jessica had pleaded.

She had watched Richard Sharpe put away an amazing amount of booze, his mood and the occasion calling for it. She had once been there herself. She sympathized with his need to wash the images of the victims, whom he feared to let down, from his brain.

Jessica had come with Richard to his home, a chalet-bungalow, basically a one-story house with an extra room in the eave-space. The exterior brickwork recommended it as a pleasant place, but the interior felt as dark and cramped as a cave.

Jessica feared her friend and lover was on the edge and teetering there. She knew she could not count herself a friend, if she failed to talk to him about it. These thoughts bombarded her now to the chorus of his nausea.

When Richard emerged, his eyes shone bright, his smile pervading the room. He showed not the least sign of injury or suffering, but rather appeared refreshed. A mask, a disguise, she thought.

“Richard, are you aware you are an alcoholic?” she asked point-blank.

His response came out as a hefty laugh, and he asked, “Are you the least hungry? My cupboard is near bare, but I have some breakfast cereal, some breads, a handful of eggs. Do you care for an omelet?”

“I don't think I could eat right now, no. And I don't know how on Earth you could. No, thank you.”

“1 hope you won't mind if I throw something together for myself.”

“After what I just heard? You must have a cast-iron stomach.”

“Speaking of which, I am given to understand you are pursuing a lead regarding coal and dung?”

“Dung and beetle, but how did you learn of that?”

“You forget. I am an inspector with Scoutand Yard. I know how to get people to talk,” he said with a smile. Then he freely added, “Heard you took a resounding ribbing from Schuller on the topic.”

“Is nothing sacred?”

“Not in questions of murder, no.”

She nodded, knowing this old truth of seeking the truth. “All right, yes, I've got the lab looking at any and every minute clue we have. The fact her hands, even after the water soaking, had the coal dust in them, got me to wondering, and it all tickled Dr. Schuller's funny bone.”

“And rightly so, my dear Jessica.”

“But suppose she and all of the victims were kept hostage somewhere before their being crucified, and suppose it was an underground someplace where coal abounds?”

He gave this a moment's thought, and brought his shoulders up before he replied, “England and London in particular are dotted with old coal mines, but only a handful are still in operation. Most have gone under.”

“I see.”

“Literally used to be hundreds within the city itself, if you consider the city one city; you see, London is in fact a sprawling bear, and all the separate little villages about the city proper have been swallowed up by the bear with each new bridge and roadway built over the years. But at one time, each small municipality had its own coal mine. So, there's the problem.”

“Problem?”

“Even if you were certain the coal dust under Woodard's nails-”

“No longer just her nails. We went back for a closer examination, and Raehael and I found coal dust embedded in her wounds as well, in the palms and feet.”

He slowed to digest this fact. “Even if it had come from someplace she had been held hostage, where do you begin? Not likely at the few still in operation. And there are hundreds not in operation, you see?”

“There ought by now to be results on the carbon-14 dating. Let me ring the lab.” She knew Richard meant only to humor her.

To her dismay, she found that the phone lay off the hook. She picked it up, rested it on its cradle and frowned, realizing that they had been out of touch with the investigation for nearly fourteen hours. Saying so to Richard resulted in a mutter of indifference from the man.

“I only hope nothing's happened and no one's missed us,” she replied, wondering now if he'd intentionally taken the phone off the hook.

She telephoned for Dr. Raehael at the Yard's crime lab, her face giving way to surprise, which Richard read as, “Another body's been found, hasn't it?”

“No, no,” she reassured him. “Yes, Dr. Raehael, I did hear you. Thank you, and please, let's keep this bit of news between us, please.”

Richard stood over her as she dropped the phone onto its cradle. “What news have you?”

“Raehael dated our dung beetle sample back to Roman times.”

“My word… my word… So it was formed in Roman England.”

“Now where shall we begin?”

“You sound like Alice-through-the-looking-glass, Jessica.”

“And you, my Mad Hatter, have you the time?”

“It's late, it's late,” he sang out an alteration of the rhyme, “it's very, very late.”

“And have you a direction?”

He gave a moment's thought to this, his hand rising with an aha notion playing about his features. “You know, there is a little frequented museum, an industrial history museum inside the RIBA. Rather buried in the basement there. A-”

“Where?”

