Alex Kava Bundle

by Alex Kava

  “You can make out the date at the bottom if you use this magnifying glass,” Gibson told Timmy as he handed him the glass and held the medallion up to the sunlight.

  “Wow! Ten ninety-six? That’s old. Did it cost a lot?”

  “Nah. I don’t think the guy knew what it was.” Truth was, Gibson wasn’t sure it was the real deal, and Timmy wouldn’t know the difference. He pointed to the engraving again. “This part is Latin.” He ran his fingertip over the top of the medallion. “It’s something about courage and honor. Only a few of these were given out by Pope Urban II. I found a picture of it on a Web site that has a bunch of stuff about the Crusades. Pope Urban II’s supposedly the one who came up with the First Crusade.”

  “Yeah, I like reading stuff about the Crusades and the Knights Templar. Or anything about medieval times. My mom thinks it’s silly and violent and stuff, but I just think it’s really interesting.”

  Just then Gibson noticed Timmy’s eyes wandering over to his computer screen. He had been checking out Gibson’s room since they got here. Gibson didn’t mind. It wasn’t like Timmy seemed freaked out by the mess or any of Gibson’s collections. But his eyes kept going back to the computer screen. Gibson did a quick panic glance when he realized there might be another crazy instant message. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. Now Timmy looked embarrassed, like he had been caught at something he shouldn’t be doing.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be nosy or anything. It’s just that…that icon.” Timmy pointed to the skull and crossbones that Gibson had moved to the bottom right of the rest of his icons. Even with the others and at the bottom it still stood out.

  “It’s just a game,” Gibson said, pretending it was no big deal, not wanting to explain. One of the rules was that you didn’t tell anyone about the game. You couldn’t talk about it except with other invited players. He reached over and closed the lid of the laptop.

  “Sorry,” Timmy said again, only now he was staring at Gibson. “I didn’t mean anything—”

  “It’s no big deal.” Gibson picked up the medallion again and put it in the box. Maybe it was time for Timmy to go.

  “It’s just…” The kid was still stuttering. “I play that game, too.”

  “What?”

  “The game.”

  “This isn’t just an ordinary game,” Gibson told him, trying to figure out what Timmy meant.

  “I know it’s not. It’s by invitation only. You got an invitation to play, right?”

  Now Gibson was staring at Timmy and the kid’s eyes didn’t blink, didn’t look away. Was it possible? Everybody who played had almost been imaginary to him, sort of like the game itself. All of a sudden it was becoming way too real.

  “How’d you get an invitation?” Gibson asked, letting it sound like the test he meant it to be.

  “I was surfing Web sites one day and I got an e-mail that asked me if I wanted to play a game.”

  “Yeah? Who was it from?”

  Timmy hesitated, and Gibson thought it was because he couldn’t fake his way past this question.

  “It was from someone who calls himself The Sin Eater.”

  “Jesus,” Gibson whispered. He couldn’t believe it. It was true. “Did you…” He wasn’t sure how to ask, but if the rules were the same for all of them…“Did you have to submit a name?”

  Again, Timmy hesitated, and this time he looked away for a brief moment as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to confide anything more. Finally, he said, “Yeah, I did.”

  “Mine got killed,” Gibson blurted out as if it had been festering for too long and suddenly exploded from his mouth without warning.

  “Yeah, I’m supposed to start plotting to kill mine.”

  “No, no,” Gibson said and he could feel a sense of panic returning along with his confession. “I mean really killed. Not just playing around. Not just part of the game.”

  “You mean like for real? He’s dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you do it?”

  Gibson didn’t know how to answer that. He sort of shrugged and looked away. “I wanted him dead,” he said.

  “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Yeah. I saw him.” This time Gibson met Timmy’s stare and he could see the realization finally coming into his eyes. “I was at the airport on Friday,” he explained, hoping that was enough. And it was. He could see his new friend knew exactly what he was talking about. Of course he did. It had been all over the news all weekend. Gibson remembered Timmy saying that his mom was a reporter for the Omaha World Herald.

  They were both quiet for what seemed like a long time to Gibson. They stared at each other, glancing away as if to think and then looking back to each other with knowing, frantic eyes. With guilty eyes.

  Finally Timmy broke the silence. “Do you think mine’s dead?”

  “I don’t know,” Gibson answered in almost a whisper. “But if he isn’t, I bet he’s gonna be.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Washington, D.C.

  Gwen Patterson accepted the glass of water Detective Julia Racine offered. Gwen sat on Dena’s leather sofa, her legs still spread apart, her body bent forward and ready to resume the position of head between her legs even though the nausea had subsided. When Racine continued to stand over her, Gwen took a sip, thinking she needed to convince all of them that she would be okay, that there would be no more vomit to mess up the crime scene.

  She wasn’t sure who ended up cleaning the kitchen sink. She just kept telling herself, better there than in the garbage can. Racine had handed her a damp paper towel and then the glass of water. Had Gwen remembered what Maggie had said about the detective, she would have realized that, of course, Racine wasn’t waiting to make sure she was okay. It wasn’t until she saw Racine’s foot tapping that it dawned on Gwen that the detective wanted to know what was going on.

