Alex Kava Bundle

by Alex Kava

  A loud knock on the door startled both of them.

  Keller thought it might be someone from the hotel, perhaps bringing the extra towels he had requested when he knew he’d be inviting Timmy back to his suite, when he knew there would be a bit of a mess to clean up. He checked the peephole but no one was there. He started to open the door, when it swung open, slamming into his nose and knocking him back against the wall.

  He couldn’t see through the blur and grabbed his nose, his hand filling with blood. The sting spiderwebbed across his face. Someone shoved him into the wall and he felt the gun muzzle against his temple just as he heard the door slam shut.

  “Don’t move, you bastard,” came a woman’s voice he quickly identified. “I’d like nothing better than to blow your brains all over this room.”

  “Hello, Agent O’Dell.” He tried to sound calm but the blood was trickling down his throat now. He hated tasting his own blood. It started to panic him, reminding him too much of his stepfather.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” He heard Timmy yell from the other side of the room.

  “Stay over there, Timmy,” she said. “Do you remember me? Maggie O’Dell.”

  “Yeah, I remember. I saw you at school the other day.”

  “You need to stay over there, Timmy,” she repeated and tightened her grip on Keller’s arm. Only then did the pain make him realize she had twisted his left arm up against his back.

  “You can relax, Agent O’Dell,” he said, hating the catch in his voice telegraphing his fear. Now that his vision was no longer blurred, he noticed the blood running between his fingers and down his arm. The sight of his own blood made him nauseous and a bit light-headed.

  “Like hell I will,” she hissed in his ear and the muzzle pressed farther into his skull.

  “But Agent O’Dell,” Timmy said, “I don’t understand. He’s with the Omaha police.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “The boy misunderstood,” Keller tried to explain, despite his arm being yanked even higher up his back. He could feel the texture of the cheap wallpaper scrape against his cheek, and again, a memory flooded back to him of his stepfather shoving him against another wall, all those years ago. It made him angry. But it also scared him. “I only said that I was working with the Omaha Police Department.” He spit out blood but more trickled down his throat and the taste almost made him gag.

  “Did he hurt you, Timmy?”

  “Hurt me?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I didn’t hurt the boy.”

  “Shut up! I’m not asking you.” O’Dell shoved the gun muzzle so hard against his temple he could taste metal, or was it his blood that now tasted like metal?

  “Timmy, did he hurt you?”

  “I’m okay. We just talked and stuff.”

  “You what?”

  Her surprise at this made Keller smile, despite the pain shooting up between his eyes. He was sure she had broken his nose.

  “We talked. About knights and the Crusades and stuff. We just talked.”

  Keller wished he could see O’Dell’s face. She had probably hoped to catch him doing something worthy of her shooting him between the eyes. So that when the others showed up—because, of course, the fearless Margaret O’Dell had not waited for backup once again—she’d have to tell them that it was necessary. That she had to shoot him, had to unload every single one of her bullets into his chest or else he’d hurt the poor boy.

  “Timmy, you still don’t recognize him, do you?”

  There was silence and now he could hear her breathing. She was breathing too hard to be in control.

  “It’s Father Keller,” she said.

  And she yanked him away from the wall for Timmy to see his face. The boy now looked at him like he was some monster. Keller saw him stepping back even farther into the room before she smashed his face into the wall again. This time he heard the gun make some weird click when she pressed it into his temple.

  “What are you doing, Agent O’Dell?”

  “What I should have done back in that tunnel. You remember that dark hole under the cemetery? The one where you shoved your fillet knife into my side.”

  “You’re wrong. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you should—”

  “Maybe if I had, little boys like Arturo would still be alive. How many others have there been, Keller?”

  “You can’t do this. You’re an FBI agent.” He didn’t recognize his own voice, a high-pitched whine, almost a cry.

  “And my job as an FBI agent is to hunt down and destroy evil.”

  Was she possessed? He wanted to turn and look at her, but he was afraid the slightest move and she might use it as an excuse to pull the trigger. His stomach ached. His face throbbed and he tried to keep from sobbing or the blood running down his throat would choke him.