“Royal Institute of British Architecture near Regent's Park in Marylebone area on Portland at China. They-RIBA, that is-built all that stands in London, you see, over the years. They're quite proud of their bridges, railways, mines, the tube-underground rail lines and their daft factories. They might have something on the mines, and perhaps someone there might be expert and helpful.”

Jessica only half heard what he'd said beyond Royal Institute of British Architecture and Portland Street. “I was once a member of the elite army corps of engineers of which we British are so proud. That makes me a tad more familiar with how London is laid out, and where all of her underpinnings and underground niches, nooks, and crannies lie. Still it's a complicated mess. I need to locate a moldy old institution dealing with the layout of the city to find my own way about.”

“We haven't left yet? Let's give it a shot. Who knows? Perhaps we can locate an underground kill site, a site from before the time of Christ.”

“Well, actually, Marylebone is quite the ancient district.”

“Marylebone?” She thought the place sounded grim.

“Aye, where the Royal Institute stands moldering. Not many visitors there. Out of the way, off the tourist treks, you see… Has one of the oldest cemeteries in the city, and there's actually an Epicurean statue in a park there of the Madonna and Child. The home of the fictitious Sherlock Holmes isn't too far from the area, either. But it is on the bus routes, I can assure you.”

'Twenty-one Baker Street? Really? How interesting.”

“It was loosely based on twenty-one Baker Street, yes.” He returned to his cooking in the kitchenette, calling back to her over his shoulder, “And so… what do we hope to locate in this ancient mine, should we ever find it?”

“I have as much clue as Alice, but like her, I am curious. Get your breakfast. I'm going to shower and dress. If you don't mind, perhaps you could take me by my hotel for a change of clothes, and then we can bugger off to this RIBA place, is it?”

“Bugger off,” he repeated. “Now you're getting the language!” He'd returned to her, took her by the shoulders, and firmly kissed her where she stood in his robe. He kissed her again, attempting to rekindle the passion they'd shared the night before, but Jessica pulled away, saying, “Bugger off, yourself! We haven't time. It's already near nine. Get your breakfast, now!” she ordered, and he wandered back off into the kitchen, a smile creasing his features.

She went toward the bathroom but found herself stopped before the bed, her eye falling on a book he'd left under the bed. It's flap winked at her where she stood. Crouching and lifting the book, she saw horrid pictures of various visions of hell. Closing it, she read the title: A History of Hades and Crucifixion Motifs in European Art. She rummaged through and found the words Mihi beata mater highlighted on a page he'd marked. It gave her a chill. Apparently, the words appeared on many paintings and depictions of both Hades and the crucifixion of all crucifixions.

Suddenly he stood over her, staring down at the book in her hands. “So, you've found me out,” he said with a sour frown.

“Light reading?” she asked, attempting to mask the shakiness she felt, not wishing to sound at all unnerved by her discovery.

“A prize from the library.”

She noted the spine, seeing that indeed it was a library lender's copy. She opened it, saw the date stamp which placed it at before her discovery of Burton's tongue art.

He lamely explained, “Been doing my homework.”

“How long have you known the meaning of the inscription?” She wanted to hear him admit to it.“From the moment I heard you pealing them from Burtie's tongue, I realized I had seen the phrase in my reading. I went back to the book later to confirm it.”

“Why lie about it? Why didn't you tell me outright that you knew?”

“I played dumb on it in order to get Luc Sante involved. His being a linguist would suit my superiors, you see, and we'd have him to consult with. You have no idea the budget constraints we work under.”

“Actually, I do have some idea. We have the same problem in the Bureau.” But a glimmer of disquiet remained with Jessica. Hadn't he called Luc Sante's words slut's wool? “I'm going to get that shower now.”

“And I that breakfast. Certain you don't want some?”

Without answering, she closed the bathroom door and locked it behind her, hoping to sort out her nerves, her suspicions, and the facts under the rain of warm water.

Later Richard showered while Jessica dressed.

After having showered, and after having accepted Richard's explanation for the book and his prior knowledge of the Latin phrase found on the dead victims' tongues, Jessica made haste to dress and start the day. All the while nagging doubt tugged at both her brain and heart. She had slept with this man. Her judgment could not be so impaired, she promised herself. She could not be so blind as to sleep with a serial killer, or someone involved with a cult of serial killers. Impossible, she kept promising herself over and over.

A quick call to Scodand Yard, she felt, was in order. She asked to be put through to Stuart Copperwaite who came on instandy, asking, “My God, Doctor, where have you and Sharpe been?”

