Title: You'll Never Know
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: NC-17 

References/Spoilers/Notes: Some references to the movies. All locations in Albany are fictional. This is an Alternate Universe story.
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin with thanks to the men who created them and the actors who brought them to life.
Summary: Albany Police homicide detective Donald Strachey investigates a grisly murder case centering on a local church. His key witness is the handsome and unattainable Father Timothy Callahan...or is he really unattainable? Originally published in Love Noir: A Donald Strachey Mysteries Slash Zine. For information on the zine, please Contact the Author 

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YOU'LL NEVER KNOW

by

Candy Apple

The minute Detective Donald Strachey arrived on the scene of the St. Mary's homicide, he knew it was going to be a nightmare. The media were already there in droves with camera trucks, satellite dishes, and reporters making reports to their television or online audiences that were more sensationalism than solid news, since no meaningful information had been released yet.

All anyone outside the department knew was that a body had been found by one of the priests when he opened the church for morning Mass. The cops knew it was the pastor, Father Anthony Rivard, and that he'd died a bloody death. The crime scene unit was already there, and Strachey wondered how much of his crime scene they'd managed to fuck up before he had a chance to look at it.

Flashing his badge and elbowing his way through reporters with a few surly "no comment" replies barked here and there, he entered the church and walked up the long aisle toward the altar. Sure enough, crime scene techs were already tagging and bagging and photographing. A few uniformed cops milled around nearby.

Though he wasn't even remotely religious, there seemed to be something horrendously wrong about brutally slaying a priest in front of the altar of such a beautiful and historic old church. As the sun became brighter in the early spring sky, it sent a rainbow of colored light through a stained glass window directly onto the bluish-white corpse.

"Is there anyone here who hasn't fucked up my crime scene?" he demanded.

"Cool it, Strachey," the medical examiner said, rising from his crouch near the body. Strachey watched him, amazed that the portly man could crouch and ever get up again, let alone that smoothly. "I photographed everything, but with the uniforms here, and the Father there trying to get in my way and give him Last Rites, I figured I better start preserving the evidence while there still was any."

Strachey swiveled his head around to see who the M.E. was talking about. Sitting a couple pews back from the action was the most beautiful man he'd ever laid eyes on. Shit, that one would be enough to make a veteran cop come out of the closet. Figures he's a priest. Though he was seated, it was obvious the priest was reasonably tall, and beneath those blood-stained vestments, Strachey was willing to bet he was nicely built, if the broad shoulders and graceful hands were any indication. Graceful hands that were shaking and stained with blood that the priest seemed to be obsessively wiping at with a handkerchief.

Forcing himself to look away, he turned his attention back to the corpse and the M.E. Dr. Gordon DuCharme was a portly middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a jovial personality that was, at times, a strange contrast to his profession. Strachey enjoyed working with him; he knew his stuff, and his occasionally warped sense of humor made the job a bit less dire.

"Cause of death isn't too tough to figure out," Strachey said, noticing the gaping slit in the victim's throat that had nearly decapitated him. "Wow. Somebody was either really pissed or using a big knife," he said. A noise from behind him caught his attention as the priest he'd just been admiring darted toward the back of the church, a hand pressed over his mouth. When one of the uniformed officers started after him, Strachey stopped him. "Let him go. He's making a run for the john, not the border. Anybody talked to him yet?"

"I did," the officer said. He was a young man with buzzed dark hair that Strachey recognized. He'd received a commendation for collaring a drug dealer and helping defuse a hostage situation, and he'd only been out of the academy about a year. A real hot shot...not unlike Kyle Griffin, Strachey's first partner. He shook off the unwelcome memories that thought brought to mind.

"He found the body, obviously?"

"Yeah, he was trying to give him Last Rites, but we pulled him off so he didn't screw up too much evidence. He freaked out on us a little, but you know, nobody really wanted to slug a priest, so we did our best to just get him settled down and out of the way."

"What's your sense about him? You think he had anything to do with it?"

The young officer looked a bit surprised to be asked his opinion, but he answered immediately, shaking his head.

"I don't think so. I think he was genuinely upset, trying to do what priests do for dead or dying people. I'd say his reaction was from finding the body, not getting caught in the act of anything."

"Our victim's been dead a while," the M.E. added. "So unless the other priest hung around the body several hours, he wasn't caught in the act of anything."

"Plus, he made the 9-1-1 call," the young officer said.

"Okay, thanks...Malone," Strachey said, reading the other man's name tag. "I remember you from that drug bust a few months back. That was some work."

"Thank you, sir," he replied, smiling.

"Go see if you can find the Father, and take it easy on him. Get him seated at the back of the church where he doesn't have to stare at all this," he said, gesturing at the blood and the corpse. "I'll want to talk to him in a few minutes."

"Will do," Malone said, heading toward the back of the church. Strachey turned his attention back to the dead man.

"Looks like he was killed right here, judging by all the blood on the floor and the altar," he observed. "Do I wanna know why there's blood all over his pants?"

"Our perp cut his dick off," he said in a low voice.

"No shit?" Strachey looked at that area of the man's body again. "And zipped him back up afterward?"

"Yep, near as I can tell. I don't think the other priest zipped him up, but you might want to ask. I'll know more when I get him on the table, but it looks like he suffered some blunt force trauma to the back of the head, which may have been a blessing because he might have been unconscious when he was killed. There's no real sign of a struggle."

Strachey made a few notes in his notebook. He didn't usually take many notes, since he immersed himself in his cases, and found all their picky details interesting enough that they were usually emblazoned on his memory. Still, there were a couple details here he didn't want to forget.

"Wonder if this guy's got any molestation raps against him?"

"Makes you wonder. Somebody sure had it in for him in a special way," the M.E. said.

Strachey made his way to the back of the church where Malone was standing near one of the pews. The handsome priest was seated there, looking pale and shaken, though his hands were clean now.

"Father, I'm Detective Strachey, Albany PD Homicide," he said, extending his hand.

"Father Timothy Callahan," he replied, shaking Strachey's hand. Though it was a bit clammy and a tad shaky yet, he enjoyed the touch of that flawlessly manicured hand, and looking into the deep blue eyes framed by their long dark lashes behind the glasses the priest wore . The features were fucking perfect, and the head of dark hair that topped it all off looked way too touchable for comfort. "Detective?" the priest prompted, and Strachey realized he'd been shaking the poor guy's hand for quite a few seconds.

"Mind if sit down?"

"No, of course not," he said, sliding over to make room. Strachey secretly regretted that he'd slid over so far. He caught a faint trace of cologne on the Father, and wondered what other edible characteristics he'd uncover before he asked his first question. Or if God could really send a bolt of lightning down from the ornate ceiling to strike him dead for getting a partial boner from looking at a priest.

"You found Father Rivard?" he asked, opening his notebook to jot down any worthwhile information.

"Yes. It was my turn to say morning Mass, so I was coming in to get things ready."

"You don't have altar boys for that?"

"No, not for these early Masses. We only have a few parishioners show up anyway, so we don't really need help." 

"If you were saying Mass this morning, why would Father Rivard be in the church?"

"I don't know."

"Was his bed slept in?"

"I don't know that either. He wasn't exactly a morning person, so it's not unusual for his bedroom door to be closed when it's my turn for morning Mass. I didn't have a reason to look in on him, so I assumed he was still asleep."

"Did he go to bed last night?"

"He was still up when I went to bed, probably about eleven-thirty."

"You didn't hear or see anything unusual all night?"

"I slept most of the night. I got up to use the bathroom once...I'm not sure what time. But I have a bathroom adjoining my bedroom - we both do - so I didn't really do anything but use the facilities, take a drink of water, and go back to sleep." 

"When you opened the church, did anything seem out of the ordinary?"

"No, not at all. The church was locked, and I didn't notice any signs of forced entry," he said.

"You sound a little like a cop there, Father," Strachey said, smiling as he made the note.

"I've always had an interest in true crime shows, crime dramas... until now."

"Yeah, nothing like a good dose of reality to make crime seem a little less entertaining. Were you and Father Rivard close?" Strachey asked.

"How do you mean?" The question sounded a bit defensive, and took Strachey off-guard. Even though he was a closeted gay man himself, he'd only meant the question in the platonic sense, as the two priests lived together in a rectory and shared the responsibilities of running the parish. He'd just wondered if they were friends.

"Were you friends, or just...I don't know how priests say it...just co-workers?"

"We were friends," he said, swallowing. "He's a dedicated priest who cares a great deal about his congregation, and he has a very engaging personality." He paused. "I suppose I need to start talking about him in the past tense." Strachey thought he saw a hint of moisture in those eyes he couldn't seem to look away from, but it was obvious Father Callahan didn't intend to have an emotional meltdown when the investigation or his congregation needed him.

"Did Father Rivard have any enemies that you know of?"

"Enemies? No, not at all. The parishioners love him."

"Father, there was some..." He looked at Father Callahan's troubled expression, and looked for a way to soften the news. "Father Rivard suffered some...disfigurement that wasn't immediately obvious."

"Disfigurement?"

"There's no good way to say this. It was...mutilation that was sexual in nature."

"Oh, my God."

"That's why I need to know if anyone ever brought any kind of accusations against him, or if he was suspected of any kind of inappropriate conduct. Is there anything you can think of that would motivate someone to express their anger that way?"

"If you're talking about molestation accusations, Father Rivard's reputation was impeccable. He was never accused of anything. As a matter of fact, he was involved in inquests regarding misconduct by other priests for that type of thing."

"Really? Did he make any enemies doing that?"

"With all due respect, Detective Strachey, this isn't the mafia. It's the Catholic Church. I realize our reputation has taken a bit of a beating in recent years, and in some cases, rightfully so, but even if a priest were to suffer disciplinary action or criminal prosecution because of a Church investigation, it's unlikely he'd kill or sexually mutilate someone involved in the investigation."

"Yeah, well, nobody thought ordained priests would screw ten-year-olds in a confessional, either, but we all found out anything's possible. No offense, Father, but people do some pretty bizarre and unexpected things."

"I don't know of anyone who had it in for Father Rivard. One of the priests they investigated was eventually turned over to the authorities. I do know Father Rivard was in favor of cooperating with law enforcement, of making priests who victimized children face criminal charges, versus just...finding a harmless niche for them where they weren't with children."

"That could be an unpopular stance."

"It was in some circles, but again, to imply that another priest would brutally murder him because they disagreed with his politics is a bit of a stretch."

"I need to look at all the angles, Father. I wasn't molested by a priest and I don't have it in for the Church, so I'm not trying to crucify anyone. Forgive the expression," he said, gesturing toward the front of the church and the large crucifix over the altar. "So, are you alone at the rectory except for Father Rivard?"

"Yes. Our housekeeper comes in every day to clean and prepare meals, but no one else lives there."

"You have an alarm system?"

"No. Do you think I need one?"

"Given how your pastor ended up, I'd take some precautions. Do you have any parishioners you trust who are in security or law enforcement who could give you some protection? Friends you could stay with for a while?"

"I...I don't know. I know we have a few police officers on the membership rolls. I don't think I should leave here now, so staying with friends isn't a viable option. The congregation needs one of us here...I don't want them to think I'm deserting them."

"I'm not trying to scare you. We just don't know what the motive was for this murder yet, so it's hard to tell if you or anyone else affiliated with St. Mary's could be a potential target."

"I'll make a few phone calls later, see if I can find someone to stay, or just help keep an eye on things."

"I'll make sure a black and white makes a drive by once in a while, and you can call me if you see or hear anything suspicious," he said, handing the priest his card. Father Callahan looked at it a moment before looking back up at him. "Who else has keys to the church?"

"Just Father Rivard, myself, and our maintenance man, Jake Matthews, but he's pushing seventy and has a weak heart. He mostly putters around and does minor repairs. I actually do anything that requires you to break a sweat - the budget's a little tight. Or we hire a contractor if it requires any special skill."

Strachey found himself thinking of Father Callahan in a tool belt, breaking a sweat, preferably shirtless and wearing tight jeans...

"Detective?"

"Yes?"

"I need to be available to the parishioners when this news breaks. Has Father Rivard's name been mentioned in the media yet?"

"Not as far as I know. My captain or the chief will probably make a statement to the media as soon as I get back to the station and give him a preliminary briefing. There are some details we may ask you to hold back for the sake of the investigation, so please don't talk to the media about the condition of the body or any other similar details."

"I understand." Father Callahan cast another look toward the front of the church, and for the first time, Strachey could see a little crack or two in his stoic facade. It was a lot to take in, and a lot to handle alone. Grieving parishioners who would no doubt be asking the inevitable "why" questions, both practical and spiritual, a blood-spattered altar and church closed as a crime scene, and the uncertainty of his own safety.

"I meant what I said about calling me," he said, not sure if he was being so considerate because he felt sorry for the guy or because he wanted an excuse to see him again, even if he was off limits and Strachey himself was buried so far in the back of a dark closet that he couldn't act on it if things were different.

Father Callahan looked at him a moment, and there was something in his eyes, like a spark that passed between them, and Strachey felt distinctly uneasy, as if the priest had looked right into his soul...and, conversely, as if he'd caught just a glimpse of something that lay beneath the Father's surface.

"Thank you. I'll try not to bother you unless it's urgent."

"Don't worry about that. Every little detail is important in a case like this," he said, standing. Father Callahan stood, too. Tall, with good posture, Strachey thought. He tried to come up with a reason to pat the priest down, but that would be a bit invasive and his justification would be a bit thin. Truthfully, since Father Timothy had found the body, it wouldn't be out of the realm of reason to check him for weapons. "This is a bit awkward, Father, but would you mind removing your vestment?"

"Excuse me?" he arched both perfect eyebrows at Strachey.

"You did find the body, and we haven't located the murder weapon."

"You think I have it stashed on me?"

"It would be a little embarrassing in front of my captain if you did and I didn't check."

"Hold these," he said, taking off his glasses and handing them to Strachey. Then he pulled the vestment over his head. He had on a full black suit with a Roman collar underneath it. He looked different without his glasses...not exactly more handsome, but handsome in a whole different way. "If you need to frisk me or something, please get on with it, because I really don't want one of the parishioners seeing that going on."

"Just hold your jacket open a moment. I don't think we need to pat you down." Father Timothy could have had a machete under his jacket, and it was doubtful Strachey would have noticed it. He was too busy checking out the broad chest that was part of a solid, strong build.

"Gee, thanks," he replied, and something about the priest's slightly snappy streak turned Strachey on even more. He took off his suit coat and handed it to Strachey. "Be my guest if you want to go through it. All you'll find are my church keys, since I stuck them in my pocket."

"Thank you for your patience, Father. It's all part of the job, nothing personal."

"Being checked for weapons is personal in my book," he said, taking back the coat and putting it on again in a bit of a huff.

********

Father Callahan stayed out of his way while Strachey searched the rectory from basement to attic. Father Rivard's room was undisturbed, the bed still made. The fact the door was closed wasn't unusual, according to Father Callahan. Father Rivard liked his privacy, and he kept his bedroom door closed as a signal to the housekeeper when he didn't want her to clean in there. His room didn't reveal anything salacious, suspicious, or otherwise sinister. Just the standard items you'd expect in a priest's room, along with a modest wardrobe of clothing for when he wasn't dressed in his suit and Roman collar. There were a few family photos that featured the smiling, congenial-looking man with the salt-and-pepper hair who'd looked considerably less pleasant on the floor of the church that morning.

Strachey tried to keep his search of Father Callahan's room professional, to only focus on anything that might be of interest in the investigation. It was tidy and attractive, the fashionable decor and accessories in the room seeming incongruous with Strachey's impression of how priests usually lived. The whole rectory was actually pretty nicely decorated, looking more like a well-appointed home than a Spartan residence of two priests.

The priest's closet wasn't bulging with clothing or accessories, but what was there was good quality, with even a few high-end labels sneaking into the mix. He didn't have an exotic collection of knives or surgical instruments, nor any hidden stash of literature on serial killers or murder, so there was little of interest as it related to the case.

There were framed photos on the dresser of an older couple who, by virtue of their resemblance to Father Callahan, Strachey figured were his parents. There was also a picture of a young blonde woman who didn't really bear much resemblance to the priest at all. There was a small white votive candle near the picture, and Strachey wondered if she was a dead relative, or maybe a lost love, but he doubted the latter would be displayed openly in a priest's room.

The housekeeper, a plump woman with gray hair and glasses, was only too happy to share any and all insights on the two priests in between dabbing at her eyes.

According to her, the rectory had been dreary and in need of updating and repairs, and Father Callahan had taken that task on with "flourish", as she called it, redecorating the old house until he felt it was habitable and suitable for the occasional gatherings they hosted there. He'd also led the fund drive that had resulted in construction of the new parish hall.

"I swear, that man could squeeze blood from a stone. I've never seen so many checks roll in so fast," she said. "Between you and me, I think a couple of our wealthy widows have a bit of a crush on the Father," she said with a little giggle.

"I suppose that would help loosen up some purse strings," he said, finding it on the tip of his tongue to agree that if he had money, he'd write Father Callahan a fat check for anything his sexy little heart desired. "Do you ever have occasion to observe either of the priests meeting with parishioners, or taking appointments here?"

"Most of that's done at the church office. Ruth Annee, the secretary, could tell you more about that. I don't know if your people let her into the office yet this morning or not."

"What's Ruth Annee's last name?"

"Jessup. She's been a member here all her life, and she knows everyone. She'll be a big help to you."

"That's good to know."

"Once in a while, one of the Fathers will meet with someone here, especially if it's after hours. I don't remember anyone recently, but then I normally go home after I put dinner in the oven."

"Did either of them mention anyone who's been angry, especially troubled, who might have a reason to have something against them, or the Church in general?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. We have a good congregation here, and I don't recall anything like that happening."

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Miller. Here's my card, if you think of anything we didn't cover today."

He interviewed the church secretary, who was still among the crowd of onlookers held back from the church by police. She couldn't recall any conflicts or angry or disgruntled visitors in recent months. So far, all he was coming up with was a nice priest everyone liked being inexplicably slaughtered and mutilated in front of the altar of his own church.

********

The moment the police made a statement to the media confirming the identity of the victim and some general information about the crime, the story exploded on a national level. As much as that made the investigation a bigger pain in the ass for Strachey, he couldn't help but think of Father Callahan fielding the onslaught of the press as well as the grief and shock of his congregation. Something told him the man was up to the challenge, but he still found himself feeling a bit sorry for him. And that wasn't Strachey. One of the things that made him good at his job was his emotional detachment. He'd been praised for that by his superiors, and he knew he was valued by them for his ability to walk into the most gruesome crime scene, tiptoe through the gore, deal with the wailing and screaming of grieving family members, file his report and go on his dinner break.

Emotional detachment was a survival skill he'd learned after finding his partner's brains all over the wall of his apartment one morning when he didn't show up for work – after Don gave himself to someone physically and emotionally and found out that it was less important to them than a job, that making love with him was going to remain a dirty secret, a mistake that destroyed everything. After all, Kyle was in line for a promotion to lieutenant, and a gay detective would have a hard uphill climb to compete against other similarly qualified straight cops. Don still couldn’t bear to dwell too long on how it had felt to realize a promotion, or a job, would always mean more to the man he loved than he did.

"Strachey, you get the M.E. report yet on our priest?" Captain Bailey's voice startled him back to the present, and he was glad for the diversion.

"I'm heading down there for the autopsy in a half hour or so. Just trying to make some sense of some of the interviews the uniforms did around the neighborhood. The only thing standing out a bit is a dark-colored SUV that was parked on the street about a block from the church that the neighbors in that area didn't immediately recognize."

"That's pretty thin. Could be anybody."

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too. Probably just somebody visiting someone in the area. Anyway, it's in the notes. We don't have a plate number or anything, and there are conflicting opinions on the make and model."

"In other words, we've got nothing," Bailey summarized.

"That's about the size of it."

"What about Father Callahan?"

"There's no reason to think he's involved, but I'm running a full background check on him. So far, he's clean. Son of a congressman, comes from money, honor student, belongs to about a dozen organizations both within the Church and in the community."

"He covered for the pastor at our church a few months ago. He's a good speaker. I actually stayed awake through the sermon," he added, chuckling. "I don't need to tell you the commissioner's on my ass for something solid in this case, and soon."

Strachey was about to opine that wanting it didn't make it so, and he couldn't pull a fucking rabbit out of a hat, but he figured Bailey knew that and it would only piss him off, so he shrugged.

"I'm workin' on it, Captain."

"Let me know when you get back from the autopsy."

"Sure. We'll do lunch."

"Very funny," Bailey replied, though he snorted a slight laugh.

********

"Autopsy of Father Anthony Rivard, well-nourished Caucasian male, age 55, victim of apparent homicide," the M.E. said into his recorder. He went through a variety of other mundane statements, recording height, weight, obvious wounds, and other details. Strachey never did have much of a stomach for watching them plop organs on their little scales like pieces of deli meat to be sliced, but he endured it. It was part of the job, like seeing his victim through each phase of the process. He always thought of it as a morose partnership, like he was representing the poor schmuck whose liver was being tossed in a metal tray and catalogued.

"Well, our killer was right-handed - slit the throat from left to right. Heavy-handed, too. He had to really put his shoulder into it and have a sharp blade. He damn near cut his head off."

"You keep saying 'he'," Strachey said.

"If it's a woman, she's a muscular gal," the M.E. said, chuckling. Dr. Gordon DuCharme was good at what he did, and managed to keep a sense of humor amidst the often disfigured or rapidly decomposing clients he found on his slab.

"What about the, uh...mutilation? Did that cut show any special surgical skill, or did he just hack it off?"

"He pretty much chopped it, in one nicely executed swing. You'll see there's superficial slicing on the thigh and testicles - as if the killer used a good swing to chop off the penis and the blade nailed the skin on the body parts under it. You're looking at a blade that's probably a foot long, and razor sharp."

"Not exactly something you can stash in your shorts and make a run for it with."

"No, and it's also not something you'd walk around with on you. Whoever did this had to have this in mind when he started out. And, you know, since he took the guy's dick with him, he obviously was prepared. Generally speaking, even if you're comfortable enough with mutilating someone to hack something off, you don't just stick it in your pocket. It goes in a bag, a container, something," DuCharme said. "And you have a plan to dispose of it or hide it or preserve it."

"I can ask Father Callahan if there are any knives or bladed instruments missing from the church or rectory, but I can't picture what they'd use something like that for."

"It could be a really big carving knife or butcher knife." He paused. "Have you got anybody keeping an eye on the other priest?"

"I have a black and white on each shift making a few swings around there, and he has my card."

"This is one sick asshole with a strong cutting arm. If I were that guy, I wouldn't rest easy over there by myself."

"Do you think he was awake for any of the cutting?" Don asked.

"My guess is no. The head injury was severe enough that he wouldn't have been conscious. There are no defensive wounds. All things considered, that whack on the head was a blessing."

"Any thoughts on what caused that fucking...pit in his skull?"

"I'm working on that. I'll let you know when I have something solid."

********

Strachey yawned and put his feet up on the ottoman that matched the increasingly threadbare easy chair in his apartment. Hitting the power button on the remote, he watched the TV come to life with the news. A throng of people were holding a candlelight vigil outside St. Mary's, and the camera panned the crowd, lingering on the occasional anguished face streaked with tears, or on the priests who were either among the crowd consoling them or leading them in prayer.

Father Callahan was in the middle of it all, hugging grieving people, praying with them... Strachey wondered if he knew the killer might be standing there, holding one of the candles, watching the whole thing. Maybe even plotting to take out another priest. The thought this could be the start of a serial case had danced through the back of Strachey's mind more than once, and as soon as he'd caught a few hours' sleep, he was going to contact the FBI and ask them to run the M.O. of the crime through their database to see if there were similar homicides elsewhere that could be linked. The gruesome nature of the killing made him think it was likely the work of someone who had killed before - not the impulse action of someone who simply woke up one morning and decided to nearly decapitate and castrate a local priest.

The priest he found so engaging and attractive looked tired, and Strachey wondered if the other priests there would offer to stay with him, or invite him to one of their parishes. He wasn't sure why he cared. The guy was hot, there was no denying that, but he wasn't on the market, and after all, Strachey had a date Friday night with a decoy girl. Maybe he could do her from behind, close his eyes, and do a little fantasizing. That was probably some kind of mortal sin, but he'd given up on himself as a candidate for Heaven a long time ago, so why deny himself?

He wondered if Timothy Callahan was a virgin. If he'd taken his vows and been ordained without ever having done it with anyone. The thought of that great body, untouched, started to stir his interest. He put his head back and closed his eyes, letting one hand slip down to unzip his pants and release his growing erection. He stroked himself, and let himself imagine what he thought the man might look like naked. Broad shoulders, a good chest, some nice body hair...he'd be warm to the touch, a little flushed and nervous, and the lovemaking would be slow and tender, in deference to his virginity. He'd writhe and gasp and shout, he'd come alive under Don's hands, as if he was waking up from a long sleep. Like Sleeping Beauty, only male, and hairy, with a nice dick.

They'd come together, and he'd hold that beautiful man and kiss him and shush his fears and make sure he knew he was loved....

Loved? Holding and kissing? When did a good jerk off fantasy spiral down into the stuff romance novels are made of? Since when does my cock stay rock hard through the images of holding another man's body close, loving him...not just fucking him?

I loved Kyle, and I'd been ready to give up the job and take on the world together. And though Kyle wasn't the type to cuddle me after fucking me into the mattress, it was love...wasn't it?

He finished the job he'd set out to do, finding the orgasm that finally came to be something of a let-down. His hand was slick and he had come on his pants, both of which meant he had to get up and do something when all he really wanted to do was lie there in the chair and doze off.

He got up, went to the bathroom and washed his hands, then changed into fresh boxers and jeans, leaving his shirt hang over them. He threw a coat over the top of all of it and went down to his car. The killer could be wandering around among the vigil-goers, and being a good detective, he really should be there looking for someone suspicious, even though another detective was already there, having been assigned, along with a few others, to make up a task force to work the case with him. If there was anything he hated more than a media circus, it was a fucking task force. Nothing like a task force to waste hours of time that should be spent on the case having meetings to talk about what they should be out doing.

********

By the time he arrived, the crowd was thinning a bit, and the candlelight vigil was beginning to wind down. The other priests he'd seen on the news were talking with Father Callahan, and after a few minutes, they walked down the sidewalk to a dark sedan and got in, driving away. Father Callahan watched the crowd a few moments, and then walked up the front steps of the rectory and let himself in, closing the door behind him.

Even the media presence was dwindling slightly. There had been a formal statement from the bishop, several reporters had cornered Callahan, who had only given them a statement on what a fine priest Father Rivard was, how he was loved by his congregation, and how much he would be missed. He had refused to comment on any details beyond confirming that he found the body, just as Strachey had requested.

"Thought you were off-duty for a while." Another detective, Felicia Ramirez, approached Strachey, notebook in hand. She was a pretty woman with long dark hair and big brown eyes, and he could tell she was interested in him. Decoy-dating a fellow detective would be a bad move, so he kept his distance, even though spending an evening with a strong, capable, intelligent woman would probably be a hell of a lot more stimulating mentally than sitting through dinner with a dingbat just to get in her pants so she could spread the word he was an operator. The closet was getting stuffier and less appealing with each passing year.

"Yeah, well, I saw all this hoopla on the news and figured I should check it out. These people must have really liked this guy," he said, watching the last of the vigil attendees trudging off toward parked cars, or down the sidewalks toward their homes.

"Everybody I talked to loved him. Of course, they were all at a vigil for him, so that figures. But even the people the uniforms talked to in the area - everybody says good things about him."

"Anybody suspicious stand out?"

"No, not really. I was gonna head over to the rectory and see if Father Callahan ran into anybody who seemed to be acting strangely. He knows the people, and he was in the middle of the action."

"Why don't you call it a night? I can stop by the rectory and talk to the Father."

"Really? Thanks. I'm a little beat."

"Yeah, no problem. Besides, he knows me. Sort of, from earlier."

"Okay." She started to walk away. "Hey, when are you gonna buy me that drink you owe me for the Simmons case?" she asked, pausing.

"One of these days," he said, smiling.

"I heard you were cheap, but I never thought it would take me six months to collect on that," she joked, turning and walking away.

Sighing, he headed toward the rectory, climbing the front porch steps of the old brick house and ringing the bell. After a brief wait, he saw the curtain on the front door window move a bit, then the door opened. Father Callahan stood there in pajamas and a robe, glasses in place.

"Sorry to disturb you. I had a couple questions."

"Come in," he said, stepping back from the door to let Strachey enter, then shutting and locking it behind him.

"How bad is the media harassment?"

"It's slowing down a bit. I've told all of them that I can't comment on the details of the case, so they're finally starting to leave me alone. I doubt that will last," he said, leading the way into the living room. "Have a seat. Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks," Strachey said, sitting on the end of the couch. Father Callahan sat in a nearby matching chair, then crossed his legs. They were nice and long, and the feet encased in warm socks were also nicely shaped. "I won't keep you long - I'm sure you need your rest."

"Yes, well, I'm not looking forward to lights-out tonight. I have to confess I have a slight case of the creeps."

"Nobody was able to stay over?"

"The other priests who were here have commitments at their parishes...many of us work at multiple parishes now, since there is a shortage of priests to cover all of them. I didn't really have time to track down parishioners to do it. I had to meet with the parish council, make some immediate decisions, and meet with the bishop regarding all the media relations issues, and administrative things. A man is dead and we're so wrapped up in the administrative details that we barely stop to acknowledge the loss we've all suffered."

"It's after one a.m. ... I could sack out on your couch here if you want. You're handier to the precinct than my apartment," he said. He knew it was unorthodox, and he'd never offered his personal protection to anyone connected with a case before. But aside from having a serious case of the hots for Father Callahan, he felt sorry for him, and he wasn’t sure why. Something about the guy touched something inside of him, besides his suppressed homosexuality. (The repetition of “something” is intentional here–and is echoed in Don’s wedding vows later.)

"That's very kind of you. I hate to inconvenience you."

"It's no big deal. I'll be heading back into work at dawn anyhow, so we're only talking a few hours."

"There's a guest room on the first floor. The housekeeper keeps it made up with fresh linens, so there's no reason you need to sleep on the couch."

"Okay, great."

"You said you had questions for me?"

"You probably noticed we had a police presence at the vigil."

"Yes, I spoke to a couple of detectives."

"Well, we have the disadvantage of not knowing any of these people, so figuring out if they're behaving strangely would be a little difficult. You have a better insight into that."

"You want me to use the grief members of my congregation expressed to me as their priest to put them on a suspect list? I don't think so."

"Look, Father, I have a dead, mutilated priest, and right now, I wanna know who put him on our coroner's slab, and I want to make sure he doesn't end up with company. That's my priority. I'm not asking you to break the Seal of Confession or anything. I just want to know if anyone was acting strangely, or if you noticed anyone you didn't recognize."

"A lot of people were crying, talking about how Tony - Father Rivard - changed their lives, or helped them through some difficult time, or that he was the one who married them or baptized their children... I don't know how people are supposed to act when something like this happens, so how am I supposed to know if they're acting strangely? There's nothing normal about any of this."

"All I'm asking is for your gut reaction, your hunches. I don't expect you to be a profiler."

"I'm sorry. Maybe I'm just tired. There were so many people...I knew most of them. A few introduced themselves, some I didn't know, but everyone seemed genuine."

"Is there anyone in your parish who strikes you as disturbed, anyone with serious psychological issues?"

"No one I've worked with directly. If Father Rivard did, he didn't talk about it. Something like that, though, he probably would have told me about. If there was someone who struck him as dangerous or unbalanced."

"Okay. I guess that's enough for tonight. It's been a long day."

"Yes, very long." He rose wearily and took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The guest room is right back here," he said, leading the way down a short hall to a nicely appointed bedroom with a double bed, dresser, easy chair and closet. "There's a bathroom right across the hall, and the towels are fresh, so feel free to use anything you need, Detective Strachey.”

"Nice accommodations. I was just going to crash on your couch. This is nicer than my place," Strachey said, smiling. "Well, goodnight, Father Callahan."

"Call me Father Tim. Almost everyone does."

"Okay, Father Tim. Don is fine," he said.

"Thanks for staying, Don. It's very thoughtful of you. Do you do this for all your witnesses?"

"No," he admitted, shaking his head. "I just think it sucks none of your priest buddies can be bothered to hang around here for a night or two. If I had seen what you saw this morning, and had to come back here by myself the same night? I'd be a little freaked out, too."

"You see dead bodies all the time in your line of work."

"True, but not all of them are as...well, not every homicide is equally violent and I don't know those people. And I didn't live with them, either."

"Well, in any event, I appreciate your sensitivity."

"If it helps...the M.E. doesn't think he was conscious for any of it. The blow to his head would have rendered him unconscious for the whole thing."

