Free Father's Habit (Z-Spot Diaries Book 2) by ZOE SCARLATTI Page A

offending padre, vicar, priest, imam or rabbi had allowed fifteen years to elapse since the final offending act, the Massachusetts Statutes allow that, even in the case of rape, the predators cannot be tried and convicted of the crime. The statute may be tolled in many cases until the youth reaches the age of majority. But although time heals wounds, it rarely is beneficial to evidentiary value. You haven’t listened to Serial?
    Oftentimes the Statute imbues the issue with a degree of ambivalence. Zoe did not need to hate the perpetrator to take on an assignment. Much as she didn’t need to love the victim. Many of her clients were vile and repugnant. But Zoe had practiced law in the Commonweath for a number of years prior to joining the family business. Enough said.
                  Zoe was dressed in a black Armani suit. Dressed elegantly, but not ostentatiously. She had mentioned to a layperson working the narthex that she wished to have the priest hear her confession. Zoe spoke in her classically annunciated French, but haltingly. Hesitantly.
    Brief sidelong glance of distain all Québécois will flash towards the first sound of a Parisian’s accent. Zoe finally asked if there was a priest available who spoke Italian. Twist the knife.
    After a brief word with a nun who was seated in a small aumbry adjacent to the cloak room, the acolyte returned to inform Zoe of the good news. Old news perhaps, but it was what she needed to hear.
    “Father DiMaggio is in the rear.” Zoe thought that an ironic turn of phrase. “Apparently his tête-à-tête with the Bishop is coming to a happy ending.” Zoe’s face remained impassive. Oh behave.
    She returned along the main aisle through the nave and crossed the pews to the left wall. From that vantage point, Zoe could see the vestibule from which the priest would alight, while keeping an eye on any activity towards the front.
    Zoe had planned her time of arrival well. Late morning, after any worshipers stopping in for a Eucharistic Elixir before work. Midweek lull in general activity.
    And merely four months removed from Canada’s own brush with Jihadist Masturbation in Ottawa, just 200 kilometers away from Montreal. The attack had struck deeply at the psyche of Canadians. The country shared much of the pain of 9/11 to the south. But learning it was an American problem, and not limited to the United States, was sobering for this most gracious populace on the planet.
    Overall security follows an embarrassingly predictable pattern after a strike. Governments want to show their citizenry they were prepared, despite all the evidence to the contrary. That they will make provisions to protect all citizens, which they can’t. And score points against opponents, which they shouldn’t.
    Approaching the border this morning, Zoe felt if she’d had her music tuned any louder she might have wakened the guards. Not sufficient numbers of cameras placed around the landmarks. Churches generally attracted a good deal less attention than synagogues. And mosques for a different reason. Zoe’s planned departure, and back-up plans two, three, and four, all had her leaving through a different border control point with a different automobile.
    The nape of Zoe’s neck started to tingle and her scalp began to perspire. She always felt the electric sensation along the ganglia as a contact grew closer. She did not experience a sexual thrill when she ended the life of another. Maybe it was more an anticipatory exhilaration.
    Heat from her scalp was more practically explained. The combination of the wig and modest mourning hat were not comfortable. But it wouldn’t be all that great a day for at least one other player either.
    She saw the priest pass through the door behind the altar, and move across the chancel. Zoe made her way to the confessional so she would be inside before he reached her.
    Atonement? Absolution? Perhaps in another life.
    Not much chance of that either, come to think of