“We were missed?” was all Jessica, feeling guilty, could manage.

“We've had another crucifixion death.”

“Dear God, not another.”

“ 'Fraid so, Doctor. Discovered in the wee hours again, with the cadaver disposed of in a body of water, St. James Park, and I can tell you now that if the Royals weren't taking an interest before, they bloody well are now.”

“The House of Windsor, you mean?”

“The Queen Mother herself, along with Parliament, the Prime Minister, you name it. Where's Sharpe?”

“In the shower.”

“I see.” Cozy, she thought she heard him mutter.

“Where is the body? Has Schuller and Raehael done an autopsy yet? Of course not. I spoke with Raehael only fifteen minutes ago, and he said absolutely nothing about it.”

“Most likely Dr. Raehael didn't know at the time, but he does by now. There appears a rift growing between Schuller and Raehael, one you may know something about?”

“No, I don't know anything about any problem between them,” she half-lied.

“In any case, the postmortem is being held up, Doctor, for your attention. We… that is, Scotland Yard, the Crown, are paying well for your expertise.”

Something definitely icy in Copperwaite's tone; perhaps Richard had him pegged right after all. “I'll be right there.”

“And Sharpe is requested in Boulte's office.”

“I'll pass that request along to him. Thank you.” She immediately hung up. Sharpe, stepping from the shower, looking into her wide eyes. Her mouth agape, he momentarily thought she might be gaping at him, until she divulged the facts, saying, “The Rat Boys, as you call them, will be released today.”

“Then there has been another killing!”

“While we ate and drank, while we made love, while we slept.”

“At least you know I'm as innocent of the crimes as the Rat Boys.”

“I never suspected you, Richard!”

“Don't lie to a detective, Jessica.”

“All right, I felt a strange sensation come over me when I saw that book, but I never truly entertained the notion you might be the Crucifier.”

“Not even one of them? Forget it. I'd be disappointed in you if you hadn't a healthy suspicion after seeing that book below my bed. So, tell me, has the Yard been beating the bushes for us?”

“Indeed they have. Boulte wants you to report directly to his office this morning. They're holding the body for me to do the postmortem.”

Richard dressed solemnly, and she nibbled at the food Richard had burned on the stove. Soon, together, they were pressing for Scotland Yard, Jessica without time for a change of clothes.

The latest victim, thought by some in the Yard to be a copycat killing-and hoped to be one by P. P. Ellen Sturgeon and Chief Inspector Boulte-had all the markings of the real Crucifier at work, down to the coal in the nails and the branded tongue.

At half-past three in the afternoon, Jessica declared the body, that of a slim, pathetic, silver-haired old woman, to be the fifth victim of the Crucifier. Without an identity, Jessica had to tag her toe as A.N. Other. Boulte had come down to the autopsy room, hoping against hope that Jessica would find cause to declare the latest victim a random copycat crime in which someone, wanting to kill another, masked his crime by mimicking the ongoing series of murders. Jessica's findings proved otherwise, proved that this was indeed the work of the Crucifier.

This meant that Periwinkle and Hawkins had to be set free. The press would report the foolishness of the Yard in making the grandiose statements of the day before, which had declared an end to the crucifixion murders in London. The Rat Boys were returned to the streets, likely to do mischief to someone somewhere for which they might legitimately find the sort of twisted fame they sought.

It had all made for a long and tiring day. Now Jessica said good night to Raehael, who had, unlike Schuller, stayed dll the very end of the postmortem examination. Raehael and she discussed the strange findings with respect to their Roman beetle. Dr. Raehael told her, “I informed Dr. Schuller of all result, which he do not at first believe until he look over my findings-that same coal dust was embedded into the wounds of the victims, not just Woodard-and that he should look for himself. I told him then, Doctor, that he owes apology to you.”

“ 'Fraid I got none.”

She thanked Raehael and they shook hands, and he waved her off to what he hoped would be a good night. Alone now in the scrub room, she stripped her surgical gloves and gown away, reached over and tore off paper booties protecting her shoes from blood and fluids, tossed all recyclables in one bin, all garb in another, and stretched, using a yoga position that relaxed her back and neck muscles. As she turned to leave the operating theater, she came face-to-face with Luc Sante's disembodied head framed in the surgical doorway. “God-damnit,” she cursed inwardly at her sudden fright. He smiled in at her and waved her forward.“I came as soon as I could get away,” he explained. 'Tragic, a fifth victim. Is it possible he is planning to kill seven? Seven is often a number people fixate on, given its biblical connotations, its mystical history.”