"That is some consolation. At least he didn't suffer." Father Tim paused. "The kitchen is right around the corner, so feel free to help yourself to anything you like."

"Thanks. I think I'll just turn in. Give me a yell if anything comes up. I'm a light sleeper."

"I will, thank you. Goodnight."

Don used the bathroom and turned back the bed, sitting on the side of it and toeing off his shoes. After stripping to his shorts and undershirt, he got into the bed and relaxed. It was comfortable, and before long, he found himself dozing off.

He felt as if he hadn't been sleeping long when he came to again, leaning up on one elbow and looking around the shadowy room. Not sure what disturbed him, he got up, slid into his jeans and took his gun out of his holster. He paused before going into the hall, because he could hear something that sounded as if it was coming through the old-fashioned register in the room. It was the sound of crying. He listened a moment, feeling guilty for intruding, even so remotely, on what Father Tim obviously thought of as a private moment of grief.

The guy had been through the wringer, so it wasn't too unusual he was feeling it when the pace of such a hideous day finally wound down and he had some time out of the spotlight when the cops, his congregation, or the media weren't pursuing him.

Don decided to make a walk through the house anyway, check the doors and windows, make sure that was what woke him. It was a soft sound, and while he was a pretty light sleeper, it was possible some other noise woke him. If he wasn't going to check on it, there wasn't much point in having stayed there.

The first floor was dark, silent, and undisturbed. He looked at the house's big wooden staircase with its tapestry carpeted steps, and decided to check upstairs. Whether it was truly a belief that an intruder was lurking up there, or his desire to move a bit closer to the object of his fantasies, he wasn't sure. In any event, he had a good excuse to be up there, and he moved stealthily up the stairs.

As he passed Father Tim's door, which was slightly ajar, he could still hear him crying. Just as Don decided he was invading his privacy for no valid reason, his stocking foot hit a nice, loud creak in the floorboards. The crying hitched, stifled, and stopped. A moment later, he could hear movement.

"Is someone there?"

He could try to tiptoe down the hall rapidly like a cartoon character and flatten himself around the nearest corner to avoid detection, but that wasn't a viable option. He was busted, and he might as well admit it.

"It's just me," he said. "Something woke me up, so I thought I should do a walk-through of the house, just to be sure."

"Did you find anything?"

"No. Like I said, I'm a light sleeper, so it could have been anything," he added, trying to sound casual.

"Thanks for checking."

"Sure, that's what I'm here for." He paused. "Uh, everything all right?" he asked, cringing at how lame and intrusive it sounded.

"Yeah, just a hard night."

Something in the frank admission touched him, and he stuck his head into the slight opening between the bedroom door and door frame. Father Tim was sitting up in bed now, rubbing at his eyes.

"You want some company?" Shit, that's smooth. Why don't you just rip off your clothes and jump into bed with him? "I mean, do you want to talk or anything?"

"You should get some sleep. You probably have a big day tomorrow, working the case."

"So do you. Maybe we can bore each other to sleep," he added, and Father Tim actually chuckled at that.

"I do have my slides from my last trip to Rome in the den," he said, and Don laughed.

"Vacation slides. That oughtta take us both out in under ten minutes."

"I could fix us some tea or cocoa or something."

"Fuck tea. Do you have the stuff to fix a decent martini?" Belatedly, he remembered he was talking to a priest. "Sorry, Father."

"You should be. I've lived to this point in my life never having heard the world 'fuck' before."

"I suppose you've heard it all, counseling people and confessions and everything."

"Probably most of it, more than once, and in greater detail than I like to recall," he replied, having stuck his feet in slippers and pulled on his robe to join Don in the hall. "And the answer is yes, I do have the stuff to fix a decent martini. Tony always said my martinis kicked his ass, so be forewarned," he added.

Don stared after him as he headed for the stairs.

"Well?" 

"Oh, yeah, right. The den's downstairs?"

"Yes, but I was joking about the Rome slides. I want to relax you, not torture you."

Father Tim wasn't exaggerating about his martinis. They cleared Don's sinuses and definitely packed a wallop.

"That's a martini," he said, his eyes widening a little.

"Wait til you try my Irish coffee," Father Tim replied, taking another sip of his drink. "What made you decide to be a cop? Were you a big Starsky & Hutch fan when you were a kid or something?"

"Well, yeah, now that you mention it, and CHiPs, and pretty much any cop show that was on. It seemed like it would be exciting, and a chance to do something worthwhile. It sounds pretty trite when you say you want to help people, but I like getting scum off the streets, making things safer, figuring out who does sick shit like what happened to Father Rivard, and nailing their asses for it." He paused. "I figured since 'fuck' didn't kill you, I don't have to censor myself."

"Just spend a few hours with a houseful of half-drunk Irish uncles, and you'll hear all the profanity you need to reduce its shock value. I don't really think God is wasting His time fretting over how many times someone drops the F-bomb, considering all the other horror in the world there is to contend with."

"I would tend to agree with that, though I wouldn't try to have a theological discussion with a priest."

"Why not?"

"You've got a leg up on me there," he said. Shit, I wish you had a leg up on me...

"I've got more education in Theology and Divinity, but when you stop and think about it, no human can really pretend to understand the mind of God, and none of us really know Him personally, and until we die, we don't know what lies beyond, how Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, or anything else really...works in practice. We have a lot of learned theories from some very smart, and very devout thinkers. But at the end of the day, I don't know for sure any more about God than you do."

"You're a strange priest, you know that?"

"Why?" he asked, chuckling.

"You don't think you know more about God than the rest of us stupid sinners out there."

"The only thing I aspire to do as a priest is to help people find their way to God, to help them see Him in the good things in their lives, and to help them see where He might fit into the bad times, because it's then that it's hardest to see Him. When I was trying to give Tony Last Rites, and his blood was all over me, it was a little hard for me to see God in that moment. But He was there, and that's when you have to work hard to find Him, and to hold onto your faith."

"So where was He this morning?"

"If you believe in free will, that God gave us free will, then you can't really blame Him when people do awful things to each other. Someone exercised his free will when he killed Tony, but maybe God was in that horror in sending us someone who would be dedicated to finding justice for him, and who would be concerned about my safety, as well."

"Me showing up was how you saw God in all that?"

"God does choose some unlikely angels at times," he said, finishing his martini. "You have to keep an open mind, and an open heart."

"He works in mysterious ways, huh?"

"Indeed," Father Tim agreed, nodding.

"If I'm some kind of angel, then I really am back to square one figuring God out."

"He's not nearly as narrow-minded as human beings are. At least, that's my philosophy, and I'm sticking to it."

"How did you know you wanted to be a priest?"

"It was my mother's idea," he said with a little laugh.

"She really didn't want a daughter-in-law, huh?"

"It could have been that, too, but I prefer to think she saw something in me that I didn't see myself," he said, laughing. He had a lovely, soft laugh, his smile was enchanting and his eyes twinkled with a hint of Irish mischief.

I'm trying to see God in this one - I finally meet a guy I'd not only come out of the closet for, I'd kick the fucking door down to put on a pink plumed headdress and join the nearest gay pride parade...and he's a priest.

"Isn't it hard, though, giving up...you know..."

"Sex? You can say it, I won't spontaneously combust."

"Okay, isn't it hard to give up sex?"

"It has its moments," he replied candidly, pausing to pour himself another martini from the shaker on the coffee table. Don supposed he needed one to answer that question. "I don't imagine it's much worse than being a closeted homosexual," he added, and Don nearly choked on his drink. But he didn't look at Don. He continued, as if what he said had nothing to do with his guest. Maybe it didn't. Or, Don wondered if maybe he'd set off the priest's gaydar like a trash can fire under a smoke alarm. "You have to deny a part of your nature. Well, not deny it exactly. You acknowledge to yourself it's there, but you close it off most of the time. When you meet someone you're attracted to, you have to accept that's a facet of yourself that you can't act on. It doesn't mean you never think of it, or never miss it, but you give it up, and you function."

"But?" Don probed, because Father Tim suddenly seemed more distant, as if he had more on his mind.

"The loneliness is hard sometimes. I chose to be a priest, but I wouldn't have chosen to always be alone. I guess I'm a social creature by nature."

"Did you do it to please your mother?"

"No, not really. She didn't pressure me. I always had a strong faith, and the more I looked into it, the more interested in it I got. I made the decision to go into the seminary, she didn't. Not that she isn't proud of it. She and my father are conservative Republicans, so there's nothing like having your son, the priest, show up at the right political events," he said, smiling.

"That doesn't bother you?"

"What? That my being a priest and my father showing me off might advance his career? No, it doesn't. They've always been wonderful parents, done everything in the world for me, so no, if it benefits my dad and helps him hold onto his seat in Congress, I'm returning some favors. How about your family?"

"I don't see them much. My dad was a real hard-ass, dictatorial, ruled with an iron hand, all that shit. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. That's why I went into the Academy versus going to college. If I'd gone to college, he'd have had a hammer over my head for another four or five years. I got my degree in Criminal Justice after I joined the department. It was strain, but it was worth it not to have him footing the bill for it. Not that we were rich or anything. He was a security guard for a major corporation most of his life, and he did okay."

"Ah, so becoming a cop one-up's being a rent-a-cop," Father Tim said, arching his eyebrows.

"Yeah, it does, doesn't it? He carried a gun all his life, but I actually have drawn mine a few times," Don added, pouring himself another martini. "He patrolled the mean streets of a high-rise."

"Was your father abusive?"

"Depends how you define abusive, I s'pose. I think sometimes he threw his weight around at home because he was frustrated with his job."

Don leaned back in the chair and finished the second martini. Father Tim was a dangerous man, and would probably make a hell of an interrogator. He hadn't talked about his family or his past to most of the people he knew, guys he drank with occasionally, considered casual friends. In one short sitting, he'd told Father Tim more than he'd told them in the four years he'd been with the Albany PD. Even his buddies back in Baltimore didn't know this much about him.

"Fathers and sons," Father Tim said, finishing off his second drink, too. "Always a complex dynamic."

"Sounds like you and your father hit it off all right."

"Well, let's just say that he approves of me. If he didn't, I'm not sure what path our relationship would take. My mother and I have always been close. I'm sure she'd support me no matter what I chose to do, or what lifestyle I led." Father Tim looked at his empty glass. "I'll mix another round."

It was on the tip of Don's tongue to say no, since he had to be at work in a few hours, but he'd made it to work after more drinks than this, and he had time to shower and guzzle coffee before he showed up at the precinct. Over the next batch of martinis, they talked about a broad range of topics, everything from movies to books to politics. Don found himself forgetting he was talking to a priest, and thinking more of the other man as a friend...just like any other guy.

Except, he wasn't any other guy, and the natural progression of friendship into something more that Don would have pursued with him just couldn't be. Although, he had admitted to being lonely, to finding the solitary life difficult at times. And that reference to closeted homosexuals? Could there be something else beneath the good Father's surface?

********

"You didn't have to fix breakfast for me," Don said as he walked into the rectory's kitchen the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs. Father Tim was dressed in his black suit, ready to go say an early Mass at the parish hall.

"I thought it might balance the martinis a bit," he replied, putting food on two plates. "Personally, I feel as if I have a bit of a hole burning in my stomach."

"Tell me that's not decaf," he said, going to the coffee maker and filling the two cups sitting there.

"Not when I'm defusing martinis," he said, setting their plates on the table and sitting down. "I almost opened the drapes to see the sunrise, but there are reporters on the grounds already this morning."

"I'll see if I can get them moved back a bit," Don said, joining him at the table with the coffee. "This is great. Breakfast for me is usually coffee and a half a stale donut, a cookie, or whatever else is still in my kitchen."

"You need to start making time in your schedule for a decent breakfast. You'll feel better all day."

"I s'pose."

"Thank you again for staying here last night. I enjoyed your company," he said. The tinge of shyness in his voice made Don tingle in all the right places. If things had been different, he would have sworn Father Tim was flirting with him. Not to mention fixing him such a good breakfast.

"Can't believe I'm saying this, but I had a good time last night."

"Four martinis will do that."

"Nah. Four martinis and good company will do that. Relying on the martinis alone...eh, you need about eight or ten."

"Good God, how can you stand up after that?"

"It's a challenge, so it doesn't matter much who you're drinking with."

"What comes next with the investigation?"

"I'll run the M.O. through the FBI's database, see if anything matches up."

"You think this could be a serial killer?"

"I hope not. Hopefully it's one psycho with a grudge against Father Rivard. But if there are other cases out there, and we can tie it to the same perp, we could be bracing for more killings." He regretted his candor when he saw most of the color draining from Father Tim's face. "Honestly, it's extremely unlikely, even if we are dealing with a serial killer, that he would strike in the same exact location twice. If whoever did this wanted to kill both of you, you'd both be dead. He wouldn't do one and then come back for the other. One thing that still bugs me is why Father Rivard was in the church at all last night."

"I honestly couldn't say. You've seen how big this place is," he said, gesturing around them. "It's not like he had to go to the church to have solitude or quiet to pray. It was just the two of us here, and I'm not exactly a noisy roommate, so he would have just gone into his room, or maybe the den, if he wanted to pray or read Scripture, or work on a sermon. He wasn't in the habit of going to the church alone at night. It's not that he wouldn't have if someone asked, but there generally wasn't any reason."

"If someone asked? Do people ask that often?"

"No. Usually they come to the church office, or to the rectory if they want to talk to one of us privately. Occasionally someone will want to make a confession, or someone troubled will come to the church to make a visit and want a priest to sit with them or pray with them. But it's rare."

"But he would have gone there if someone asked?"

"Well, yes, but ordinarily he'd have stuck his head in my door and told me he was doing that. We always felt that was just a good safety precaution in case there was any trouble."

"We'll dump his cell phone records anyway. You don't happen to have his passwords for his e-mail and other online accounts, do you?"

"No. He didn't write them down. He prided himself on keeping them all in his head."

"Great. Well, we'll get everything we need with subpoenas."

"There could be privileged correspondence on his computer, or in his e-mail, from people he was counseling. All I can ask is that you handle them with sensitivity. These are people who made a presumption of privacy - "

"I promise you, I will do everything I can to safeguard their privacy, and not to expose or exploit any personal information about Father Rivard, other than what I need to run the investigation."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry about your loss. I don't think I ever said that."

"I appreciate that. Tony and I got to be good friends over the last couple years, since I came here. We had a lot of good talks, handled a lot of issues with the parish together. I know I'll miss him," he added, taking a drink of his coffee, blinking a bit.

"I need to go. Call me if anything comes up, or you think of anything."

"I will," Father Tim stood, and Don thought he could see a hint of regret in his expression at losing his houseguest. "Thank you again for coming over last night." He extended his hand, and Don shook it, lingering a bit longer than he probably should have.

"We should get together over a batch of martinis again sometime," he ventured, and Father Tim's face lit up with one of those beautiful smiles of his.

"I'd like that very much."

"Hey, maybe we'll even throw in dinner, to offset the martinis."

"That would be great. Please let me know if I can do anything else to help with the investigation."

"I'll be in touch," Don said, forcing himself to open the front door and go outside, closing it behind him, facing the small group of reporters already milling around outside. He shooed them back from the rectory, giving them some stern words about not harassing Father Callahan regarding details of the case he was not at liberty to discuss. He doubted it would help much, but it might give his new friend a bit of relief.

As he got into his car and started the engine, he sat there a moment, stunned. Had he actually asked a priest out on a date? And he accepted? Figuring he might burn in hell, and deciding it was definitely worth it, he put the car in gear with a crooked little smile on his face and headed for work.

********

"Strachey, my office," Bailey said, poking his head out of his office the moment Don landed at his desk. He went into the captain's office, and as Bailey gestured at the door, closed it.

"What's up, Captain?"

"Why were you at St. Mary's rectory all night?"

"I stopped by to ask Father Callahan a few questions, and he was alone there. He seemed pretty jittery about it, so I hung around there. He's our key witness so far, the press are swarming the church grounds like flies, and I was concerned about his safety."

"We have black-and-whites for watching witnesses."

"With all due respect, Captain, I was off duty. The only reason I went back there is to see if he had any impressions from interacting with the crowd at the vigil that could be helpful. Anyone acting strangely, that kind of thing."

"Ramirez was in charge of that last night."

"What's the real problem here? I wasn't on the clock, I put in some extra hours, and on my own time, I gave a little extra protection to a witness."

"Look, Strachey, there were rumors flying around after Griffin's suicide, and I backed you up. Stuff like this makes it more difficult."

"Stuff like this? How does this have anything to do with Kyle's suicide?"

"We all know what the rumors were that surrounded him not getting that promotion, and then after his death...you don't think there was speculation about you, being his partner?"

"What are you saying? You think I went over there to bang the priest?"

"I'm not saying that. All I'm saying is that the media have started buzzing about why the lead investigator on the case was seen going into the rectory in the wee hours of the morning and didn't come out until about six-thirty."

"Do the media think I was hitting on Father Callahan?"

"They're raising questions that are more related to the investigation at the moment," Bailey replied.

"Do you think I was up to something inappropriate?"

"All I'm saying is that this case is a national media feeding frenzy right now. I don't frankly care what you do with your off hours, but I do care how this department looks under a national spotlight."

"I was questioning a witness."

"For over five hours?"

"He found the body, and it seems like he was pretty good friends with Rivard. I don't think anybody's debating that this homicide was personal. Unless we're dealing with a serial killer who has it in for priests, whoever did this had a real personal reason - really wanted to make this guy suffer, make a point with mutilating him. Father Callahan is pretty tight-lipped with keeping confidences, and I don't just mean the secrets people tell him in confession. He got irritated with me for asking him if any of his parishioners were acting strangely."

"Your point being?"

"I can't just ask him point blank what he knows about Father Rivard's personal life that might lead to something like this. Well, yeah, I can, but he won't answer me. If I can gain his confidence, get to know him a little, earn his trust - he might give us the key to all this." 

"If you're going to question a witness all night, we have facilities for that - they're called interrogation rooms."

"Oh, really, Captain? You want me to haul the good father in here, Roman collar and all, sit him in an interrogation room, and play hardball with him until he tells me something I want to know? How do you think that's gonna play with the media or the community? Plus, on top of that, he's not gonna tell us anything that way."

Bailey looked confounded. "Did you get anything?"

"Nothing specific yet, but we did talk quite a bit, and I think he trusts me. I can push a little harder next time."

"Next time?"

"You've always trusted my instincts before, Captain," he said. "I'd stack my arrest record up against anybody else in this department."

"I didn't take issue with your arrest record, did I?"

"No, but you're taking issue with how I do my job and how I handle the witnesses in my case. And the only reason is to satisfy the curiosity of a bunch of reporters."

"You know what? You're right. The media coverage we get matters. But you've got a point about Callahan. Unless Rivard's family gives you something. When are they expected?"

"They'll be here this afternoon. His parents retired to Florida, so they're flying up. He has a sister in Connecticut. She might be here by now. I'm supposed to meet with them at their hotel this afternoon."

"I cut you a lot of slack, Strachey. Don't make me regret that. Handle this issue with the Father carefully. Don't embarrass this department."

"I'll get this guy, and I have a feeling Father Callahan is going to help me."

"Remember, a lot of eyes are on this department. My eyes are on you."

"I'm flattered," he joked, getting up, heading for the door.

"Don't be a smart ass, Strachey."

"Come on, Captain. You've come to expect nothing less from me."

Don left his captain's office in a decidedly worse mood than he'd been in when he arrived. He didn't spend the night at the rectory to trick Father Tim into anything. He wasn't trying to gain his confidence for the case. He wanted to get close to a man he probably could never have. Even if Don was prepared to turn his own life upside down, there was no reason to believe the priest was ready to abandon his vows and his vocation for him. Still, it was obvious Father Tim wanted to see him again, and the little spark he'd felt between them had simmered into a genuine fledgling friendship. Don couldn't remember the last time he'd had a really good friend, someone to sit and trade confidences with over a batch of stiff martinis. If that was all they ever were, good friends, maybe that was worth something.

The walls of the closet seemed to close in on him as he admitted, if only to himself, that friendship was a poor relation to what he really wanted from the handsome priest.

********

Father Tim said Mass that morning in the parish hall. His usual crowd for morning Mass included a handful of regulars, some who stopped on their way to work, and some elderly folks, but this morning, the parish hall was filled nearly to capacity. He had a feeling Tony would have had some comment to make on that.

He was glad to be there for his congregation, to make this tragedy as bearable for them as he could, but he had to admit it was an exhausting regimen of consoling people, helping them make sense of something that was so gruesomely senseless, and forever dodging the media. As he'd made his way into the parish hall, he'd heard a question from a reporter who couldn't get close to him in time that had something to do with why Detective Strachey had spent the night at the rectory.

There were no words for how glad he'd been to have a visitor the night before, and certainly nothing he could say that would ever express how much their visit over a couple of batches of stiff martinis had made all this bearable. There was something about Don Strachey that made him relax, made him feel safe, made him feel oddly...at ease. Obviously, having an armed detective in the house would make anyone feel safer, but it was more than that. It was a feeling of well-being that he didn't expect when he felt so sad and, at times, so ill-equipped to handle all of it alone.

At the same time, everything inside him told him this was a risky venture. He might not have any experience with having a relationship with a man, but he knew when one was interested in him for more than his spiritual guidance. While Detective Strachey was nothing but a gentleman, there was a heat in his gaze and moments when he caught him staring, a lingering handshake or something in his voice...

None of that in itself bothered Father Tim as he hung up his vestments and braced himself to confront another day of phone calls, media harassment, and administrative meetings with the parish council and a few other key parish groups. He knew he was a nice-looking man, and he'd been complimented on his looks before. He'd even had to politely remind admirers that he was a priest who'd taken a vow of celibacy that he planned to honor.

What bothered him was that, for the first time, that vow of celibacy seemed like a prison, and that he wanted heated gazes from Don Strachey. He wanted the touch of his hand and the sound of his voice and his company in the darkest part of the night. He wanted to share confidences with him. He'd done his own share of caressing those well-defined muscles with his eyes, and longed to touch the smooth, fair skin that covered them. And the dream had come in the remaining hours of night, fueled by martinis and the proximity of a man who made it hard to remember why he'd turned his back on the touch of a lover, of the heat of two bodies moving together, and what it would feel like to surrender to passion that his vocation demanded he deny.

The lights went out. There were no windows in the storage room he had set up as a temporary vestment room.

"Is someone there?" he asked, trying to stay calm. The maintenance man had been there earlier, so perhaps he thought the building was empty and was just turning out the lights.

"Father Rivard was a hypocrite." The voice was chilling, electronically altered.

"Who's there?" he asked, his hand going to his pocket, finding his rosary and his cell phone. Comforted by the rosary, his hand slid past it to the cell phone.

"Are you a hypocrite, Father Callahan?"

"I try not to be," he replied, doing his best to stay calm, trying to determine where in the room the voice was coming from. His fingers closed around the cell phone and pulled it from his pocket.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," the voice said, followed by a mechanical laugh. The door of the storage room slammed. Father Tim pulled out his phone and with shaking hands, dialed 9-1-1.

"I need to get in touch with Detective Strachey. It's an emergency!" he shouted into the phone.

********

As soon as he'd been contacted about the 9-1-1 call from the parish hall at St. Mary's, Don had risked life and limb speeding through the streets of Albany, overtaking and passing the black-and-white units in his unmarked sedan. He brought the car to a squealing halt in front of the parish hall, and raced to the front entrance, gun drawn, flashlight braced above it, bursting through the door, scanning the dark interior of the building. Other cops were entering behind him, and he directed them where to fan out.

"Tim! Timothy, answer me!" he shouted, not really thinking about what he was saying, that he was shouting the priest's first name, sans title, with a desperation that betrayed the fact he cared as more than a cop whether or not he was all right.

"Don? Is that you?" Father Tim's voice seemed faint and distant.

"Where are you?"

"I'm back here, in the storage room!"

The lights went on overhead, thanks to one of the cops finding the switches on the wall. The main room of the hall was set up for the Mass Father Tim had said, with rows of folding chairs and a makeshift altar at the front. Don followed the sound of knocking and pounding until he found a door with a chair slid under the knob to hold it closed. He yanked the chair out and before he could touch the knob, Father Tim opened the door and popped out at him, looking panicked, breathing hard. For a beat, they were close to each other, and Don had to consciously work at keeping his hands to himself. He thought for a moment that Father Tim was going to throw his arms around him.

"Are you all right?" he asked the pale, shaken priest whose wild eyes settled on him, looking almost pleading, as if he wanted some touch from Don to calm him down. Unable to completely resist that look, Don holstered his gun and touched Father Tim's arm. "You're not hurt?"

"No, no, I'm fine," he shot out, the words surprisingly articulate and enunciated, given the speed they were uttered between slight gasps.

"Take a deep breath, Tim. Don't pass out on me."

"I won't, I'm okay," he insisted, his hand latching onto Don's sleeve.

"Did you see anything?"

"No, the lights went out, and it's pitch dark in that room without the lights. Whoever it was, he was right there in the room with me when he started talking, and the voice was mechanical sounding. I guess all he wanted to do was scare me, thank God."

"What did he say?" Don asked, and Father Tim looked beyond him, making him turn around. There was a commotion at the other end of the building.

"Detective!" One of the uniformed officers was motioning to Don, and he hurried toward the activity, Father Tim close behind him.

"Oh, no," Father Tim muttered as they saw Jake Matthews, the church's maintenance man, laid out on the floor, a pool of blood under his head. Another officer was crouched by him, holding a towel under the old man's head, trying to stop the bleeding. "Is he...?"

"We called for a bus. His pulse is weak, but it's there."

"If there's a danger he might not make it, please, let me give him Last Rites," Father Tim said.

"Sure, get your stuff," Don said, and Father Tim retrieved supplies from the storage room and returned quickly, kneeling by the elderly man. "What was the ETA on that bus?" Don asked the uniformed officer who'd called it in.

"Ten minutes," he replied.

"You find anything else?"

"Nothing out of place. CSU is on the way, but with all the people who've been in and out of here this morning, I can't believe they're gonna find much."

"We could set up roadblocks," Ramirez suggested, joining them. She and her partner, Detective Emmet, a long-time veteran cop, joined them.

"And look for what? We don't know if it's a man or a woman, we have no description, no vehicle description, there are a bunch of cars parked on this street all the time - the perp could have gotten into any one of them and taken off. We've got nothing, folks."

"That's not what I wanted to hear," Bailey said, approaching the spot where they all stood. Sirens were getting closer, indicating the ambulance was on its way. Bailey spoke into his radio. "Make sure the media don't get in the way of the ambulance," he barked. "Father, we're putting you in a safe house," he told Father Tim as he stood, having finished giving the injured man his blessing. "Sorry, I'm Captain Bradley Bailey, Albany PD." He extended his hand, and Father Tim shook it.

"Have we met?" Father Tim asked.

"You must have a terrific memory. You said Mass at St. Matthew's a while back, and we met afterwards."

"That's where it was. Listen, Captain, I can't just go into hiding. Who's going to say Mass, be here for the congregation - "

"We could put him under 24-hour guard here," Don suggested.

"The killer just approached him," Bailey retorted.

"If the intruder here wanted him dead, he would be," Don said. "That was an ideal chance, but all the killer did - if it was the killer and not just some fucking lunatic lured out by the press - was talk to him. Scare him. I'm not minimizing the risk, but if we have around the clock protection here, Father Tim can get on with his duties to his congregation , and we can keep him safe. In the meantime, maybe our headcase with the voice synthesizer will show up again and we can nail his ass."

"Sounds like you're using him for bait," Bailey said.

"If he is, that's fine," Father Tim spoke up. "If my being here, and the killer thinking he can get to me helps you catch him before he hurts someone else, please, let's do it that way."

"Why don't you let me take the first shift, Captain? I think it would be good for Father Tim to be with me when I talk to Father Rivard's family, if he's available," he said, glancing at Father Tim, who nodded.

"Absolutely."

"Okay. Work out a schedule with the rest of the task force, and you can use a couple of our best veteran uniforms. I don't want some wet-behind-the-ears rookie on this."

"Neither do I," Don replied, trying to mask the concern in his voice - trying to keep from thinking that Father Tim was already too important to him to entrust to anyone but the best.

********

Father Rivard's elderly parents were not able to provide much new information on their son that would help the investigation. It occurred to Don that they were providing more of an outlet for the old couple's grief than actually gathering much worthwhile evidence. Father Tim consoled Father Rivard's sobbing, distraught mother, then prayed with both of them. Don was relieved to get out of there, to get away from the grief and the emotion.

"Tony was a very devoted son," he observed quietly as Don drove away from the hotel. "He called and visited them as much as he could. I keep thinking how devastated my mother would be in her place. As it is, she's going nuts not being here, worrying about me. I don't want her here. Not as long as there's any danger."

"About earlier. I'm sorry about not using your title."

"What?"

"When I was calling to you in the parish hall. I called you Tim, not Father Tim."

"And Timothy," he added, a faint smile tugging the corner of his mouth. "Why Timothy?"

"It's your name."

"Yes, but you only know me as Father Callahan, or Father Tim. Why Timothy?"

Don spared a glance from the road. There was a little hint of pink in Father Tim's cheeks. He smiled. He didn't know if it would ever get anywhere, but he liked knowing the attraction was mutual.

"I like your full name. It has a nice flow to it."

"So does Donald. It's a very strong, traditional name. There is a Saint Donald, you know."

"I figured there probably was. There's a saint for pretty much every name you can think of."

"There are a few who don't have saints, trust me. Saint Donald was Scottish, lived in the eighth century, and had nine daughters with whom he formed a sort of religious order."

"Wow. Well, I'm not gonna beat that record. Don't even have one," he added, chuckling. "I never liked my name much."

"Why not?"

"What's the first thing that comes to your mind when you hear the name Donald?"

"Strachey," he replied, smiling that sweet, happy smile of his. Don found himself entranced by it, and he couldn't take his eyes off that beautiful face. "Don, stop!!" he said, the smile disappearing. Don slammed on the brakes and they barely missed hitting the back end of the car ahead of them at the red light.

"Sorry."

"The other obvious answer, of course, would be 'Duck.'"

"Yeah, that's the one most people think of," he said, laughing.

"You know, it's no big deal."

"What?"

"Dropping the 'father' if you want. My family and some of my close friends just call me by Tim or Timmy."

"Timmy? Huh. That's cute," he said smiling. "You're more of a Timothy, I think."

"You should call me that, then. Or whichever variation you want."

"Okay, Timothy. You've got yourself a deal."

"I need to go to the hospital and see Jake's family, find out how he is."

"I'll drop you off there. We have a really good cop watching Jake's room, since he's a potential witness, so I'll let him know to keep an eye on you, too. How long do you want to stay with them?"

"I don't know. As long as they need me, I suppose."

"I'll check in with you in a couple hours. Maybe we can grab something to eat before the night shift takes over. You like Thai food?"

"I love it. I should probably call Agnes and tell her not to cook," he said, referring to the housekeeper.

"It'll be good for you to get out of that place for a few hours. How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Spend all that time listening to people's problems? Doesn't it depress you?"

"It can. You have to look at how much you can help them, rather than how bad their situation is, or how depressing it is. Besides, it's part of the package. I get to be part of a lot of the good times in parishioners' lives, too. Births, marriages, first sacraments. I get invited to a lot of graduation parties and birthday parties and retirement parties."

You get to observe all the good and bad times of other people's lives without having one of your own. Your life is all wrapped up in theirs. And you're just a witness to it, not a real part of it.

"Don?"

"Yeah, sorry, I was just thinking."

"About?"

"Case stuff," he said, smiling faintly, heading toward the hospital. "What do you think the killer meant when he called Father Rivard a hypocrite?"

"I have no idea. He was a pretty direct person. He generally said what he meant, and I can't think of anyone who would think of him as a hypocrite."

"Anyone particularly pissed off by advice he gave them? Maybe somebody he wouldn't marry or bury or otherwise do what they wanted him to do?"

"He did turn away one couple and refused to marry them unless the groom got anger management counseling and could bring proof of it. He was abusing his fiancee, and while Tony couldn't get her to leave him or call off the marriage, he said he personally wouldn't bless such a union unless the guy was willing to do something to address the abuse issue. They were both angry, but that's not exactly being a hypocrite."

"Who are these people?"

"I can't tell you that. That was a very personal issue. Tony confided it to me, one priest to another."

"You do realize you can't keep stonewalling me every time we get something promising that could be a lead?"

"I'm not stonewalling you. Donald, if someone came to me and confessed to killing Tony, if it was under the Seal of Confession, I couldn't even tell you that. I know I suck as a witness, and I'm sorry, but that's how it goes."

Don was a bit surprised at the frank assessment, and at hearing the word 'suck' from a priest. It was apparent Timothy was no ordinary priest. Or, maybe he was, and Don just had a very old fashioned, cliched notion of what one should be - Bing Crosby in a cassock.

