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I hit on something with the ‘zodiac murders’ thing. Did Sergeant Fullam ask for more help?”
    “He did.”
    “You’ve helped him out before.” Donovan raised his eyebrows. “That’s kind of interesting.”
    “He told me you uncovered this astrological connection between the two bodies at the morgue.” The priest sipped his water. “My best pupil.”
    “I made it when I thought about scorpions and arrows. The missing organs clinched it.” Donovan gestured at the books. “Have you been building on my guess?”
    “For the moment, I’m at a loss. Astrological rituals are primarily concerned with fortunetelling. Some make reference to animal sacrifice, but human mutilation? Particular to zodiac signs? I have no idea.”
    “Joann and I are having dinner tonight, but I can give you a hand for a bit.” Donovan surveyed the room. “Where should I start?”
    “You had success the way you handled researching scorpions. Perhaps we ought follow that blueprint.”
    Donovan chuckled. “Blueprint? Not exactly. I studied stuff for hours before I got the bright idea to check out the body.”
    “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” the priest said. “Your consciousness had to become preoccupied for your subconscious to be inspired.”
    “So…God wants us to study fine print until our eyes cross before He’ll help?”
    “The time you feel was wasted enabled the Universe to unfold as it did, allowing you not only to save a man’s life, but to gain valuable information for our cause.”
    “I was lucky. I know how to throw a punch. Nothing supernatural about that.”
    “Perhaps.” Father Carroll sounded amused. “But you were faced with choices and you made the ones that produced those results. Either your instincts—free will—are the best I’ve ever seen, or there was a guiding hand behind your actions.”
    “Predestination.”
    “I believe it was a combination of the two. Free will allows us to make those choices, and if we choose as you did, we allow God to shape the world through our actions.”
    “And if we don’t?”
    “Then the world, as the unfortunate Mister Denschler and others discovered,” the priest gestured at the books, “can be shaped by something far more sinister.”

    ***

    The bar on Pearl Street was crowded with brokers and traders who hadn’t yet gone to catch their trains. Cornelius Valdes looked up from the vodka he’d been nursing and into the mirror behind the multicolored bottles. Joe Lopter was still there, against the wall, glad-handing other well-dressed men as he’d probably been doing for the last fifteen years.
    Not that I would know .
    Valdes wiped some condensation from his glass, eyes shifting to his own reflection. Dressed in suit and tie, he looked like many of the men in the bar. The double chin and paunch many of them possessed, and he’d been developing before everything had happened, were long gone however, carved away by a fifteen-year diet of government-dictated subsistence.
    At least I still have my hair.
    Dark and thick, it had recently begun to show salt in the pepper. Crow’s feet deepened the corners of his eyes. Their presence reminded Valdes of the good humor he’d possessed once, then lost, and now recently rediscovered.
    Fifteen years, eight months and four days later. Give or take.
    He watched Lopter swill the last of his drink, set the glass down and begin a round of good-bye handshakes. When he walked out the door to Pearl Street, Valdes drifted to the window to watch.
    Enjoy your freedom for now, Joe. It’s not your time.
    Yet.

    ***

    The following Wednesday evening, Donovan sat on his motorcycle outside of Joann’s building. He’d picked up the ring from Lars that afternoon, and although he didn’t plan to propose yet, he liked the feel of it against his thigh.
    Joann came out of the building, changed out of her work suit into jeans and a leather jacket that were more appropriate for motorcycle riding. Her hair was tied loosely up, and