“At this point, I haven't a clue, and I'm extremely, extremely tired, Dr. Luc Sante.”

“Obviously, yes, and with good reason.”

She almost thought he meant something by the remark, he'd heard of her tryst with Sharpe and was attempting a small, secular joke. But no, her mind told her to think better of his remarks than that. Then she recalled Richard's words about tmsting one's own intuition and sense of jeopardy, that the subconscious often knew more than the conscious mind, and this led her to recall the remarkable workings of FBI psychic investigator, Kim Desinor, who would not allow a red-legged crow, a DIVERSION sign or any other “signal” to get past her conscious self, because a psychic like Kim Desinor kept in tune with her subconscious.

“You must be anxious for a shower, something to eat. I have my car. Allow me to see you to your hotel, and there I will wine and dine with you, my dear Jessica.”

She could find no reason to say no. He offered precisely what she needed at the moment, and she had truly wanted to speak with him again regarding the latest aspects of the case.

“Yes, yes,” she told him. “I would like that, Dr. Luc Sante, Father.”

“Good, very good, indeed.” His smile left a small gap in his teeth, and his teeth were yellowed from years of smoking, which he'd obviously given up. Likely due to doctor's orders. His wispy hair flew about his cranium where he stood below the air duct in the surgical scrub area. He reminded Jessica of Scrooge, looking as if he'd stepped out of that bygone era, despite his modem cloth and the cut of his vestments.

“I am told the latest victim was left like the others, in water?”

“Yes, St. James Park.”

“Dear me, close to the Queen's little cottage. This will have a ripple effect, indeed.”

“Let's get out of here, Father.”

Before leaving Scotland Yard, Jessica dropped off her postmortem report in the ops room with Copperwaite and Sharpe. The two men now were working under a cloud. She told Richard of her plans to spend the evening with Father Luc Sante, and after an initial frown bom of disappointment, he accepted this, wishing her a good night. Copperwaite added a “Cheerio,” while sdll studying her autopsy report. Once back at the York Hotel, Jessica scanned a brief message left at the desk for her by first Richard Sharpe, saying he missed her terribly, and one from J. T. in America, which simply read: Tattoo Man's case heating up. Call you when I can.

Jessica, with Father Luc Sante waiting in the lobby, needed her own heating up, so she showered to cleanse the sad postmortem of the day from her fingers and nasal cavities as well. She very much wanted to enjoy her time now with this fascinating “Father,” and she felt a desire to confess to him, or at least to bare her soul to him. She felt some senseless worm of guilt eating away at her regarding this case, the fact that it seemed to be moving at a snail's pace. Not to mention that while she and Richard had made love, another victim had been staked to a cross somewhere, her body thrown into a lake.

Still, if she could tell anyone of her painful doubts and fears, it would be Father Luc Sante.

As she showered for the second time this day, she decided that Luc Sante was a man of great magnetism and charisma, due in large part to the kindness of his eyes and the kindness with which he imparted information, even on the most gruesome of subjects. In fact, his eyes stroked those he reached out to help.

After showering and dressing in evening wear, Jessica met Luc Sante in the lobby, the priest telling her that he'd already taken the liberty of booking them into the York's exquisite lounge. “My treat this time,” he assured her. Quickly seated, they soon found themselves sipping a fine rose wine, a 1979 vintage, something Luc Sante had selected previous to their having actually been seated. “They know me here,” he whispered in her ear.

After a few sips of wine, Luc Sante asked pointedly, “Why do you seem so melancholy in this place? We have comfort, wine, music, good company…”

She instantly apologized, realizing he must have read the melancholia from her features. “I am sorry, Father. It's… it's just that… Well, it would appear that all my scientific skill has been of little help in actually pinpointing these killers, Father.”

A waiter stood in a nearby comer, and from time to time he rushed the table, refilled the wineglasses, and disappeared again. Something of a faceless, nameless penguin in his black and white, she thought.

The elegant restaurant at the hotel filled with music from a piano now being played by a gifted young black woman. She played Chopin, moved to Bach, and then settled on one of Beethoven's lighter moods.

“1 do not mean to mock or disparage your attempts or what you do for a living, Dr. Coran, but…” He hesitated.

“But?” she encouraged.