"I'm not trying to give you a hard time," Don said. "I know you have your vows and your restrictions on what you can and can't say. Even the law recognizes the Seal of Confession, but some of this other stuff...if this guy's out there beating his girlfriend, you're not exactly betraying the confidence of a real prince, here. People who are angry with Father Rivard are the kind of people we're looking for. Someone who would be pissed off enough to cut his - " Don paused, noticing the slightly blanched expression on Timothy's face. "I'm sorry. I'm around this sick shit so much that I forget sometimes how it sounds. Obviously, I don't counsel grieving family and friends too much."

"Is there any way that if I give you some names, you can avoid telling them that I told you?"

"Eventually, depending on how long the case is unsolved, we could end up doing background checks on the whole congregation, so this would just be a way of flagging a few files for me to take a look at, maybe talk to personally. I can tell them I got their names from Father Rivard's appointment calendar. Or you can tell me if there's another way I could have gotten their names that would make sense. If a lead pans out, then all bets are off, but there's no reason I have to tell them you said anything just to question them."

"Okay. I'll go through Tony's appointments with you, and I can also let you know about a few people you might want to check on. I really don't feel good about betraying confidences, but I don't want anyone else to end up like Tony, or like Jake. Whoever this is obviously will hurt someone else. He already has."

"The greater good," Don said.

"Yes, I suppose stopping someone like that from hurting anyone else is a greater good than keeping every confidence flawlessly."

"I'll do all I can to protect you as a source, and to avoid acting like I already know what their issues are. Fair enough?"

"Yes, that's fair."

********

The meeting with the task force dragged on tediously, each member reporting on their part of the case. The youngest of the detectives had been stuck with the unenviable task of running checks on everyone in the congregation. Criminal histories, DMV records, absolutely anything that could be found in a database. He had a list of about twenty people who had some criminal history, or some mental health issue that had required confinement.

Ramirez reported on the interviews she and her partner, Emmet, had conducted with the Church brass, and what they had shared about Father Rivard's history. It was a fairly generic and sterile priestly resume, and if he'd been sanctioned or suspected of anything inappropriate, they weren't talking. His tough stance on believing any priest guilty of molestation should be handed over to law enforcement with no protection from the Church had earned him respect in some circles, and resentment in others.

Another detective, Foster, reported on what he'd found by following up on Father Rivard's recent appointments and going through his computer and personal files. Essentially, he'd come up with nothing new.

"Father Callahan offered to go through some of that stuff with me, identify anything that raises red flags. I'll need his appointment book and his Blackberry."

"He didn't use the Blackberry. There was nothing on it. Looks like he just used it like a cell phone. Everything was in the appointment book," the other man replied. "Why don't you just have the father get a hold of me?"

"Because I don't think he'd tell you anything, Foster," he replied, irked. "He's very reluctant to put any of the parishioners at risk for harassment or breaking their confidences. I'm the only one who's going to get him to talk."

"Fine," the older man snapped, sliding the appointment book toward Don. "Knock yourself out."

"Thanks," Don retorted, sarcastically.

"Hey, we 're not turning this investigation into a pissing contest," Bailey said. "If Strachey's got an in with the priest, we're gonna use that."

"That what you call it now?" Foster said with a snort.

"Excuse me?"

"An 'in'? Like you had an 'in' with Griffin?"

"You son of a bitch!" Strachey shouted at him, lurching across the table and grabbing the other man by the lapels before Bailey or the others could intervene. "You dumb fuck. Griffin was ten times the cop you'll ever be."

"Strachey, let him go," Bailey said, pulling Don back, trying to break his grip on Foster.

"Everybody knows he blew his brains out because the department wasn't gonna promote a fag to lieutenant."

"Foster, step out. I'll see you in my office later," Bailey snarled, managing to get a better grip on Don with Emmet's help.

Foster straightened his jacket and stormed out of the room, slamming the door.

"Just relax, Strachey, because you're not going after him," Bailey said, as he and Emmet finally let go of Don, who stepped back, his stance indicating he was still interested in getting his hands on Foster.

"Captain Bailey?" A uniformed officer stuck his head in the door. "The victim from this morning, Jake Matthews? He just died."

"Shit," Don muttered. "I gotta go pick up Father Tim. He's over there with the family."

"You want us to take the night shift?" Ramirez offered.

"I need to go over this stuff with him, and he knows me..."

"Strachey, you take the night shift, and Ramirez, you and Emmet relieve him in time for morning Mass."

"Will do, Captain," Ramirez agreed.

Strachey almost thanked Bailey, but he thought that might make him look too eager to spend the night guarding Timothy.

"You cool it. Foster's got a big mouth, but I'm not gonna put up with brawls between my detectives. I'll deal with him. I expect you to back the hell off each other."

"I got it," he replied, holding up his hand.

********

By the time Don arrived at the hospital, Jake Matthews' family was leaving, his widow and two grown sons huddled together as they exited. Timothy was sitting in the waiting room with the cop who'd been providing protection for Matthews.

"Jake had a cerebral hemorrhage," Timothy said tightly. "The head injury was just too severe, and with the blood thinners he was taking..." He concluded with a weak gesture of his hand.

"Do you need me tonight, Detective?" the officer asked.

"No, we're good. Thanks for your help."

"Take care, Father," he said, shaking hands with Timothy.

"I will, Stu. Thanks for keeping an eye on me," he added, and the older man smiled.

"My pleasure, Father. Sorry about Mr. Matthews."

"Me, too. Thanks," Timothy replied, and the other man left.

"You ready to get out of here?" Don asked. Timothy looked so sad, but he didn't quite know how to deal with that. It seemed wrong that Timothy was always consoling people and finding ways to ease their suffering, but that no one seemed to return the favor.

"Would you mind if we just went back to the rectory? I'm not much in the mood to eat right now."

"How about if we pick something up on the way? You might be hungry later, and you probably already told your housekeeper not to cook for tonight."

"Yes, I did. I just don't feel much like eating. But go ahead and get whatever you want."

"Come on, I'll take you home," Don said, trying to keep his voice gentle. Timothy stood and they walked out to Don's unmarked sedan. Timothy was quiet most of the way back to the rectory, and he didn't express any interest in which place Don stopped for takeout. Don chose a drive thru, since he didn't want to leave Timothy unguarded, and got them a bucket of chicken and some side dishes.

"I'd like to go upstairs and change," Timothy said, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose, squinting. "Maybe grab a shower. My head's killing me."

"You have some Advil or Tylenol or something?"

"Yes, I have some upstairs in my room. Probably just a bad tension headache. I get them sometimes." He rubbed the back of his neck, moving his head around a bit.

"I'll dish up the food. Maybe you'll get your appetite back."

"Yeah, maybe." He started up the stairs. "Don?"

"Yeah?"

"Who'll be staying here tonight?"

"You're stuck with me," he said, smiling.

"Really? But you've been on duty all day. You must be tired."

Don shrugged, still smiling at him. "Eh, hanging out in an empty apartment isn't all that exciting. I'd rather have dinner and spend the evening with a friend."

"Me, too," he agreed, smiling faintly. "Thank you," he added, and Don was about to tell him that it was no hardship to be with him, that he didn't need thanks. He thought better of it and kept his reply simple.

"Anytime."

Don went into the attractive, well-appointed kitchen and poked around in the cupboards for plates and glasses and silverware. Loud voices, Timothy's sounding panicked, made him drop the glass he was holding, draw his gun, and fly up the stairs to the second floor.

"On the floor, right now!" he shouted at the young man in the jeans and hooded sweatshirt who was in a stand-off with Timothy, who was clad only in a towel around his waist. Looking petrified, the intruder complied. "Keep your hands where I can see 'em," he said, frisking the prone man. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes, I was just getting ready to step into the shower, and I heard something here in the bedroom, so I came back in, and there he was."

"I thought it was Rivard's room," the intruder protested as Don put the cuffs on him.

"Oh, and that's supposed to be some kind of excuse? Who the hell are you, and what do you think you're doing in here?"

"My ID's in my wallet. I work for The Examiner. I was just trying to get a few pictures of the dead priest's room...find something that would get me an exclusive."

"Well, now you can get a first-hand, inside look at the county jail."

"I know I was trespassing. Look, Father, I'm sorry. I didn't think anybody was here."

"And that makes breaking and entering okay," Don snapped, not giving Timothy time to reply.

"Breaking and - I was trespassing, that's all!"

"How'd you get in?" Don asked.

"Can I get up now?"

"You'll get up when I've decided you're no longer a threat to the father."

"You've got me in cuffs and you're sitting on my ass. What do you think I'm gonna do to him?"

"I really don't know, that's why I have you in cuffs and am sitting on your ass. Now answer me."

"You haven't read me my rights."

"Fine." Don went through the full Miranda routine. "Now you're officially in custody, and you've heard your rights. How did you get in?"

"I want a lawyer."

Don stood and yanked his prisoner up to his feet. "If you're gonna wait for a lawyer to talk, then you won't mind shutting the fuck up in the meantime," he snapped, escorting the reporter downstairs, Timothy behind them.

After calling for a unit to come and pick up the intruder, Don went through the rectory until he found the point of entry - a window with a broken lock in the laundry room. A crime scene tech gathered fingerprint evidence and photographed the area. By the time all the commotion died down, it was nearly eight o'clock.

"You look exhausted," Don said, joining Timothy in the living room. He'd gotten dressed again while the police were there, and he was sitting on the couch, a blank expression on his face. "Don't be freaked out about that idiot. That's why you have police protection. From now on, I'll go through the house before you go anywhere in it alone."

"It's funny. I was thinking I should call Jake and ask him to come fix the window tomorrow." And then his shoulders started shaking and he put his head in his hands and cried. Don stood there a moment, not exactly sure what to do. Suddenly, it seemed painfully obvious.

He sat next to Timothy on the couch and put his arm around his shoulders. "It's gonna be okay," he said quietly. "I promise, it'll be okay." He was only a little surprised when Timothy turned to him and wrapped his arms around him, crying on his shoulder. He held Timothy close, resting his cheek against that soft, thick brown hair, closing his eyes, torn between comforting his friend and absorbing the sensations of perhaps the only time he'd ever get to hold the man he was so attracted to. A man who felt too right in his arms.

"I'm sorry," Timothy muttered, trying to pull away. Don tightened his hold a little. He felt Timothy's body relax against him then, as if the little movement had given him permission to soak up the comfort. "I don't want to die that way."

"You won't. I'm gonna take care of you, Timothy. I won't let anything happen to you."

"Jake was an innocent old man. He had nothing to do with this... He wasn't a priest. Why target him?"

"He was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Timothy pulled back again, and this time, Don let him. He handed him a couple tissues he grabbed from a box on the coffee table.

"I'm sorry I lost it," Timothy said.

"It's kind of understandable," Don replied. "On top of all the shit you've been through, you've had everybody else crying on your shoulder. That's a lot to handle."

"Comes with the job," he said, smiling faintly.

"From where I sit, your job sucks."

"Unlike yours, which is a non-stop pleasure cruise."

"Touché ," Don said, laughing. "Sorry. I guess I was a little out of line with that."

"You were honest. You don't treat me like a priest. You talk to me like a friend, and it's been a long time since someone's done that."

"Do you ever regret it?"

"Becoming a priest?" He was quiet a few moments. "Yes, sometimes."

"It's not like joining a street gang. They don't kill you if you try to leave."

"Not that I'm aware of, no," Timothy responded, chuckling. "But I took vows, and nowhere did I qualify it with, 'as long as it's fun' or 'as long as I'm having a good time'."

"Maybe you should have."

"Vows don't work that way. Even marriage vows include 'for better or for worse'. There's better and worse with everything."

"Why don't you go ahead and take that shower you were headed for when our reporter friend showed up? I'll heat us up some dinner."

"You know, I don't think that kid meant any harm. What's going to happen to him?"

"He's going to spend a night in jail, get arraigned in the morning, get out on bail and sweat some bullets over doing time. If his record's clean, he'll most likely get off with probation."

"What if I don't press charges?"

"Then you'll have reporters from scandal sheets targeting this place every few minutes. You have to send a message. He made a choice to break in here and snoop around. He's not a kid, Timothy. He's a grown man who wanted to exploit a murder victim's memory to sell his tacky rag and advance his career."

"Okay, I know you're right."

"You wouldn't be you if you didn't care what happened to him," Don said, and Timothy smiled at that.

"Maybe I will go take a shower and get something for my head. I'm not really hungry, but please, go ahead and eat. You must be hungry."

"You might change your mind," Don said, heading for the kitchen as Timothy climbed the stairs.

Don did his best not to think too much about Timothy's broad shoulders, strong arms, or beautiful hair-dusted chest as he stood there in that towel. He'd figured Timothy had a body to die for, but he'd tried hard not to picture it in such stunning detail. And now it was emblazoned on his brain, along with the feeling of that body against his, the softness of his hair, the scent and the feel of him...

And the thought that maybe he wasn't completely happy being a priest. Don tried to dismiss the thought. He couldn't think of anything much lower than using Timothy's grief, or his loneliness, or his growing trust as a friend, to seduce him away from his vocation. Don sighed and set the heated up potatoes and gravy on the table. That was assuming he was such hot stuff that he could lure Timothy away from God. Not like just convincing someone their boyfriend wasn't living up to expectations. He had to take on God to win Timothy's heart.

"That does smell kind of good," Timothy said, startling him. "Sorry, didn't mean to sneak up on you. Who'd've thought I could sneak up on a homicide detective?"

Who'd've thought I could get a boner from a half-naked priest...

"Life is ironic sometimes. Have a seat. I'm just nuking the chicken."

They ate their reheated takeout in a comfortable silence, and Don was glad Timothy seemed to have a little appetite. He knew he'd have to get down to business at some point that evening, to prove to Bailey that he was building rapport with Timothy for the sake of the investigation, but for now, he let it lie.

After dinner, Timothy brought out after dinner liqueur and small glasses, and they settled in the living room.

"That's good...nice little kick to it," Don said.

"Bailey's Irish Cream," Timothy said, taking another sip.

"Bailey. Thanks for reminding me. We really should go over that appointment book." Don pulled it out of the briefcase he'd brought with him.

"It's jarring seeing it like that...Tony always had that nearby. He wrote everything in it."

"Sometimes I forget how weird it must be for people who knew the victim to see the cops picking through their personal possessions ."

"I know it's a necessary evil of finding the killer."

"Unfortunately, we can't let the victim have much privacy." Don opened the book. "How should we do this? You want to flip through it and point things out? None of this means anything to me. I mean, you're right, he wrote everything in here, including his doctor's appointments, when he jogged and how far, reminder notes..."

"Here, let me look." Timothy took the book and began leafing through it. "I told you about Brenda Garrison and Will Quinn. The guy who was abusing his girlfriend?"

"Phone numbers and addresses would be helpful. You didn't give me their names before." Don wrote down the contact information as Timothy read it aloud.

"Francine Murray. I don't know how she could have slipped my mind."

"Who is she?"

"Don, I feel really...wrong about this. These people talked to Tony in confidence, and he occasionally bounced something off me as a fellow priest."

"We need to solve this case before more innocent people die. Keep that in mind, and you won't feel so creepy about poking around in other people's private lives. Trust me on that one. Now, did this Murray woman have an issue with Father Rivard?"

"Her teenage son, Aiden, was having...difficulties dealing with...with his...sexual identity, I suppose you'd say."

"He was gay?"

"Not exactly. He wanted to become a woman. He dressed up in women's clothes, wore makeup. He suffered terribly in school, obviously, but he kept rebelling against his mother trying to keep his masculine identity by constantly dressing up as a woman every chance he got, even if he was harassed and ostracized for it. Tony suggested he try therapy, and pray to find the strength to accept the body God gave him."

"Isn't that what his mother wanted?"

"Yes." Timothy sighed. "But she didn't want to lose her son altogether, and that's what happened."

"How did she lose him? Is he dead?"

"Yes. He ran away, ended up on the streets in New York City. He somehow got tangled up with drugs and prostitution." Timothy shook his head. "A guy who picked him up for sex beat him to death when he found out Aiden was a boy. Apparently he was giving the man oral sex, and at some point, when they were done, he touched Aiden...near his genitals..."

"They obviously caught the guy if you have all these details."

"They caught him, and he's in prison. He plea bargained, got a fairly light sentence on a manslaughter charge. Apparently the horror of Aiden being male was sufficient to mitigate pounding him beyond recognition, to death."

"Horrible story. Why would the mother be angry with Father Rivard? He only advised the kid to do what she wanted him to do."

"I don't know that she was angry with him. She never said much about it. Aiden was brought home, his funeral Mass was here, and she still attends Mass every Sunday. She was a single mother. Aiden was all she had. She didn't seem to want any kind of consolation or grief counseling from either of us. Tony tried to keep an eye on her. He asked me to try, and she politely declined talking about it."

"Okay. I'll have a talk with her."

"Please, Don, be very sensitive in dealing with her, and don't let it slip that I suggested you talk to her."

"I won't."

They went through several other names and scenarios until it got late. Finally at the end of the appointment book, Timothy set it aside and leaned back in the chair he occupied, putting his feet up on the matching ottoman. Dressed in an old suit of sweats and socks, he didn't look much like a priest. Just a tired man with a lot on his mind.

"Sorry to put you through such a long interrogation," Don said. "My captain's leaning on me for developments in the case, and I have to justify being here instead of out chasing down leads."

"Don, there's something else." Timothy didn't look up or open his eyes. It was as if what he had to say would come more easily without eye contact. Finally, he did open his eyes and stared at the ceiling. "Tony was gay."

"Excuse me?"

"He was gay. He didn't act on it. He kept his vow of celibacy, but he told me a couple weeks before he died. I think he sensed something in me...and that made him trust me."

"Sensed something in you?"

"Oh, Don, come on." Timothy looked at him now. "You're trying to tell me that you haven't figured out that I'm gay?"

"Uh..."

"You're a detective, and being gay yourself, it shouldn't have been too hard for you to sort out."

"Why do you think I'm gay?"

"Now give me some credit. Celibate isn't blind and dead. I see the way you look at me. You can't tell me you haven't seen me looking back."

"I thought so, but you being a priest...I figured it was wishful thinking," he admitted, smiling.

"I hope you understand this can't go anywhere."

Don felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. For an instant, he'd thought there was hope, that Timothy was acknowledging the sparks between them. And he was, but he was throwing a bucket of cold water on them. But he'd grown way too fond of Timothy to let him slip away that easily.

"Is that what you want? For it to not go anywhere?"

"This isn't about what I want. I take my vows seriously, and I realize I've been letting something...develop here that I should have put a stop to."

"Why? We haven't done anything wrong, Timothy. Unless you're not allowed to have friends, either."

"Of course, I am. Is that all you really want from me? Friendship?"

"If that's what you're offering, I'm interested," he said. Timothy looked at him with a bit of skepticism. "Look, if you were available, I'd ask you out."

"You already did."

"And you said yes, so you still have to go out to dinner with me sometime."

"That's my whole point, Don. I can't...date someone."

"Friends can eat out together. If you draw a line, I won't cross it."

"So you'd be content to just be friends, and nothing else?"

"Content might be the wrong word, but I like you. I like spending time with you." Don took a deep breath. He felt like he was baring his soul, and he never felt comfortable doing that. Baring any part of his anatomy was easier. Still, if he didn't say the right thing, Timothy would be out of his life for good. "I don't want to lose your friendship."

"I'm not too crazy about losing yours, either."

"Okay, so it's settled."

"I know why I'm not with someone, but what makes you stay in your closet?"

"Gay cops aren't exactly popular with their colleagues. It's been a long time since I met anyone that made it worth dealing with all that shit." Don decided to go out on a limb. "Well, at least, not until now."

"Don, I - "

"I didn't say it to make you change your mind about anything. I just thought you should know, that if things were different... It wouldn't be just a casual hook-up."

"If things were different...I'd be really glad to know that."

They held each other's gaze a moment, and Don finally looked away. "So let's talk about Father Rivard coming out of the closet. That's kind of a big detail to leave out."

"It was an intensely personal conversation. No one knew about him. He'd never even experimented. According to him, he'd never been with a man, never even kissed one. There was no one else who knew, not even his family."

"If someone knew, it would explain the hypocrite comment, and it fits with the sexual mutilation." Don saw the little jolt that seemed to give Timothy, even though it wasn't news. "Sorry to bring that up."

"What was it? You never told me, and that detail has been kept out of the press."

"His penis was cut off."

"That's what I thought, given what you said, but in a way, I wish I hadn't asked."

"We're gonna nail this guy. I told you I wouldn't let anything happen to you, and I won't."

"I trust you. I know you're committed to this case."

"And to protecting my friend. It's been a long time since I babysat an endangered witness - and trust me, I don't usually ask for the assignment."

"Even now, after what we talked about - "

"You didn't become disposable because you don't want to have sex with me."

"I never said I didn't want to. I said I couldn't. There's a very, very distinct difference there."

"I don't know what you want me to say. You tell me you can't be with me, and then you tell me you want to be..."

"You're right. I won't bring it up again."

"Unless you change your mind. Then it would be good to bring it up again." Don smiled at him, and he was relieved that Timothy smiled back.

"I don't know how anyone could have known except me. We were alone here, in the evening, and he told me I was the only person he'd ever told."

"Maybe he told someone else, after you. Once you tell one person, it gets a little easier to tell another."

"Spoken from experience?"

"No. I'm so deep in my fucking closet I smell like mothballs."

"No, you don't," Timothy said, and then his face flushed. It was obvious he'd blurted out something he didn't plan on saying. Don decided to have mercy on him and not pounce on the comment. If that tendril of desire was still burning inside that gorgeous body of his, there was still hope he might change his mind. "If he told anyone else, I didn't know about it. Tony's family were very devout, almost...how do I put this..."

"Fanatics? Holy rollers?"

"I probably wouldn't have chosen those words, but I suppose so."

"Yeah, I got that impression when we met with them. The crucifix his mother was wearing was bigger than the one on the wall in your guest room."

"I think you're exaggerating a little. Although, I have to admit, it was substantial."

"There's a good word for it. Substantial. You should go into politics, Timothy. You'd make one hell of a spin doctor."

"It's in my blood, I guess," he replied, chuckling.

"What about other priest friends? Or just friends in general? Was he close to any families in the parish? Close enough to - "

"No, he'd have never confided that to a parishioner. The St. Mary's grapevine is hardier and more...prolific than the ones maintained by high school girls. One spark of scandal and defusing the chatter is a full-time job. I know he had friends he met in the seminary, some he kept in touch with. There was one guy who stayed here about a year ago, but that was long before he told me, and when he told me, he said he'd never voiced it to anyone. So I don't think Phil knew, either."

"Phil..."

"Father Phillip Davies. He does missionary work. I think he's in Haiti now."

"Whoa, there's a job. So much devastation and rebuilding going on."

"That's why he's there. He always wants to be part of the greatest area of need. Tony admired him for that - for not settling into the comfort of being a parish priest."

"Did you ever think of missionary work?"

"I was thinking about it very much when I joined the priesthood, but my mother nearly died from the stress when I went on a couple of brief excursions into politically troubled areas while I was in the seminary. She begged me not to do that, to find some way to serve God and not get myself decapitated in the process. So here I am."

"Do you regret it?"

"No, because one thing she said was right. Just because we live in nice houses and have safe drinking water doesn't mean that we don't need spiritual help. People all over the world need someone to reach out to them. It doesn't matter how rich or poor, or how hungry or comfortable they are. It's all missionary work when you get down to it, and with a shortage of priests, we're needed to keep the churches running for people in the US, too."

"This Phillip guy...how would I get in touch with him?"

"He'll be at Tony's funeral. As soon as you release the body, and we can bury him, that is."

"It shouldn't be much longer. I'll stop by the M.E.'s office tomorrow and see if I can expedite things."

"I'd appreciate that."

"No idea of anyone else he might have told?"

"No, I don't think he told anyone else."

"Did he have a thing for you? Is that why he told you?"

"If he did, he never let on. I don't think he thought of me that way."

"Hm."

"What?"

"I'm just wondering how any guy who's into guys wouldn't think of you that way."

"Don."

"Okay, I know, it can't go anywhere. I still have a right to my opinion."

"Yes, well, keep it to yourself."

"Fine. I'm just sayin'..." he replied, making a few more notes about Father Rivard's friend, Phillip, flicking his eyes upward just in time to catch Timothy's little grin.

********

Tim lay in bed, unable to fall asleep. Rain was pouring down, drumming on the roof, the occasional clap of thunder and flash of lightning disturbing the rhythm. Don was downstairs somewhere, probably in the guest room. He listened closely, trying to hear movement over the sound of the storm, but everything in the house was quiet and still.

As he shifted positions, his hand lightly brushed past his nipple. Even through the fabric of his pajamas, the touch felt like an electric spark. He felt a stir of desire he'd all but forgotten he could feel. After denying it for so long, resisting the temptation to touch himself when there was no one else there to touch him, the feelings he had for Don were bringing that lust to the surface.

Almost against his own will, he flopped on his back and unbuttoned his pajama shirt with shaky hands. The sheets felt odd against his bare chest. His hands slid up to rub over his nipples, and he gasped at how good it felt, how intense the sensation was. He imagined Don's hands instead of his own, touching his body in the loving, tender way he knew it would be. Don's skin looked so smooth and silky to touch when he'd been wandering around that first night in his undershirt. He finally let himself think about the muscles under that soft skin, and his hand slipped below his waistband, wrapping around his cock, feeling the hardness and the heat there, remembering what it was like to give in to desire, if only for a few stolen seconds...

He yanked his hand back as if it had been scalded when the memory of Andrew came, unwelcome and uninvited. The sensation of his hands in Tim's pants, what should have been something beautiful instead being a dirty, smutty little grope fest in a dark storage room at the seminary, only to have light flood in and the whole interlude interrupted by the stern figure of an angry priest.

"Damn it," Tim muttered, feeling the erection waning, and the old shame and pain flooding back that always accompanied thoughts of Andrew. In retrospect, it wasn't really love, but it felt like it at the time, and it had all hurt so much.

He rolled on his side and hugged one of his pillows, hiding his face in it and wishing with every part of him that it was a living, breathing man with muscular arms, blond hair, and sweet, soulful blue eyes that looked at him as if he could love him forever.

********

Somewhere during the night, Tim had fallen into a deep, if not somewhat troubled, sleep. The alarm woke him, and he got up and showered and shaved and got ready to go say Mass. He tried to ignore the disarray of his pajamas, and the memory of what he'd briefly toyed with the night before. That part of him was off limits. There was little use in stirring it up when it couldn't be sated.

He was looking forward to seeing Don, having breakfast with him, and even that made his heart ache. When this case was over, his relationship with Don had to end with it. And it had to end soon. Even if Don could, and would, be content being friends, Tim sincerely doubted he was as strong.

When he arrived downstairs, he heard voices, one of them Don's, one of them female. He remembered Detective Ramirez from the candlelight vigil, but was surprised to see her standing in the living room, talking with Don.

"Hey, first shift is here," Don said, though his cheery tone wasn't all that convincing. "You two met before, right?"

"At the vigil," Detective Ramirez said, smiling, holding out her hand, which Tim shook. "It's nice to see you again, Father."

"Likewise. So, you're the babysitter for today?" he said, trying to sound friendly.

"You're an important witness to our case," she replied, "and we value your safety."

"Dead men don't testify," he added, and Don shot him a look, stunned.

"I didn't mean it that way," she said, sounding flustered.

"No, of course you didn't. Just a little gallows humor, I guess."

"Cops are famous for that, so no harm done there," Don spoke up. "I gotta run. Thanks for your help with the appointment book. I'll probably see you sometime tonight, depending on how things get scheduled."

"Okay. Thanks," Tim said, wishing he could say more, wondering if the longing he felt in his heart was written all over his face as he watched Don head for the door, physically fighting the urge to follow him, to pull him into his arms and profess his love and beg his forgiveness for being such a frigid prick clinging to his vocation like a Titanic survivor clinging to a piece of rubble in the ocean. Don must have sensed something, because he stopped at the door.

"You have my card. Call me if you n - - if you think of anything else," he said.

"I will." Once the door closed, Tim felt like a piece of his heart had been cut away. It was easy to tell Don the ground rules, that he couldn't consummate anything they might be feeling, as long as Don was still there, still close. But once he walked out the door, Tim realized just how little hold he had on the man. He's your friend, but eventually he'll find someone and they'll be the one in his arms, making love with him, making a life with him, while you waste into old age timing out your days between obligations and other people's lives.

"Father?"

"Hm?" He looked at Detective Ramirez, who was watching him worriedly. She was a pretty young woman, and she looked genuinely concerned. "Sorry. I was thinking about something else. Would you like some coffee? I need something to wake me up a bit before Mass."

"Thanks, but I just made my way through a mega-latte from Sunrise Coffee."

"Now that's serious drinking," he joked. "I can only make it through the grande without developing a twitch."

"Maybe I can treat you to one later."

"You'll want more?"

"This one'll wear off about lunchtime," she replied.

While his day passed uneventfully with Detective Ramirez watching over him, he knew he'd suffer that bitter pang of incompleteness until Don returned, whenever that was.

********

"I can't say I liked the guy, but I sure wouldn't wish something like that on him," Will Quinn said, keeping a watchful eye out to be sure none of his co-workers in the home improvement store where he worked wandered too close. A man in his twenties, he had shaggy dark hair and a goatee. He was tall, muscular, and didn't seem too inclined to smile.

"Any special reason you disliked him?"

"You said you got my name from his appointment book? I was in there getting all that pre-marriage training stuff with my fiancee, Brenda. We went there for three fucking months, and then he tells us he won't marry us because he thinks I need anger management. I think he needed to mind his own fucking business."

"Well, if he was counseling you, that kind of was his business, wasn't it?"

"Brenda shot off her mouth because I smacked her like, one time, and all of a sudden, they act like I'm Jack the Ripper."

"Smacking your girlfriend doesn't tend to make you look like husband of the year material."

"Don't lecture me, man. I had nothing to do with killing that priest."

"You know of anyone else in the parish who might have issues with him?"

"I wasn't even a member of that church. Brenda wouldn't get married unless it was in the Church, so we had to go through all these instructions. He was gonna screw around and mess up the wedding date."

"Any reason you'd consider him to be a hypocrite?"

"Huh? No, not really. I didn't agree with him, but he wasn't a hypocrite...at least, not about that. I didn't know the guy well enough to know if he was or not."

"So did you get married?"

"We broke up. Best decision I ever made."

"Maybe Father Rivard was onto something."

"He wouldn't marry us unless I went into anger management. He didn't bother to suggest her going into cheating bitch management. The time I slapped her? She picked up some other guy in a club. One of my friends saw her and texted me, and I went over there and straightened it out."

"Well, sounds like a marriage better avoided. Thank you for your time."

"Hey, I didn't wish the guy dead or anything. I was pissed off, but not that pissed off."

"That's good to hear," Don said, glad to be on his way to his next stop, even if it was to talk to the grieving mother of a murdered teenager.

Francine Murray lived in a nicely kept white bungalow with blue shutters only a few blocks from the church. She was in her front yard raking and spring cleaning when Don arrived. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore very little makeup. She was dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt over a turtleneck. She looked as if she might be pretty if she wanted to be, or if the pall of sadness that seemed to engulf her would let her out of its grip.

"Mrs. Murray?"

"Ms. Murray," she corrected. "Can I help you?"

"Detective Strachey, Albany PD," he said, showing his ID. "I'm investigating Father Rivard's murder."

"Any suspects yet?" she asked, going back to her raking.

"We have a number of leads to follow up on. I found your name in Father Rivard's appointment calendar, and I wondered if you could spare a few minutes to answer a couple of questions?"

"Look, anything I talked to him about was privileged, and I don't plan on repeating it to you or anyone else."

"Understandable. I would like to offer you my condolences on the loss of your son."

"How did you know about that?"

"I'm a homicide detective. I ran checks on all the people I found in Father Rivard's appointment calendar."

"Oh," she said, pausing in her raking work. "Thank you. I'm sorry, but Aiden's situation is very...private to me."

"Father Rivard's records indicate that he counseled both you and Aiden."

"Yes, he did. He was very supportive, spent a lot of time with Aiden. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to help my son."

"Do you have any idea why someone would think of Father Rivard as a hypocrite?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"It's relevant to the case. I can't say more about it than that at this point."

"I suppose you'd have to ask whoever made that comment why they thought that. I really don't know."

"Is there anyone else in the parish you think I should speak to?"

"I'm not in the habit of swapping gossip with the church ladies. Besides, some of them were very hateful to me when Aiden was going through his issues. They blamed me because I'm a single mother."

"That's a little old-fashioned and short-sighted."

