by Alex Kava
Brother Sebastian climbed into a shiny black Lincoln Town Car, and Nick waited until he drove away. Then he closed and locked the door. When he came back into the living room both boys were staring at the entrance as if they had just escaped a firing squad.
“That was sweet, Uncle Nick,” Timmy told him. “You were awesome.”
Before they could go into any kind of victory dance, Nick gave them a look that wiped the smile off Timmy’s face and made Gibson slide back into the couch.
“What the hell did you boys do?”
CHAPTER 73
Omaha, Nebraska
Father Michael Keller wished his vision would return to normal. He had almost changed his mind in Chicago during a two-hour layover. Not because of fear or regret, but because his insides felt as though they would explode. He spent most of those two hours in the bathroom, vomiting until there was nothing left but the urge. As soon as his insides had settled down, his eyesight had started playing tricks on him.
It was the worst when he first arrived in Omaha, making him see double and triple. There had been one uniformed officer and a detective to meet him and suddenly there seemed to be three uniformed officers and then almost a dozen. He had walked through the airport with them, trying to ignore the feeling of walking through a fun house with mirrors alongside, distorting, elongating and multiplying images all around him. That was when he told them he wanted to go to his hotel. That if they wanted to get the information from him they’d need to come to his hotel room. And what a hotel room it was, bigger than his shack, with a sitting area and a counter with minifridge and microwave.
He’d been in the rain forest for too long. He reveled in everything, from the tiny shampoo bottles and the bright white cotton towels to the king-size bed and carpeting so soft it felt like walking on feathers. He hadn’t realized how much he missed, how much he had sacrificed. Like air-conditioning! He’d forgotten how glorious air-conditioning felt except that it had given him such a chill during the ride from the airport that when the hotel desk clerk asked if there was anything they could bring to his room for him he immediately asked for some hot tea. Yes, some hot tea would ease his frayed nerves and settle his stomach. Some tea that wasn’t laced with monkshood, that would restore the comforting memory of his mother and not let him dwell on the poison.
The young detective asked if everything was to his liking, if there was anything else he needed. He told him the others would be coming soon. Just as a hotel person brought in a tray with all the makings for his hot tea, the detective left in search of the meeting room they were to use downstairs off the lobby.
Keller stood back and admired the contents on the tray: a porcelain carafe of hot water, a delicate bone-china teacup and saucer, a matching plate with an assortment of teas in colorful packages, a small stainless-steel pitcher with milk and a small dish with miniature sugar cubes. If that wasn’t enough of a treat, they had included a small basket, and he peeked under the linen napkin to find a treasure of biscuits and muffins still warm.
He rubbed his hands together, content, sitting and staring at the surprise feast. Finally, he chose a package of tea and poured a cup, relishing the aroma. Yes, this would make it all better. He could feel a warmth start to fill him even with the first sip.
He had been wrong to think he should have to do without these simple pleasures. It had been almost four years, four long years of punishment he didn’t deserve. He had tried to make his time as productive as possible. But there were so many who needed him. So many who were miserable and starving, neglected and abused. At times it was overwhelming. He knew he couldn’t be expected to save them all. But Arturo was different, special. Those sad, dark eyes were like a window into his own childhood, a constant reminder of what it was like to have no one who cared. He had been lucky to have his mother, though only for twelve short years. But Arturo had no one except those who knew only how to punish and abuse him. No, he could never have left without saving Arturo. It was the least he could do.
A knock at the door rudely interrupted him. He wished he could ignore it. Perhaps it was simply the hotel person, coming back for the tray. Did they come back this quickly? Or it could be someone else checking to make sure he was comfortable.
He opened the door just a crack. The detective had already returned.
“We’re ready for you,” he said, and suddenly all the therapeutic magic of the tea seemed to dissipate.
CHAPTER 74
Washington, D.C.
