by Alex Kava
He touched her face gently, holding her eyes with an intensity that made her feel as though she was the only woman in the world—at least, for the moment. She could easily have stopped the kiss, had meant to when he first leaned down. But when his lips brushed hers, all her energy focused on keeping her knees from buckling. When she didn’t protest, his mouth caught hers in a wet, soft kiss filled with so much urgency and emotion that she felt certain the room was spinning. Even after his mouth left hers, she kept her eyes closed, trying to steady her breathing, trying to stop the spinning.
“I love you, Maggie O’Dell.”
Her eyes flew open. His face was still close to hers, his eyes serious. She saw a bit of boyish apprehension and knew how hard those words had been to say. She pulled away, only now realizing that, other than his fingers on her face and his mouth on hers, he hadn’t touched her anywhere else. Which made her retreat disappointingly easy.
“Nick, we barely know each other.” It was still hard to breathe. How could one simple kiss take her breath so completely away?
“I’ve never felt this way before, Maggie. And it’s not just because you’re unavailable. It’s something I can’t even explain.”
“Nick…”
“Please, just let me finish.”
She waited, braced herself and leaned against the dresser. The same dresser she had clung to the night they had come so dangerously close to making love.
“I know it’s only been a week, but I can assure you, I’m not impulsive when it comes to…well, sex, yes, but not this…not love. I’ve never felt this way before. And I’ve certainly never told a woman I loved her before.”
It sounded like a line, but she knew from his eyes that it was true. She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a hand to stop her.
“I don’t expect anything I say to compromise your marriage. But I didn’t want you to leave without knowing, just in case it did make a difference. And I guess even if it doesn’t, I still want you to know that I…that I am madly, deeply, hopelessly, head over heels in love with you, Maggie O’Dell.”
It was his turn to wait. She couldn’t speak. Her fingers clawed at the dresser top, keeping her from going to him and wrapping her arms around him.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” His eyes told her he meant it.
“I obviously have feelings for you.” She struggled with the words. She hated the thought of never seeing him again. But what did she know about being in love? Hadn’t she been in love with Greg, once upon a time? Hadn’t she vowed to love him forever?
“Things are really complicated right now,” she heard herself say and wanted to kick herself. He had opened his heart to her, taken such a risk, and here she was being practical and rational.
“I know,” he said. “But maybe they won’t always be complicated.”
“It does make a difference, Nick,” she said, making a feeble attempt at correcting her ambiguity.
He seemed relieved by that simple revelation, as though it was more than he had ever hoped for.
“You know,” he said, sounding more comfortable while her heart screamed at her to tell him how she felt. “You’ve helped me see a lot of things about myself, about life. I’ve been following in these huge, deep footsteps my father keeps leaving behind and…and I don’t want to do that anymore.”
“You’re a good sheriff, Nick.” She ignored the tug at her heart. Maybe it was better this way.
“Thanks, but it’s not what I want,” he continued. “I admire how much your job means to you. Your dedication—your stubborn dedication, I might add. I never realized before how much I want something like that, something to believe in.”
“So what does Nick Morrelli want to be when he grows up?” she asked, smiling at him when she really wanted to touch him.
“When I was in law school I worked at the Suffolk County district attorney’s office in Boston. They always said I was welcome to come back. It’s been a long time, but I think I might give them a call.”
Boston. So close, she couldn’t help thinking.
“That sounds great,” she said, already calculating the miles between Quantico and Boston.
“I’m going to miss you,” he said simply.
His words caught her off guard, just when she thought she was safe. He must have seen the panic in her eyes, because he quickly checked his watch.
“I should get you to the airport.”
“Right.” Their eyes met again. One last tug, one last chance to tell him. Or would there be plenty of chances?
She brushed past him and closed down the computer, unplugging cords, snapping the lid shut and shoving the computer into its case. He grabbed her suitcase. She grabbed her garment bag. They were at the door when the phone rang. At first, she thought about ignoring it and leaving. Suddenly, she hurried back and grabbed the receiver.
“Maggie O’Dell.”
“O’Dell, I’m glad I caught you.”
It was Director Cunningham. She hadn’t talked to him in days. “I was just on my way out.”
“Good. Get back here as quickly as possible. I’m having Delaney and Turner meet you at the airport.”
“What’s going on?” She glanced at Nick, who came back into the room, his face filled with concern. “You make it sound like I need bodyguards,” she joked, then tensed when his silence lasted too long.
“I wanted you to know before you hear it on the news.”
“Hear what?”
“Albert Stucky has escaped. They were transferring him from Miami to a maximum-security facility in North Florida. Stucky ended up biting the ear off one guard and stabbing the other with—get this—a wooden crucifix. Then he blew both their heads off with their own service revolvers. Seems the day before, a Catholic priest visited Stucky in his cell. He had to be the one who left the crucifix. I don’t want you to worry, Maggie. We got the bastard before, we’ll get him again.”
But the only thing Maggie heard was, “Albert Stucky has escaped.”