"You just summed up ninety percent of the people at St. Mary's."

"Sexual orientation and identity is always going to be a hot issue in the Catholic Church, I suspect."

"I didn't approve of what Aiden was doing. I was trying to get help for him. They froze me out of any committees I had been on before. When we were raising money for the parish hall, I worked like a dog putting together brochures and advertising and marketing materials. I did it all free of charge. I loved helping out. Father Callahan is probably the best fundraiser I've ever worked with. I've never seen anyone reel in money the way he did. It was exciting to be involved with that whole project. Then Aiden started acting out, and word got around...let's just say Mary Magdalene was more popular, even before Jesus took up her cause."

"Sad what people do in the name of religion. Who would you say are the worst bigots you had to deal with?"

"You want names?"

"Someone didn't like the way Father Rivard was handling things. If there are people stirring the pot, causing unrest, they could either have some role in it, or know someone who does."

"Gretchen Cunningham. She's the president of the Altar Society. She's got a little...well, if they were a street gang, you'd call them her posse. Ruth Annee Jessup - "

"The church secretary?"

"Oh, yes. She's their informant. Since she makes the appointments and answers the phones in the rectory, she knows who's coming and going, and I'm sure she does her share of listening in. Mary Kellerman is a neighbor of Ruth Annee's, and she does the church bulletin every week. Janet Olson, Judge Olson's wife? Well, she's the rich one in the group who likes to wave her checkbook around and threaten to cut off their support when things don't go her way. Or the way her friends want it to go."

"Did she interact with Father Rivard or Father Callahan much?"

"Father Tony, yes. Father Callahan told her outright that he valued her support but had no intention of having collaborative parish decisions dictated by a single parishioner's checkbook. She disliked him from that day on."

"Do they have a vendetta going?"

"Keeping a vendetta going with Father Tim is similar to keeping a vendetta going with Gandhi. Passive resistance. He doesn't seek her out or start arguments with her, but he absolutely will not take her crap. I felt sorry for him, mediating a dispute between a bunch of old ladies over what color the poinsettias on the altar should be. Janet seriously threatened to stop donating if they were those fancy paint-splash looking ones instead of solid red."

"Good grief.. They even discriminate against poinsettias that are different."

"Welcome to St. Mary's. These women have been here way too long, and they have way too little else in their lives to keep them occupied."

"It sounds like Father Tim is the one most likely to rile up the church ladies, not Father Rivard."

"I think too many of them are having Harlequin Romance fantasies about him to stay angry with him for long. Blessed are the peacemakers, and God help him, he tries. Father Tony sort of shoved those jobs off on him when he came here as the assistant pastor."

"Mediating little old ladies? Yeah, I'd delegate that one myself."

"I'm sorry if I was rude before, but it's been a difficult year, and I've been through a lot dealing with those old windbags and their gossip and their ostracism."

"I'm sorry about that. I hope it gets better, or that you find an organization that appreciates your help."

"Thank you. I hope you find out who killed Father Tony. He was a good guy, and he did his best for Aiden."

********

Tim was typing away rapidly on the computer keyboard, working on the eulogy for Jake Matthews' funeral. The elderly man's body was being released by the coroner, and visitation would begin the following evening, with the funeral the next day.

"Ruth Annee?" Tim called, summoning the secretary.

"Yes, Father?" Ruth Annee asked, poking her head in the door of his office.

"Do we still have a copy of the bulletin when we did the article on Jake, after his surgery? I know it mentioned some key dates in his life and it might jar my writer's block."

"I keep copies of all the bulletins in a binder at my desk. I'll check," she replied. "How long is that detective going to be here?" she asked in a low voice, since Ramirez was in the reception area, making calls on her cell phone. It was clear in the elderly woman's voice that she was less than thrilled at sharing her workspace.

"Hopefully it'll all be very temporary, and they'll catch whoever did this to Father Tony and Jake."

"Poor Jake. I still can't believe he's gone," she said, her voice a bit shaky.

"I know. He was a good man, and he's with God now, so I know he's happy. It's hardest for those of us left behind."

"I'm taking a pie over to Estelle and the family later," she said, referring to Jake's widow.

"That's very kind of you, Ruth Annee. Is it one of your pecan pies?"

"Yes. I'll go get that bulletin you wanted," she added, and left the room.

Tim frowned a bit, confused. They had a little verbal banter that always went along with mention of her pies. He'd ask if it was pecan, she'd say yes, and then tell him she'd baked an extra and it was waiting for him in the kitchen at the rectory. It wasn't that he was worried about not getting a pie, but the absence of the gesture and the way she cut off the conversation seemed odd. Chalking it off to the sadness in the air since the murders, he went back to his task.

He read the partially written eulogy, then took out Don's card, which he kept in his pocket, and turned it around and around in his hands, wanting to call, and yet knowing he shouldn't encourage the relationship at that level. He wondered how things would have been different if he'd made his choice faster, if Andrew hadn't left for California without him. If he'd never been ordained, if he'd taken the plunge into the real world and left the Church behind. His private line rang, and he picked up the phone.

"Hi, sweetie, how are you holding up?" His mother's voice was cheery, but he knew she was worried sick about him.

"Okay, I guess. I'm working on Jake's eulogy. It's tough to get through." He smiled at Ruth Annee as she left the copy of the bulletin he'd requested, and motioned to her to close his door on the way out.

"You liked him quite a lot, didn't you?"

"He was a good guy. I miss him already."

"I think you should come home, Timmy. Let someone else take care of things there."

"I can't just walk away, Mom. Jake's funeral is coming up, and as soon as the coroner releases Tony's body, we'll be handling his funeral. His family is here, and they're having a hard time dealing with all this. I'm going over there to pray with them for a while this afternoon."

"Who's watching out for you?"

"Actually, the police have been very good to me. I have around the clock protection from some of their best detectives."

"I suppose that's all we can ask, but I still wish you'd come home for a while, until they find the monster who did this."

"I'll be okay. I promise I'll be careful," he added.

"You sound sad, sweetie. I know you have plenty of reason to, but something's on your mind."

"I was thinking about...remembering some things. Thinking about Andrew, and what happened..."

"Andrew was cold and heartless and a terrible influence on you. Why on earth would you be wasting your time thinking about him?"

"Just revisiting the past, I guess," he replied, leaning back in his chair. "Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I hadn't stayed."

"You don't regret your choice, do you, dear?" He could hear the edge of worry in his mother's voice. The thought he wasn't entirely happy in the life he had chosen would rock her world in a devastating way and he didn't want to upset her like that.

"No. Just wondering about the road not taken, that's all."

"That Detective Strachey seems like a gruff soul. He's not the one guarding you, is he?"

"Actually, part of the time, yes. He's just not fond of reporters. He's actually a very nice man when you get to know him."

"Oh," she said, and there was a bit of a pause. Maybe his defense of Don had been a bit more enthusiastic than it should have been. After all, his mother had an uncanny knack of reading his mind, and picking up on every subtle inflection in his voice. "Well, I'm glad you have good people looking out for you. Call me and keep me posted?"

"I will. Thanks for the call, Mom. It was good to hear your voice."

"Yours, too, sweetie. I love you."

"I love you, too."

After he hung up, he couldn't seem to get his mind back on Jake, or off Andrew and his past. The humiliation of being caught with their hands in each other's pants had been bad enough, but having a one-on-one discussion with the priest who caught them was worse. Guys getting it on behind closed doors in the seminary wasn't rare, but it didn't make it any less embarrassing to be caught in the act.

The aging priest met with Andrew separately, and then with Tim, and while he had no idea what transpired between Andrew and Father Michael, Tim had been surprised at the mildness of the man's reaction to him. He'd simply told him to pray on it, and make a choice to re-commit to his vocation, or to pursue a different life outside the Church, but he made it clear having it both ways was not going to be tolerated.

Andrew wanted to go to California, go to college there, immerse himself in the gay community, live openly and leave the restrictions of the Church behind. Tim was infatuated with the tall, blond, rich boy who was pleasing his wealthy parents by going to the seminary. Andrew always had big ideas, big dreams, and a big mouth. He talked a good game, like he had a sure-fire plan for getting to California and making a life there. Tim was young and in love, and just a little bit afraid of breaking the ties with his family, turning his back on what he'd come to think of as his destiny in the Church. And he waited just a little too long to decide to grab for the brass ring - or, at least, Andrew's version of it. The ringing phone made him start, and he picked it up, not recognizing the number.

"Hey, Timothy, how about we check out that Thai place? I'm due to relieve Ramirez in half an hour, so we could go grab a bite to eat before we settle in for the night."

Settle in for the night. With Don. God forgive me, that sounds so good. I want him so much.

"Timothy? Are you okay?"

"Yes, I was just working on Jake's eulogy, and I guess I was sort of focused on it."

"Sorry if I'm distracting you. How about dinner?"

"I'd like that," he said, figuring Don was right. Friends could go to dinner together. He could play the game a little longer, flirt with the emotional disaster it would be when it was over. Right now, he wanted to spend time with Don too much to say no.

"Great. I'm starved." And with that, he broke the connection.

********

Don bit into his egg roll, and looked at Timothy again. He was poking at some Thai noodles with his fork, uncharacteristically silent.

"Everything okay?" he asked, and Timothy looked up from his plate.

"The food's fine," he said. He was dressed in his Roman collar and black suit, and he looked as stiff and uneasy as the formal outfit.

"Something's bugging you," Don replied, wiping his mouth with the napkin. "You feel okay?"

"I'm fine," Timothy snapped.

"Okay, okay."

"I'm sorry."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Okay. I'll change the subject. I understand you've had a few run-ins with some old girl named Janet Olson."

"Oh, good heavens. If that was supposed to be a cheery subject change, keep trying."

"Anything serious?"

"I don't think she murdered Tony, if that's what you mean. Besides, if she were going to slit someone's throat, it would be mine."

"I also found out you have a little gossip club, and your secretary, Ruth Annee, is the leak."

"That's not a newsflash, Don," Timothy replied.

"It's not?"

"Ruth Anne is good friends with Gretchen Cunningham, and they're both friends with Mary Kellerman. I can probably list the Altar Society for you, if that's helpful."

"Wow, somebody's got his Roman collar on too tight. What's your problem, anyway? Are you pissed off at me for something?"

"No. I'm sorry."

"What is it, then?" Don leaned forward a bit.

"I'm just having a bad day. It's not your fault."

"It doesn't surprise you that Ruth Anne is an information leak to the grapevine?"

"I never expected that the church secretary wasn't keeping the grapevine alive and well - that she was committed to confidentiality. She's a volunteer, and she does a lot of good work to keep things organized. Well, we could be a bit more automated with some things, but overall, for free help, she's very reliable, and she's been doing it for years - long before I came here. But Tony and I never had her do any sensitive letters or transcribe anything for us regarding our counseling sessions. I would rather hire a secretary, but if I'd arrived here and dumped Ruth Anne, it wouldn't have been the way to bond with my congregation." He paused. "Besides, I thought the coroner was convinced the killer was a man, and a reasonably strong one at that."

"He is, but I'm telling you, Timothy, someone knew about Father Rivard."

"I don't see how."

"You're positive no one could have overheard you two talking that night? Did you ever mention it again, in any other setting?"

"No, it was the only time we discussed it."

"When that reporter broke in last night, you didn't know he was there until he wandered into the wrong bedroom. That rectory is a big place. Someone could have been there, and you didn't realize it."

"Agnes puts dinner on and leaves," he said, referring to the housekeeper. "This was probably eight or nine o'clock at night."

"Does she have a key?"

"Yes."

"Then she could have used it. Or someone else could have used it." Don took a couple more bites. "What?" he prompted, when he noticed Timothy had fallen silent and still.

"Agnes has a son, Mark. He's...well, he's very...aggressive about his faith. He wanted to start a door-to-door ministry for St. Mary's, and I nixed the idea."

"It didn't occur to you to mention this guy before when I was asking you about anyone who was a little off their rocker?"

"He's not crazy. Just overzealous. And if he was angry at anyone, it would be me, because I'm the one he met with, and I told him no."

"Just out of curiosity, why did you refuse to let him do it?"

"If he wants to go door-to-door preaching the Gospel, I can't stop him, but I told him we would not be officially launching a program of that type through St. Mary's. People are busy these days, and cold canvassing the city in the name of a particular Catholic parish is just going to annoy people and inconvenience them. I suggested the possible alternative of an outreach ministry to contact people who had left the parish, or ceased donating. We also have some nondenominational Bible study groups and other programs designed to welcome people, or encourage them to read the Bible or explore joining the parish. But I don't believe in selling God like a door-to-door salesman. He was very angry with me, accused me of trying to 'extinguish the flame of his faith' or something equally poetic."

"How long ago did all this happen?"

"About six months ago. Agnes handled it well. She seems to understand that he can be difficult, and she didn't hold it against me."

"Did he ask Father Rivard about it?"

"Not that I know of. I talked it over with Tony, and he just rolled his eyes. He wasn't in favor of it, either, and if we ever did such a thing, Mark Miller wouldn't be leading it."

"We have a psycho with access to a key to the rectory."

"I never said he was a psycho."

"He doesn't sound like he's wrapped too tightly."

"I can't argue with that assessment. But why would he go after Tony?"

"If he found out about him."

"That would be awfully coincidental that he'd be in the rectory that specific night, of all nights."

"I think I'll have a little sit-down with Mr. Miller."

"He didn't do anything wrong that we know of, Don."

"Not that we know of, no. I don't plan to take my rubber hose with me. I just want to talk to the guy."

After their somewhat strained dinner out, Don drove them back to the rectory. He checked the house, then cast his jacket and tie aside, putting his feet up in the living room and turning on the TV while Timothy went upstairs to change. Deciding that a good martini might help shake Timothy out of his funk, Don went to the liquor cabinet and found the supplies he needed to mix up a batch.

"I'm sorry I was such a drag at dinner," Timothy said, joining him in the living room as he poured their drinks.

"You've got a lot on your mind."

He handed him one of the drinks. Timothy stared at the drink for a moment, then set it aside. He took Don's drink out of his hand and set it down, too. Don could feel his heart pounding as Timothy moved closer, leaning toward him, and yet hanging back a little, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do next. Don reached for him, pulled him close, and very gently closed the distance, letting his lips touch Timothy's lightly, kissing him without tongue, treating his mouth with the tenderness and care he would use to treat more intimate, untouched places.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he whispered, smiling, wanting to dispel any trace of the fear and uncertainty he saw in those beautiful eyes that were a little moist. "Take your time."

"Someone...touched me once, but it didn't go very far...you probably do this all the time and it's no big deal - "

"Thanks for the vote of confidence in my exciting sex life, but it's been a while for me, too. At least, it's been a long time since I was with someone I wanted and it meant something."

"You mean something to me. I didn't want to feel this way but I do and I can't help it."

"That's why they call it 'falling in love' - it's like falling off a cliff. Once you're headed down, you don't have too much say in it."

"Love? Do you love me, Don?"

"Yeah, I do," he admitted, and for some reason, offering up his heart to Timothy wasn't scary at all. And it dispelled the fear he saw in that beautiful face he'd come to love so much, so quickly. It didn't seem to be the sex that scared Timothy, it was the fear of not being loved that had him frozen on the edge between passion and retreat.

"I love you, too."

"It's gonna be okay, baby." He kissed Timothy again, and this time, he felt the hot wetness of the tip of his tongue, venturing out against Don's lips. He wondered if whoever had touched Timothy and obviously hadn't exactly worshiped him in the process, had ever kissed him properly.

He tightened his embrace and opened his mouth, letting Timothy in, sliding his own tongue against Timothy's, trying to mix gentleness with passion, wanting to devour that sweet mouth, but instead, tasting it like a rare fine wine. He slid his hands under the sweater Timothy was wearing, tugging at the shirt beneath it. Finally, his palms rested on the soft skin of Timothy's back, and it was as silky and warm as he'd fantasized it would be.

Timothy moved away a bit, breaking their kiss. He pulled his sweater off over his head, tousling his hair and bumping his glasses crooked in the process.

"Let's take these off before someone loses an eye," Don said, easing the glasses off. He loved that Timothy laughed at that, a sweet, happy, soft laugh that told him his soon-to-be lover was feeling the same joy and anticipation he was.

Don reached for Timothy's shirt, unbuttoning it, glad it was just a shirt, and that he didn't have to figure out how to dismantle the Roman collar contraption. Timothy was no passive participant. He started unbuttoning Don's shirt, the two of them getting in each other's way a bit. He was surprised when Timothy got the upper hand briefly, divesting him of his shirt and grasping the bottom of his undershirt, pulling it over his head and sending it to join the shirt.

He managed to get Timothy's shirt off, but Timothy was too focused on Don's chest and shoulders for him to manage to get Timothy's t-shirt off, too. He closed his eyes and caressed the back of Timothy's head as he kissed his way down Don's neck to his shoulder, tightening his hold on him, nuzzling his neck and inhaling, a gesture that went straight to Don's semi-hard cock. Timothy rubbed his cheek against Don's chest, sparing a hand from the embrace to touch his skin, running his fingers over it lightly, as if he were touching some rare, delicate work of art with awe. A fingertip brushed his nipple, and he gasped. That made Timothy smile, and he kissed Don's nipple before he licked it, and then put his mouth over it and sucked.

"Oh, God," Don gasped, not able to remember the last time someone had done that to him. It wasn't just a quick obligatory suck or two to get him warmed up. Timothy was making love to him, tasting him, wanting to experience all of him.

"I wanted to touch you so much...I knew your skin would be like silk," he whispered. "And you'd taste like everything fresh and good and right in the world," he added, flicking his tongue over the second nipple, then sucking it, making it as hard and wet as the first.

"Come on, sweetheart. We're not doing this on the floor," Don said softly, taking Timothy's hand, leading him to the guest room. He paused at Timothy's momentary stillness, and the look of sheer adoration on his face.

"I like that."

"Which part?" Don teased, kissing the hand he was holding.

"Being your sweetheart."

"You'll always be that. You always would have been, even if we never made it this far."

"You would have loved me if we never made love?"

"I would have never been far away from you," he replied. "I don't think I could be."

When they made it to the bedroom, Don pulled Timothy's t-shirt over his head, reaching out to lightly touch the soft chest hair, follow the contours of him. He pulled Timothy into his arms so they could kiss again, relishing the sensation of their bare chests pressed together in the embrace. That amazing body was everything he dreamed it would be, only better, because this was real, and he was making love to the only man he'd ever wanted this much, and yet thought he couldn't have.  

He unbuckled Timothy's belt, still kissing him, glad that Timothy seemed as eager to be out of his pants as Don was to get them off. He didn't go for the boxers at the same time. They had all night, and he planned to make it a long one, spending all of it making love to Timothy slowly and gently, so his first time would be the most amazing experience of his life.

Down to their shorts, Don tugged the covers back on the bed and waited for Timothy to get in. His heart melted at the sweet little smile that earned him as Timothy scooted over and made room for him to get in, too. Tucked under the covers, they wrapped their arms around each other again, and for a while, Don kept his hands above Timothy's waist, holding him, kissing him, relishing the chance to taste that mouth he'd longed for, to feel the soft chest hair against his skin, to be enveloped in the strong arms that flowed from those broad shoulders.

He could feel Timothy's erection against his own, and he eased him onto his back, kissing his chest, licking and nipping at the little nubs that were becoming pebble-hard with excitement. He kissed his way from Timothy's heart to his navel, nipping at the edges of it, rubbing his cheek against the soft skin of Timothy's belly. He took hold of the waistband of Timothy's boxers and began easing them down, waiting until he felt him raise up a bit to tug them down those long legs and cast them aside. His fantasies hadn't done Timothy justice. He was more beautiful that Don thought he'd be, and as much as he wanted to take in the sight of him lying there naked, his for the taking, he didn't want to make Timothy uneasy or self-conscious. He quickly dispensed with his own shorts, and moved up again so they could kiss, and he could do what he'd fantasized about doing - holding Timothy, whispering love words in his ear, making sure he knew that as sweet as the sex was going to be, it wasn't as sweet as the love he felt for him.

"The first night you were here, I wanted to touch these so much," Timothy admitted, running his hand over Don's shoulder, over his biceps. "You're beautiful," he whispered.

"You'd look really good in a tool belt," Don said, and Timothy looked at him, confused, and laughed.

"Where the hell did that come from?"

"When you talked about doing maintenance around the church, and breaking a sweat...I kind of put two and two together in my head..."

"Oh, my God," Timothy replied, laughing. "Is that some kind of kink of yours?"

"Not really. I think you're my kink, sweetheart." He bumped noses with Timothy and kissed him again. "But if you want to walk around sweaty and shirtless in a tool belt, I won't object."

"How did I lose my shirt in this fantasy?"

"Your jeans were really tight, too."

"They were, huh? Is that why you checked me for weapons - you were looking for my tool belt?"

"I should have frisked you, but I felt too guilty doing it because I would have enjoyed it way too much."

"You have a strange code of honor, Donald."

"At least I have one in there somewhere."

"Yes, you do." Timothy put his hand over Don's heart. "You're one of the good guys, in every way." Don took that hand and kissed it, back, then palm, then held it against his face.

"Relax, sweetheart. I want to make you feel good," he said, kissing Timothy again, easing down, kissing his thighs, easing them farther apart and kissing the tender skin inside, working his way up to kissing Timothy's balls, then licking and sucking them, encouraged by the moans and gasps that earned him. He wondered if Timothy had ever felt someone's mouth on him there, what the man who "touched him" had done, and how in the hell he'd ever given up someone as remarkable as Timothy.

Unless Timothy gave him up for the priesthood.

He refused to let that thought cross his mind, or to give in to the fear that Timothy would do a sudden about-face and flee back to the Church.

He kissed the growing erection, cradled it with his hand, built up to the moment when he took Timothy in his mouth and began putting everything he had into making love to him. He loved the taste and the feel of Timothy in his mouth, and he began a low humming in the back of his throat that would vibrate gently against Timothy as he deep throated him, drawing something between a shout and a cry from Timothy, a shaky hand touching his hair as the body beneath him arched. Then Timothy was coming, crying out his name, gasping, flooding his mouth, the intensity of the climax everything Don expected from someone who'd been denied release for so long. He worked hard at drinking him down, then gently released the sensitive, flaccid cock, kissing it, kissing Timothy's belly, moving up and holding him close, not surprised by his tears or that he buried his face against Don's neck and held on.

He stroked Timothy's hair and rocked them a little.

"You're so beautiful, sweetheart. I love you so much."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Getting emotional."

"Is it good crying or bad crying?" Don asked, kissing a damp cheek, pressing his forehead against Timothy's, smiling at him. He'd never been more in love with anyone than he was with Timothy at that moment.

"Really good," he replied, smiling. Timothy's hand slipped down to wrap around Don's erection. He couldn't stifle the gasp that escaped. Don felt himself getting a little choked up at what this all meant, that Timothy's feelings for him were powerful enough to break through the barrier of his vows and his vocation, that they were here, together, like this, and that the man in his fantasies was really touching him, and the taste of him was still lingering in Don's mouth.

And that hand was talented. It was gentle and a little tentative at first, but now it was getting bolder, jerking him off as if he were doing it himself, only better, because it was Timothy. He kissed Timothy again, and that eager mouth responded, opening, claiming his mouth, as if Timothy just couldn't taste enough of him.

Timothy pulled him close as Don came, gasping and shouting his lover's name in a complete abandon he couldn't remember letting himself feel before. And then he was wrapped up tight in those wonderful warm arms, more kisses for his mouth and his cheeks and his neck, hands caressing him gently, intimately, one following the curve of his ass, down his thigh, and back again. He couldn't remember feeling more cherished. He hooked a leg over Timothy's and held onto him, getting them as close as they could be without melting into a single body. Then Timothy's hand was in his hair, cradling his head, tucking it into the warm curve of his neck.

Don fought the urge to sleep as long as he could, but as he felt Timothy's breathing even out, and his body relax a bit, he let go and drifted in a happy haze between dreams and reality, coming to once in a while just to reassure himself that Timothy was really there and that he wouldn't evaporate the way Dream Timothy did with the first light of morning.

********

Tim opened his eyes and for a moment, thought he was dreaming. Don was sleeping in his arms, fitting so perfectly in the curve of his body as Tim spooned around him. He turned his head slightly and felt the softness of Don's blond hair against his face, inhaling, filling his senses with the scent and feel of his lover. His lover. He was enchanted by the perfect curves of Don's muscles, the way his fair skin was dusted with gold, the way that skin felt under his hands, against his cheek, beneath his lips.

He kissed his way along Don's shoulder blade to the middle of his back, smiling as he felt Don stir. He kept kissing, caressing Don's side, letting his hand slip down along his hip to his thigh, sliding down in the bed, kissing the small of his back, urging him to turn over. He rubbed his cheek against Don's belly, making him shiver and smile, reaching down to touch Tim's hair.

Tim nuzzled and kissed the tender skin of Don's balls, licking them, carefully sucking them, listening to Don's moans of pleasure.

"I might not be very good at this," he said, pausing before trying to take Don's erection in his mouth.

"You don't have to do that, sweetheart. I'm really close. Just use your hand."

"I want to. Tell me if I do something wrong." He wrapped his hand around the base of Don's erection, and then carefully took the head into his mouth, licking and sucking, trying to remember how Don had done it, trying to imagine what would feel good, but mostly rejoicing in the intimacy of it, in the fact they were making love, that he had this sensitive, vulnerable part of Don in his mouth.

"That's so good, honey. You're doing everything right," Don managed, sounding breathless. He spared a moment from utter concentration to look up at Don, to meet his eyes as their lids fluttered closed in passion, to see his hands grip the sheets to resist thrusting too hard. "Timmy...I'm gonna come..." he said, and Tim kept him in his mouth, kept working the base and sucking, not surprised that he choked a little when Don came, his inexperience with the act working against him. But he was determined to do it right, to love and pleasure Don to the very end of it.

When it was over, he moved up into arms that waited for him, holding him close, ruffling his hair and kissing his forehead as they lay there together. Neither spoke, because it seemed like a voice would be too harsh and loud in the silence of that moment of perfect togetherness.

The sound of a door opening and closing startled them both.

"What time is it?" Tim whispered.

"About six," Don said, already sitting, removing his gun from the holster he'd hung on the headboard. "What time does Agnes get here?"

"About six most mornings, but this is Friday and we don't do morning Mass on Friday, so she comes in later," Tim whispered back, his heart pounding. "What're we gonna do?"

"Sit tight a minute and let me make sure it's her. Then we'll figure out how to get you upstairs so you can come downstairs like you always do."

"What if it's not her?"

"That's what this is for," Don said calmly, gesturing toward his gun.

"Be careful."

"I will, honey." He leaned down and kissed Tim's cheek as he stood by the bed. "Stay here until I come back."

"Donald!" he called in a whisper. When Don looked back at him, confused, he said, "You're naked."

"Oh, shit, yeah, right." Don located his boxers and stepped into them, then eased the door open and slipped out of the room, noiseless and stealthy like a cat. A few moments later, Don returned, carrying the clothing they'd left in the living room the night before.

"Is it Agnes?"

"She's in the kitchen. She didn't hear me. I grabbed our stuff. Looks like she came in the back door, so I don't think she saw it. I'm gonna go out front and talk with her and keep her in the kitchen. You make a run for it up to your room." He started pulling on his clothes. "This isn't the morning after I had in mind."

"The night before was really good though, wasn't it?" Tim asked, and Don's whole face lit up in the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen.

"There are no words for last night. Or this morning. I love you, Timothy." He knelt by the side of the bed and Tim lay on his side so they could kiss again.

"I love you, too."

"Next time, candles and champagne and all the trimmings."

"You're the only trimming I need," Tim said, touching Don's cheek, touching their foreheads together.

"Give me about a five minute head start, and then work on sneaking upstairs."

"Okay."

Don hurriedly put his clothes on and then opened the bedroom door and closed it, making noise, as if he didn't care if anyone heard or saw him. Tim gave him a few minutes, and then made the run for his own room. By the time he made his escape, Don had Agnes talking, making him breakfast.

Still, it bothered Tim why she was there so early. Friday and Saturday were about the only mornings the priests didn't get up at dawn for morning Mass, and Agnes had been told to not come in until about seven-thirty, since they wouldn't be down for breakfast until closer to eight or so. It was a pattern that had been going on for as long as Tim had been there and, as far as he knew, the whole time Tony had been there.

He made his successful escape to his bedroom, after making the bed, figuring Agnes would leave well enough alone, and any fruits of their passion would be hidden under the bedspread. He shed his hastily donned clothing to take a shower. He stopped a moment and looked in the mirror. He barely recognized the man who looked back at him, and it frightened him just a bit. His hair was all over the place, his face was flushed, he had little passion marks on his neck and chest, and for the first time in his life, he'd come because he was making love with someone, not falling off the wagon of his vow of celibacy, stealing a moment alone with his right had to ease the pressure. Now all he could think of was being with Don again, feeling those warm hands on his body, in his most intimate places...the moment when Don would be inside him, taking the last traces of his virginity, claiming him...

Tim knew he shouldn't feel insecure. Don had professed his love, and no one could have been more passionate or tender or enthusiastic in bed than he was. Still, he couldn't help feeling that old shame and guilt, too reminiscent of how he'd felt when he and Andrew were caught red-handed in the supply closet. And this time, he wasn't a nineteen-year-old sexually confused seminarian. He was a forty-year-old priest. And what did love mean to Donald Strachey? He was in the closet for the sake of his job. He'd made it this far in his life without committing to anyone, at least as far as Tim knew. Would the Church take him back again after this fall from grace, if Don left him?

He knew if Don were there, he would hold him and reassure him...but what would he say about the future? When the case was over? When the heat had worn off, and the novelty of having sex with a celibate priest was gone and he was just Timothy, with all his human faults and flaws, with his guilt and his uncertainties? How much could he cling to Don and wring out of him promises of the future without scaring him off and ruining everything?

Turning on the water, he got into the shower and stood under it for a long time. Part of him didn't want to wash the traces of their lovemaking off his skin, and yet another part felt he had to before putting on his Roman collar and consoling Jake Matthews' family at the funeral home. Before performing sacraments and touching the bread when it became the Body of Christ. Insecure as a sexual being and soiled as a priest, he let himself cry, knowing the rushing water would mask the sound.

********

Agnes was polite as she made coffee and scrambled eggs for Don's breakfast. Still, Don thought he detected a bit of distance in her. She wasn't as chatty as she'd been when he first interviewed her, and even when Timothy came downstairs freshly showered and shaven in his Roman collar, just a sweater over it now in this less formal setting, she seemed reserved.

Don was distracted from his musings about Agnes by the demeanor of his new lover. It was all he could do not to touch Timothy, to take his hand, to kiss those sweet, soft lips he knew would taste just as good as they had in the heat of passion. Most of all, he wanted to take Timothy in his arms and reassure him, promise him forever, be sure he knew just how much he meant. He found himself wanting to do bodily harm to an elderly woman for making that impossible.

"You're here early this morning, Agnes," Timothy said casually, as she poured his coffee. "Breakfast smells great, as usual," he added.

"I just can't sleep lately, Father. I'll admit, with Father Tony, and now Jake...it makes me a little afraid to be here."

"If it's any consolation, I think Jake was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," Don said. "I think he was simply knocked out to incapacitate him, and whoever did it, didn't know their own strength, or just didn't care. Whoever it was wanted to get to Ti - Father Tim."

"You don't believe the rest of us are in danger then?" she asked.

"I think it's wise for everyone connected with St. Mary's to be cautious, be alert, not take obvious risks like going around the facilities alone at night. My gut feeling is that our killer had it in for Father Tony for some particular reason, and for priests in general. Jake most likely startled him when he was lurking around in there waiting to get Father Tim alone." Can't blame the guy. That's what I'd like to do... "I don't quite understand how coming here when it's still dark makes you feel safer," Don asked, and Timothy shot him a look, obviously surprised at his candor.

"I was restless all night, thinking about poor Jake, wondering who could be doing this. Talking with Father Tim usually calms me right down," she said. "He's such a blessing to all of us at St. Mary's," she added, and Don watched Timothy's expression, which was unreadable. It was as if the comment made him uneasy rather than flattered him.

"Thank you, Agnes. Everyone here has been very kind to me, and welcoming. It's a wonderful congregation to work with," he said, forcing a little smile. He didn't quite meet her eyes, and Don's heart sank when he realized Timothy was ashamed. That unease and difficulty in meeting Agnes' gaze had guilt and shame written all over it.

"I called Estelle last night," Agnes said of Jake's widow. "The poor thing is just devastated. To have him survive the heart attack and surgery, and then lose his life so senselessly... I can't even imagine it."