  “Tell me again why you came here.”

  Without looking up, Gwen gave her the same answer, hoping that instead of sounding rehearsed it would only sound as if she was growing tired of repeating the same answers. “She didn’t show up for work. I left phone messages for her and she didn’t return my calls. It’s not like her to just not show up. I was worried.” It was all true. And yet, she had no idea how she would begin to tell the rest of the story. She had gone over it in her mind again and again, realizing how bizarre it sounded. What was worse, she had nothing—not even a match of fingerprints to back up her story.

  “And you just happen to have a key?”

  “Yes,” Gwen said. It was easier to just answer Racine’s questions. Especially right now while the dizziness and nausea took roller-coaster turns through her body.

  “So you came in,” Racine said, hands on her hips, foot still tapping. Her voice kept calm even as it remained somewhat abrasive, but Gwen thought it was due to impatience rather than anger. “She wasn’t here, so you went on into the kitchen and checked the trash bin?”

  Gwen looked up at her and dragged her fingers through her hair, starting to feel her own frustration. “I looked around. When we got to the kitchen, Harvey went to the cabinet door and started pawing at it.”

  “And what about that? Do you always bring your dog with you?”

  Gwen reached over and gave him a pat. He had stayed by her side the entire time, finally lying down when he realized they weren’t leaving.

  “He’s not my dog. I’m watching him for a friend.” Suddenly it occurred to her that just because she knew Julia Racine, it didn’t mean Racine knew her. Gwen added, “He’s Maggie’s dog. Maggie O’Dell.”

  “Agent Maggie O’Dell?”

  “Yes, she had to leave for Nebraska this morning. Maggie often leaves Harvey with me when she’s out of town.”

  Racine turned her attention to Harvey, and Gwen could see her softening a bit. Up until now the detective had ignored Harvey. Now she bent down to scratch behind his ears.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t recognize you, buddy,” Racine said in a tone
Gwen hadn’t heard her use before, a kind and gentle tone. “We spent about eight hours in my car yesterday, didn’t we, kiddo? I should have recognized you.”

  When Racine stood, she glanced around as if to make sure none of her crew had witnessed the exchange. Her change of attitude toward Harvey, however, didn’t extend to Gwen. The detective was all business again.

  “The victim didn’t have a roommate. Did she mention a boyfriend?”

  “Yes. She said she was seeing someone new.”

  “Did she mention his name?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know if she was seeing him this weekend?”

  “She had plans with him on Saturday evening.” She almost wished Racine would ask more difficult questions.

  “Do you know how she met him? Was it over the Internet?”

  “She never told me how they met.” It was the truth. She couldn’t tell Racine that Dena had met her new beau at work, at her office, because that would only be speculating. Maybe it wasn’t even Rubin Nash. After all, the fingerprints hadn’t matched up.

  “Funny she wouldn’t tell you more about this new boyfriend,” Racine said, crossing her arms, “especially since she felt close enough to give you a key to her place.”

  Gwen avoided the detective’s eyes. Would she be able to tell that Gwen knew very little about her assistant? Instead of responding, she focused on the crime lab technician in the kitchen. He had been removing the garbage from the trash bin piece by piece and now stood staring at the bin, perhaps contemplating how to remove Dena’s head without destroying any other evidence.

  “She was supposed to go to a nightclub last night with one of her friends,” Gwen finally offered. Was it possible the killer wasn’t even one of her patients?

  “Do you know which one?”

  “She may have told me, but I don’t remember. She said she was going to check out the new one.”

  “And I don’t suppose you know the name of the friend she was going with?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  The technician reached both of his gloved hands into the trash bin, and Gwen began to feel clammy and light-headed all over again. But she couldn’t take her eyes away. She was mesmerized. She knew she should look away. Up until now her mind had fooled her into believing Dena had been murdered and stuffed into her own trash bin. But she knew that wasn’t true. She knew it was only Dena’s decapitated head. Just like the others. She knew that and still she gasped when she saw the technician lift the plastic bag out, a plastic bag big enough only for a head.

  She felt Racine’s hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t look up at the detective. Her eyes stayed with the plastic bag the entire time it took for the technician to remove it and place it into a small black body bag. Did they have special ones for heads? she couldn’t help wondering.

  Still not looking up at Racine, Gwen said, “Dena always hated taking out the garbage at the office.” It was an absolutely ridiculous thing to say.

  CHAPTER 44

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Gibson pulled out the shoe box from under his bed. He turned up the volume on his boom box to sing along with his favorite track of this CD, Stray Cats Strutting. He was trying to keep his mind on something, anything other than the game that was getting ready to begin in the next half hour.

  He had the house to himself. After dinner his mom had gone off to her poetry class. His annoying little brother, Tyler had escaped to one of his friend’s to shoot off leftover firecrackers. Though he wouldn’t tattle to their mom, Gibson knew that’s what Tyler was up to. He had seen him sneak a whole box of matches from the kitchen junk drawer while their mom scooped up spaghetti from the pot on the stove and onto their plates.

