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beard trimmer from the rack and shaved his beard on the lowest setting. He did the same with his hair, one setting higher. He washed his head, face and neck, grabbed a new towel and dried and tossed it into the basket. He examined his reflection in the mirror. Satisfied, he exited his office and marched to his apostolic apartment.  
    A couple of months ago, he had sent his own investigator to check on Father Watson’s claims, and the man had come back with some bad news. The boys’ wounds weren’t from demons or somehow self-inflicted. Watson was at it again. He sighed as he unlocked and swung open the door to his luxurious apartment.
    He kicked out his shoes and shuffled over the shiny parquet floor to his modern kitchen, busying himself with making a sandwich and some strong coffee, humming as he worked. After he ate, he cleaned up, washed his plates and cutlery and vacuumed up the crumbs.
    He showered, got dressed in a pair of black pants and a black T-shirt, removed a black cassock from a plastic bag; he had had it laundered the previous day. He swung it over his arm.
    Next, he opened a cupboard and removed a small cool box. He filled it with ice and removed a silicon ice mold from the freezer, gently scrunched it into the ice and tossed more ice on top, humming the Gaude Maria Virgo as he worked.  
    He checked himself in the mirror, nodded, picked up the cool box and exited his apartment with a buoyant bounce in his step.  
    He loved his job.  
    Retribution was such uplifting work.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

    Father Timothy Casanellas mounted his bicycle and set off for his afternoon ride, as was his daily ritual. He greeted the red-faced guard at the Bronze Gate, said a silent prayer to his health and headed into the city. “Lay off on the red wine for a while, Alfonzo,” he called over his shoulder. The man smiled and waved.
    Father Watson had been staying at the Four Seasons Plaza hotel and Casanellas typed the number into his cell phone. It was answered after two rings. “Father Ed Watson please, room five-oh-two.”
    The efficient receptionist transferred him. “Hello?” Watson answered, slightly out of breath. Casanellas disconnected the call and glided to a stop, then chained the bike to a lamp pole. He removed the SIM card from his phone and tossed it into a dustbin. He pulled out the silicone mold from the cool box, wiped it dry and dumped the cool box and the cloth in the trash as well. The mold he put into a plastic bag and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
    He sauntered to the hotel, took the elevator to the fifth floor and marched to the front of the second door to his right. Humming, he removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, slipped them on and then knocked on the door.  
    Father Watson opened, Bible in his hand, an expression of concern on his face. “Father Casanellas, what a surprise, what are you doing here?”
    “I have a couple of details I need to iron out with you. Mind if I come in?” Casanellas asked pushing past the man and closing the door behind him.
    “No, off course not,” Watson said, turned around and plodded into the hotel room, his shoulders slumped. He flopped into a sofa, clutching the Bible to his chest.
    Casanellas cleared his throat. “Look, Father. I know you were convicted of child abuse twelve years ago.”
    Watson’s features tensed. “What do you mean?”
    “I have access to all your records.”
    The man sighed, looked down as he straightened the pleat on his pants. “That was a long time ago,” he whispered.
    “And you were forgiven your sins. Apparently rehabilitated,” he said, sitting down beside the older man.
    Watson snorted.
    “You are trying to cover up your latest transgressions by making it look like a demon is abusing the kids,” Casanellas said, folding his leg over his knee and leaning back in the chair.
    The man’s jowls flapped like a bulldog’s. “I’m not, it’s the truth. An evil spirit is wreaking havoc—“
    “Would you like