"Makes you wonder who'd do something like that to an old man," Don said. "Have to be some kind of sicko." He took a bite of his toast, but he watched Agnes' reaction. Her showing up at the rectory at least ninety minutes earlier than usual didn't set well with him, and not just because he'd been caught, literally, with his pants down. He had the uneasy feeling she was either trying to catch them at something, or was trying to sneak up on Timothy. He wondered if her psycho son was out in the bushes somewhere waiting for a signal.

"Indeed," she agreed, pouring more coffee. The doorbell rang.

"That'll probably be my replacement," Don said, wiping his mouth.

"I'll get it," Agnes said, heading for the front door.

"I wish you didn't have to go," Timothy whispered, not looking up from his breakfast.

"Me, too, sweetheart," Don whispered back, covering his hand briefly. "Just say the word, and I'll take you with me, and fuck what everyone thinks."

Timothy looked at him then with such an anguished expression that he wished he hadn't put him in the position of making such a choice.

"I can't do that. Jake's being shown today, the Rosary is tonight, and the funeral tomorrow. It won't be long before Tony's body is released and we have the funeral...the congregation has no one to look to for unity or counsel right now except me. I can't go."

"I know." He listened a moment to be sure they had time, and then leaned over and kissed Timothy's mouth quickly. "Remember I love you, okay?"

"Okay," Timothy replied, his voice sounding strained. "I love you, too," he whispered hastily.

Don couldn't think of a ruder awakening from exchanging love words with Timothy than to see Foster's somewhat grizzled face come around the corner.

"Okay, Strachey, I got the day shift covered," he announced, and there was a certain smug satisfaction in his voice and expression that Don didn't like. Not one bit.

"What happened to Ramirez?" Don asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

"Well, unlike you, she got sick of working doubles and wanted a break. Apparently she has a life outside the job."

"Good for her," Don said, shooting the other man a look that made it clear "fuck you" would have been the reply if Agnes hadn't been standing there with them. He rose from the breakfast table and Timothy did as well.

"I'll walk you out," he offered, his tone light and congenial. "I'm Father Tim," he said, extending his hand toward Foster, who shook it.

"Detective Foster," he replied.

"Agnes, perhaps you could get the detective some coffee? We still have some coffee cake left, if you'd like some."

Food and drink seemed to appeal to Foster more than spying, so he landed at the table and accepted the coffee and coffee cake Agnes was serving.

"It's apparent you two don't like each other," Timothy whispered as they approached the front door. "What's the story?"

"Besides him being a bigoted, homophobic asshole?"

"I thought you were in the closet at work."

"I am, but...it's a long story...maybe over a really strong batch of martinis. If he gives you any shit, call me. I'll come over and rip his head off and spit down his stump."

"Well, it's not the most poetic declaration of protection I've heard, but I still appreciate it. I'm sure we'll be fine. Are you going to be able to come back tonight?"

"Nobody's arm wrestling me for double shifts, so most likely. I'm serious - if you need me, call me."

"I will."

"Last night..." Don smiled, feeling warmth in his cheeks. "Well, there aren't the right words for that. See you later, sweetheart," he whispered, letting himself out the door.

********

The decision was made at the diocesan level that a couple of brief interviews would be granted to the media regarding Father Rivard. While they were not planning to discuss the salacious details of his murder, Tim was supposed to talk about his ministry in the parish and his involvement in the community, and the bishop planned to make a few concise statements about his reputation and his service to the Church. One of the local television networks was selected for the interviews, and Tim met with the reporter that afternoon at the church office.

Foster, meanwhile, guzzled coffee, ate any available snacks, and spent his day sitting in the reception area, much to Ruth Anne's consternation. Once the aging widow had discovered he wasn't sociable, was married, and took frequent cigarette breaks outdoors, bringing the swirl of odor back inside with him, she lost all patience with his presence.

When the reporter left, Tim sat back in his desk chair and let out a long sigh. He resisted the urge to call Don, since Foster wasn't that far away, and Ruth Anne usually had one ear tuned to phone conversations for any interesting tidbits she might pick up.

"Nice lookin' gal, that reporter," Foster said as he stood in the door of Tim's office. The woman was a pretty blonde in a business suit with a short skirt and long legs.

"She was very pretty," Tim agreed. "And smart. She asked a lot of good questions," he added. "Have a seat," he invited, not really wanting to spend any time with the man, since Don had such a disdain for him. Tim had a feeling there was a good reason behind that. Still, if he wanted to continue spending time with Don, he had to seem receptive and friendly to the other detectives as well, as if the police presence in general was what he was grateful for, not just Don's presence.

"Don't mind if I do." Foster sat across from him in a visitor chair. "So, you've been spending a lot of time with Strachey the last few days. He's not grating on your nerves yet?"

"He's been very polite, and very professional, as was Detective Ramirez. I appreciate all the time you and your colleagues are putting in on giving me protection. I know most law enforcement agencies are sadly understaffed for things like that."

"Polite and professional, huh?" He snorted. "That's not what I usually hear about Strachey. He tell you about his partner?"

"I didn't know he had one."

"He doesn't anymore," Foster said, looking like he was enjoying this way too much. "Griffin blew his head off because he didn't get a promotion."

"My God, that's terrible. How long ago was this?"

"Four or five years ago. Strachey won't work with a partner. The captain finally stopped trying to pair him up. 'Course, a lot of guys don't wanna work with him, either."

"That's surprising. He seems to know his job, and - "

"You know the reason Griffin didn't get that promotion?"

"No, I really couldn't guess."

"Rumor had it he was a fag. Doesn't matter how good you are. No way the department's gonna make a fag lieutenant."

"I'm sure you only mean it as slang, but to many people, that's a very hateful word. Perhaps we can confine it to 'homosexual'?"

"Sorry, Father. Nobody could prove anything, but word was that Griffin and Strachey were more than cop partners. Wouldn't surprise me if he was a fa - homosexual, too."

"You would assume that just because of some unsubstantiated rumors that his partner may have been gay? As a detective, surely you can see that's a presumption based on some very shaky evidence."

"Just thought you should know. The Church is against gays, right? You probably don't want one staying over in your rectory."

"What Detective Strachey's orientation is or is not is his concern, not mine. I really don't wish to continue this conversation. It's inappropriate and irrelevant."

"So what do you tell gays when they come to you for advice?"

"That would be between the person seeking advice, and me. If you're looking for spiritual guidance regarding homosexuality, it seems you might benefit from some prayer and introspection to determine where your hostility toward homosexuals stems from."

"You're a priest. How am I supposed to feel about gays? The Church tells us they're sinners."

"Assuming we take to heart the teaching that homosexuals are sinners, I think even those who aren't very familiar with their Bible recall what Jesus had to say to the angry crowd that was about to stone Mary Magdalene for being a prostitute."

"Let him who is without sin cast the first stone? Yeah, I heard that one, but that was for prostitution, not homosexuality."

"If you consider both sins, and the participants, sinners, then I would think one could apply that principal to both situations. It's not our place to judge each other. That's up to God. I would say if you believe someone is sinning, and you want to help them, pray for them. Or extend an invitation to them to come to your church or learn more about your faith. But condemnation? That's God's business, and He knows it much better than we do."

"It wouldn't bother you then if Strachey was a fa - uh, homosexual?"

"Why are you so obsessed with this, Detective Foster? If you have something against Detective Strachey, then you really should explore that issue rather than concerning yourself with his sexual orientation. And if it's homosexuality that has you this troubled, I would suggest counseling, perhaps meeting with your spiritual leader. I can't address all of the variables with you that someone you see regularly could. Are you Catholic?"

"Yeah, I go to St. Thomas."

"You must know Father Stan over there, then."

"Yeah, Father Stan the Man, we call him. Great guy. My sister, Mary, and her husband go here."

"What's Mary's last name?"

"Kellerman."

"Oh, of course, I know Mary. Lovely person, and she invests a lot of her time volunteering here." He paused. "I think you should meet with Father Stan sometime. Talk to him about your concerns."

"I'll think about that. Must make some'a you priests sick, dealing with those gay priests who are molesting boys, making you all look like a bunch of fairies."

"Pedophilia is a different issue than homosexuality. Truthfully, I'm more concerned for the boys who were victimized than I am for the Church or my personal reputation. The Church will survive, it always does, and exposing the victimization of those children is more important than how it may make us all look."

"I s'pose."

"If you'll excuse me, I have a couple things to do back at the rectory, and then I have to go to the funeral home for Jake Matthews. I want to pay my respects to the family, and I'm leading the Rosary at seven."

"Sure, sure. I'll walk you over to the rectory. Let me know when you're ready to head for the funeral home."

Tim gathered up his things, hoping he'd kept a convincing cool through the unpleasant conversation. It was all he could do not to lose his temper, explode at the man for maligning Don, for using a tragedy in his past to try to make him look bad in front of Tim.

As they walked through the crisp spring air down the sidewalk toward the rectory, Foster spoke up again.

"I hope you didn't take offense at my questions, Father. I was just curious to see what you had to say about it."

"It's good to ask questions if something's troubling you. That's a large part of what we priests are around for."

"Strachey found him, you know. Had a key to his place."

"How awful," Tim said, wishing he could talk to Don, wondering how he could ease the pain of that old wound.

"Had keys to each other's places."

"People often give a key to a neighbor or a friend. Can I ask why you're so worried about this? Are you trying to convince me of something?"

"Just wanna be sure he's not giving you any problems. Me bein' Catholic and all, I'd hate to think he was up to something, bothering a priest."

"Thank you for your concern, but Detective Strachey is a good, ethical man who has given up a considerable amount of his own time to protect me. I would prefer not to discuss gossip about his personal life any further."

"Okay, okay, I won't bring it up again." They were silent a few moments while they entered the rectory. "Shame about your maintenance guy. He seemed like a decent sort."

"Jake was a very good man, and a friend. I'll miss him very much."

"Didn't do a damn thing to deserve what he got. Wrong place at the wrong time," he added, sitting down in the living room, putting his feet up on the coffee table. Somehow, when Don put his stocking feet up there, it didn't bother Tim one bit. Foster's big, well-worn loafers got his dander up. Apparently, the detective noticed that and put his feet down. "Sorry, Father. My wife gets on me for that all the time."

"I'll be down in a little while, to go over to the funeral home."

"Sure thing."

Tim went into his room and closed the door, relieved to be away from Foster and his bigotry and his obvious hate for Don. He sat on the bed and dialed Don's number. It barely rang before it was answered.

"Hey there, beautiful," came the cheery reply.

"It's Tim."

"I know who it is," Don replied, a laugh in his voice. "Everything okay, sweetheart?"

"It is now," he replied, soaking up the verbal affection, wishing Don's arms were around him right then.

"What're you up to?"

"I'm going over to the funeral home to visit with Jake's family, and then I have the Rosary at seven. Foster's taking me over there."

"He behaving himself, or do I need to adjust his attitude?"

"Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

"I'm sure you can. Doesn't mean I don't like doing it anyway."

"Are you coming to the funeral home?"

"I might have to meet you back a the rectory later. Foster, dickhead that he is, will stay around until I get there. I have to talk to the M.E., and I still haven't talked to Mark Miller yet. He was running an errand out of town for his job, and he's due back in an hour or so."

"All right. I'll see you when you get back."

"Love you."

"I love you, too." Tim smiled, and he knew it was coming through in his voice.

"Maybe I'll bring some Thai food with me."

"That sounds good."

"Okay. I'll see you then. Don't let Foster bug you."

"I won't."

After he broke the connection, Tim sat there and stared at his cell phone. It was all so new, and so uncertain. And he felt kind of pathetic to be this jumpy at his age. Most people, by forty, were beyond love being so damn frightening. Of course, most people didn't have to completely alter their entire lives just to date someone. What if he took the leap with Don, and it didn't work out? The Church took him back when he was a confused nineteen-year-old seminarian. But what about a forty-year-old ordained priest who had a homosexual affair with a cop investigating another priest's murder?

A floorboard creaked. Tim's body stiffened, his senses on alert now. Foster had seemed so settled in the living room...

He got up and eased his door open. Agnes was in the hall, stocking the linen closet with fresh towels.

"Just putting the laundry away, Father," she said, but her voice didn't hold its usual cheeriness. His mind raced to think back on the conversation, and he couldn't recall having used Don's name, or having said anything overtly sexual or even romantic. He often told his mother he loved her to end a phone call. Of course, his mother wasn't in town and certainly wouldn't be meeting him at the funeral home, so he couldn't say it was her. He decided not to say anything, since that would probably make it even more awkward and worse if she had overheard something.

"You're on top of everything, Agnes. Thank you."

"Oh, and I changed the bed in the downstairs guest room," she added, closing the linen closet doors and picking up her empty laundry basket. "Detective Strachey is a bit on the messy side," she said, with an odd little smile. "Will you and Detective Foster be eating dinner here?"

"N-no, I'm getting ready to go over to the funeral home."

"I'll probably see you there, then. If there's nothing else, I think I'll head home."

"No, there's nothing else, Agnes, thank you."

"You're welcome, Father," she replied, heading down the stairs with her laundry basket.

Tim stared after her, stunned. He felt a sickness in the pit of his stomach. It was his fault, not Don's. He'd approached Don, made the first move, right here in the rectory. He'd given in to the passion, the desire to feel that love that was growing between them expressed physically.

"You ready to go yet, Father?" Foster's voice carried up from where he stood at the foot of the stairs. Tim was glad he was around a corner so the cop couldn't see him.

"In a few minutes," he called back, hoping he sounded calm. He went back into his room and freshened up a bit, swapping his sweater for his black suit coat. He stared at the priest in the mirror, and actually reached out and touched his fingers to the glass. For the first time in his life, that man seemed like a stranger, and Tim really didn't feel at home in his own skin. And certainly not at home in that Roman collar, or in front of a group of mourners, leading prayers, when all he could think about was his own dilemma, and the man he loved.

********

"What've you got for me, Gordo?" Don asked as he walked into the M.E.'s lab. The coroner laid two photos on the counter.

"This is the wound on the back of Jake Matthews' head." Then he tapped the other photo. "This is the wound on the back of Father Rivard's head."

"Nice match," Don agreed, nodding. "Looks like it made a pretty good impression in the skull."

"It did. I did a few experiments with clay, and guess what the lucky winner was?"

"Huh. A hammer, maybe? But it doesn't exactly look like that."

"Because it isn't. It's a gun butt."

"That doesn't even make sense. Why would the killer carry a gun, whack the victim over the head with it, and then use a knife for the murder?"

"That's not my problem to figure out, but I'll tell you, it's a nice big gun. Like a .357 Magnum."

"So you lug around roughly seven pounds of steel, and a knife with a foot-long blade? That gun is a serious weapon. You'd think the killer would be a shooter, not a stabber."

"I never promised I'd come up with something that made sense."

"Thanks a lot," Don replied, chuckling. "We know Father Rivard and Jake Matthews weren't carrying, so it's not like the gun was a weapon of opportunity. The killer had to bring it with him." Don paused. "Unless he carries a gun anyway. I wonder if Rivard did anything to piss off someone with a criminal background? A gang banger? Could those impressions be made by anything else?"

"I'd be surprised if they were. Got any suspects yet?"

"Gossiping church ladies and a maladjusted wannabe door-to-door evangelist."

"If a church lady did this, she's got a hell of an arm on her."

"Everybody loved the guy."

"Somebody didn't."

"Well, yeah, that's how it is with any murder case."

"What about the other priest? He have any ideas who might want his pal dead?"

"Nah, not really." Don frowned. "A Magnum is kind of old school for gangs."

"Sorry I didn't come up with a trendier weapon for you."

"It is what it is," Don replied, shrugging. "I gotta go talk to one of those great suspects of mine."

Don stopped by his desk to check his messages, and was planning to update Bailey on what he'd found out from the M.E.

"Hey, Strachey. What're you up to?" Ramirez asked, sitting on the edge of his desk, sipping a large coffee drink. Don arched an eyebrow at her. "I had a long night…and a good morning after," she said, grinning.

"How many ounces is that today, anyway?" he needled.

"I plead the Fifth. So what's up with the case?"

"Well, it's not exactly solving itself. And Gordo's not helping."

"What'd he find out?"

"He said the head injuries on both our victims were caused by the butt of a .357 Magnum."

"Seriously? Our perp is carrying a gun that size but he's using a knife on his victims?"

"That was my reaction, too. Plus the fact that gun's not exactly a common weapon of choice."

"Unless you're overcompensating," she said, chuckling. "You know, like the bigger your SUV, the smaller your - "

"Yeah, I get it," Don replied, smiling, leaning back in his chair.

"Hey, you drive a Toyota, so if we apply that theory, you've got nothing to worry about."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were sexually harassing me, Detective," he joked.

"What if I was?"

"Keep up the good work," Don retorted, and they both laughed.

********

Don pulled up in front of the modest brick ranch home Mark Miller rented. The man himself was just getting out of his car and heading for the front door when Don approached him.

"Mr. Miller?"

"Yes?" He stopped with the key already in the lock to open his front door. He was a tall, bulky guy with brown hair. He was dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, with a black jacket that bore the logo for a local auto parts company.

"Detective Strachey, Albany PD. I'm investigating the murder of Father Rivard at St. Mary's."

"My mother's been talking about that non-stop since it happened. It's got her pretty freaked out, since she knew the guy. Come in," he said, opening the door and going inside, turning on a nearby lamp in the small living room. "So why do you want to talk to me? She knows what's going on over there better than I do."

"I understand you were interested in starting up some kind of ministry program."

"Oh, so Callahan sent you?"

"No, he didn't send me. You have a particular problem with Father Callahan?"

"You know I do, or you wouldn't be here."

"Actually, I'm interviewing pretty much everyone who was on either of the priests' calendars in the last few months. Father Callahan has been questioned at length about a number of issues. All he told us was that you had an idea for some kind of outreach ministry that wasn't enacted."

"I believe in spreading God's Word, and the Catholic Church doesn't do enough of that. I wanted to start a door-to-door ministry on the weekends. He didn't like the idea."

"What about Father Rivard?"

"I didn't talk to him. My mother thought Father Tim would be the right one to talk to, since he's started up all these social programs since he's been here - youth groups, daycare, singles dances. She figured he'd like the idea of people getting out there in the community, but he shot me down. I guess if it's not his idea, it's no good."

"Do you own any guns, Mark?"

"Just a hunting rifle that belonged to my dad. I use that once in a while - to go hunting. You wanna see it?"

"No, that won't be necessary at this point. How about knives? You have any hunting knives?"

"A couple. My hunting gear is in the garage. You're welcome to look through my kitchen if you're looking for something particular. I didn't kill that priest. Father Tony was a nice guy. He treated my mother great, and I didn't have anything against him."

"But you have something against Father Tim?"

"I think he's a jerk, and a hypocrite, but I don't plan on killing him."

"A hypocrite? Why would you call him that?"

"He pretends to want to spread the Word of God, but he really only wants to make a big name for himself. When I suggest doing something that would get the Word out to a lot of people, and he wasn't in charge, he shot it down."

"Maybe I'll take you up on looking around, if you don't mind."

"I didn't say you could search the place. Just look at the knives or my hunting gear if you want."

"Sure, I understand. I appreciate your cooperation."

While a religious zealot with a grudge and a nice collection of hunting gear and cutlery was an obvious choice for a suspect, Don didn't feel Mark Miller was a good one. His primary grudge was against Timothy, and he seemed genuine in his positive attitude toward Father Rivard, based on his mother's experience with him as an employer. After looking at the collection of cutlery and hunting knives, Don checked his watch, figuring he'd stop by the funeral home and relieve Foster. More so than that, it would save Timothy from any more time with Foster, whom he doubted had been charming company.

********

Tim checked his watch as Foster wove his way through the early evening traffic toward the funeral home.

"You in a hurry, Father?" Foster asked, slowing to a stop for a red light.

"No, we have plenty of time."

Tim stared out the window at the traffic moving through from the cross street, at the normality of life all around them. When he was a child and attended family funerals, it always seemed strange to look around and see that something so catastrophic as the death of one of his relatives could have so little impact on the majority of the world. Now, as a priest, that thought still crossed his mind every time he consoled a grieving family or said a funeral Mass. The heart of a family could be ripped out, a pastor brutally slain and taken from his congregation, and the majority of people were still going about their routines as if nothing had happened. And for them, nothing significant had.

The car moved forward, picking up speed, sailing right past the corner where they were supposed to turn.

"You missed the corner, Detective," Tim said. The other man's stony expression and lack of reply unsettled him. "We should turn around up here. I don't think there's another way - "

"I know where I'm going."

"But the corner for the funeral home was back there. Do you know some kind of shortcut?"

"We're not going to the funeral home."

"But I'm expected there."

Foster pulled a large revolver out of his jacket and held it up where Tim could get a good look at it.

"You just relax and enjoy the ride, Father. And don't give me any back talk."

"I don't understand. What's going on here?"

"You're a pretty smart guy. I'm sure you can figure it out."

"You killed Father Rivard? But...but why?"

"Same reason I'm gonna kill you." The flat coldness with which he said it scared Tim more than the gun. They were driving farther and farther away from the noise and activity of the city. He closed his eyes, and felt torn between praying for his soul and for God's mercy, and remembering the details of making love with Don, trying not to dwell on the bitter irony of his first time truly making love also being his last.

********

It was nearly 7:30 when Don finally arrived at the funeral home. He didn't see any sign of Foster's car, which angered him. Asshole probably just dropped him off and went somewhere to eat donuts or nap in his car. He adjusted his tie, buttoned his suit coat, and prepared to slip silently into the back of the room, figuring Timothy was probably still leading the prayers.

When he walked in, Estelle Matthews spotted him and hurried over to him.

"Is Father Tim with you?" she asked, before he could even open his mouth to express his condolences.

"No. Another detective was with him. He should have brought him here in plenty of time for the Rosary service."

"He hasn't been here, and we can't reach him on his cell phone or at the rectory."

"I'll check into it. I'm sure there's an explanation," he added, trying to sound calm and reassuring, even though the bottom had just dropped out of his stomach, his heart was pounding, and every instinct was on alert.

He walked back out of the funeral home and called Foster's cell. There was no answer. The same with Timothy's number and the rectory. Next, he called Bailey.

"Captain, we've got a problem. Foster and Father Tim are missing. They never showed at the funeral home, and I know Timothy planned on being here well before the Rosary service at seven." He realized he'd just called him "Timothy" to Bailey, but at the moment, he didn't care.

"When's the last time you talked to them?"

"I talked with Father Tim late this afternoon, near five. They were at the rectory. I'm heading over there right now," he said, getting into his car.

"Strachey, wait for back up. I'm sending units over there."

"You saw what happened to Rivard. Would you wait?"

"Not if I was personally involved with the potential victim, no, probably not," Bailey replied, but there was less reproach in his voice than Don would have expected. "I didn't get to be captain by being stupid," he added.

"All due respect, Captain, I don't care about my job right now."

"Yes, you do. Doing your job right is what's going to save Father Tim and Foster. Going off like some crazed vigilante could end up getting innocent people killed."

"I won't do that."

"Then you'll wait for back up?"

"If they get there before I do."

"Strachey - "

He broke the connection and sped toward the rectory.

********

The warehouse was cold and desolate, having suffered the usual rigors of time and vandalism that most long-vacant properties endure. Tim couldn't think of a much more bleak place to die, but then he wondered if one place was really better or worse than another for the scene of your own murder.

"Get over by that pole," Foster ordered, gesturing at a metal pole that ran from the floor to the ceiling of the room they were in. It was a huge building, and this room alone reminded him of a parking garage. "Get your back against it, and put your hands on your head. Don't you fucking move," he added as he came closer.

Tim could see Foster had to put his gun in his holster a moment to fasten the cuffs, and he made his move. Elbowing the man hard in the stomach, he started running, expecting to hear a shot ring out, expecting to feel a bullet tearing through his body at any second. A shot did ring out, but there was no pain and no impact. He tried to zig zag as he ran, hoping he'd be a harder target to hit. Spotting a metal staircase against one wall, he raced toward it, his long legs allowing him to climb two steps at a time in what was becoming a desperate race for his life.

********

The rectory was completely dark when Don arrived, and after kicking in the door and making a thorough search of the place from top to bottom, he found it empty. By the time he headed for the church, back-up, including Emmet, Ramirez, and Bailey, arrived on the scene, joining him in the hunt. The church was quiet and undisturbed, as was the parish hall.

"We lost them somewhere between here and the funeral home," Bailey said. "Assuming they left, that is. Was the housekeeper here when they left?"

"I sent a unit to pick her up and bring her over here," Don said. He didn't want to say what he was about to say to Bailey, but there didn't seem to be much choice. "You may not be the only one who figured out that there was something going on between Timothy and me. There are some facts of the case I haven't updated you on yet."

"This is a hell of a time to pick to do it."

"Two weeks before he died, Father Rivard told Timothy he was gay. They were alone in the rectory, and he's convinced no one could have heard that conversation. Father Rivard told him that he'd never confided that to anyone else, and never acted on it. But it fits so well with what happened to him, the killer referring to him as a hypocrite..."

"You didn't think this was something the task force needed to know?"

"I'm telling you now. As for the task force...this could be a major blow to that man's family, and it's a betrayal of a confidence...of multiple confidences. Rivard's confidence in Timothy, Timothy's confidence in me. I don't know how the rest of the task force feels about gays, but we know how Foster feels about them, and I didn't want to subject Timothy to any harassment or poor treatment during this case."

"Timothy, huh? I swear to God, Strachey, every fucking gray hair in my head has your name on it!" Bailey snapped. "Do you wanna share any suspects you might have identified based on these leads you kept to yourself?"

"I thought the housekeeper's son was a possibility, since he's a bit of a zealot and he had a disagreement with Father Tim - "

"Don't you mean 'Timothy'?" Bailey interjected. It was apparent steam was still curling out of the captain's ears.

"Anyway, his beef wasn't with Rivard. I talked to him, and he doesn't strike me as a killer. That leaves us with his mother, the housekeeper, who could have been in the rectory, since she has a key, but the M.E. ruled out a woman, based on the strength the killer needed to do the damage he did. If Rivard told the truth, and didn't tell anyone else - "

"It only leaves your friend, the priest, as a possible suspect, but I guess you've managed to exonerate him personally for having any issues with gays."

"You can't seriously think of him as a suspect? He wouldn't hurt a fly."

"He's not a likely suspect because he didn't have much time to do the deed, and then dispose of bloody clothes, and then go back to the church and find the body. None of the blood on his vestments was spatter - what?" Bailey paused at Don's stunned expression. "I had those collected at the scene that day. Something you should have done."

"He was all over in that blood, trying to give Rivard Last Rites. I had no reason to question why his vestments were bloody. And I saw how he reacted to all of it. I've seen a lot of perps in my day, but he clearly wasn't one." Don paused. "I talked with Gordon today, and he said the head injuries were caused by a gun butt from a .357 Magnum. So now we have a nut who packs a fucking cannon, a twelve-inch blade, and containers for souvenir body parts."

"A .357 Magnum?"

"Yeah. Does that mean something to you, other than the fact it's kind of bizarre to carry something like that and use a knife as a murder weapon?"

"Yeah, well, the gun could be for control or intimidation. A knife is only good if you have close up control and contact with the victim. Unless you're a champion knife-thrower, they're gonna make a run for it unless you're holding onto them or standing within slashing distance." Bailey frowned. "Before you started here, Foster used to carry a .357. His partner at the time, Dawkins, finally talked him into a trimmer, more conventional piece."

"Foster? I know the guy's a bigoted asshole, but you think he's psycho enough to kill somebody? Besides, we still have the question of how he could possibly know about Rivard...or how he'd get wind there was anything between Father Tim and me."

"That's not hard to figure out. I'm glad you're better undercover than you are lying about stuff like that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do you really think I don't know what was going on with you and Griffin?"

"Why didn't you split us up if you thought that?"

"I didn't have any proof, and you two had the highest arrest record in the department. So I turned a blind eye to something I should have dealt with. Don't think I don't feel some responsibility for that."

"Agnes Miller is here," Ramirez said, joining them. The two men were still looking at each other, intently, the gravity of the last few words settling over them. "Everything okay?" she asked.

"Other than the obvious? Yeah, fine," Don replied, as the three of them went to talk to Agnes, who was standing with a uniformed officer by a black-and-white, holding her raincoat around her against the chilly night wind that was still carrying a hint of winter on it.

"Agnes, did you see Detective Foster and Father Tim leave for the funeral home?" Don asked.

"No, I left before they did. Father Tim was upstairs changing, I think, and Kurt was downstairs, watching TV."

"Kurt?" Bailey asked. "Do you know Detective Foster?"

"I've only met him once or twice before, but his sister, Mary, is on the Altar Society with me, and we're good friends. Their son, Billy, is part of the youth group Father Tony ran."

"Mary Kellerman?" Don asked.

"You know her?" Agnes raised her eyebrows a bit.

"Let's just say I know who the inner circle is here, and Mary is one of the ring leaders."

"Meaning what? Your tone isn't very flattering, Detective. And considering some of your indiscretions, I'd avoid criticizing others," she added, looking smug.

"What indiscretions?" Bailey asked.

"When I came to work this morning, there was clothing on the floor in the living room, and it was quite apparent that Father Tim and your detective here were...oh, heavens, what should I call it?"

"We were together in the guest bedroom," Don supplied, sick to death of something as harmless as two men making love being a life and death issue and a deep dark secret.

"You and the priest?" Ramirez said, her eyes widening. "I didn't see that one coming," she added, then fell silent at Bailey's withering glare. "I'll just go see if CSU found anything," she said, taking that excuse to hurry away from the group.

"Needless to say, I was shocked, and yet somehow, I suppose I shouldn't have been, knowing what I know about Father Rivard. Good Lord, I wonder if they were...involved that way?" she said, pressing a hand over her chest.

"What did you know about Father Rivard?" Don asked.

"That he was a homosexual," she whispered the last word, with plenty of emphasis, her eyes darting around as if the mere utterance of the word would cause blood to rain down from the skies.

"How did you find that out?" Don persisted.

"I heard him telling Father Tim about it. They didn't know I was there. I left my recipe book in the kitchen at the rectory, and I was doing some cooking at home for a funeral dinner the next day. I needed it, so I went back over there and let myself in the back door. I was just going to tell them what I was doing, but before I could make myself known, I overheard Father Tony telling Father Tim that...you know, that he was..."

"Gay?" Don supplied, wondering if she could possibly take longer to spit it out.

"Yes," she said, nodding. "I was so upset, I rushed out of there without my book. I went home and called Mary. I didn't know what to do. I thought maybe we should confront him, or report it to the diocese, be sure he wasn't counseling young people... She has a cooler head than I do, and she calmed me down."

"What did you decide to do about it?" Bailey asked.

"Nothing for the moment. Father Rivard has always been a good pastor, and he's never been accused of any misconduct. But after what I saw this morning, and when I made up the guest room, it was obvious... Oh, I can't even say it!" she said, shaking her head. "When I had a chance to talk with Kurt, I told him about his...colleague and what kind of sinful business he was up to with Father Tim."

Bailey started talking into his radio, moving away from the group. He advised all units to consider Foster as a potential homicide suspect, and to be prepared that he may be armed and dangerous.

"You think Kurt is the killer? Oh, it can't be!" Agnes exclaimed. She seemed to go pale then. "I didn't cause this, did I? Telling Mary about that conversation?"

"Gossip and rumors can be deadly," Don said, feeling sick inside, wondering if hate and rumors were going to once again take away from him the man he loved. "Did Mary ever tell you any reason that her brother would be so bitter against gays that he'd murder someone for it?"

"Other than it being a mortal sin?"

"Yeah, besides that."

"I didn't even know she'd told him about it. After Father Rivard was killed, Mary and I talked with Ruth Anne and a couple others..."

"It didn't occur to you to talk to us, the police?"

"We thought it would all just blow over, and none of us could think of anyone who knew who might actually do such a thing, unless it was Father Tim."

"You thought Father Tim murdered Father Tony?"

"Well, we thought it was possible."

"Unbelievable," Don muttered, relieved when his cell phone rang. He walked away as he answered it, not looking at the ID. "Strachey."

"Don, it's me. You've got to help me. Foster's crazy," Timothy blurted in an almost continuous stream, his voice a panicked whisper.

"Timothy, where are you?" He gestured toward Bailey.

"I'm in a warehouse. I got away from him and I'm on the second floor of this place. It's huge. I don't know what it is, just that it's big and empty."

"We're tracing your call, Timothy," he said as Bailey called in that order on another line. "You just stay on the line with me, and we'll find you."

"Please, Don, you have to do it fast. If he catches me, he's going to kill me."

"How did you get there?"

"His car."

"I mean, what streets did you take?" Don asked, and Tim came up with a few street names, and the name of a moving and storage company that was about a mile from where they stopped.

"You're doin' great, Timmy. I'm getting in my car right now, and I've got a lot of cops with me," Don said.