“But experience has taught me.” Luc Sante's voice, so deep, rich and full, rose above the music. He spoke around sips of his wine. “What is paraded as scientific fact is quite often mere rhetoric.”

“Rhetoric?”

“We know what we know. We don't always need a scientist to tell us what we already know.”

“All right, but we-people-don't always know what we need to know.” She tried to counter his logic with her own.

“So they need you? They need to be told what is what? They need to follow the precepts of some current belief held by a mere handful of scientists searching for truths beyond the scientists' reach in the first place?”

“Not unlike our investigation, you mean?”

He lightly laughed. “I hadn't thought of it in quite the same terms, but yes, you might say so,” Luc Sante added, snatching up the roll of bread between them, offering her first a piece and then taking one for himself. “Perhaps, it is time to abandon your scientific goggles for a pair of intuitive eyes. Your instincts have saved you in the past, and they will again in the future if you let them,” he attempted reassurance. “If you get out of the way of your own instincts, Jessica Coran.”

“Maybe it's this place, London. It's dizzying and romantic.”

“Thank God for romance! But Jessica, we both know you are gifted, and you must feed your gift at all times.”

“But I trust in science, and-”

“Blindly? To the detriment of answers, solutions, truths? 1 should hope not.”

She continued to argue, “Well… as for current belief, we scientists-as blind as we may be-“Call it tunnel vision rather than blindness. Comes from staring down too many microscopes, perhaps,” he joked and chewed down his food in barbarian, hedonistic fashion, like a man who'd just stepped from the thirteenth century. He saw her staring at him. His hands and his mouth were full of bread. Choking it down, he laughed like Falstaff in Shakespeare's Henry IV. “My table manners, I should warn you, are atrocious, but then I have the excuse of being French!” He laughed more. “In France, everyone eats with his hands and his heart. You should try it! Handle your food and it tastes supreme. I have spent my life in service here in England, but I spent my youth in France. I return only for the air nowadays.”

She laughed at this. “You really need not apologize to me, Father.”

“Then let us return to the subject at hand.”

She nodded, saying, “All right. We scientists do require some sort of current belief to make it-”

'To make life palatable? To make chaos orderly? To create the next best toothpaste?” He again laughed boyishly at his own words, causing her to smile.

'To make connections. In seeing the connectedness of things, we learn. We can only learn when we see-own-the relationship between and among things. And one generation guides the one after. And what's wrong with that? Some singular scientist generally leads the way. Remember Galileo? Newton? Leonardo, Michelangelo, Einstein, and-”

“Newton was a fool!” He did not stop to explain this. “I don't abhor science or scientists as a rule, really, dear. But we mere mortals become too easily impressed, too easily swayed and convinced by the magic and incantations, the smoke and mirrors of it all. We are too easily accustomed to regard scientific knowledge as Truth with a capital T, when in fact what scientific knowledge is, is the best available approximation of the truth in the judgment of the majority of scientists in a specified field.”

“Touche,” she offered.

He continued, and she thought about Luc Sante's detractors who said that he loved to hear the sound of his own voice. Then again, so did she. “This is so whether it's paleontology, psychology, or pathology, or any other-ology, you see?”

“Do you include ideology in this overstuffed basket of approximations of the truth?” she asked.

“Aha, now we spar and parry. Have you ever fenced, my dear?”

“Coincidentally, I have recently taken lessons.”

“Fencing with words can be just as diabolical and can cut just as deeply. As to your question, yes, most ideologies are as insipid and leaky as any sieve.”

“But hasn't it always been true and necessary that throughout the history of mankind's search for truths, that with each step, we require some railing, some bedpost, some lamppost to hold on to? In order to further the search for understanding, growth, learning? That each science or philosophy must suffice us, in order for us to move on, to nurture growth to the next level of being and light and godliness, that place where our young generation today points us toward, absolute understanding and coexistence?”

“Of course, you are right, my dear, but not to the degree that science be taken as a Holy Grail, child.”

Calling her child made her smile. Coming from anyone else, it would have been insulting. Coming from Father Luc Sante, it felt comforting.

“I simply ask that you not allow science to overtake your faith, my dear.” He continued sipping his wine, the waiter continued filling their glasses. “And if you dispute me, my stand is shared by every psychotherapist worth his fee.” He stopped to acknowledge her furrowed brow before going on. “And make no mistake about it, psychotherapists are in fact 'faith healers' in the sense they restore one's faith as much as anything, for their concern is not with science but the soul of a man and the innocence of a faith often lost in childhood.”

