The Reaper

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"May God forgive you."

"You don't mean that, Bishop. You want me to roast in hell. I can see it in your eyes."

The bishop muttered, "That's what you deserve. You're the worst case I've come across. A wicked young man."

"You have evidence?"

"In the car. A dossier this size." Actually the shape the bishop made with his hands looked rather like a blessing.

"Then it's a fair cop."

The young rector was taking it well-too well, flippantly even. He sat serenely on his swivel chair in his comfortable office in Foxford Rectory, his Wiltshire home. The bishop's summing-up was true. The Reverend Otis Joy was young, still in his twenties, and wicked. The afternoon sun through the leaded windows cast black bars over him, yet he managed to look benign, thanks to a generous mouth with laughter lines at the edges, a fine straight nose and deep-set eyes of that pale yellowish brown that is disarmingly called hazel. A sharp intelligence lurked there.

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