  Yep, whole house to himself, all the peace and quiet he normally would beg for, but tonight he wished he had something, anything, to distract him. He was hoping the music and his collection might do just that.

  He set the box on his desk, next to his computer, trying to ignore the computer screen and still catching himself glancing at it again and again as if expecting it to flash with an instant message any minute. Maybe he expected to get caught for talking to Timmy about the game. Caught and punished. Admitting he had seen Monsignor O’Sullivan’s dead body felt like he was also admitting the guilt that came along with it. He was guilty. He shouldn’t just be caught, he should be punished. And yet, the computer screen remained the same.

  He started taking each item out of the box, carefully setting them one by one on the desk. Then he took out the can of Brasso metal polish, the soft cloth and box of Q-tips he used to clean them. It wasn’t quite as elaborate as Sister Kate’s collection, but hey, he had to start somewhere.

  So far he owned three medallions, two coins and one eight-inch silver crucifix. The message from the guy on eBay that he had bought the crucifix from said it had been adhered to a knight’s shield during the Crusades, that he had drawings and sketches that showed similar ones and that this one had the black welding spots on the back.

  Gibson wasn’t sure he believed him, but he got the medallion for less than he expected to pay, and even if it wasn’t from a knight’s shield, it was pretty cool. It was definitely old. He spent almost three days cleaning the tarnish from all the intricate grooves. If he didn’t know it was a crucifix, Gibson would have guessed it was a dagger of some kind. Maybe he’d take it in to show Sister Kate. Yeah, maybe he’d take his entire small collection in to show her. He liked that idea.

  He looked around his room, trying to remember where he had thrown his backpack. He dragged it with him everywhere, lacing it onto the handles of his bike or throwing it over his shoulder. It was a reflex action, like putting on one of his baseball caps. But he hardly ever looked in it, stuffing things in the side pockets like his keys and spare change. It probably needed to be cleaned out. He found it by the door to his closet where he had also kicked off his tennis shoes. And yeah, the backpack was bulging. He’d never fit his collection in there even if he put it all in a smaller box.

  He threw the backpack on his bed, unzipped the main compartment as well as all the side pockets. He started digging everything out, separating the trash and shaking his head at the stupid stuff he couldn’t believe he still had in there. The bulge in the main compartment was something he didn’t recognize. Definitely something he didn’t own. He didn’t know where it’d come from. Who the hell put it in his backpack?

  Gibson pulled out a brown leather portfolio, tossed it onto his bed and stared at it. How did the frickin’ thing get into his backpack?

  CHAPTER 45

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Maggie didn’t get to her hotel room until almost midnight. She had to hand it to Cunningham, the junior suite at the Embassy Suites was more than the standard comfort level that she was used to on the road. It was also only a few blocks from the police station at the edge of a downtown area Pakula had called the Old Market. It was a quaint area with cobblestone streets and old brick warehouses remodeled into shops and restaurants that included hundreds of tiny, glittering white lights outlining the shop awnings and flat rooftops.

  She had just replaced her street clothes with her nightshirt, made herself comfortable in the middle of the king-size bed and started to devour her room service when her cell phone rang. She swiped barbecue sauce from her lips as she lunged for her jacket. She had called Gwen earlier, leaving only a message when she kept getting Gwen’s answering service. Maybe she was finally returning her call.

  “Maggie O’Dell,” she answered after swallowing a mouthful of food.

  “Maggie, sorry to bother you so late.” It was Adam Bonzado. “Julia told me you were out of town and probably a couple of time zones behind us. I hope I’m not waking you.”

  “Actually Nebraska is only one time zone behind you. But no, you’re not waking me. I just got in, winding down with some room service.” Room service which was her first and only meal of the day and which she was starving for. She licked barbecue sauce from her fingers. “
What’s going on?”

  “Julia will probably fill you in on everything, but I have something I thought I might fax you directly. If I fax it to Julia and she faxes it to you, we’ll lose too much detail.”

  “Hold on a minute. Let me find the hotel’s fax number.” She crawled out of bed, careful not to spill her loaded tray. She had gone a bit overboard and ordered too much.

  “So you’re not in bed yet?” He sounded disappointed. “I was hoping I’d catch you in your skivvies.”

  “My what?”

  “You know, your…your pj’s.”

  She immediately felt her face flush, but she certainly couldn’t let him know that. “What makes you think I wear any pajamas?”

  “I…ah…excuse me?”

  She laughed, thinking neither one of them was very good at flirting. She’d let him off the hook this time. Before he could say anything more, she said, “So what’s the something you want to fax?”

  She found the hotel’s service guide and started flipping the pages, waiting for him to get back on the business track.

  “I was able to clean up the tattoo. There’s a lot more of it than we expected. Once I removed some of the epidermis, the colors started to pop. That’s usually the way it works with tattoos.”

  “Instead of a fax, maybe it would be better if you e-mail a digital image of it to me. That way I can see the colors, too.”

  “You’re right. That’s a better idea.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “I don’t think I have your e-mail address,” he finally said.

  She gave him an address he could use, but she didn’t want to wait. “Are you able to make out what it is?”