She nodded boisterously. “Most scientists want to prove some truths exist in a world in which the ultimate truths are always going to be elusive. I think that's what you're saying. That while such things as, blind faith are viable, they have no identifiable variables or mathematical equivalents or formulas attached, that blind faith is the ultimate in freedom of choice. That's just the way it is. Reality's a bummer for the scientists as well as the rest of us.”

He took her hand in his again, smiling as if she were a student who now fully and finally understood. “Indeed, truth is not something that we are bom with. It is not something we possess, but rather a goal toward which we strive.”

“Well, I understand that we scientists are little more immune to jumping to an unsound conclusion than anyone else, but in the absence of any other physical-”

He threw up his hands, waving her down. “We are simply too anxious and too content to let our scientists and anyone in authority do our thinking for us, Doctor. We are too easily led, too readily compartmentalized and departmentalized and happy to do it. Happy to live the life of ants scurrying across gingham tablecloths without the slightest notion of the whole. Seeing only that part of the floating opera of life confined to one's limited, single perspective, a world of colloquials. We accept that the business of God, time, and space are all questions best left to those in charge whose job it is to explore these testy areas. So we can go about doing our mortal accounting and following the one precept of God's which pleases us most-bearing children.”

“Whoa, now hold on. Not everyone on the planet is-”

“I tell you, there is a profound tendency in the civilized world to make our scientists 'philosopher kings' whom we ask to guide us through every intellectual labyrinth, when indeed, they are just as lost as we are. The blind king leading the blind cave dweller out of the cave and into a larger cave- the life of a cerebrally unmotivated, uninterested, disinterested peasant…”

“But Father… Dr. Luc Sante, you're a scientist. How can you say we've not progressed from the cave one step in all these many years on this planet?” pressed Jessica, defending with her own verbal joust. “There've been tremendous strides in psychotherapy alone.”

Luc Sante cut himself a thick slice of cheese that had been brought to the table. He chewed and spoke all at once. “Oh, we in the brain factory have indeed progressed, so true, now that we're through bandying about Freudian terms and have at very least begun to convince people to acknowledge the existence of the sun-conscious-sorry, sub-subconscious mind and its power.”

“I agree, but-”

“God smile upon us,” he interrupted her again, “we've even got people taking responsibility for their unconscious minds these days!”

Jessica laughed at his runaway enthusiasm, so rare in the aged, even more rare in the young these days, she thought.

“You laugh, but this taking of responsibility for our dual nature, it may well be the portal to the way of true salvation for this race of ours, Doctor. Listen to Beethoven.” He stopped to let the music waft over them. “There lived a man who instinctively knew. Perhaps due to his own personal dualism, his deafness, and his obsession with harmony, sound, reverberation.”

'Taking responsibility for our dual nature? Really? Through educating the masses about their own unconscious minds, you mean?”

“Think of it, a return to intellectual responsibility-all this time, the seed to our salvation turns out to be our own damned subconscious minds.” He giggled at his own summation of the origin and end of the problems of the world.

“The blossoming interest in the subconscious will lead us back to God? Is that what I'm hearing?” she asked. “Absolutely.”

“Why didn't this revelation play a part in your book?”

“It will, in the sequel, you see. My thinking is ever evolving, never static; besides it's not The God but the godliness within us.”

“You've only recendy come to this conclusion?”

He shrugged. “It has been as elusive as the smallest of butterflies, yet there before my eyes the entire way. Think of it. Dreams are gifts of God, our subconscious is the voice of God working through us. We don't always recognize the voice or understand the symbols, but there you have it.”

“Interesting notion.”

“Nothing new, really. Nothing new under the sun, really. The fact of it will, however, form the core of the sequel to Twisted Faiths.”

Again she smiled at his enthusiasm.

“I already have it titled: God's Signature, the book I'm currently writing. Of course no publisher will touch it, so I will have to self-publish as with the previous title, but my practice allows me to indulge this passion. I wrote Twisted Faiths well before I formulated my conclusion on the true nature of man's subconscious mind. I tell you, man's own inner workings, his mind, if created in the image of God, imagine the complexities handed us, yet the instrument remains directly wired as a telegraph to the Almighty to-”

“Really, Dr. Luc Sante? I've never looked at it quite that way.”

