The Pedophile Murders

"I'm grateful for the courtesy," replied Father Mulligan, still holding the pen in readiness. "But, I would feel better if you will permit me to pay for this visit. If you accept my case, I'll negotiate additional expenses."

"Very well, if you insist. I charge $100 per hour."

Without hesitation, Father Mulligan wrote a check and lay it on the desk in front of Pat. "I am the parish priest for Holy Souls Church, near Marrero, across the river from New Orleans. I've been there since my ordination years ago, happy and content. However, I have a younger brother, Henry, who suffers with an emotional problem, which has required me to hospitalize him several times over the years." He studied Pat, noting neither condemnation nor curiosity. "Are you familiar with the term pedophile?"

"An adult who expresses sexual behavior with children."

The priest crossed his legs. "Henry is a pedophile. Until three months ago, he has been symptom free for ten years. Henry lives with me in the rectory. We have no other family." He stopped speaking for a moment and his jaw tightened. "Mr. Shannon, my brother has disappeared."

Pat saw the frustration and pain in Reverend John Mulligan's sad, brown eyes, and he understood why the man's hands were moist. He leaned forward. "Father Mulligan, why have you come to me? Why not go to the police?"

Pat finished his Saturday run and entered the kitchen, drawn by the strong smell of bacon frying. Rose was standing at the stove. Pat spoke, "Sorry if I awoke you when I left the house."

One of Mavis's short-sleeved, wrap-around house-dresses clung to Rose's hips, and a pair of Mavis's flat slippers lowered the top of her head even with Pat's shoulders. Her hair glistened from her shower. "I was awake. Mavis is still sleeping. Breakfast will be ready by the time you bathe and dress."

"I'll hurry." Pat showered and dressed in slacks, an open-neck sports shirt, and oxfords. He came downstairs and sat at the breakfast table. While spreading butter on browned bread, he asked, "Did you sleep well?"

Rose filled two cups with coffee and sat across from him. "I tossed some, but I'm rested." She flushed, circled her empty plate with her arms and empty hands, and watched him eat.

Pat impishly commented, "I imagine living in a house with a man takes some getting used to for a nun."

She stiffened and blushed. "I'll manage."

Pat heard her frigid tone and saw her chin quivering; he realized that she had misunderstood his comment. "Rose," he said, "I will make no demands on you."

She lowered her gaze from Pat's questioning eyes. "I'm sorry if I sounded harsh. You are right; living in the house with you and Mavis is a new experience for me."

Pat reached across the table and covered her trembling left hand with his right palm. "You are a God-send to Mavis and me."

She cautiously turned her hand over and embraced his palm with hers. She raised her head and looked into his eyes.

Who can explain what happens in a moment, when a woman and man touch each other and feel unique warmth and togetherness? They look into each other's eyes and understand a wordless message. A leap of faith bonds them. The moment flees; the bonding lasts a lifetime.

Pat reminded himself, She is my client. I have no right to tell her how I feel about her. He watched a deeper shade of blush rise from her neck to her cheeks. With the speed of a tortoise, he dragged his hand from Rose's comfortable grasp.