EPILOGUE
One week later
Chíuchín, Chile
He couldn’t believe how glorious the sun felt. His bare feet maneuvered the rocky shore. The minor cuts and scrapes were a small price to pay for the feel of the warm waves lapping at his feet. The Pacific Ocean stretched forever, its water rejuvenating, its power overwhelming.
Behind him, the mountains of Chile isolated this paradise, where poor, struggling farmers were as starved for attention as they were for salvation. The tiny parish included fewer than fifty families. It was perfect. Since he’d arrived, he hardly noticed the throbbing in his head. Perhaps it was gone for good this time.
A group of brown-skinned boys, clad only in shorts, chased a ball while they raced toward him. Two of them recognized him from the morning’s mass. They waved and called out to him. He laughed at their mispronunciation of his name. When they gathered around him, he petted their black hair and smiled down at them. The one with the torn, blue shorts had such sad eyes, reminding him of himself.
“My name,” he instructed, “is Father Keller. Not Father Killer.”
MIRA Books invites you to turn the page for an exclusive preview of
A NECESSARY EVIL
the thrilling new novel by Alex Kava featuring the return of Father Keller
Available in hardcover February 2006.
Friday, July 2
Eppley Airport
Omaha, Nebraska
Monsignor William O’Sullivan was certain no one had recognized him. So why was his forehead damp? He hadn’t gone through the security checkpoint yet. Instead, he had decided to wait until it got closer to his flight time. Just in case someone did recognize him. On this side, he could still pretend to be picking up a colleague rather than admit he was leaving.
He fidgeted in the plastic chair, clutching the leather portfolio closer to his chest. So close, so tight it seemed to crush his lungs, causing that pain again, a pain he
may have dismissed too quickly as heartburn. But of course, it was only heartburn. He simply wasn’t used to eating such a large meal for lunch, but he knew the flight to New York and the later one to Rome would include cardboard renditions of food, causing much more damage to his overly sensitive stomach than Sophia’s leftover meat loaf and mashed potatoes did.
Yes, surely the leftovers were responsible for his discomfort, he told himself, and yet his eyes darted around the busy airport terminal, looking for a bathroom. He remained seated, not wanting to move until he examined and found an acceptable path. He shoved a thumb and index finger up under his wire-rim glasses to dig the fatigue out of his eyes, and then he began his search again.
He’d avoid the shortest route, not wanting to pass the exotic black woman handing out “reading material”—as she called it—to anyone too polite to say no. She wore colorful beads in her hair, what looked like her Sunday best dress with splashes of purple that made her hips even larger, but sensible shoes. Her smooth, deep voice almost made it a song when she asked, “Can I offer you some reading material?” And to everyone—including those who huffed their responses and rushed by—she greeted them with yet another melodic, polite stanza, “You have a most pleasant evening.”
Monsignor O’Sullivan knew what her reading material was without seeing it. He supposed she was a sort of present-day missionary, in her own right. If he passed her, would she sense their connection? Both of them ministers, distributors of God’s word. One in sensible shoes, another with a portfolio stuffed with secrets.
Better to avoid her.
He checked the Krispy Kreme counter. A long line of zombies waited patiently for their afternoon dose of energy, like drug addicts getting one more shot before their flight. To his right he watched the bookstore entrance, quickly glancing away when a young man in a baseball cap looked in his direction. Had the youth recognized him, despite his street clothes? His stomach churned while his eyes studied his shoes. His cotton knit polo—a gift from his sister—was now sticking to his wet back. Over the loudspeakers came the repetitive message warning travellers not to leave their luggage unattended. He clutched the portfolio, only now discovering that his palms were also slick with sweat. How in the world had he believed he could just leave without being noticed? That he could just get on a plane and be free, be absolved of all his indiscretions?
But when Monsignor O’Sullivan dared to look again, the young man was gone. Passengers rushed by without a glance. Even the black woman greeting and passing out her reading material seemed totally unaware of his presence.
Paranoid. He was just being paranoid. Thirty-seven years of dedication to the church, and what did he get for it? Accusations and finger-pointing when he deserved accolades of respect and gratitude. When he’d tried to explain his predicament to his sister, the anger had overwhelmed him, and all he had managed to tell her in their brief conversation was to have the title of the family’s estate changed to her name only. “I won’t let those bastards take our home.”
He wished he were there now. It was nothing extravagant—a two-story split-timber on three acres in the middle of Connecticut with walking trails surrounded by trees and mountains and sky. It was the place he felt closest to God, and the irony made him smile. The irony that beautiful cathedrals and huge congregations had led him further and further away from God.
A squawk coming from near the escalator startled him back to reality. It sounded like a tropical bird, but was instead a toddler in full temper tantrum, his mother pulling him along unfazed as if she couldn’t hear the screech. It grated on Monsignor O’Sullivan’s nerves, scratching them raw and resetting the tension so tight in his jaw that he feared he’d start grinding his teeth. It was enough to get him to his feet. He no longer cared about accessible paths, and he made his way to the restroom.