“It's just that some of us-most of us-have cut the wires, and often the optic fibers.”

“So, when can I see your new work?”

“Soon. The wheels are always turning, you see.” He winked and pointed conspiratorially at his forehead.

“Interesting premise.”

He nodded. “Yes, indeed. You see, the interest and acceptance of the source of our darkest selves, our prejudices, hidden hostilities, irrational fears-”

“Perceptual blind spots,” she added, “mental ruts…”

“Mental rats\” he exploded, “Scourging and scouring our psyche for morsels of meanness. The Devil at play on the switchboard, all that. Add to the predatory nature of our earliest ancestors, the primitive 'fight or flight' mechanism of the primordial brain which, by the way, still resides within our thick-skulled heads and-”

“And the ever-present resistance to growth.”

“Exacdy!” he shouted, arms waving. “The fear of change and evolution and awareness itself-well, I tell you, it's that first step on the joumey of a thousand miles that Buddha spoke of.”

Jessica considered his words with care and muttered, “The start of an evolutionary leap.”

“English history, nay, world history, provides us with untold examples of hideous behavior and hedonism, murder and cruelty on a grand scale. Perhaps one day mankind will reach a level of mind in which one can perform the business of existence without hatred, fear, prejudice, mayhem, mass murder, but at the moment mankind slaughters mankind on the basis of a religious principle that says, 'You must obey the One God, and that is my God, whatever or whomever that god may be. Oh, and by the way, thou shalt not kill.' Are we getting mixed signals from God, or the lesser gods of our limited minds? And if so, how do we sift out the voice of God from the voice of selfishness and indulgence always at work in the human psyche, and if God created the human psyche, isn't He partially responsible for our nature? Or are we responsible for our nature and the outcomes we create, and does the answer necessarily come from another source, say as from Christ?”

“Christ? I had thought your diatribe would end with the Antichrist. I'll never live to see the day, but in a sense, it's what every caring human being is striving toward, to evolve into a Chrisdike figure.”

“And who do we know who is striving hardest to attain that goal?”

It dawned on her that his entire discussion led her about in a full circle to one rhetorical truth. Her eyes widened and she bit down hard on her lower lip, waiting for his reply, which was slow in coming.

“Isn't that what our killer, the Crucifier, wants?”

Jessica realized that she had been had by the old man, whose exercise in logic and syllogistic wisdom came clear: Socratic method, pretending ignorance on the subject, asking questions of her, so she might arrive at the conclusion on her own, once again the shaman of psychotherapy and religion opened her eyes. After a most pleasant dinner, he insisted she return with him to the church. “Strand is there late tonight with his alcoholism group. We won't be alone altogether, so you needn't worry about an old priest making any improper advances.” He laughed fully and with glee at the thought of it. “You must know how very striking you are, my dear Dr. Coran.”

“Thank you, Father. I'll take that as a compliment coming from you, but I am rather tired and would-”

“But there are some things back at St. Albans I must show you, relating to the case. I would not urge it upon you if it were not pressing, you must believe.”

She wondered if anyone had ever said no to this man. She smiled. Standing in her full-length white gown, which she'd facetiously told the mirror looked virginal when she put it on for dinner, thinking it appropriate for her night with the ancient minister, she now nodded and said, “All right, but I must be home before the carriage turns into a pumpkin.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed, his smile radiating love, tenderness, and caring, even as the candlelight flickered across his countenance, cutting deep lines. “We both know one truth in this world undeniably.”

“And what is that?”

“It's a procreating world we live in.” He smiled, the wine allowing him license to go on. “Think of it. The sun procreates with the Earth by day, the moon takes her turn at night, the stars and the faraway planets, too, procreate with Earth, and she in turn procreates with all the known universe. Indeed, it is what you cops call an effing world.”

She took only a moment to realize he was making fun of her, the known universe, perhaps even God. She laughed uproariously at his conclusion, garnering stares from other tables, and realized only now that they'd been getting stares all along, all night long.

“Shall we return me to my quarters at St. Albans?”

“Do you sleep at St. Albans as well?”

“Expect to be buried in the nearby cemetery, my dear. No, not often do I sleep over, but it's some distance to Hampton where I maintain a flat. So when I am late in the City, I stay at my room at St. Albans.”

They stood, and many people in the room obviously recognizing Father Luc Sante, giving Jessica further explanation for all the stares. Luc Sante appeared to be a local legend.