"If you don't get here in time - "

"We will," Don said, unwilling to acknowledge the possibility that he might not save Timothy.

"I just want you to know that I love you and I might have fumbled around with someone before, but last night was the first time I really made love, and no matter what happens, I'm glad it was you."

"I love you, too, sweetheart, and I'm gonna get you out of this. I promise. And I'm really glad it was me, too. But then I kind of figured I was the first - because no one in his right mind would make love with you and ever let you go."

"If you don't make it in time, Don, it's not your fault. Please don't ever blame yourself."

"Failure is not an option. I'll get there." Don was speeding toward the location of the warehouse for the company Timothy did see. "Is there anything distinctive about the building you're in?"

"There was some trim on the outside, around the windows...I think it might have been blue but it was hard to tell with the outside lights...they change the colors. There are some windows missing and I think it had a for sale or for lease sign up high on the building. Inside are...I can't talk," he whispered.

"Stay calm, honey. If you're hiding, just don't move," Don whispered into the phone. His mind raced, trying to figure out if lights and sirens would spook Foster into killing Timothy quicker, or prompt him to stop what he was doing and try to escape. Bailey, Ramirez and Emmet, and other units were following him. Covering the mouthpiece of his phone, he picked up his radio, and asked Bailey to weigh in on whether or not to make their presence known. He relayed the information about the moving company and the other details Timothy had given him.

"Anderson Moving and Storage is about a block up on the right," Bailey said. "I think we stay quiet. If he's on a mission, and he finds Father Tim before we do, it might prompt him to hurry up and kill him while he has the chance. We know there's a ritualistic element in what he's doing, that he wants symbolism, so better he thinks he has time."

"To do what? Cut his dick off? Maybe we should take our chances with the sirens."

"A lot of things can be reattached, but if he puts a bullet from a .357 in his head, we can't fix that."

"Shit," Don muttered. The caravan of police remained silent as they wove through the warehouse district, looking for the right location. "Timothy?" Don whispered into the phone. There was no answer. The line was still open, so he knew that either meant Timothy was hiding, or that he was no longer able to answer.

"I'm here," a faint whisper came over the line. "He's walking around up here. I'm in what used to be an office, I think. The top of the walls are glass, the bottom part is solid, and I'm sitting on the floor. I'm afraid to look out the windows in case he's looking this way. I can hear his footsteps on the cement floor."

Don could hear the terror in Timothy's voice and it tore at his heart and soul.

"I'm coming, sweetheart. Don't you give up on me. I'll be there. Stay down. You're doing everything right."

"I'm so scared," Timothy whispered into the phone.

"I know, honey. It's gonna be okay. Stay as calm as you can, and even if he finds you, play along with him, or do what you can to stall him. We're nearby." There was a beep.

"My battery's low," Timothy whispered, new panic in his voice. "I have to hang up because it'll keep beeping."

"Okay, honey. I love you. I'm coming."

"I love you, too. I always will," he added, and the connection was broken.

********

Tim couldn't believe that the pounding of his heart wasn't audible in the room, since it was deafening in his own ears. He'd made the strategic choice to hide where he was, behind some old crates and up against the solid half of the wall surrounding the room that was the only enclosure on the wide open second floor. The top half of the walls was glass, as if the room had once been an office. He wondered if the lock on the door would hold at all. He'd turned it to the locked position before finding his refuge. It was chancy, since it was, in one way, a very obvious hiding place. And yet, he had no idea what lay in the far reaches of the shadows at the edges of the second level. If there was no other place, no other enclosure, and no other exit, he would be done for even sooner.

The door to the office rattled loudly. Not unexpectedly, glass shattered, and a moment later, the door opened. Tim began praying silently, reconciling himself to coming face to face with Foster, trying to reconcile himself with impending mutilation and death, with never seeing Don again. He released his useless cell phone in his pocket and located his rosary instead, wrapping it around his hand and holding on, hoping God would still see him through this ordeal, even if he had done everything wrong as a priest in the last few days.

"I know you're in here, Callahan. There's nowhere else for you to go."

He wanted so badly to peer around the side of the crate in front of him, but he didn't dare move. He could sense Foster was close, even hear something creak as he sat on it.

"The mistake I made with Rivard was hitting him too hard. I knocked him out, and he didn't feel a thing. Didn't even flinch when I lopped his dick off. I'm not gonna make that mistake with you. You're gonna feel everything, you fucking pervert. You're gonna feel it like I did, when that sick bastard hiding behind his Roman collar used to counsel me. My grades were slipping and I got into some trouble, so that's what Mom and Dad did to make sure I got back on track. Got good old Father Evans to counsel me."

Tim remembered that name. Father Nathaniel Evans, who was eventually moved to some remote location where he wouldn't work with children anymore... Father Rivard had urged the Church to turn him over to law enforcement, but they'd sent him into seclusion instead, citing his age and declining health. He thought of what Don had said about stalling Foster, and took a calculated risk. He stood up.

"Father Rivard wanted Father Evans to be prosecuted by the authorities," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "He may have been gay but he wasn't the monster you thought he was. Molesting little boys isn't about being gay. It's about being a pedophile, it's about taking advantage of children who can't defend themselves."

"Why little boys then? Why not little girls, if you're not all a bunch of fags?"

"I'm not a pedophile, Detective, so I don't really know. But what I do know is that I don't have any desire to lay a hand on children. Of either gender. Being gay means you're attracted to your own gender, not to children. And maybe that does make me a hypocrite, and maybe Father Tony was a hypocrite, too, for being in an institution that condemns homosexuality, but he wasn't a child molester and neither am I, and he didn't deserve to die for someone else's sins."

"You're somethin' else, Father. I'm sitting here with a loaded gun pointed at you, and you're still lecturing me."

"I'm not trying to do that, and I'm sorry you went through what you did. No child should have to experience that. Father Evans should have paid for what he did, but by the time the Church found out what kind of man he was, he was old, and sick, and he's dead now - he died a couple months ago."

"I know. I know everything about where that old son of a bitch was, and what happened to him."

"I think you know that killing me isn't going to make your pain go away, and it's not going to give you the chance to make Father Evans pay for his sins."

"No, but it'll keep you from preying on other kids. When you fags can't get it from another man, that's what you do. Get it from boys and then you can still keep your jobs, still stay all high and mighty. I wasn't gonna let that sick faggot priest get his hands on my nephew."

"Your nephew?"

"Billy Kellerman. God knows what that sick fuck Rivard did to those boys in his 'youth group'," he said, putting an ugly emphasis on the term.

"Father Tony would have never laid a hand on those boys. He was a decent, ethical man."

"Sure he was. So was Evans, to everyone who knew him back when I was a kid."

"Tell me, why Jake? He was an innocent old man just trying to enjoy his retirement. Why kill him?"

"I didn't mean to. He got in the way, and I had to do something." He looked at Tim in a way that made him feel sickened. "So, did you suck his dick, or did he suck yours? Or maybe you took it up the ass from him. Which one was it, huh? When you did it with Strachey? Is he a cocksucker?"

"It won't matter how many priests you kill, or how many women you bed, he'll still be ten times the man you are, and that's what really bothers you, isn't it? That you don't feel like a real man?"

"Shut up." Foster aimed the gun at him more directly. "Shut up now, or I'll blow your fucking head off!"

"You don't stop being a man because someone victimized you as a child. You stop being a man when you start preying on others, too. When you start making innocent people pay for your pain. Do you think you're less of a sinner because you murder people you don't approve of?"

"I'm gonna really enjoy killing you. And I'm gonna take my time."

"When I'm dead, are you going to feel better? Really? Will it change anything?"

"I don't know, but I'm willing to give it a try," he replied, waving the gun at Tim. "Get out of there, and come with me."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"Why should I come with you? So you can tie me up, torture me, dismember me in some way? Why in the Name of God should I cooperate with you? If you want me dead, shoot me. I've made my peace with God and I'm not going to play your game."

Foster pulled the trigger and the shot buzzed past Tim's head, shattering the glass behind him.

"Now, unless you want the next hole to be right between your eyes, move!"

********

"That's Foster's car, and I've got shots fired!" Don said over the radio as he raced toward the unmarked police sedan parked in front of a warehouse bearing a "for sale" sign that fit the description Timothy had given him. He jumped out of the car on a dead run for the building. The rest of the police caravan pulled in behind him, cops spilling out of their cars and following him. Bailey directed the cops to surround the building, issuing rapid orders where he wanted everyone positioned. Don, Bailey, Ramirez, and Emmet led the direct charge into the warehouse, entering as quietly as possible, weapons drawn.

"Don't come any closer," Foster shouted, emerging from the shadows, his gun pointed at Timothy's head, Timothy in a choke hold against him.

"You know it's over, Foster. You're not leaving here with him," Don said.

"Really? Maybe you're right, and I should just blow his brains out now, get it over with."

"Think about it, Foster," Bailey said. "You kill a second victim, and you're looking at death row. You can still get out of this with your life."

"Yeah, I can spend the rest of my life in prison. Thanks, Captain. That's a great incentive."

"How about how long you might spend in Hell? Making your peace with God might be a good idea," Tim managed, even though it looked like Foster had some pressure on his throat.

"What do you want, Foster?" Don said, approaching him.

"I said, stay back!"

Don holstered his gun. "Is it me you're after? You want to kill me? Why don't you take me and let him go? A cop's a better hostage."

"Don, don't," Tim said.

"Oh, isn't that sweet? Trying to save your faggot boyfriend," he said, releasing the safety on his gun and pressing it against Tim's temple.

"You think everyone's against you," Tim said, both hands pulling on Foster's arm to try to alleviate the pressure on his throat. "God still loves you, no matter what you've done. It might be too late with the law, but it's never too late with God. You did what you did out of pain and because of what happened to you. The law probably won't excuse you for murder, but God can forgive anything for someone who repents, who wants to be saved."

"God's gonna forgive me? That's why I'm supposed to let you go?"

"Somewhere inside of you, you believe in God, you believed you were doing something righteous. You have to know that killing me isn't going to bring you closer to God, and He's the only one who can help you now. You do still have something worthwhile to lose."

"Yeah, with a murder rap, like what?"

"Your soul and your eternity. All of this is temporary, but eternity is still worth fighting for, and so is your soul."

There were a few moments where no one moved, and it seemed everyone in the room held their collective breath. Don was still standing between the cops and Foster, offering himself as a potential hostage - or target - in the hopes Foster would let Timothy go and take the bait of either shooting or grabbing him.

And then in a move that was lightning fast, Foster swivelled the gun away from Timothy's head and, pointing it at his own, fired. Timothy fell away from Foster's grip, landing on his hands and knees on the floor, scrambling away from the mess that had spattered his black suit, his hair, and his face. Don ignored the fallen cop and rushed to Timothy's side, pulling out his handkerchief and trying to wipe his face, even though it was a pitiful and inadequate tool for the job. He knew Timothy was trying to hold back and not touch him too much, not react to him in front of the other cops. He took the situation out of Timothy's hands and pulled him close.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he whispered in Timothy's ear. "They know, and I'm all done hiding." He fought hard not to break down from the relief of feeling Timothy's living, warm, healthy body against him, at being able to wrap his arms around him and hold on, wondering if it was as much for Timothy's sake as it was for his own.

********

It was the wee hours of the morning before Don was able to drive them away from the police precinct. Don had found a clean suit of sweats for Tim and found a quiet time he could slip into the locker room shower at the station and wash the blood and brain matter out of his hair. Then he'd sat through all the questions and details of all the time he'd been with Foster that day, recalling every detail of their unpleasant conversation to his brief captivity. He was so tired that it was hard not to doze off now that he truly felt safe.

"It's just the adrenaline wearing off, honey," Don said gently, reaching over to take his hand. "Don't fight it. I'll wake you when we get home."

"Where's home?" he asked, his head drooping back against the headrest.

"My place. We'll figure things out later, but I'm not taking you back to the rectory."

"What am I gonna do? There's no one there. They have no priest."

"Call your diocesan buddies in the morning and tell them you're taking some time off and they need to cover the base. It'll buy you some time before you have to face the music and tell them you're done."

Tim didn't say anything to that. He was too tired to contemplate changing his life, and after having a man's brains blown all over him, after being kidnaped and terrorized and nearly losing his own life, and then not being able to talk Foster down from ultimately killing himself, he didn't know what world he really belonged in anymore.  Don must have thought he was asleep, and Tim let him think that. His hand felt warm and good wrapped up with Don's, and he was safe, and it was over.

He figured he must have dozed off on the way to Don's apartment, because the passenger door was open and Don was gently shaking his shoulder.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Come on, sweetheart. We're here,” he said, shutting the door behind Tim, guiding him up to the front door of a modest, bland apartment building with three floors. He unlocked the front door and led them up one flight of steps to the second level and went down a couple doors to unlock his apartment. "It's not much, but it's home," he said, smiling a little as he turned on a lamp in the living room.

The apartment was small, and the furniture looked like it had seen better days. There were a few magazines here and there, and a basket of laundry by the front door. There was almost nothing on the walls by way of art or decoration. If this was home for Don, home definitely was not where the heart was.

"I guess it's pretty shabby compared to what you're used to."

"I don't care where we are, as long as you're here," he said honestly.

"Me, too," Don said, smiling that smile of his that was the stuff of Tim's dreams. The smile, and those amazing eyes. "Hungry?"

"No, I feel kind of nauseous. If you want something, please, go ahead. I just want to lie down."

"I'm not really hungry, either. It's been a long day." Don led the way toward the bedroom. The bed was made neatly beneath the simple blue bedspread he pulled back, rolled up unceremoniously, and tossed in the corner. "The bathroom's right around the corner if you need it," he said, and Tim went to use it. Everything was clean and reasonably tidy, there was just no sense of decor or home to the place. No sense of Don's personality or his tastes. It was as impersonal as a hotel room.

Tim used the facilities and went back to the bedroom. Don was in his shorts.

"I'm gonna grab a shower," he said. "Why don't you lie down and relax? I'll be out in a few minutes." He turned back the bed, and Tim finally pulled off the sweatshirt he was wearing, then the t-shirt and the sweat pants, leaving just his socks and shorts. He climbed into the bed, and smiled when Don tucked him in. "If you fall asleep, it's okay." He leaned forward and kissed Tim's lips lightly before going to take his shower.

Tim realized he hadn't said much, hadn't really reacted much to Don, but he was afraid to react to much of anything. It was all so horrible, and there was so much...the priesthood, Don, St. Mary's, Tony's funeral looming soon...whether he should keep his mouth shut and officiate, whether or not the media would get a hold of the gay angle and it would all be academic...

When Don came out of the shower, he was still stewing, unable to fall asleep even though he felt exhausted. Don got into bed with him and opened his arms, and Tim moved into them.

"Your muscles are like stone," Don said, his hand running across the back of Tim's shoulders. "Turn on your stomach, honey. I think I know how to relax you a little."

"Don...I don't really feel like..."

"I just want to give you a back rub, Timothy. Sound good?"

"Yes, actually, it does," he admitted with a sigh of relief. As sensitive as Don was to his feelings, and as gentle as he was with him, Tim hated himself for having assumed that Don was going to roll him over and poke away at him when he felt so worn out and emotionally fragile. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart." Don's hands were on his back now, just rubbing gently, the motion starting to relax him.

"Foster's dead. I wanted him to think about reconciling with God as part of his life, not that he should blow his brains out so he could go see God now."

"We took down a murderer with no civilian and no police casualties. For a cop, that's a good day at the office," Don said. "You were fantastic, and you managed to stay alive and uninjured until we got there. That took guts and brains. You're quite a guy, Timothy."

"A man is dead. I can't feel that's a 'good day at the office'. I feel like I talked him into killing himself."

"Experience and my instincts tell me that one of the three of us was going to end up dead tonight. You, me, or Foster. I'm sorry if I'm glad it was him, but I am. There wasn't a good outcome for that. Foster's not the type who would give up and spend his life in prison reading the Bible and doing prison ministry. His death isn't your fault. He wasn't going to end up well no matter what he did or didn't do in that warehouse. He'd have most likely been shot by the cops at some point, because after he shot his hostage or another cop, it would have been open season in taking him down."

"It really doesn't bother you that he died right in front of us?"

"No, because the alternative was him killing you. That would have bothered me. A lot. For the rest of my life." Tim felt Don's lips on the back of his neck. "Because I love you."

"I love you, too." Tim sighed and let the massage relax him. There was so much he had to face, so many decisions to make... He finally resolved to hide here with Don, to keep the demons at bay until morning.

********

"I don't like leaving you here," Don said, pulling up in the driveway of the rectory. The media were held back by private security hired by the diocese.

"Foster's dead. I'm safe. I just need to straighten some things out, and the bishop will be here in an hour or so. I have to meet with him...about a lot of issues."

"I'll pick you up about dinnertime?"

"That's fine."

"You'll call me if you need me, right?"

"I will. I'll always need you, no matter what," Timothy said, touching Don's face. "I love you, and I always will."

"You sound like you're saying goodbye." Everything inside him screamed not to let Timothy out of the car. That somehow, the Church would suck him back in, that he was slipping away.

"I'll see you later," he said, then he took Don's hand. "I love you, Donald darling." He kissed Don's hand, smiled a little sadly, then got out of the car and headed into the rectory.

Unable to shake the feeling that something more significant than a simple goodbye had passed between them, he sat there a few moments, debating if he should go inside and refuse to leave Timothy's side. Still, he knew Timothy had to do what he had to do to iron things out with his old life. He wouldn't want Don there exacerbating things when he talked to the bishop.

He put the car in reverse and backed out, feeling paranoid to think the private security service the diocese had hired were watching him with suspicious eyes. It wasn't a cult, it was the Catholic Church. And all he had to do was believe that Timothy's love for him was strong enough to take that on - that he, Donald Strachey, was up to the task of competing with God and winning.

"Fuck," he muttered, driving down the road toward the precinct.

********

Don spent most of the day up to his neck in paperwork regarding the case, writing up reports, filling out all the necessary forms. The precinct was strangely somber as the word of Foster's death spread. Don found very few of his colleagues saying much of anything to him. He was sure word of his relationship with Timothy combined with the validation of the rumors that had flown about since Kyle's death had rendered most of them silent. The only thing that lessened the likelihood of him being harassed was that Foster had turned out to be an even bigger monster than a gay cop.

He was looking forward to picking Timothy up when he headed for Bailey's office to turn in all his paperwork on the case. Very little could have prepared him for the shock of seeing Mary Kellerman being led into the precinct in handcuffs by Detective Emmet, and taken to an interrogation room.

"What's with her?" he asked Bailey as he walked into the office.

"We found out she called Father Rivard's private line at the rectory at midnight on the night of the murder. Ramirez and Emmet leaned on her a bit, threatened her with accessory to murder charges, and she admitted she made up a story to lure Rivard over to the church - something about an urgent problem with her son, Billy. I guess her conscience is getting to her, now that the furor is settled and she realizes she helped slaughter an innocent man."

"Fuck." Don sat in a chair across from Bailey's desk and rubbed his forehead. "Ladies on the Altar Society helping set up murders."

"She claims she thought her brother was just going to teach Rivard a lesson - whatever the hell that was supposed to include. She says she never planned to help commit a murder."

"He went to the church at midnight because he cared about her son, about his parishioners, and he gets his throat cut and his dick chopped off for his trouble."

"I don't think we're gonna get any happy endings here."

"What'll happen to her, do you think?"

"The DA's all fired up to make someone pay, since Foster blew his brains out, so God knows what kind of charges she'll face. It's an election year, and we need someone to take the fall for this."

"You know, Foster's wife drives a black Ford Excursion," Don said. "The black SUV people saw parked there the night Rivard was killed? Went right over my head. I never even thought of it until we found out about him. Feels like Foster was just hiding in plain sight."

"We found a voice synthesizer in his car. He stole it out of evidence."

"It's kind of disturbing that someone can be as obviously hateful as he was and not raise any suspicion."

"There's no shortage of hate out there to go around, for all sorts of people, gays or otherwise."

"I'm sorry if I put you in a bad spot with what happened between Timothy and me."

"It's going to be tricky to work through, but I'm sure we can get around it. After all, the department doesn't officially bar gay and lesbian officers," Bailey said. "Getting involved with the priest...well, that's gonna take some fast talking with IA, but all's well that ends well. I think I can convince the chief that a brief suspension should cover that."

Don looked at him a long moment, sitting behind his desk, looking worn out by the whole situation. No one had ever called Don "gay" to his face, with the exception of Foster, but it was a rumor that persisted since Kyle's suicide. Suddenly, it all seemed so pointless.

"I appreciate that, Captain," Don said, taking out his badge and his gun, laying them on Bailey's desk. "But I'm finished. I'm sick of hiding who and what I am, and I don't plan to spend the rest of my life or my career making excuses for it or trying to prove myself because of it. I appreciate everything you've done for me."

"You're sure about this, Strachey?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Our friend, Father Callahan, wouldn't have anything to do with your decision, would he?" Bailey asked, a knowing look on his face.

"I don't think things are going to be easy...he's been through a lot with this case, and we'll both have some adjusting to do, but I'm not going to screw this up."

"Well, I'm sorry to lose you off my team, but I wish you the best with your new life." Bailey extended his hand, and Don shook it, smiling. He felt like an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and oddly as if Kyle's tragic legacy finally didn't have a hold on him anymore.

"Thanks, Captain."

"We'll still need you to testify, even though you did the paperwork."

"Ah, paperwork. I won't miss that. Timothy and I will be available for anything you need with the case."

"Give the father - I suppose I should stop calling him that. Seems a little...weird under the circumstances."

"To me, too."

"Give your...ah, friend, my best."

"I will." Don left Bailey's office and headed for the exit. He bumped into Ramirez on the way out.

"I just want you to know that Emmet and I are behind you all the way," she said, smiling.

"Thanks, that means a lot to me. I'm gonna miss working with you."

"Miss...? Did you get fired?" she asked, stunned.

"No, I quit."

"You weren't pushed into that, were you? Because a union rep can take care of that kind of nonsense."

"No, I did it on my own. I'm unemployed, have no fucking clue what I'm going to do next, but I feel great. Now I just have to go pick up my boyfriend so we can go celebrate. Hopefully, he's quit, too, by now."

"So this whole thing with Father Tim was serious?"

"It was always serious. I would have never played around with him. He was special from the start."

"Oh, that's lovely," she said, sighing. "And if you ever tell anyone I said that, or that I think that's hopelessly romantic and wonderful, I'll shoot you in a dark alley and throw you to the fishes. Got it?"

"I got it," he replied, laughing. "There was a good reason I didn't ask you out."

"What? You thought I wanted to date you? You owed me a drink - well, more like dinner, you cheap asshole. I wanted a steak and a beer, not your smokin' hot body."

"My smokin' hot body, huh?"

"I don't date my coworkers. Doesn't mean I'm blind," she added, laughing. "Maybe when the dust settles, you and Tim can take me out. I bet he'd treat me to a decent meal."

"I bet he would. We'd love that."

"Take care of yourself, Strachey. And don't be a stranger."

"I won't. You watch your back, too. Not that there probably aren't plenty of guys around here doing that already."

"I'm gonna miss you," she replied, laughing.

********

Don tried calling Timothy, but there was no answer and his calls went straight to voice mail. Tired of speculating which diocesan official or church duty Timothy still felt the need to tend to, he headed for the rectory. When he pulled in the driveway, it was unsettling in its quietness. The media had even appeared to lose interest and the security service was gone.

He went to the door and knocked. Agnes opened it.

"Detective Strachey," she said. "Father Tim said you'd be stopping by."

"Where is he?"

"He left a few hours ago. He asked me to give you this." She handed him an envelope with his first name written on it in Timothy's handwriting.

"He left? For where?"

"He didn't say, but he had his luggage with him."

"Did he meet with the bishop?"

"Yes, I served them coffee and cookies."

"Did you hear what they said?"

"I'm all done with gossip," she said, holding up her hands. "I still have to atone for what my gossiping may have caused. Father Tony was a good man, even if he did have a...weakness. I can't risk causing such a horrible thing again."

"Agnes, for God's sake, did you hear anything they said? Nobody's going to die over it, I promise."

"No, I didn't listen in," she said, righteously. "He said goodbye to me as if he wasn't planning to come back. His room is...empty."

Don stared at the letter in his hands. Then he spared a brief glance at Agnes.

"Thank you," he said, turning and walking down the front steps, going to his car. He felt sick to his stomach, like his heart had dropped out of his chest and landed there like a lead weight. He drove away, not stopping until he found a spot in a nearby park where he could read the letter in privacy. Parked under a big oak tree, he opened the letter.

Dear Donald,

I don't know if you'll be able to forgive me for this, but I hope someday that you will. I know the right thing to do was to talk to you again, tell you face to face that I was leaving, but if I'd done that, I never would have had the strength to walk away from you. I love you so much, and even if you can't forgive me, I hope you'll always believe that, and remember it, and know that I meant the things I said when we were together, and even now, my body aches for your touch, for the feeling of you against me, and it's almost more than I can bear.

I took vows, and I committed my life to God. That means something to me. I'm more to blame than you are in all this. I should have put an end to it when I had the first glimmer of attraction to you, but I played with fire and we both got burned. I made the first move. This is all on me. None of it was your fault, and I'm so sorry I hurt you, because I know you've been hurt before.

I hope you find someone who realizes what a gift you are, and that you have a wonderful life with him. I will remember you, and love you, and treasure our time together, until the day I die. This isn't about not loving you, or not loving you enough. Maybe I'm just not cut out to spread my wings and fly. Maybe I can't reconcile myself with turning my back on God just because I got a better offer. I just know that when I was faced with leaving the priesthood, giving the bishop my answer, I couldn't go through with it, so here I am.

Be safe, and know that I'll pray for you, and you'll have my heart forever.

All my love,

Timothy

Don threw the letter on the passenger seat and let himself cry, the bleakness of the park in the early days of spring, clouds in the sky and a light rain falling, a perfect setting for the way he felt, for the bleakness in his soul. Happiness had been right there, so close he could touch it...he did touch it...and now he was alone again.

He'd thrown himself into his job after he lost Kyle, and he could probably talk his way back into the PD with Bailey if he got right on it. Even the thought of being a cop, working around the clock, didn't offer any solace. The loneliness pierced his soul, sliced it open, left it there to bleed out. The longing for Timothy, even just the sweet sound of his voice, hurt him in a way he couldn't describe.

He didn't know how long he sat there, or how long he let himself cry, but as darkness fell, he carefully folded the letter and put it back in its envelope and tucked it in his suit coat pocket. His hand brushed past his empty holster, and for a fleeting moment, he was sorry the gun wasn't there. If it had been, he'd have closed his hand around its familiar, reassuring weight, pulled it out of its holster, and ended his suffering once and for all.

********

"When are you going to tell me why you're really here?" Anne Callahan asked her son as they sat in the living room of the stately townhouse in Washington, DC.

"What do you mean?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee, unable to force down the cinnamon rolls on the coffee table, even though his mother made the best cinnamon rolls in the world.

"You're losing weight, Timmy. You look like you're ill," she added. Then she blanched. "Are you?"

"No, Mom, I'm not sick. Everything that happened in Albany...it's just hard to deal with."

"I'm sure of that, but it would be nice if you'd tell me what really happened there. I know about the murder, and I know you must have been very frightened when that deranged policeman tried to kill you."

"That's not enough?" he asked, widening his eyes a bit.

"Frankly, no. Oh, sweetie, tell me what's bothering you so much." She reached over from the chair where she sat and gripped his hand where it rested on the arm of the couch.

"Please, Mom, leave it alone," he said in a strained voice, and yet he wanted to tell her. He needed to pour out his misery and his conflict to someone, and all his life, his mother had always been there. "I'm going to Italy," he said instead. She pulled her hand back. "There's a monastery there, and I hear it's very beautiful. It dates back to the thirteenth century, and - "

"Timothy Joseph Callahan, don't you filibuster me!"

Tim stared at his mother, stunned.

"I don't care about some pretty monastery and I don't want to hear about its history! Now you tell me why you don't eat, you don't sleep, you look like you're in mourning most of the time, and now you're going to go hide in a monastery."

He couldn't answer her, and he couldn't hold back the tears that came. He wasn't surprised when she sat next to him so he could cry on her shoulder like he had when he was a little boy and something awful happened.

"I love him, Mom," he sobbed. "I didn't want to stay but Andrew left without me, so I stayed."

"I know that, sweetie," she said quietly. "Don't you think I know my own son well enough to know that you were hurt, and your first choice was Andrew?" She patted his back. "I just didn't realize you were still in love with him."

"I don't mean him," he managed. "It's Donald," he said, trying to get himself back under control.

"The detective?"

"Please don't be disgusted with me. I couldn't help it. I fell in love with him and we...it was only one time..."

"Oh, Timmy, I could never be disgusted with you. You're my little boy, and you always will be, no matter what stupid thing you get yourself into," she said, and he laughed, even through tears. His mother's slightly wicked and warped sense of humor had gotten him through many painful things in his life. "If you're not happy in the Church, then you should leave the priesthood. Don't stay somewhere you're miserable just to make me happy. Do you think seeing you like this makes me happy?"

"No, I know it doesn't," he admitted, moving away. Like most mothers do for a crying child, she produced a tissue out of nowhere for him to wipe his nose. "It's not that I think you wouldn't accept me if I left the priesthood. I just...I don't know what to do. I love him, and I know what I want. But I took vows, and committed my life to God, and being a priest is what I am."

"Being a priest is what you do. Who you are is something entirely different and very special. God loves his children, honey. He doesn't want to see them in pain."

"Sometimes I think this is a temptation, and I need to be strong enough to resist it. I just don't know what to do. That's why I thought if I went away for a while, prayed, meditated...maybe I could find some peace. I broke it off with him. I doubt he'd take me back even if I wanted him to."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I don't know what to believe anymore. I'm confused and...Mom, I'm scared. I don't know if I'm cut out to be an open gay man, to take all the hatred and the bigotry. I can't live a lie, and be something I'm not, but I don't know if I'm strong enough to do that."

"Are you worried about breaking your vows to God, or are you afraid of leaving the priesthood, where your sexuality is a non-issue?"

"Both," he admitted, and the confession felt good. Like a weight was lifted from his soul. His mother stroked his hair and tried to get him to smile at her, like she had when he was a child.

"Do you think going to the monastery is hiding from all this, or will it help you figure things out?"

"Both," he admitted again, and they both laughed softly at that. "I feel like I need to get back in touch with God. I keep praying and praying and asking him to show me the way, to show me what I should do with my life...but I'm talking at him constantly. I need to go somewhere where I can listen for the answer."

"Then I think you're doing the right thing. But be sure you listen with an open mind and an open heart - don't wait for some confirmation of what you think is the right path."

"In case I haven't admitted it to you before, you're really wise." Tim smiled, and Anne laughed at that. "Kind of like Yoda," he added. She playfully slapped him on the arm.

"You had to spoil it, didn't you?"

********

Without a job to go to, and without Timothy, one day seemed to blend into another until they were all a single, alcohol soaked haze. Don knew enough to realize he was in a downward spiral, but he didn't care. It was just the last gasp of his life before he got up the nerve to put his back-up revolver to good use. He handled it almost daily, and one of those days, either when he was drunk or hung over, he'd probably pull the trigger and be done with it.

He didn't frequent the bars where cops typically hung out, and the cheery sports bars didn't hold much lure, either. So he skulked around the seedier side of town, drinking in biker bars and a couple of the rougher gay bars. He got into a few fights, since he had no interest in picking anyone up there. He probably should have known one of those fights would land him in jail sooner or later, but what was the difference between his apartment and the drunk tank? Timothy wasn't at either place, so one was as good as the other as long as he could stand the smell in the communal holding area and stake out a part of a bench for himself.

"Strachey," the guard called, motioning him to get up and come out of the cell. He'd only been there a couple hours, and he couldn't think of anyone who'd bail him out. He pushed up off the bench and ambled to the cell door, a little loopy from the drinking and the blows the other guy had landed on him before he got the upper hand and kicked his ass...and did a couple thousand bucks worth of damage to the bar in the process. Once they were walking down the corridor, the guard added, "Bailey wants to see your sorry ass in his office."

"Bet you've waited a long time to say something like that, eh, Donovan?" Don asked, smiling. The guard was one of the law enforcement officers who had never quite liked or respected him once the rumors started flying about his relationship with Kyle Griffin.

"Civilian life really agrees with you, huh?" he said as they got on the elevator.

"Why don't you do me a favor and shut the hell up?" Don blinked a few times, hoping he didn't pass out before he got to Bailey's office. He didn't particularly care what happened to himself, but choking on his own vomit in the PD elevator wasn't at the top of his list of favorite ways to die.

