Knowing what he was about to see could not prevent Gene MacLarity's stomach from souring as he looked past the splintered doorjamb. An acrid scent of labor stung his nose. Everything down to the sheets seemed fogged with a yellow wrap of condensed sweat. The patina of commerce. A single sixty watt bulb, as naked as the dead man lying face up on the bed, did less to light the space than to carve unnecessarily cruel shadows across the slack face.

Father Mac's skull rang with questions. He reminded himself to breathe.

"Found him just like he is," the proprietor mumbled through a cigarette. "Hadda kick 'at door in." Her head rocked side to side as she tisked her irritation at the thought of the repair bills. "Not gonna mean our license er nothin'... callin' a cops I mean? Mose' a 'ese here girls freelance more or less. Still, ain't no good fer a place's repatation, dead folk lyin' aroun' an all. No good atall."

"Coming through."

The priest moved aside to make way as two sheriffs deputies wedged a gurney through the doorway.

"Evenin' padre," a squareheaded investigator nodded to Father MacLarity. "Suppose you're from the school. Sorry business here. Too bad to bring you out on such poor work." He shoved his chin toward the body. "Know this man, do you? Says in his wallet he's a priest too. That so?"

The young cleric nodded. He wasn't persuaded to offer more than was essential. Shock played for a hold on his sense of balance. For Christ’s sake, shit oh dear, this is a whore house. Five feet away lay the pasty, naked remains of Monsignor Richard Nolan, one of the most respected medical ethicists on earth. Not enough to lose a hugely prolific thinker at less than fifty—oh no. It has to be here, of all places.

Circumstances in the death of a member from his order were of great concern to the young priest. The nature of Mac’s work as public relations officer to the college was to minimize, if not eliminate, potential tarnish to the name of the Society of Jesus. He realized that this was how torture must feel. It was an impossible trial, the question itself comically preposterous. How on earth can you keep quiet the death of a prominent Jesuit in a brothel?

He confronted the body directly for the first time, deliberately taking in each detail: the slight pout of cyanotic lips set a whisper apart, as if confiding a last minute disappointment at God’s inept handling of his particular case. Fingers clutching stiff sheets. Agony or ecstasy at the last, he wondered.

He stood peering in concentration at the corpse as one might in attempting to appreciate a painting. Shifting slightly on the feet, hoping the thing will reveal something of itself, its secret nature, that it might shout the truth of hidden meaning so as to alleviate the pain of not knowing what creation really means to a creator. Mac slid from one side of the bed to the other looking for that missing aspect. This was the first dead person he’d ever seen.

Estimable citizen converted to problem, asset into deficit—the priest saw it that simply. Wine into water. The miracle of plenty in reverse. Hours ago this empty thing was a stalwart of the church, and now that same man, once preacher, once well-reasoned decision maker had become a breach. In death he was as dangerous as a leak in a dike. Through this void image, respectability and knowledge of the truth could pour out. These waters might contaminate rather than sustain. The hemorrhage needed staunching and now.

Paramedics. The coroner disgruntled and sleepy in his rumpled suit. Forensic investigators. All came and went in a procession of efficiency. Mac offered nothing unless asked. Was he alone in wondering where the girl was?

No one seemed able to say exactly which prostitute had been working the deceased. For that matter nobody recalled seeing anyone but him enter the room.

Questions spilled over credulity and faith, flooding the plane of inexplicability, that empty expanse of unlived life sitting at the heart of every conscious person. Father Gene MacLarity touched a finger to his temple, felt a headache rising. There’d be no keeping this business secret. No way in hell.