It was almost midnight when James Harland approached the carved oaken doors to the old church. He turned to look over his shoulder one last time. He was sure someone was following him, but saw only the dark, empty street and a few passing cars. He came to see Father Cahane, although he was sure that the priest was unaware that he knew his name. James Harland always took the time and trouble to find out such things; sometimes they came in handy. Every Wednesday night for the last month he came and each time he felt someone unseen had followed him. He might have admitted that his guilt could be causing this fixation, for he had, especially lately, a great deal of that to contend with.
That was what brought him to the old church right around the corner from his Wall Street office, today as well as all those other times. Beth. His first wife. How cruel he had been to her; how terrible and cruel. And now she was gone and he was sorry. She had given him her very soul and he had taken things more important than money: dignity, integrity, vitality and personal esteem. He had also cheated and beaten her, too many times to count. He was a bastard and he knew it. He took and he took and gave nothing in return for her devotion. He could be as sorry as he wanted to be, but a part of him knew that he couldn't change that any more than he could change the color of his blue eyes.
It was so cold for early October, the kind of chill that seeps through bones and spirits and lingers in the air. Autumn in New York could be very mild and pleasant, but not this year. Nothing this year had gone the way he had planned; neither his risky investments on margin nor his second marriage to one of Beth's former friends. He closed the heavy door quickly and entered the warm sanctuary flanked by candles and dark, wooden pews. As he made his way to the golden altar bedecked with flowers, he knelt and crossed himself. As he rose, a soft clicking sound made him turn around, and he saw an old woman approaching the pew nearest the door. She wore a heavy knitted shawl and her silvery hair was tied back in a bun. She was quickly lost in prayer and oblivious to his presence, grasping a rosary in one hand. James thought that he might have seen her before. He couldn't remember when; it didn't matter.