He called in sick. Two days in a row. His boss wasn’t happy. Yesterday wasn’t much of a problem. Today meant canceling an account meeting in Saint Louis, which meant canceling a flight, maybe not getting back the full refund on the ticket. The cheap bastard would buy wing seats if he got a good enough discount. Last week’s trip to Florida he had even been on standby. Standby, for God’s sake. Was that any way to run a business? He didn’t care if he got fired. Right now he didn’t care about anything except the banging in his chest that had rapidly moved to include the back of his head. He worried that soon his entire body would become one throbbing ache.
He had ignored the blinking e-mail icon in the corner of his computer screen, but he knew he couldn’t ignore it forever. He felt it watching him, could feel it through the walls like some laser beam following him from room to room. It was ridiculous. Of course, The Sin Eater couldn’t see him, certainly couldn’t watch him. So how did he know?
He paced in front of the computer. Calling in sick wasn’t really a lie. He did feel sick, nauseated and feverish. When he glanced at himself in the mirror this morning he hardly recognized his image. His hair looked like it had thinned overnight and there seemed to be a sickly yellow tinge to his skin. His bloodshot eyes were swollen from little sleep. How could he sleep when Mrs. Sanchez kept waking him up, staring at him from the dark corner of his bedroom?
The nightmare had been so real he had forced himself to stay awake. If only she hadn’t been there at the rectory. How could he know she’d be there in the middle of the afternoon? The others were different, whores waiting to have the evil slit out of them. But Mrs. Sanchez…she shouldn’t have gotten in his way. It wasn’t his fault. But how did The Sin Eater know?
He stared at the computer screen from across the small room. When he was invited to play the game he had to submit a name and he did: Father Paul Conley. Terminating him in a make-believe computer game hadn’t been enough. He wanted him dead. He wanted to control Father Paul Conley’s last breath and he had.
He had to think about this. If The Sin Eater had heard or seen the news that the priest had really been murdered, would he automatically know it was him? The Sin Eater could go back to the original list, see who submitted Father Paul’s name and then know the priest’s killer. Would he feel the need to punish him? Would he turn him in to the police?
It didn’t matter. He had been especially careful, very careful…except for the fucking coffee mug. Jesus! He couldn’t believe he had forgotten it. Everything else he had wiped down or thrown into the garbage bags. Everything except the most obvious fucking thing. By the time he remembered, it was too late to go back. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t care. It was over and done, and Father Paul Conley couldn’t, wouldn’t, be able to hurt anyone else.
Pumped with a fresh wave of adrenaline he marched across the room to the computer and clicked on the e-mail waiting for him. He could handle whatever it was. There was only one e-mail message, and it was from The Sin Eater:
YOU BROKE THE RULES.
CHAPTER 75
Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska
Maggie rubbed her shoulders, trying to get rid of the chill. The room was freezing and she couldn’t shake that old saying from her mind, “When hell freezes over…” It seemed appropriate since she never believed she would be making a deal with the devil. Technically, Assistant Director Cunningham had taken care of the details, but she was the one who had to sit across the table from Keller.
“Isn’t i
t awfully cold in here?” she asked Pakula, who sipped his fifth coffee of the day.
“Actually I was just thinking it feels good.”
He was no help. Maggie gave in and poured herself a cup of hot tea from the service butler in the corner. The Embassy Suites’s concierge had prepared a room for them with little notice, doing an impressive job that included an assortment of afternoon refreshments. She couldn’t help thinking Pakula would be pleased—more free food. However, the detective seemed content with only coffee. She had recognized his feeding frenzy as a nervous habit, which would mean that he wasn’t at all anxious this afternoon. How could he not be? Was she the only one who realized the significance of this meeting?
“Chief Ramsey must know someone important,” Maggie said, lifting the stainless-steel lid off a plate of fruits and cheeses and trying to calm her nerves by pretending they were here for an ordinary interview. She glanced over her shoulder at Pakula. “No doughnuts though.”
“Very funny.”
