Just before midnight Father Cedric Anselm opened the bap-
tistry door and looked out through the haze over the courtyard
of St. John s. A meager drizzle barely penetrated the thick
L.A. smog. Only the most persistent drops leaked through，
disappearing into the steam rising off the hot asphalt.
The sinner was out there. Seen or unseen， he was out there，
making his way from the city that lay shrouded in the mist，
the city of fallen angels. On this night， to this church in the
heart of the barrio， he would come. Penitent and afraid， he
would come for Anselm s sacrament.
The priest stepped out into the rain. He hoped it would be
cool， that it would brace him for what lay ahead. Instead， it
was warm--like the artificial rain in a hothouse. If only the
heavens would open up and wash it all away， he thought.
Angry torrents， another Deluge--that was what this world
needed: a fresh start， a new beginning， a baptism. Not this
impotent drizzle， dripping like sweat through cheesecloth.
A sound came up from the street. It was him. Anselm
looked furtively back at the rectory and hoped the young
pastor， Father Santori， was sound asleep by now.
Anselm moved quickly down the steps of the baptistry as
the courtyard filled with a pale light. Behind him loomed the
bell tower， rising prominently over the barrio cityscape. It
was the most commanding feature of the Mission-style
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