Thankfully, it was empty, yet he glanced under every stall to make certain. He set the portfolio at his feet, leaning it against his left leg, as if needing to maintain some contact. He removed his glasses and placed them on the corner of the sink. Then, avoiding his own blurred reflection, he waved his hands under the faucet, his frustration fueled by the lack of response. He swiped his hands back and forth, finally eliciting a short burst of water, barely wetting his fingertips. He swiped again. Another short burst. This time he closed his eyes and splashed as much as he could on his face, the cool dampness beginning to calm his nausea, beginning to quiet the sudden throbbing in his temples.
His hands groped for the paper towel dispenser, ripping off more than he needed and gently dabbing, disgusted by the smell and harsh feel of the recycled paper. He hadn’t even heard the bathroom door open. When he glanced in the mirror, Monsignor O’Sullivan was startled to see a blurred figure standing behind him.
“I’m almost finished,” he said, thinking he might be in the way, though there were other sinks. Why did he need to use this one? He noticed a faint metallic odor. Perhaps it was a member of the cleaning crew. An impatient one at that. He reached for his glasses, accidentally knocking them to the floor. Before he could bend down to retrieve them, an arm came around his waist. All he saw was a glint of silver. Then he felt the burn, the streak of pain, shooting up through his chest.
At the same time there was a whisper in his right ear—soft and gentle. “You’re already finished, Monsignor O’Sullivan.”
11:50 p.m.
Venezuela
He turned up Vivaldi on his cheap boom box and swatted at yet another mosquito. This one had gotten him good, splattering more blood, his own blood, and adding one more bump, reducing his overly sensitive skin to that of a blister-riddled leper. Father Michael Keller had learned a long time ago to ignore the constant itch, just as he had learned to deal with his body being sweat drenched even after his evening shower. Instead, he concentrated on the simple things, the few pleasures he counted on, like Vivaldi, and he closed his eyes, letting the strings stroke him and calm him. It was all mind over matter. And he had discovered that his mind could convince him of anything, if he only let it.
He continued his evening ritual. He lit several citronella candles and checked the kettle of water on his hot plate. His white shirt, made fresh and crisp by one of the village women, was already sticking to his back. He could feel the sweat trickling down his chest, but still he looked forward to his evening cup of scorching-hot tea. Tonight he selected chamomile from the package his Internet friend had sent him. What a treat it had been to receive the box with a variety of loose-leaf teas, jelly-filled cookies and shortbreads. He had been saving it, rationing it, wanting to savor it as well as savor the idea that someone he had never met would send him such a wonderful gift, such a perfect gift.
He scooped just the right amount into his mesh-ball infuser, then dunked it in the hot water, covering the mug and letting it steep. He lifted the cover, letting the steam rise into his face, breathing in the delicious aroma. He pulled out the infuser, tapping it against the lip of the mug, making it surrender every last drop.
A lone mosquito ignored the citronella scent and continued to buzz around his head. Outside, an evening shower added another layer of humidity to the stifling heat. But he sat back with his tea and his music and for a brief moment he felt as if he truly were in heaven.
He hadn’t finished his first cup when a noise outside his door startled him. He sat up and waited for a knock, but one never came. Odd. It was unusual for him to be summoned at this time of night, and no one stopped by without an invitation. They were respectful of his privacy, apologetic even when there was an emergency.
Maybe it had been the wind. He sat back again and listened to the rain. Tonight it tapped soft and gentle on the tin roof. He listened, and he realized there was no wind.
Curiosity made him set his mug aside. He stood, but stopped suddenly, feeling a bit light-headed. Maybe it was the heat. He steadied himself, then approached the door slowly, quietly, still listening if anyone was on the other side. It was silly to be so paranoid. No, not paranoid
—simply cautious. Something else he had learned long ago out of necessity.
He unlocked the door and swung it open with such force he startled the small boy and almost knocked him to the ground.
“Arturo?” he said, and he reached out to steady the boy.
He recognized him as one of his faithful altar boys. He was smaller than others his age, thin and frail with sad dark eyes and always so anxious to please. He looked even more vulnerable, standing in the rain holding out the brown cardboard box.
“What are you doing here?” Then noticing Arturo’s confused look, he repeated, “¿Arturo, qué hace usted aquí?”
“Sí, para usted, Padre.” Arturo presented the package with outstretched arms, smiling and obviously proud to have been entrusted with this mission.
“A package for me? But who? ¿Quién lo mandó?” he asked, taking the package from the boy and immediately noticing how light it felt.
“No sé. Un viejo…old man,” he added.
Father Keller squinted in the dark to see down the worn path to the church. There was no one. Whoever had given Arturo the package was gone now.
“Gracias, Arturo,” Father Keller said, patting him on the head, thinking the boy had so little in his life he was glad to make him smile. Arturo reminded him of himself as a boy, wanting and needing someone to notice them and care about them. “Hasta domingo,” he told him with brief stroke of the boy’s cheek.
“Sí, Padre.”
The boy was still smiling when he ran off down the path, quickly disappearing into the black mist.
He picked up the box, finding himself a bit anxious. Perhaps it was another special package from his Internet friend in the States. More teas and cookies. Arturo said it had been an old man who had given him the package, but it could have been a substitute postman, someone Arturo didn’t know. To young boys, anyone over thirty was old. But there was no mailing label this time. No postage stamp—nothing at all.