He was glad he only saw a few cops he recognized in the bullpen as Donovan escorted him to Bailey's office. As soon as he was inside the door, the guard left. Bailey shook his head as he sat behind his desk.

"You're a sorry looking son of a bitch, Strachey," he said.

"You should see the other guy," Don retorted.

"Close the door," Bailey said. "Sit down." Don followed those instructions, glad his brain was functioning enough to do so. "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"You never showed signs of a drinking problem while you were on the job. What the hell's the matter with you?"

"Plenty, I suppose. Why did you call me up here anyway?"

"I'm prepared to spring you from the drunk tank."

"I appreciate that."

"If you can convince me you're not going to wind up back in there tomorrow night."

"No offense, Captain, but what do you care? I'm not a cop anymore."

"Is that why you left the force? So you could self-destruct? End up like your partner?"

"Leave him out of this."

"Or is this all tied into that priest? Are you seriously doing this to yourself because your boyfriend dumped you? My God, my thirteen-year-old daughter bounces back faster than that from a broken heart."

"I'm happy for her, but I'm not thirteen and this is a little different."

"What happened?"

"How did you know he broke it off with me?"

"I don't think you'd be in the drunk tank for having a fight in a gay bar if he was still around."

"Can't argue with that logic."

"If you clean up your act, you might have a shot at getting your old job back."

"I know I should take you up on that. I just don't want to go back to my sexual orientation being a constant issue. And it is here, even if they can't kick me off the force for it. I'd rather blow my own brains out on my terms than die in an alley somewhere because back-up didn't come."

"You honestly think your colleagues would let you die on the job because you're gay?"

"Emmet and Ramirez? No. Anybody else, your guess is as good as mine. Foster may have been a psycho, but there are a lot of cops who don't disagree with his attitude toward gays."

"And there are a lot who do disagree with it. I don't give a rat's ass who my detectives sleep with on their own time. I think you know that."

"I know."

"You never answered my question. What happened with the priest?"

"He took off. Left me a 'Dear John' letter and left town. I don't know where he is."

"You used to be a detective. If you want to find him, get sober and do something about it."

"What's the point? He wasn't ready to leave the priesthood. It's one thing to take somebody away from a boyfriend - or girlfriend - and convince them you're a better option. Taking them away from God that way is a bit trickier."

"I guess you just have to have the balls to keep trying."

"If this is a motivational speech, thanks, but it's not working," Don said, smiling humorlessly.

"Here," Bailey said, tossing a folder at him. "That's all the information you got on the background check you ran on Father Timothy J. Callahan. Whatever you decide to do, you're free to go. You can either spend the rest of your life at the bottom of a bottle until you eat your gun, or you can man up and do something about it. Your choice."

Don looked at the folder on the desk. It honestly hadn't occurred to him to ignore what Timothy said and just go after him. He'd been so worried about respecting Timothy's choice and his vocation...maybe Bailey was right. Why should he give up? Why should he do all the suffering? If Timothy was going to dump him once and for all, why shouldn't he have to do it to his face? And why should God win, just because He was a bigger opponent? That had never kept Don out of a fight before.

He reached over and picked up the file, leafing through it.

"I'm on my way home," Bailey said, standing. "I'll drop you off at your place."

"Thanks."

"Not much good letting you out of the tank and having you busted for DUI on the way home."

********

"I thought you quit," Ramirez said as she walked past Strachey's old desk, surprised to see him there before seven in the morning, typing furiously into his computer. "Here. You need this worse than I do," she said, handing him the large coffee.

"Thanks. I did quit. I just need to run a couple things through the database."

"Uh, you stopped being able to do that once you quit," she said, sitting on the edge of the desk.

"Unless you know someone else's login and password."

"You dickhead," she said. "I only gave you that one time so you could show me how to use the new program."

"You shoulda changed your password," he said, flashing her a devilish grin. "Thanks for this, by the way." He took a long drink of the coffee.

"Does this mean you're thinking of coming back?"

"Nah, it just means I don't have time to screw around trying to find what I need on some lame free internet directory."

"So what're you doing with my login, unless that's confidential?"

"I need Congressman Callahan's address."

"I don't understand...why don't you just ask your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend...yet. He took off on me."

"That fucker. You quit your job for him and he ditches you? Move on, Strachey. You deserve better."

"There isn't anyone better," he stated simply, leaning back in his chair.

"There's Thompson in Sex Crimes."

"He's gay?"

"And unattached at the moment. He's pretty cute, too."

"How did I not hear about him?"

"Because he's closeted. A few of us who've known him a long time, know. I usually don't tell anyone else, but this is different. I think you two would be a great couple."

"Thanks. He's not hard to look at, I'll give you that, but I'm not giving up on Timothy yet." As the results popped up on his screen, he wrote down the information.

"What are you going to do?"

"He says he still loves me. I think he's just freaked out by everything that happened and he got cold feet about leaving the priesthood, turning his life upside down. Maybe I just have to show him that it's not a scary, uncertain option. I'm in it for the duration."

"Whoa. Sounds like you're ready to pop the question."

"Rings. That's it."

"Excuse me?"

"I'll show up with rings. You can't be much more serious than that, right?"

"That's definitely serious."

"I've got some pretty heavy competition for him. Can't go in with a weak approach."

"My brother's wife was in love with someone else when they met. You know how he won her over?"

"Am I gonna want to hear this?"

"He serenaded her. He literally stood under her window and sang 'You Are So Beautiful'."

"You think I should go to Congressman Callahan's house and stand under a window and sing?"

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained. My brother's wife was living alone in one side of a duplex at the time, so all he had to do was, you know, show up and start singing, so you have a few more logistics in your way."

"Yeah, this is a tad more complex, and you've never heard me sing before, but thanks for the suggestion," Don added, chuckling. He took another gulp of the coffee. "Thanks for this, too."

"You look like shit. You need a shave."

"You always were a sweet talker."

"Are you okay? Really?" she asked, pinning him with a concerned look.

"I'll tell you better after I get back from DC."

"You could just call."

"What if he doesn't want to talk to me? Or if his parents don't give him the message? No, I'm going there. If he's there, we're going to settle this once and for all. I'm not giving him any outs. If he isn't, then I'm gonna be in a better position to negotiate finding out where he went if I'm there in person."

"I really hope you find him, and that things turn out okay." She reached over and squeezed his arm. "For what it's worth, he's nuts if he turns you down."

"Thanks," he said, smiling.

"Just a little advice, though?" At Don's arched eyebrows and inquisitive expression, she added, "A shave and a shower wouldn't hurt."

********

The elegant townhouse was pretty much what Don expected it would be. The Washington, DC residence of Congressman Richard Callahan and his wife, Anne, was definitely in the high rent district. He was dressed for the job, though, wearing the best suit he owned, a white shirt and a tie. The last thing he wanted was to look anything less than trustworthy and professional when he approached the Callahan camp. If Timothy wasn't there, he was going to need information from his family. He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. A moment later, a uniformed maid opened the door.

"Is Mrs. Callahan available?"

"May I tell her who's calling?" the older woman asked. He handed her a business card from his detective days.

"Detective Strachey, Albany PD," he lied. He didn't have his badge anymore, but the business card seemed to suffice.

"Come in, Detective. You can wait in the parlor while I let Mrs. Callahan know you're here."

"Thank you," he said, following her into an elegant room furnished in what looked like antiques. They went well with the French doors and highly polished woodwork in the house. He paced, unable to calm down enough to sit.

"Detective Strachey?" Even before he turned around, the tone and inflections in the voice sounded so much like Timothy's, only female, that he knew Anne Callahan was behind him. He turned to face her. He could see Timothy in her so strikingly that it took him a moment to reply.

"Yes. Mrs. Callahan?"

"It's good to meet you," she said, extending a well-manicured hand with carefully polished fingernails and a substantial emerald and diamond ring on her ring finger. She was dressed in slacks, a silky blouse that looked expensive, and heels. He shook her hand.

"Likewise," he said, forcing a little smile. He wanted to cut right to the chase and ask where Timothy was, but skipping the niceties probably wouldn't advance his cause.

"Please, sit down," she said, gesturing at the ornate couch. She sat in an equally elegant armchair. "Are you here about the murder case?"

He thought of lying, saying that Timothy was needed for testimony, but he thought better of it. He looked her in the eyes and told the truth.

"No, I'm here to find Timothy. I don't know what he's told you about me - "

"Everything," she said, with a faint smile. He wondered if he was actually blushing, or just felt like it. Then he wondered what "everything" meant.

"I've tried to accept his decision to leave, and not follow after him, but I can't do it anymore. I need to talk to him, I need to see him and hear it from him face to face that he doesn't want to be with me. Or that he can't, however he sees it. I won't stalk him and I won't badger him, I promise you. I'll live with his decision. Mrs. Callahan, I love your son and I want to spend my life with him. I think he feels the same way, and I'm not sure where the wheels came off for us, but I understand he's been through a lot...I'm rambling."

"He does love you, very much, no matter what he decides to do."

"He said that?" Don asked, smiling, feeling a glimmer of hope.

"Among other things, but I know he hasn't been happy since he's been here."

"He's here?" Don stood up before he even realized it. Mrs. Callahan stood up, also, seeming amused by his enthusiasm.

"He was. He left a few days ago for a sort of...spiritual retreat, to have time to pray and meditate on things."

"What does that mean? The letter he left me sounded like he'd made up his mind."

"Mr. Strachey, I'm not going to betray my son's confidences any more than I have. He needs time to think through some things, and if you love him, you'll respect that."

"I'm all done respecting him leaving me without giving me a chance. Without giving us a chance. I know he's been through a lot and he's probably not sure what he wants, but I have to do something."

"He needs time to make a choice, on neutral ground."

"Neutral ground? A spiritual retreat is neutral ground? He's got religious and spiritual stuff all around him, he's in his element, it's comfortable and it's familiar and you can't tell me that hanging out with other priests or nuns or spiritual...people of some sort isn't going to influence him the other way. How is that neutral? I don't stand a chance if I can't see him. Please, if you know where he is, tell me."

"Even if I tell you, I doubt it'll help you much. He's in rural Italy. The only way to reach him is to send a messenger from the nearest village to the monastery where he's staying."

"Then I'll go there."

"To Italy? In the mountains somewhere to a remote village? Why don't you just wait until he returns, or I'll give him a message for you if he contacts me."

"Mrs. Callahan, I'd walk through Hell to get him back. Italy doesn't seem like that big a deal by comparison. Even if you don't tell me, I'll find him, if I have to backpack through rural Italy with a compass and a map to do it."

"You'd actually do that, wouldn't you?" she asked, smiling.

"Try me," he said, but he smiled back at her.

"I'll give you the information he left with me, in case of an emergency. Just...relax and have a seat for a moment."

He sat on the edge of the couch, trying not to vibrate with excitement. Then he reminded himself he might just be starting out on a really long trip to get rejected again when he got there. He took the little box out of his suit coat pocket and looked inside it for about the thousandth time, taking a deep breath and hoping he didn't have to take the gift back to the store it came from, wondering how he'd survive if he did.

"This is his contact information..." Her voice trailed off when she saw him looking at the small jewelry box with the two gold bands inside. He took the little slip of paper she'd written the information on.

"I think Timothy's afraid to take the leap...maybe he's afraid we won't last, and then his whole life will be messed up and he'll be alone...I don't know exactly, but I'm going to have these rings with me when I see him. I want him to know I just don't want to date him, or have a relationship with him. I want to get as close to married to him as two men can get." Don swallowed. "Is his family going to stick by him if he's out? I don't know if he could handle losing his ties to the Church and you, too, even for me, even if he loves me."

"We love our son, Mr. Strachey. I don't think it will be easy with his father, but I'll work on that. He has my support no matter what his decision is."

********

The garden at the monastery was picturesque. The only thing slightly more awe-inspiring were the rolling green hills and the mountain range in the distance. Tim had spent all morning struggling to concentrate on reading a couple favorite passages from the Bible, but he finally laid the book next to him on the stone bench, realizing it was no use. He could dress up in a monk's robe, go into hiding in the most remote corner of Italy away from all forms of modern communications, and spend his days in quiet meditation, and it didn't change anything.

His heart was still halved, he still ached for Donald's presence, and he still wondered if God could forgive him for just chucking his vocation and following his heart. Then again, his heart hadn't been a very reliable guide in the past. Andrew hadn't loved him enough to wait for him to make up his mind; he'd just left and embarked on his new life alone. He'd just left...the way Tim had just left Donald.

Tim grappled with that revelation for a while, remembering how hurt and deserted and used and foolish he'd felt, how gutted he was when he'd finally decided he was ready to take that leap. He'd burst into Andrew's room excitedly to tell him he was ready to go, to start their adventure to California, and found an empty room, and a note, explaining that he'd left, that it was over.

That note had been like a knife in his heart. And he'd left Donald so much the same way as Andrew had left him - silently, quickly, without having the guts to say goodbye face to face.

He'd treated Donald the way Andrew had treated him, and in that moment of revelation, he felt a sickness in the pit of his stomach. He had his answer, only it hadn't really come in the form he'd expected. There was nothing, no vocation, no religion, no vow, that could make it right to have hurt Donald that way, not when he had given Tim his love, offered up a heart that had been badly broken before with such joy and passion, jeopardized his career and risked his life. There was nothing good or holy or right or just about returning that love with a severance notice and a retreat to some remote corner of the world where Donald couldn't even see him or talk to him.

All this time, he'd been asking God for an answer. He wasn't sure if this answer was from God, or if he'd just spent enough time looking inside himself that he'd figured it out on his own. Either way, he found himself smiling, and offering up one more prayer - that Donald would forgive him, and that he still wanted him.

Footsteps on the cement made him look up from where he'd been staring at his folded hands. One of the monks was walking in his direction, along the path bordered by roses that would have won prizes in the outside world. They were huge globes of silky color on sturdy stems with glossy green foliage. The monk's hood was up on his robe, which seemed odd since it was so pleasant outside, but Tim thought maybe he'd taken a vow of silence, or was in some state of deep meditation, and didn't want to show his face or interact with others.

The monk stopped and turned toward the roses, then worked diligently at picking a plump red rose from one of the bushes. Tim cringed a bit when he envisioned how Brother Joseph, the elderly monk who tended the roses, would react to someone so inelegantly twisting one of the stems to get the bloom off the plant.

Finally holding his prize in his hand, the monk continued his walk towards the spot where Tim was sitting. Keeping his head down, he knelt in front of Tim and handed him the rose. That hand was familiar. He'd know it anywhere. He took the rose and watched, speechless, as the mysterious monk pulled his hood back.

Then he started to...sing. It was an old song, something Tim could vaguely remember his grandmother playing on the piano when he was a child. Even though as a singer, Donald made a wonderful detective, Tim couldn't remember ever hearing anything sweeter.

You'll never know just how much I love you,

You'll never know just how much I care,

And if I tried

I still couldn't hide

My love for you

You ought to know

For haven't I told you so

A million or more times?

"Donald - "

"I'm not done," he protested, though he wasn't keeping an entirely straight face, and by now, Tim wasn't either.

You went away and my heart went with you

I speak your name in my every prayer

If there is some other way

To prove that I love you

I swear I don't know how

You'll never know if you don't know now.

He finished with flourish and outstretched arms and a slightly flushed face.

"The singing is Ramirez's fault, because she said it worked on her sister-in-law when her brother was trying to get her away from another guy. These were my idea," he said, fumbling in the pocket of the robe.

Tim felt tears in his eyes. He couldn't believe Don was there, and he couldn't even imagine how he'd found him, or how he'd made his way to the secluded monastery tucked in the rural hills of Italy. Or how he got in there, dressed in a monk's robe, no less.

Then he started to smile, his heart melting at the flustered way Don was working to present him with something that seemed trapped in the folds of his stolen robe. A moment later, Don was holding up a little black velvet box. He opened it to show Tim two gold bands. "I know you wanted to have time to think and meditate and that you broke it off with me, but I can't accept that. I love you, and if there's any chance I can convince you to marry me, I promise you I'll love you and be faithful to you and never forget how lucky I am to have you."

"How did you find me?" he asked, reaching out to touch Don's cheek.

"I went to see your mother, and I told her I loved you and wanted to spend my life with you. Then I got on a plane to Rome and then rented a car to get out to the village, and then I rode a fucking bicycle up the trail to get here. I climbed the wall and stole this fashionable robe from a monk who wasn't using it at the moment. Man, this place is Spartan. You seriously came here to stay voluntarily? The county jail has better cells."

Unable to hold back any longer, Tim threw his arms around Don, dropped to his knees on the ground so he could get closer, and held on with all his strength. He squeezed his eyes shut and did all he could to soak up the scent and the feeling of him.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled against Don's neck.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Don said, pulling back, framing Tim's face in his hands, looking at him like he always did,

 with all the love in the world. "If you give me the answer I'm looking for," he added, grinning. "Do you think I'd go to Hell if I said you looked really hot in a monk outfit?" Tim laughed at that.

"Brother Joseph is going to be upset that you picked one of his flowers," Tim teased.

"Yeah, probably not half as upset as the monk in the shower who's missing his dress," he said, tugging on the fabric. "What do you say, Timothy?"

"I was just figuring out what an idiot I've been, and wondering how long it would take me to get back to Albany and beg you to forgive me, and give me another chance." That earned him a huge smile, and then Don kissed him, a fiery, passionate kiss like the first ones they'd shared when they made love.

"Oh, sweetheart, there's nothing to forgive. It's okay that you needed time. Everything with us happened so fast, and you went through a lot with the case. I understand."

"I can't believe you're really here," Tim said, touching Don's face, resting his forehead against Don's.

"Yeah, me neither. Do these monks have security?"

"It's okay," Tim replied, laughing. "I'll tell them you're with me."                             

"Am I? Because that's all I want, Timothy."

"Yes, you are, for as long as you'll stay with me."

"Until I take my last breath," Don said, taking Tim's hand, kissing it. "Good enough?"

"Yes, more than good enough."

********

Don had a room for them at a rustic bed and breakfast just outside the nearby village. A historic stone house had been converted into an inn, overlooking mountain views and lush, colorful gardens. Their room had hardwood floors, wood beamed ceilings, and a king size bed covered with a colorful quilt.

"It's fancier than what I needed, but I was hoping I wouldn't be coming back here alone," Don said, putting Tim's bag on the foot of the bed.

"It's a beautiful place," Tim said, looking out the window at the view. Don came up behind him and slid his arms around Tim's middle, hooking his chin on Tim's shoulder.

"I guess it's pretty nice."

"You guess? Look at that view!" Tim gestured at the window.

"Yeah, it's something," he said, but when Tim turned to look at him, Don was staring at him with a sappy grin on his face.

"I meant the countryside," he clarified, smiling, unable to believe how much he loved that face, that smile, and how close he came to never seeing it again. He reached back and caressed Don's hair, angling his neck so they could kiss. Then he chuckled.

"What?"

"Of all the places in the monastery you could have stolen a robe, you managed to steal one from the abbot," Tim said, and then Don laughed with him.

"If you're gonna piss somebody off, shoot for the top. They won't excommunicate you or anything, will they?"

"I think the abbot might have considered it when he got out of the shower, but fortunately, it's not his call. I'm leaving the priesthood. It happens." He paused. "I'm leaving the priesthood," he repeated.

"Are you okay with that? I know I swooped in on you with rings and didn't let you have your time away."

"And you sang to me."

"I guess that clears up any doubts. If you survived that and still said yes, you must love me."

"You have a sweet voice, and I loved it. Yes, I'm okay with leaving. I almost did once before, but it was kind of a disaster...you probably suffered from me feeling guilty about that, and gun-shy about trying it again."

"Was that the guy you..." Don seemed at a loss how to phrase it.

"We fooled around a little. He was the one."

"What happened?"

Tim sat on the side of the bed, and Don sat next to him.

"Andrew was a year ahead of me in the seminary. I had been there less than a year when we really got to know each other. He was very into politics, and power - he seemed to think the Church was just a great political playground where you could reach the top of the ladder depending on pulling the right strings. I grew up around political and social debates, so we hit it off, even if I didn't have my eyes on becoming a Cardinal someday. We debated for hours on all sorts of issues, and I was attracted to him. I was surprised how much fooling around went on in the seminary, but it makes sense. You have all these young men at the height of their sexual appetites, grappling with a lifetime vow of celibacy."

"So you and Andrew grappled with each other."

"That's a good way to put it," Tim replied, smiling. "I fell in love with him," he added, his smile fading. The old pain was still there, even twenty years later.

"What happened?"

"I was always a team player, always obeyed the rules, never got into trouble. Andrew was just the opposite. Rules weren't just made to be broken, they were made to be destroyed, then stomped on, and then discredited for being ridiculous in the first place. He was close to being thrown out, but his family had money and made some large gifts to the seminary, and even then, the Church was starting to feel the pinch of the priest shortage, so they couldn't just toss people aside if there was a chance they'd polish up into good priests. He finally got sick of all the rules and decided that he'd rather pursue his passion for politics in the secular realm. He wanted us to run away together to California and start a new life there, maybe in San Francisco, immersing ourselves in the gay community."

"You didn't want that?" Don asked, taking Tim's hand in his, lacing their fingers. It moved Tim that Don seemed to always know what he needed - a little touch, a kind word - and he always gave it to him without reservation.

"I was young, confused...I didn't know what I wanted. Once I committed to the priesthood, I had my whole life planned out, my mind set on what I was going to do. One thing you'll learn about me the more you get to know me is that I like to make a plan and then follow it through. I get a little unhinged if my plan gets screwed up."

"I don't plan a whole lot, so you're probably going to spend a good part of our life together unhinged."

"I'm sure I'll manage," Tim said, squeezing Don's hand. "It all came to a crescendo when Andrew and I got caught in the supply room. We were...touching each other." It seemed absurd for his face to get warm, for him to feel self-conscious. He was a grown man, and he’d been more intimate with Don than he’d ever been with Andrew, so why was he embarrassed talking to him about some groping that happened twenty years ago? And yet somehow, he still felt that old shame.

"That must have been embarrassing," Don said gently, covering their joined hands. "You were so young, and it was your first time."

"I was so humiliated, I wanted to disappear. I felt so guilty," Tim said, his voice shaking a little. "Andrew was arrogant about it, and that made it worse, somehow. The priest who caught us wasn't as vengeful and condemning as I expected, but I was so ashamed."

"You were young and you fell in love. You know there was nothing shameful in acting on it, right?"

"I know that now. Then, I'm not so sure I could sort all that out. I don't know what Father Michael said to Andrew. He talked to him separately. He just told me I should pray on it, meditate, and then make a choice whether or not I could keep a vow of celibacy, whether or not the priesthood was for me."

"He probably thought you'd be a great priest. If so, he was right. I saw how you were with people after Father Rivard's murder, how you handled everything. So many of the people we interviewed couldn't say enough good things about you."

"That means a lot to me," Tim said, moved by Don's words, and even more moved by how perceptive the man he loved was for sharing them at that moment when he needed so badly to hear them. "Andrew came to me and told me he was leaving, and he asked me to go with him. I said I needed time to think. In the end, I decided to leave and go with him."

"I don't understand." 

"Andrew never kept his room very neat. There were always books and papers everywhere, the bed was hardly ever made. He was always reading or thinking or debating or getting into something, so his room was a bit of a war zone. When I made my decision, I was so excited to tell him that I burst into his room all ready to start our big California adventure. It was immaculate, tidy, nothing out of place, all the personal stuff gone. There was a note for me on the bed, wishing me well in my chosen path, and saying that he'd left for California. Some rich old aunt of his lived in San Francisco and was willing to pay his way. I kept re-reading the letter to see if I missed the part where he told me to come after him, or gave me his aunt’s name and address, so I could find him. He just left, and that was it."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Don said, kissing the back of Tim's hand. "That must have hurt like hell."

"It did. Probably the way it hurt when I left you that letter and deserted you back in Albany."

"I don't blame you for that, Timmy. You weren't sure, and - "

"I was always sure that I loved you."

"I believe you. I was always sure about that, too."

"I went back to Father Michael and told him I'd decided to stay on. I told my mother the same thing. I just found out on this last visit that she knew I was lying, which shouldn't surprise me. I never could put one over on her. I'm not sure if Father Michael knew it, too, and just let me have my dignity, or if he believed me. Either way, I stayed, became a priest, and I can't say I've had a bad life. I loved the work I did, the people I was able to help, the programs I started and the fundraising and seeing all of it make a difference."

"You have to leave all that behind for me."

"Oh, Donald, I don't know if I could ever make you understand how much I love you. I loved being a priest, doing the things I did as part of my vocation, but that's my past, and you're my future." Tim leaned in for a kiss, and for a few minutes, the story's conclusion had to wait.

"Did you ever hear from Andrew again?"

"A few years ago, I found out he was in prison."

"Can't say I expected that one."

"He was working for some big PR firm, and apparently he embezzled a huge amount of money from them over a period of years. It's doesn't make me happy to know his life spun out of control, into failure. He was a brilliant man with so much potential."

"And he was an asshole."

"He was young and impulsive, and looking back, I'm sure I wasn't the first seminarian he...grappled with in the supply closet. It seemed like a big deal to me, and I thought we were in love."

"Maybe I'll go visit him in the joint and punch him in the mouth."

"You are joking, right?" Tim asked, momentarily envisioning Donald finding Andrew in prison and slugging him to defend the honor of Tim's nineteen-year-old broken-hearted self.

"Of course, I am." Don chuckled. "Mostly."

"He wanted me to come out there and visit him. I suppose I should have gone. Visiting those in prison is a work of mercy."

"Oh, fuck him. I hope his cell mate is a 300-pound bear named Guido who has a thing for blonds."

"Have I mentioned today that I love you?" Tim replied, laughing, when a moment before, he'd been fighting tears. Don smiled, one of those big smiles that lit up his whole face and made his eyes dance.

"Yeah, but feel free to repeat it as much as you want." Don looked down at their joined hands. "You know, Timothy, just because I'm here and we have this nice, romantic room, doesn't mean we have to do anything you're not ready to do. We've got each other, and we can take our time."

"You just flew halfway around the world for me."

"You're right - I flew halfway around the world because I love you. I could have gotten laid by going a couple miles around the corner from my apartment to a gay club with some action. They're two different things."

"Maybe we could take a walk, enjoy the setting a little, see how things go?"

"There's a bakery in the village. I stopped there for directions, but their food looked amazing. They serve lunches there, too, not just the sweet stuff."

"There's also an incredible vineyard a few miles away. Wine tasting."

"You'll have to help me with that. I don't know much about it, other than the fact it takes longer to get drunk on it, and it gives you a horrible hangover."

"I'll show you the ropes," Tim replied, laughing. Then he became serious and touched Don's cheek gently. "I can't believe I almost let you go." Don turned and kissed his hand, then took his time kissing Tim properly.

"I can't believe I was so desperate to get you back, I sang to you.”

********

They spent a pleasant afternoon on a trip to the vineyard in Don's rental car, and Timothy made good on his promise to show Don the ropes of proper wine-tasting. When they returned to the village, they spent the rest of daylight on a leisurely walk, snacking on a couple of luscious pastries they'd bought at the bakery. Though they were having a lovely time together, Don thought Timothy seemed preoccupied. Not that he could blame him. His whole life was about to turn upside down, and he was leaving behind everything he knew and thought of as his vocation in life, not to mention the fact that would leave him unemployed and at loose ends when he'd be forced to give up the career side of his priesthood, which he seemed to love and excel at. As they sat in the grass on a hill, finishing up their snack, Don found out what was niggling at the back of his lover's mind.

"Foster told me what happened to your partner," he said softly, almost tentatively, as if he were uneasy to mention it at all. Don felt sick in the pit of his stomach. The last entity he wanted along on this trip was the ghost of his dead lover, and yet he felt like Timothy deserved some kind of explanation, since he already knew Foster's twisted version of the story.

"I bet he enjoyed telling you about that," he said, knowing it was futile to be angry at a dead man, and yet feeling that way anyway.

"I didn't enjoy hearing it - and I told him so. At least, not as gossip intended to smear your character, and not from someone who obviously didn't like you."

"I'm sorry you had to listen to him spouting off his usual bigoted bullshit."

"It wasn't the worst part of my day with him," Timothy replied, and Don had to smile at that. The signs that Timothy had a twist to his sense of humor bode well for their future. "It doesn't matter about what Foster said. I'm just so sorry you had to go through something like that."

"Yeah, me, too," he said, feeling his throat tightening. "I should have left him alone, let him be in his closet."

"Didn't you? Foster never said you or your partner were open with your relationship. He didn't even seem certain that you had one beyond your partnership. It was all innuendo and rumor and hate gossip from him."

"Kyle and I were quite a team. We had an arrest record that was way ahead of anyone else's. I suppose that sounds conceited."

"Not if it's true."

"It was. He was an awesome cop. He was always ten moves ahead of the perps, and he wasn't afraid of Satan himself. One time, he was cornered by this drug dealer and his thugs and literally spit in the guy's eye when he was threatening him. Called him a piece of shit and a baby killer since he had this lovely marketing plan for selling his shit around grade schools. Needless to say, they beat the hell out of him before back up got in there, but he didn't care."

"Sounds like something you'd do," Timothy said, venturing a little grin. Don chuckled at that. The notion that opposites attract might be more suited to him and Timothy, but with Kyle? They were cut from the same cloth.

"Actually, it's something I've done, more than once. Fortunately, it hasn't caught up with me yet."

"Don't do it anymore, okay? I don't want to see you get hurt for no good reason."

"That's not a big worry. I turned in my badge and my gun a few weeks ago."

"A few...not the same day I left?"

"After I dropped you off at the rectory, yeah," he confirmed, smiling faintly.

"Oh, Donald, I'm sorry. I feel like such an ass for doing that to you."

"Forget it. We're together now, that's all that matters."

"I destroyed your career."

"And I've advanced yours?"

"Okay, point made." Timothy shook his head, smiling. "Have you thought about what you're going to do now?"

"I have a little money saved up. I was thinking of starting a PI business. I'd get to do a lot of the same kind of work I'm used to, only without reporting to a captain."

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"Probably. I just can't picture being trapped behind a desk all day, and I liked the fieldwork in my job, and I was good at it, so that fits."

"I don't know what I want to do."

"You could do most anything."

"How do you figure that?"

"While we were investigating, talking to people, we found out you were a dynamic fund raiser, a good public speaker, you initiated a whole bunch of social and service programs for the people in your parish, you belonged to this ridiculous list of organizations that boggled my mind and were involved actively with most of them, and a few of the kids in the St. Mary's youth group said you were a pretty fair dancer."

"They're being kind," Timothy replied, laughing. "I usually chaperoned their dances, and I let them teach me any new dance moves they thought I absolutely had to know. Plus, when we had the singles dances, I learned everything from the Macarena to line dancing. It was fun. Obviously I couldn't go out on dates and do those things, so I took the opportunity to have some fun with my parishioners, and the kids. I wanted the Church to be important in their lives in a fun way, and for them to think of priests as human beings who were there to help, to be their friends, not these holier than thou untouchable authority figures."

"The thing is, Timmy, you've done a little bit of everything and were good at all of it. That has to translate into a career path of some kind."

"Maybe you're right. I guess my résumé is nothing if it isn't varied."

Don thought he'd successfully derailed Timothy's questions about Kyle, but it was not to last.

"We got off track. You were telling me about Kyle."

"We were friends at first. I think we were so far in our respective closets that we didn't even realize that each other was gay until we'd been partnered for close to a year. It just didn't come up. I didn't think he was, he didn't think I was, so we kept our hands to ourselves and kept it at friendship. We were joking around one night, getting drunk at his place, watching a ball game and wrestling around on the floor - pretty manly stuff, huh?"

"I can feel the testosterone," Timothy replied, smiling.

"My hand wound up on his ass, and he liked it, so instead of him killing me, we did the rest of our wrestling naked. We were a couple for about four or five months."

"You wanted to be open?"

"At first, I was on board with sneaking around. We both liked our jobs, liked our partnership on the streets. Even if the department couldn't fire us for being gay, they could split us up for being a couple. Married couples or cops who are known to be involved with each other, can't work together. After a while, it wasn't enough for me. I wanted us to be a couple and just...figure out the rest of it. That became more important than our cop partnership."

"Kyle didn't agree?"

"He had a few more years on me at the PD. He had the chance at a promotion to lieutenant. Our partnership would have been over soon enough, anyway, if he got it. Before he tried for it, rumors started going around. We were seen hugging in the men's room."

"Which would mean what, exactly? I've hugged my male friends before and it didn't mean anything sexual."

"You probably weren't in a PD men's room at the time."

"No, you have me on that."

"It was my fault. We had this murdered child case, and it was pretty horrible. Seeing the body really flipped me out - I won't go into details, but it was a grisly crime. I was throwing up and then I started crying. Some tough guy. Kyle came looking for me and I guess I was so messed up that he kind of forgot where we were and put his arms around me. We weren't kissing or groping or anything."