The look he shot back made her smile, and she realized she missed her partner, Special Agent R. J. Tully. Not an easy realization, since she prided herself in being a sort of lone warrior. But Tully had a way of calming her in situations like this and it usually included his corny sense of humor.
There was little time to take refuge in humor. Suddenly the meeting-room door opened and Detective Kasab came in, holding the door for Father Michael Keller as he entered, as if he deserved such a courtesy.
Maggie was stunned. She hardly recognized Keller. He looked much older. His skin was tanned but leathery, his dark hair prematurely peppered with gray. If she remembered correctly he was younger than her. His escape to South America had weathered him and converted his smooth, handsome, boyish looks to that of a haggard older man.
He carried a cardboard box gently in his hands, as though the contents would shatter with the slightest jerk or slip. And when he glanced around the room, slowly examining it, his eyes brushed her aside. Was he checking for back doors, maybe an escape? Did he expect to be tricked?
Pakula introduced himself, and like Kasab, was cordial and polite, treating Keller like some visiting dignitary. When Pakula made a motion to introduce Maggie she stepped forward, preempting him.
“No need for introductions,” she said. “Father Keller and I are old friends. Isn’t that right?” She looked Keller in the eyes, but didn’t offer her hand as Pakula had. Instead, she set her cup of tea at the end of the table and took a seat.
“I’d like to believe that we certainly are not enemies, Agent O’Dell,” he said with that same smooth, deep voice she remembered so well. “Do you mind if I call you Maggie?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, I do mind.” She sipped her tea while the three men stood silently and stared at her in the same way they’d stare at someone who stood up in the middle of a wedding ceremony and said, “I object.”
She could already feel the tension crawl into the room like fog over a cold lake. So she’d be the party pooper, the curmudgeon, the spoiler of this ever-so-cordial gentlemen’s agreement. She didn’t care. As far as she was concerned Keller was no gentleman and certainly couldn’t be trusted. She only wished the hot tea would dull the chill that had settled deep inside her. She opened a small notebook and started tapping her pen, ready to begin.
“I’ll be in the lobby if you need anything,” Kasab said to Pakula, finally breaking the silence. Pakula gave him a nod and Kasab left, closing the door behind him.
Maggie didn’t take her eyes off Keller, almost daring him to see if he could lie his way past her.
Pakula cleared his throat and shot her a look. They had known each other only a few days and she could already read his warning. He was telling her to cool it. Then he picked up his coffee mug and wandered over to the service butler for a refill.
“Can I get you some coffee, Father Keller?”
Maggie wanted to tell him to stop being so damn polite.
Keller pointed at her cup and said to Pakula, “May I have a cup of hot tea instead?”
“Oh sure. Do you take anything in it?”
“Do you have any of those little sugar cubes?”
Pakula poked around the service butler, lifting lids. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“Plain is fine, then.”
Maggie wanted to yell this wasn’t a frickin’ tea party. Jesus!
Finally the three of them settled around the long table—Maggie at the head so she purposely didn’t have to sit across from Keller—Pakula to her right and Keller to her left with his box and his cup of hot tea.
It had been Keller’s request that he meet only with Maggie. At least Ramsey and Cunningham had the good sense to insist Detective Pakula be here at the meeting. Though Maggie couldn’t help wondering if Cunningham had insisted on it because he was concerned for her safety or if it was Keller’s safety he had considered.
Maggie watched Keller taking in everything about him. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks a bit sunken. She was pleased to see beads of sweat on his upper lip. He wore khaki pants and a plain white cotton shirt, a sleeveless white T-shirt visible underneath. Other than wet circles forming under his arms, his clothes looked crisp and clean and freshly pressed. Although on closer inspection she could see that the shirt’s collar had become a bit threadbare.
