The Dark End of the Street: New Stories of Sex and Crime by Today's Top Authors Read Online Free PDF Page B

systematic theology, had been a legend around the quad.
    Somebody else drew her away, wanting to discuss her reasons for choosing the contemporary rather than the traditional form of the blessing at the end of the service. Stumbling through an explanation of how, through force of habit, she had said “among” rather than “amongst,” Amanda heard the two women murmuring behind her:
    â€œI don’t think anybody’s told her.”
    â€œIt’s such a shame, poor lamb. Well, she’ll find out.”
    III
    After ninety minutes—the coffee hour lasting nearly as long as the service—Amanda escaped gratefully to her office, a cramped, sunlit chamber whose three leaded windows overlooked the pretty churchyard. The walls were lined with shelves, and most of the books seemed to belong to the church: Amanda had little room for her own. There was a fireplace but it was sealed. There were several closets, most of them stuffed with peeling hymnals and ancient lists of prayer requests. One closet featured a mousetrap in the corner, a discovery she did not consider auspicious.
    Hunting for personal space, she opened a drawer in one of the shelves, and found candles. In another she discovered several small cans. She opened one and took a whiff of the clayey powder inside then thanked Whoever was possibly paying attention that TSM, for all its reputation as a church in the old “bells and smells” tradition, had forsaken the use of incense, which secretly gave her headaches.
    â€œIt’s agarwood,” said a voice from behind her. “Made by Benedictine monks. The finest incense available.”
    She turned to find a fortyish man in slacks and dress shirt and tie, but no jacket. His hair was sandy in color, and at first she thought him one of the church’s few white congregants. Looking closer, she realized that he was black, but with skin so light in hue that he might easily have passed.
    â€œI don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” she said, fumbling to close the can like a child caught searching for Christmas presents.
    â€œChristopher Taite.” His grip was strong yet somehow patient, the gaze of his light-gray eyes steady yet appraising. Despite willing herself not to, she noticed that he wore no wedding band.
    â€œI saw you at the service,” Amanda said, a bit stupidly. “You sat in the back.”
    He had no comment on this intelligence. He had managed, in a single smooth movement, to transfer the canister from her hands to his. Now he unscrewed the top and inhaled.
    She waited for his head to snap backward. Instead, he nodded approval. “Seems fresh,” he said.
    â€œPerhaps you might consider reinstating the use of incense during mass. It seems unfortunate to let it go to waste.” He gestured toward the door. “I believe that the congregation would be appreciative.”
    â€œI’m a little surprised that they ever stopped using it. This seems”—she searched for an inoffensive way to put the point—“a place where traditions are important.”
    The visitor nodded, handed the container back to her. The solemn expression on his pale features never flickered. “The traditions are indeed important, but the traditional use of incense ended because of a rather trivial misunderstanding.”
    Amanda held on to the jar, not sure whether returning it to the drawer required some ritual with which she was unfamiliar. She sensed that Christopher Taite was the sort of man who would correct her, patiently and ruthlessly. “Which misunderstanding is that?”
    â€œThey stopped using incense,” he said, “after the murder.”
    IV
    They were walking in the churchyard, Amanda and her new acquaintance. The graves, she soon realized, were laid out mainly along the high outer wall, on either side of the cinder path. In the middle were trees and flowers, lovingly tended. It occurred to Amanda that none