"He was comforting you."

"Yeah, that was all it was. I don't know who saw us. I just heard movement and then the door closing again, so somebody came in, saw us, and ducked back out. There was no stopping the rumor mill after that. Bailey finally called us in and told us what was going on, and asked us if we were doing anything we shouldn't. Kyle denied everything before I could get my mouth open. I wanted to end the hiding then and there, be honest about our relationship."

"Foster implied the rumors were why Kyle didn't get the promotion."

"They came up with other reasons, but yeah, I'd bet my life on it. We started fighting a lot, mostly about being out versus trying to stay in the closet when the closet door was pretty much open anyway. Even if we'd been innocent of having an affair, no one would have believed it at that point. It was just crazy. By the time the rumors were in full swing, they had us humping each other in a stall, rather than him holding me, standing next to the sinks, because I was freaking out over a case."

"Did you break up?"

"We had an ugly fight," Don said, swallowing, wishing tears weren't filling his eyes. When he spoke again, his chin quivered and his voice was breaking badly. "It was like he hated me, blamed me for everything. When he didn't show up for work the next morning, I went to his place," Don said, glad for the feeling of Timothy's hand on the back of his neck, then caressing his hair. "He'd put a gun in his mouth and..." He let the tears come and he let Timothy pull him close, and he clung to the warmth of him.

"It's okay, baby," Timothy said gently, holding him, pressing his cheek against Don's head. "It's okay," he whispered again, and even though it wasn't okay, the words soothed Don's battered soul.

As he poured out his grief, held in the strong arms of the man who loved him, he felt as if he were purging a poison from his system, something that had eaten away at his insides since Kyle's death. Since he'd had to stand there in his dress blues with his fellow cops and not act like he was watching his lover being lowered into the ground. Through all the looks and rumors and remarks, he'd never outright denied anything, but he hadn't confirmed it, either, in deference to Kyle, because coming out of the closet for him was apparently a fate worse than death.

There was no one to grieve with, no one he could be open with, no one who knew for sure what Kyle's death meant to him. And if they had, so many of them would have met the revelation with disgust and bigotry.

Slowly, he became aware of something more than his pain and his tears. He could hear the rustle of the trees, feel the warmth of the sun, and his burning, wet eyes started to take in the beauty of the meadow surrounding the hillside where they sat. He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, boneless and exhausted in Timothy's arms. He knew Timmy was gently taking care of him, using a handkerchief to dry his tears and wipe the end of his nose. Soft lips kissed his forehead, and a gentle hand rubbed his back.

"You must have felt so alone all this time," Timothy whispered, and the aptness of his statement was a little unsettling. "You know none of it was your fault, right?"

"Sometimes I think if he hadn't met me, if I hadn't moved up here from Baltimore, he'd still be alive."

"Maybe, maybe not. How many times did you have his back when you were in a dangerous situation as partners?"

"Always, and he had mine."

"How do you know he wouldn't have died sooner, on the job, without you? Honey, you can't blame yourself for his choice. That came from inside of him, not because of something you did. The only outside force we can blame for that is the bigotry and hatred he was afraid of facing from society, from his colleagues."

"Now I've ruined your life, too," Don said quietly. He'd been thinking about some of the things Timothy said earlier, how much he seemed to enjoy being a priest, and how much he'd accomplished in that role. His parishioners loved him, even teenagers in the parish loved him. And Don was taking him away from that, away from them... Hell, away from God.

"No, I almost did that by leaving you. I was a fool to walk away from you like that, to take a chance on losing you. I regret hurting you the way I did, and I'm just so grateful you took me back, that you still wanted me."

"I'd want you until the day I died, whether you wanted me or not. I meant what I said at the rectory that day - even if we couldn't be more than friends, I wanted to be your friend, then." He pulled away from Timothy, wiping at his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it would be so hard for me to talk about what happened to Kyle. I guess that's because I never talk about it."

"Who would you have talked to?" Timothy asked, his tone sympathetic. "You've been alone an awful long time. I know how that feels. To be surrounded with people and be so utterly alone that being with them makes you even lonelier."

"Yeah," Don agreed, looking at Timothy, stunned. "People love you, your family loves you... why do you think you feel so alone?"

"I don't, anymore," he replied, grinning, playfully kissing the end of Don's nose. "I've been blessed to have a lot of good people come in and out of my life, but how many of them would have reacted positively to me if they'd known the real me, instead of Father Tim? Even my family - well, not my mother - but my father? Even if he copes with me being gay, and leaving the priesthood, there's a bigger obstacle."

"Me?"

"No," Timothy replied, laughing. "I'm a Democrat. I think he could forgive me being a flaming drag queen if I entertained at the next Log Cabin Republicans convention. See, Donald, I've had people around me all my life, but most of them love an image. They love me because I'm what they expect. A good priest, a dutiful son... You came along and right from the start, you loved just me. You looked under my Roman collar and the trappings of the Church, and you saw a human being. You saw your friend, even before we were something more."

"Can I make a confession?"

"I'm not in that line of work anymore," Timothy quipped, and Don laughed, unable to believe Timothy could make him laugh when he'd felt so awful a few minutes earlier.

"Not that kind of confession, exactly. But I wanted to look under your Roman collar the first time I met you."

"Oh, that's right, the tool belt thing."

"Sweaty and shirtless, with a tool belt," Don added.

"I don't have a tool belt with me, but we could go back to our room and get sweaty and shirtless."

"The tool belt is strictly optional," Don retorted, laughing, hugging Timmy, tackling him in the soft grass.

********

Don smiled as he lit the final candle and stepped back to take a look at his handiwork. He heard the shower stop, so he hurried to turn back the bed and turned on a small CD player, smiling as some soft instrumental jazz joined the golden glow of the dozen or so fat white candles he'd lit. When he'd bought them the night before, he'd had no idea how things would turn out, if he'd be lighting them that night or loading them in his suitcase to go home, alone. The bottle of champagne they'd bought on their wine tasting outing was chilling nicely in the ice bucket. They had some gourmet cheeses and crackers they'd picked up at a shop near the vineyard, and Don indulged in a moment of fantasy, imagining feeding a naked Timothy little cubes of the tasty cheese after they spent most of the night making love.

He looked at the towel around his waist, wondering if he should take it off, then deciding to leave it. He wanted Timothy to feel comfortable, as much at ease as possible. The towel was a bit awkward, though, so he tossed it aside and pulled on a fresh pair of boxers. He thought he recalled Timothy taking underwear and a robe into the bathroom, so hopefully this would be a comfortable starting point for him. It wasn't that they hadn't made love once before, or that they hadn't seen each other naked, but the last thing he wanted was to put pressure on Timothy to go farther or do more than he was ready to do.

Don looked around, rubbing his hands together, evaluating the scene he'd created, hoping he'd done everything right. He spared a moment to look in the mirror, then he started tweaking at his hair, regretting leaving it in its towel-ruffled form, thinking he looked a bit shaggy for the romantic night he had planned.

"Why don't you let me do that for you?"

Timothy's sultry voice behind him made him jump, unsettled by how easily he'd crept up behind him. Apparently he'd left his normally sharp instincts behind with his badge and gun. Now, the heat of Timothy's body was behind him, and the image of the man himself looking over his shoulder into the mirror in the gold light of the candles took his breath away. All the more because whatever Timothy might have planned to wear when he got out of the shower, he wasn't wearing it. It was the heat of his naked body Don was feeling. Gentle fingers slid into his hair, massaging his scalp.

"I love the way your hair feels between my fingers," he whispered against Don's ear. Everything Don had imagined about this night was changing course. He wasn't guiding a hesitant, inexperienced lover through the joys of sex. Suddenly, Timothy was seducing him.

Soft lips were at the nape of his neck, Timothy's nose at the back of his hair. "You smell good," he said softly, nipping at Don's earlobe. Timothy's hands slid down his shoulders, lingering over his biceps. "I've imagined so many times what I'd do to you if I could," he added, and Don shivered.

"You can do anything you want, sweetheart," Don replied, watching them in the mirror, seeing and feeling Timothy's hands sliding around to his chest, fingers brushing lightly over his nipples, then pausing there to tease them to hardness. All the while, Timothy was kissing his shoulders, his back, rubbing his cheek against Don's skin, savoring him as if he were something rare and wonderful. He felt a lump in his throat and a weakness in his knees. He couldn't remember ever being...worshiped like this. He never seemed to be the guy who was the object of that kind of love.

Timothy turned him and he didn't resist it, eager to reciprocate the embrace, to kiss those sweet lips again. His heartbeat quickened as Timothy's hands slid down his back and under the waistband of his shorts, pushing them down over the swell of his cheeks, his growing erection finally free of the last barrier between it and its mate. He stepped out of them, never missing a beat in their kisses, or the heated caresses of his hands over Timothy's body, now that he faced him. He heard Timothy's breath catch in his throat, and he pulled back to look in his eyes.

"Look," he said in a hushed, breathy voice, inclining his head toward the mirror. Don stole a look, and he was entranced by it as they shifted a bit so they could both steal looks in the mirror as they kissed and touched each other in the candle light. He wasn't sure what turned him on more: the image in the glass of their naked bodies moving together, or the realization that his beautiful, pure, inexperienced Timothy had a decidedly erotic side. And he was anything but shy about expressing himself or making love to his partner.

His hands flexed on Don's cheeks, squeezing his ass, pulling them yet closer, increasing the friction, before backing Don toward the bed and tipping them onto it. He was on top of Don, rubbing against him possessively, kissing him as if they'd never have the chance to kiss again. He hoped Timothy wouldn't mind postponing his first time. Don found himself longing to be covered by that warm body, to feel Timothy moving inside him, loving him while he took him and made him his own. Timothy's finger slipped between his cheeks, rubbing over his center, making Don moan and arch against him in desire.

"Tell me how to make you feel good," he whispered against Don's ear, nipping the lobe again, letting his tongue dart inside briefly.

"There's lube on the night stand," Don said, and Timothy grabbed it, opening the tube. Don turned over on his stomach. "Put some in me. You might have to stretch a little. It's been a while since..."

"We've got all night," came the heated reply, before Timothy kissed his neck and shoulders, and began slowly massaging his back, moving down to his ass, kissing a path down his spine. "I fantasized about this...God, I wanted you so much," he confessed in a shaky whisper. Don felt a hesitant finger pressing against his opening.

"Just ease it inside and move around a little."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't, honey," Don assured him, smiling over his shoulder. "Oh, fuck, that feels good," he muttered as Timothy's finger slipped inside him, stretching him carefully. He couldn't remember ever being handled with such tenderness, even his first time. But then, Kyle wasn't exactly the champagne and candlelight type when it came to man on man action, so even though Don had been a virgin to this kind of lovemaking the first time they did it, Kyle didn’t exactly spoil him with foreplay. Timothy was taking his time, not just jabbing around to make sure he was lubed up, but making love to him with his finger, focusing on his pleasure, kissing his cheeks, treating him like he was something precious. "Try putting in another finger."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine, Timmy. Everything you're doing is...really, really fine," he added, grinning, resting his head on his folded arms, not able to remember being so relaxed and feeling so good on the receiving end of this. Timothy moved up and kissed him, blanketing Don's body with his.

"I love you."

"I know you do. I love you, too. Just take your time and make love to me. I'll be fine, honey."

Timmy's two fingers made him feel full, but it was a good full, and when they rubbed over his prostate, his whole body felt like it came alive and he let out a little cry of pleasure. He was glad Timothy knew it was a good outcry, and he did it again, with the same result. Then the fingers were gone, and he could feel Timothy moving around, preparing himself, then moving up against his opening.

"I'm ready for you, sweetheart. Just push in, slow and steady. You'll know when to move."

"Tell me if I do something wrong."

"Okay, but you won't. You're batting a thousand so far."

He consciously worked at staying relaxed, because he knew the less tense he was, the easier it would be for Timothy to enter him without feeling like he was going to cause any pain or damage.

Timothy eased into him gently, letting his body adjust, taking his time for them to be fully joined. When they were, he lay against Don's back again, kissing the back of his neck, caressing his arms, letting his hands travel up until they covered the backs of Don's hands, and their fingers entwined. He moved carefully, tentatively thrusting, and Don moaned low in his throat, eager for it to continue, for the pace to quicken. Timothy froze.

"That was a good moan," Don said, smiling, feeling Timothy's whole body relax as he chuckled softly. "Just do what feels natural, sweetheart. It feels good to me, too." He affirmed the words with a little upward thrust that made Timothy gasp.

They began moving together, slowly at first, the pace quickening a bit as they both found the shared rhythm. Don wasn't sure if it was because it was Timothy, and he loved him so intensely, or if it was because no one had ever fussed over him and treated him with such concern before, but Don couldn't remember it being this good. It wasn't just the physical satisfaction, but the feeling of unity, the heat of Timothy's body pressed against his down to their fingers feeling as if they were permanently locked around each other.

Timothy's strokes got a bit bolder, and Don matched his advances with his own moves until he could feel himself starting to come, and gave in to the shouts and cries the moment deserved, hearing and feeling Timothy's climax close on the heels of his own, until they came to rest, still joined, breathing hard.

It seemed like words would shatter something sacred they were sharing, so neither spoke for long minutes while they just lay there, savoring the intimacy. Eventually, Timothy slowly and carefully eased out of Don, and he turned over so they could hold each other and share some sleepy kisses.

"Are you okay?" Timothy whispered, looking into his eyes, caressing his cheek. Don knew he had tears in his eyes, and his voice was failing him. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, honey, you didn't," he finally replied, kissing Timothy, wanting to erase the worry from his beautiful face. "I just don't think anybody's ever loved me like you do," he said, not sure he could really put it into words. It might have been Timothy's first time having sex this way, but he felt like it was the first time someone had made love to him. Apparently, he didn't need all the words with Timothy, because he was wrapped up in strong arms, held close, kissed, and treasured.

"Nobody else ever will, either," Timothy said, kissing his cheek, caressing his hair. The little thread of possessiveness in the words felt good, safe, and sheltering, like finally reaching home at the end of a long, painful journey.

"So...what did you think?" Don couldn't help it. He had to know how someone who'd made it to Timothy's age without ever doing it before, thought of his first time.

"Well, now I know what all the fuss was about," he replied, smiling, winking at Don before kissing him again.

********

Tim woke before Don and, for a brief moment, he thought he must be dreaming again. Donald's naked body was pressed against his, and he could feel each rise and fall of his lover's chest, his breath warm against Tim's skin. He lay there a while, thinking about life outside the walls of the rustic, candle lit room. He wondered if he should go through the motions of trying to become laicized, or if he should just leave and let the Church do what it would about his future standing as a Catholic. Leaving the priesthood to marry a woman would most likely leave him still in good standing as a Catholic. Leaving the priesthood to marry Donald? Not likely.

He smiled as he looked at the sleeping man in his arms, and thought about a life with him. They could have so much happiness together, and being on the brink of a whole new future he never imagined for himself wasn't scary anymore. It was exciting, energizing, filled with promise. He sighed and kissed Donald's forehead. Tim couldn't see him as anything but the answer to his prayers, and their love as anything but a chance miracle he'd never expected, but now couldn't live without. And as much as he cherished the memory of their lovemaking, as wonderful as it had been for both of them, he wanted to feel Donald inside him, too.

As if to answer an emotional call, Don stirred and opened his eyes. Tim watched those long, gold lashes move as he blinked a few times, then turned those stunning blue eyes up to look at him.

"I was getting lonely," Tim teased, rubbing Donald's back, loving the feel of his smooth, bare skin under his hand, and the little shiver his touch created. The candlelight was making the pale hair on Don's arm glow like spun gold. He had to touch it, caress its silkiness with his fingers. "You look like an angel," he said softly, still stroking his lover's arm.

"My halo got bent a long time ago, Timmy," he replied, smiling.

"Your halo is in a lot better shape than the ones worn by many who consider themselves only slightly lower than the angels."

"I guess after everything that happened at St. Mary's, with Foster...I can't argue that point."

"You don't know how wonderful you are," Tim said, tightening his hold a bit.

"I've done some things in my life that might make you re-evaluate that."

"We've all done some things in our lives that are...beneath our character. We're humans, which means we are capable of amazing good, and equally appalling evil."

"Is that what the Church says?"

"No, that's reality." Tim smiled. "Speaking of reality, when I first woke up, I thought I was dreaming again. But then I felt you breathing against me, your warmth...the reality is so much better than anything I ever dreamed. And you'll never convince me that you've done anything so bad that it could change how much I love you."

"I hope not," Don said quietly, moving up so he was on top of Tim, kissing him. Tim ran his hands up and down Don's back, over his shoulders, caressing him, trying to dispel even a slight chill from his bare back being exposed from the covers. "I don't ever want to lose you again."

"I've been thinking," Tim said, hoping what he said next didn't destroy some big plans Don was thinking of for their future. "I'd like to be wearing your ring the next time we make love."

There was a slight pause, and a look of confusion passed over Don's features. He recovered quickly.

"We can wait until we get back to the States, make some plans...I want you to feel good about this - "

"Why do we have to wait? We can't go down to the county courthouse and get a marriage license, and the Church isn't going to marry us. No matter how we look at this, our commitment is between us. To each other. And you do have the rings with you."

"You mean just make our promises and exchange our rings? You'd be happy with that?"

"A gigantic wedding that's the social event of the season isn't any more than that. When you strip away all the hype, that's what getting married is. Making promises to each other and exchanging rings."

"I don't want you to feel like you missed something."

"Donald, darling, the only way I could have missed something is if you hadn't shown up and proposed to me in a monk's robe."

"Don't forget the singing."

"I don't think I'll ever forget that," he replied, laughing, ruffling Don's hair. "Where are the rings?"

"Hidden in a pair of socks in my suitcase."

"The champagne's still chilling, isn't it?"

"I'm sure it is."

"Come and take a shower with me, and then marry me," Tim said, framing Don's face with his hands.

They took their time enjoying their shower, deepening the physical intimacy they shared by washing each other, shampooing each other's hair, savoring the sensation of wet hands caressing soap slick skin.

Dressed in robes and slippers, Don freed the wedding rings from their hiding place while Tim found small saucers that were intended to go with the coffee cups provided with the room's coffee maker. He arranged plates of their gourmet cheeses and crackers, setting them on the night stand. Don opened the champagne and poured two glasses, setting them next to the food.

They sat on the side of the bed, and Don opened the little box to display the rings.

"How did you know my ring size?" Tim asked, since the ring looked like it would fit him. He didn't want to spoil the moment by trying it on first, but he had a good eye for things like that.

"I guessed. I've spent a lot of time looking at every detail about you, sweetheart," he said, taking Tim's hand in his, kissing it. "Timothy, I'm not very good with words. I don't have anything written down." Tim looked at that face he loved so much, and he couldn’t wait to erase the little crease of worry between Don’s brows. The words came easily, right from his heart.

"I, Timothy, take you, Donald, to be my best friend, my husband, and my partner in life. I promise to always love you, respect you, and treat you like the treasure that you are to me. I'll be faithful to you, I'll take care of you if you need me, and there's nothing that can change my love for you. I don't know what the future holds, but whatever comes, I want us to share it together. You're the answer to the emptiness I've felt in my soul. I loved parts of my life in the Church, but I know now that I was lost without my soulmate. I feel a sense of inner peace when I'm with you...I felt it right from that first night we made our way through that batch of martinis together." Tim smiled and Don laughed at that. He held out his hand and Don placed the ring in his palm. Tim took Don's hand and slid it into place on his finger. "With this ring, I thee wed."

"I felt something the first time I saw you, and I'm not just talking about the tool belt thing," Don said, and Tim laughed. "It was something in your eyes when you looked at me. I couldn't get enough of being around you, touching you in whatever neutral way I could get away with... I fantasized about you. It wasn't just that I wanted you, even though I did, it was something in you that connected with something in me, and I couldn't let you go. I needed you in my life, even if we could only be friends. I love you and I'm so glad you're mine, and I'll do my best to make you happy, to be the kind of man who's worthy of you. I'll be faithful to you, too, and I'll do everything I can to protect you and build a good life for us. I've always had a kind of aversion to commitment, but sitting here looking at these rings, knowing that when I put yours on, that you're really mine, and you won't leave me...Timmy, honey, it's the best feeling in the world." He took Tim's ring and slipped it on his finger, smiling when it went on smoothly, fitting like a charm. "With this ring, I thee wed," he said, almost as an afterthought, as if he was in such a hurry to get that ring on Tim's finger that he could barely spare time for the words.

They kissed to seal their commitment, losing themselves in it, until they finally parted, and Don reached for the champagne, handing a glass to Tim and then taking the other himself.

"To finding what we didn't know was missing until we found it," Don said, and Tim smiled.

"To never letting go of it now that we have it," he added, and Don laughed as they tapped their glasses together.

After sipping their champagne, they snacked on the tasty cheeses, feeding each other, nipping and licking at fingertips, sharing more kisses. Soon, the kisses became more heated and passionate, and the food and champagne far less important in celebrating their commitment to each other.

Tossing robes aside, they lay back in the bed and took their time enjoying each other's mouths, before Don pulled away to kiss a path down Tim's neck to his chest, rubbing his cheek against the hair there, licking and sucking at Tim's nipples until he moaned in pleasure. Wet kisses and licks followed the little path of hair to Tim's navel, where he teased it with his tongue and then hit Tim's ticklish spot. As he started laughing, not exactly the sexy response he'd hoped to give, Donald laughed, too, kissing him there.

"Let me file away that piece of information for future reference," he joked. "I should probably explore your entire body for any other ticklish areas," he added, moving lower, taking Tim's erection into his mouth. While he loved the feeling of Don's mouth on him, and it would be so easy to lose himself in that, he wanted Don inside him, making love to him, claiming him.

"I want to feel you inside me," he said, touching Don's hair. Momentarily freeing his mouth from its passionate work, Don smiled.

"Patience, beautiful. We'll get there." When Tim was hard, he moved away, urging Tim to turn on his side. "Just relax, baby. I'm gonna make this good for you."

"I know," he replied, smiling as Don moved up behind him, spooning around him, stroking his side, kissing his shoulder.

"I'll just use my finger, like you did with me. Just relax, and if you don't like how it feels, we'll stop."

"Okay," Tim agreed. Truthfully, he was a bit nervous. Even though it was obvious Donald liked it when they did it the other way around, it had felt so tight, like it had to be stretching Don out to accommodate him. What if it hurt and he didn't like it?

A slick finger rubbed over his center, but didn't attempt to breach the opening. It just lingered there, rubbing him, getting him excited to feel more. Don stopped that for a moment, and then returned with more lube, and this time, he slid the tip of the finger inside. Tim moaned, liking the feeling, bearing down on that finger, wanting it to enter him deeper. Apparently sensing his desire, Don pushed in deeper, and began gently working the finger inside him, lubricating him, letting him get used to the sensation of being penetrated. Then, he withdrew the finger, and Tim could hear him using the lube again.

"I'm going to try two fingers, honey. You tell me if it's too tight, okay?"

"It feels good when you're in there," Tim said.

"It's gonna feel even better, sweetheart," he promised. Don began slowly easing the two fingers in and, for a moment, he felt as if he might have asked for a little more than he could handle. "You're doing great, beautiful," Don whispered in his ear. "We have as long as we need."

"It must be hard for you to wait so long," Tim said, knowing how grateful he was when Don was ready for Tim to enter him. His arousal had been close to its breaking point.

"Some things are worth it," he replied, kissing Tim's back, moving the fingers a bit.

The movement started to feel good, and when Don moved his fingers just the right way, it felt intensely good and Tim cried out, his back arching the pleasure was so intense. Don did it again, and Tim found himself gasping, blurting out some broken plea for Don to enter him, trying to take the fingers in deeper if it meant he'd feel that jolt of pleasure again.

"Relax, honey, you're going to feel stretched when I enter you. I'll stop anytime," he assured. Tim felt a different kind of pressure and stretching now as his body worked to accommodate Don's length. It felt better once he was at least partially inside, but it still felt full. As if he read Tim's mind, Don stopped, and rubbed his belly, around his navel and lower, firmly enough not to tickle, and enough to dispel the slight cramping he'd felt there.

He felt Don against him, and he knew they were fully joined.

"We're there, honey," Don said gently. "Relax and get used to the feeling. God, you feel so good. Better than I could have imagined," he added, and even if he was laying on the flattery a little, it did make Tim feel good, and it helped him relax. This was Don, and it wasn't going to hurt. Don wouldn't hurt him.

"Move a little. I think I'm ready."

"Slow and easy," Don whispered against his ear, then pulled back a bit and moved forward. He felt strained and a little challenged at first, but it wasn't painful. Don set a gentle pace and he was rubbing over that sweet spot that felt so good, and before long, he was meeting Donald's gentle thrusts, they were moving together, and Don's hand was wrapping around Tim's cock, pumping it in time with their thrusts. His climax was almost a surprise, he'd been so focused on each new sensation. It was intense and powerful and amazing, and he let himself shout and cry out Don's name and arch and writhe with the wanton pleasure of it.

They lay there a while, silent, Don still inside him, an arm flopped around his waist, his cheek pressed against Tim's back. As Don eased out of him, he couldn't suppress a little groan. Everything had felt so good, he wasn't prepared for something to not feel good. It wasn't terribly painful, but it did hurt a bit, and he felt a little sore now that it was over.

"I love you, sweetheart," Don whispered, stroking his hip, kissing his cheek from behind. "Everything okay?"

"It was wonderful," Tim said, turning over to face him. And it had been. A little rawness wasn't unusual, and it was minimal compared to the pleasure and intimacy they'd just shared.

"If you're feeling kind of uncomfortable, honey, that's pretty normal the first time. Are you in pain?"

"No, not at all, just a little sore. You were so good to me. I loved it...I don't want you to think you hurt me."

"Do you have any idea what it means to me that I'm the first man you ever let touch you that way?"

"I'm glad you're my first...my last, and my only, forever," he said, kissing Donald, pulling him close.

********

Don had a spring in his step as he hurried up the steps to his second floor apartment where he expected Timothy would be waiting for him. He'd completed all the paperwork and the written exam for his private investigator's license, and he'd even found office space. It was far from upscale, but it was adequate. His savings were dwindling, and it was the best he could afford for now, while keeping himself and Timothy in rent and groceries.

Timothy had been searching for a job since leaving the priesthood, but the economy wasn't his friend when it came to the job market. And while he was extremely well educated from his years in the seminary, and experienced in a wide range of social services and administrative activities from his time as a priest, he wasn't a licensed social worker or therapist. He'd been perfectly suited to a few things he applied for, but Don suspected that his religious background was potentially a turn-off for some organizations.

Timothy's parents hadn't exactly disowned him - his mother was as supportive and communicative with him as ever - but they weren't offering financial support, either. Not that he or Timothy asked for that. As a matter of fact, Don had begged Timmy not to go hat-in-hand to his affluent father asking for money, especially since his father hadn't accepted Timothy's recent life changes as well as his mother had. Don had taken Timmy away from the priesthood and then married him, and he had every intention of taking care of him and supporting them until they were on their feet. He knew Timothy would find his niche, but until he did, he would be safe and supported and as comfortable as Don could make them.

None of those mundane things could dampen his enthusiasm as he sniffed the large, bright bouquet of multicolored daisies he'd picked up at the grocery store on his way home. They didn't smell all that marvelous, and they were kind of scraggly, but someday they'd be roses and he'd be coming home to the kind of house Timmy deserved to have.

Don let himself in, and the smell of dinner cooking tweaked his nostrils. Timothy was in the kitchen, which was only separated from the living room by a small stretch of counter, where he was chopping vegetables for a salad. It was on the tip of Don's tongue to suggest tossing it all back in the fridge and going out for dinner, but the voice of logic reminded him they couldn't afford to throw out a meal in progress, and probably couldn't swing much more than dinner at a cheap restaurant anyway.

"Honey, I'm home!" he greeted cheerfully. All the worries about money and the future melted away when he saw his beautiful partner there, when he saw the sweet smile his flowers earned him, and when he collected his hello kiss.

"Dinner should be ready in a few minutes. Your timing is perfect."

"Eh, if it was perfect, I'd have gotten here earlier so we had time to fool around before dinner."

"We've got all evening after dinner," Timothy countered, finding a cheap plastic vase in the cupboard under the sink. "Donald, seriously?" He held up the vase. "If you're going to bring me flowers, you'll need to get a couple of decent vases," he complained, flashing Don a grin.

"What's this?" Don asked, picking up an imposing looking envelope containing some thick document, addressed to Timothy. At their apartment. Just having the same address with the man he loved made his heart flutter a bit.

"My walking papers from the Church. I'm officially laicized."

Don looked at Timothy, who was carefully not looking at him as he arranged the flowers.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

Like hell you are.

"Honey, it's okay if you're not."

"I don't regret us. Not for a second," he stated firmly, still talking to the flowers instead of Don.

"I know you don't, sweetheart." Don took Timmy's hands, held onto them, kept him from fussing with the flowers, and looked him in the eyes. "It's okay if this is hard for you. It was your life for a long time."

"I knew this wasn't going to be pretty. I didn't ask anyone's permission to be released. I just announced I was gay, in love with my male partner, and going off into the sunset. It shouldn't come as any big surprise that I'm not only laicized, but am not allowed to do much of anything in the Church, even as a parishioner."

"Did they kick you out of the whole Church?"

"I wasn't excommunicated, but I can't engage in any kind of ministry. I can't even be a lector or guide a Bible study group," he said, his voice shaking a bit.

"That's bullshit."

"The Church has rules. I not only broke every single one of them that apply to priests, but I didn't follow the proper procedures for leaving. I knew this was coming...I suspected it would be fairly stringent when it did come."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Don hugged him, and he hugged back, hanging on for a few long moments before stepping back.

"Maybe this would be easier to swallow if I had a job. It's like the last twenty years of my life suddenly don't count for much of anything."

"You're going to find something soon. I have a hunch. We're going to make it, honey. It's just tough right now. I found an office," he added, hoping that would make Timmy smile. It did.

"That's great, honey," he said, smiling. "It's something we can afford for a while?"

"Long enough for me to round up a client or two, I think. Of course, we may have to live in it if I don't," he added, chuckling. As much as he was trying to bolster Timmy, he needed a little of his partner's encouragement, because he didn't have a fucking clue where those clients were going to come from. He was hoping he might get some referrals from a few cop friends, but that was unlikely to make him rich anytime soon.

"You were a terrific cop," Timothy said, touching his face. "You'll be great at being a private investigator."

"Thanks," he said, kissing Timmy. "You have an interview tomorrow, don't you?"

"Yes, with Senator Glassman. I still think I'm reaching a bit. There have to be a lot of people with more experience in the field than I have applying for her chief aide position."

"She'd be crazy not to put your skills to work for her. You can learn the mechanics of the job. What politician doesn't need somebody who can work with people and raise money and organize everything for them?"

"Hopefully she'll see it that way, too," he replied, smiling, moving to check on the chili cooking on the stove. "She's one of my former parishioners from St. Mary's, so I'm hoping she's interviewing me because she's interested in me for the job, not because she feels sorry for an unemployed priest."

"She knows what you can do, Timothy. I have a good feeling about this."

"I'm kind of optimistic about it, too. I'm just afraid to get my hopes up."

"Oh, come on, take a chance. Let's get our hopes up. Even if it doesn't pan out, we will have gotten something out of it that way," he added, knowing the logic was a little warped, but feeling like they both needed a lift.

"Let's have dinner and you can take me to see the new office space," Timothy suggested.

"It's not ritzy. It's next to a karate school, over a strip mall."

"It's your first office. The next one will be classier. My mother always said you have to creep before you walk."

They shared a tasty meal of the tossed salad and chili, topped off with some ice cream for dessert. After dinner, Don took Timothy to the new office.

"We should get a picture taken together," Timothy said, sitting on the edge of what would become Don's desk. "Something we can put on our desks when we're both successful employed professionals again."

"That's a great idea."

"You were lucky to find a place that's furnished."

"Yeah, well, the furniture leaves a little to be desired."

"Once everything's cleaned up and your stuff is in here, it'll be fine. Besides, if I were hiring a PI, I wouldn't want to think I was paying for his cushy furniture."

"No danger of that here," Don replied, laughing. "There is one thing we could do to make this desk a little more appealing."

"What's that?"

"Christen it." Don stood there, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, grinning devilishly as the meaning of his words hit home. Timothy arched an eyebrow at him, and for a moment, he thought maybe he'd overestimated Timothy's erotic side. Then, Timothy calmly walked over to the office door and turned the lock. 

"There's a secretary's desk and a couple chairs here, too," he said. "This could take a while."

Years later, the broken spring in that secretary's chair would still make Don smile.

********

THE BEGINNING...

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