She paid particular attention to his hands. Despite his haggard appearance his hands had been well taken care of—smooth and without a single callus or unsightly cuticle, short but clean and neatly trimmed fingernails, straight long fingers. He seemed to use them with careful deliberation, almost with a reverence, everything they did was ceremonial. Even the way he picked up the teacup, slowly and delicately, bringing it to his lips as if it were a chalice. It reminded her how he had used those hands to consecrate the butchering of little boys and even try to turn that into a gruesome ritual.
He sat straight-backed and calm except that his eyes betrayed him as they continued to dart around the room. Again, she wondered if Keller was worried about them tricking him. Why shouldn’t he worry? Surely he didn’t think she wouldn’t at least try to trap him, now that she finally had him right where she wanted him—sitting in a room with a police detective alongside her? After all, that was exactly what she had in mind.
“What’s in the box?” she asked. Not able to resist an opening taunt, she added, “A fillet knife? Maybe some boy’s underpants?”
He was good. Not even a flinch as he met her eyes and said, “The person you’re looking for has been e-mailing me and sending me things. I’ve brought as many of the items as possible in the hopes that you might be able to get his fingerprints.”
“If he’s been sending stuff,” Pakula said, “how have you been getting it? Postal service? Special delivery?”
“Postal service. All but one of them. No return addresses even on the postal service ones.”
“He’s been sending you things?” Maggie said. “How did he find you?”
Keller shrugged. “Probably through the church.”
“Actually, the church officials told me they had no record of your whereabouts,” Maggie challenged. “In fact, they said you hadn’t been issued a reassignment.”
“The church is very protective of her priests. Perhaps you’ve noticed that with this case.” When he answered this time he looked to Pakula.
“Are you saying they’ve had your address the entire time?”
“They’ve known how to get in touch with me.”
Maggie couldn’t determine whether it was a lie or not. After what she had learned about the Catholic Church this week, she almost found herself believing him.
“How about the other one?” Pakula asked.
“I’m sorry, the other one?”
“You said the postal service brought all but one. How did you get the other?”
“One of the village boys—Arturo delivered it. He said an old man had given it to him.” He reached for the teacup agai
n.
“Any chance the kid got into it before he handed it off to you?” Pakula asked.
“No, absolutely not,” he said, setting the cup down, and immediately Maggie saw why. There was a slight tremor to his fingers now. “Arturo was one of my best altar boys. He was a good boy. He would never have done something like that.”
Maggie’s stomach did a sudden flip. Keller had referred to the boy in the past tense. “Was? What do you mean, was?”
Keller’s eyes met hers then darted off to the left. In that brief moment she thought she could see him backpedal, shifting gears. Had she caught him or was it the effect of the poison? He looked past her and to Pakula when he answered, “He used to be an altar boy for me. He’s not anymore.”
Pakula seemed to ignore the entire exchange.
“I highly doubt we’re gonna get this guy’s fingerprints no matter how much crap you’ve got in that box,” he told Keller.
“I agree with Detective Pakula,” Maggie said. “I doubt there’s anything you have that will help us.”
Keller pulled the box to him, suddenly protective of it, keeping it on the table but now wrapping both arms around it. “I don’t think he was careful, because I don’t think he believed I’d live long enough to hand this over to the authorities. And if you aren’t able to match his prints, there’s always the trail of e-mails. I have the list.”
“Why do you suppose you’re on the list, Father Keller?” Maggie asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Really? No idea at all?”
She waited, giving him a second chance. He shifted ever so slightly in his chair and leaned his elbows on the table. There were a few blinks of his eyes but nothing excessive. Maggie had known killers who had convinced themselves that they had done nothing wrong, so effectively, so completely, that it became difficult to detect the lies even with a polygraph test. She believed Keller had done the same. Four years ago she had come to the conclusion that he had been on a mission. He had appointed himself a sort of savior of abused boys. Unlike The Sin Eater who Maggie suspected avenged, and thus rescued boys by executing their abuser, Father Keller simply rescued boys by murdering them, ending their alleged abuse and getting them out of their misery.