Cat In A Leopard Spot

He felt his way to the vague white square of pleated linen, the priest’s porthole, so to speak, on the ocean of self-proclaimed sinners that would come in wave after wave on both sides of his claustrophic box. Matt had been there.

Matt knelt. This kneeler wasn’t even padded—ouch! Nothing like the Spanish for blending religion and pain. Guess sinners didn’t merit padding.

He heard a wooden panel sliding open, a soft stiletto of sound, like honing a knife. Or a razor. For a moment he imagined Kitty the Cutter lying in wait, a gray silhouette seen through a linen curtain pleated thickly.

“This is the kinkiest meet with a snitch I’ve ever had,” Molina’s voice whispered through the material instead. “I used to have to go with my grandmother to these guilt boxes when I was a very young kid. She took forever too! What took those old people so long in confession?”

Matt smiled. That one he could answer. “What children and the old confess is remarkably similar. In both cases, innumerable venial sins. Many of those old people were overscrupulous to the point of obsessive-compulsive disorder. Many priests committed sins of impatience listening to them; it was usually a double absolution in those cases.”

“Hmmm. Actually, I kind of like sitting here in the control booth. Sin Central. No women allowed.”

“I thought you would.”

“How’d you know which side I’d be in.”

“I figured you’d pick the St. Joseph side. He’s a mystery.”

“Right pick, wrong reason. The other side has that gruesome twelfth station of the cross with Christ crucified on the wall next to it. I see enough gore in my day job.”

“Which station is outside these confessionals?”

“Jesus before Pilate.”

“Always the cop, wanting everybody in custody.”

“Not everybody. So what’s the crisis? I can only take feeling silly so much longer.”

Matt gathered himself. “I wish I could just feel silly. In fact, I probably should, but I’m too scared to.”

“Scared?”

He was flattered that she was surprised. “That woman I told you about? The one who—”

“The razor-wielding priest hater. That’s what this is about?”

“She’s stalking me. More than me. Anybody I associate with.”

“I told you back then it was a hate crime. You should have let me have a real go at her then.”

“How? She appears when she wants to.” His knees were starting to kill him and he shifted position.

“What’s she done? Specifics.”

“She confronted me again. Made demands. She sent me an object. Made demands. She, uh, she was at TitaniCon, and I think she attacked Temple, and Sheila, a friend of mine from my ConTact hotline days. And…Mariah.”

“What!”

He had her attention now. “Mariah’s the one who noticed the pattern. They were all silly mishaps, but there was malice behind them. Then, as I was leaving, someone jabbed me in the kidneys when I was going down an escalator. Felt like a gun. Felt like a warning that she could do anything she liked to me, anywhere, anytime.”

“And? Did you confront her?”

“Couldn’t. It was a mob scene. She vanished into the crowd. But she left her ‘weapon’ behind. Dropped it. Mariah retrieved it.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I know. It could have been an explosive. But it was an aspergillum.”

Silence held inside the confessional rooms as well as outside them.

“Father, forgive me,” Molina intoned laconically at last. “You were right to be so cautious.”

“An aspergillum is—”

“I know what it is. I’ve had my catechism lessons. I’ve seen it used at my grandmother’s funeral. Little metal implement for the dispensing of holy water. Scary thing, she could have had it wired into a bomb. An instrument of blessing made into an instrument of death. So. What does she want?”

Matt took a deep breath.

“No one toys with anyone,” Molina prodded, “including the police, unless he or she wants something: publicity, fear, revenge.”

“She wants souls. Specifically mine.”

“A soul is an immaterial thing.”

“She wants my soul in a very material form. She’s…demonic is the word I’d use.”

“We’ve run into religious nuts,” Molina mused, thinking as a police officer. “Usually they’re men. I don’t get this woman. I don’t get her nuisance attacks on these innocent bystanders at TitaniCon.”

“Not all nuisance attacks. When Temple, Mariah, and I were seeing Sheila to her car in the parking garage, a vehicle came right at us, followed us across the bridge to the hotel and crashed right through the glass doors.”

“I heard about that! Stolen car. It was pursuing you? And Mariah?”

“And Temple.”

“I am furious that no one told me about this. I’m the child’s mother. I have a right to know.”

“We weren’t sure what that was about, some nutso driver who couldn’t find a parking place, or a drunk gambler with a gripe against the hotel…I hadn’t put it together yet. I wasn’t really sure until she approached me a few days ago and told me what the price of peace and quiet for all involved was.”

“A soul? That’s demented.”

“You still don’t understand.”

“Maybe I’m a little more concerned about my daughter’s life and limb than I am about your soul. So what was this woman doing at TitaniCon anyway?”