  Someone banged on the door and his heart skipped a beat. O’Dell, however, didn’t seem to flinch. Her hold remained steady.

  “Police,” someone called from the other side of the door. “Open up.”

  Keller held his breath. O’Dell didn’t move. Not an inch. It felt like the muzzle was making a hole in the side of his head.

  “O’Dell?” the voice called. “It’s Pakula. Are you okay?”

  Silence except for her heavy breathing and an annoying whining sound. Oh God, the whine was coming from deep inside his throat.

  “O’Dell? Are you in there? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she finally said and adjusted her hold on his arm.

  “I’m coming in.”

  There was a pause and then Keller saw the door begin opening slowly. He lifted his face away from the wall only to have it shoved back, this time knocking the side of his head. But he could see Detective Pakula’s alarm before the detective was able to disguise it.

  “Whadya doing, O’Dell?”

  “What I should have done four years ago.”

  “Come on, O’Dell.” He saw Pakula look around them. “It looks like the kid is okay.”

  “But he wouldn’t have been if I hadn’t gotten here.”

  “You okay, son?” Pakula called out to Timmy.

  “Yeah.” But Keller noticed the boy’s voice wasn’t very convincing, weak and small.

  “I didn’t do anything to him. We just talked.” Keller tried to defend himself.

  “If he’s done something, we’ll take care of him,” Detective Pakula told her, but she still didn’t ease up. “Come on, O’Dell.”

  Keller could see that the detective was close enough to reach out and touch her, take the gun away. Why didn’t he? He could stop her. He needed to stop her.

  “Timmy,” she said without flinching. “Go with Detective Pakula.”

  Keller didn’t hear the boy move.

  This time she yelled, “Now!” And he heard Timmy rush out, squeezing past them.

  “I didn’t hurt him,” Keller pleaded. He knew exactly why she was making the boy leave. She didn’t want him to see what she was going to do. She didn’t want him to have nightmares.

  “O’Dell,” Detective Pakula said, checking to make sure the boy was safe in the hallway. Keller could see the detective was becoming anxious. “Come on. You don’t want to do this.”

  Keller started whining again, sobs with chokes. Then all of a sudden he was free.

  O’Dell pulled the gun away. She dropped his arm. He stayed pressed against the wall, not trusting her. He didn’t move until she pushed past Detective Pakula. And even then he shut his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He thought he heard the door close. And when he opened his eyes again, he was alone.

  Keller locked the door’s dead bolt and made his way to the bathroom. He was shocked by the bloody, sweaty face that looked back at him. His nose wasn’t broken, despite all the blood. He pulled off his sweat-drenched clothes and washed himself, rinsing his mouth and then standing under the showerhead, letting the warm water run over his pain. By the time he slid into a fresh pair of
boxers he was feeling better. He had already begun to wipe the episode from his mind.

  He wandered back to the bed where his suitcase lay, where he had left it earlier, ready for his evening before his unexpected visitor. He opened the suitcase and found his wooden box on top. He lifted the lid off the box and pushed aside the newspaper articles, the small tin of oil and the vial of ether. He ran his fingers over Arturo’s small underpants and then lifted several more pairs until he saw the fillet knife safely tucked underneath. With a heavy sigh he covered it again and closed the lid of the wooden box.

  CHAPTER 89

  The Embassy Suites

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Maggie stared at the glow-in-the-dark alarm clock—three o’clock in the morning. She pulled the covers up and turned onto her other side. She should give up. She should have known she would never be able to sleep. She was too keyed up despite the anticlimactic end to the evening. She flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Timmy was safe. Nick was happy and grateful. Christine had a Pulitzer Prizewinning story. And Father Michael Keller was free.

  She had hoped that Timmy’s adding Keller’s name to the list meant the boy had remembered something new, anything that would connect Keller to his kidnapping four years ago. But what Timmy remembered were only small details. They were enough to solidify her and Christine’s belief that Keller was, indeed, Timmy’s kidnapper four years ago, but not enough to arrest Keller as a suspect then or now. And tonight even Timmy said that he may have misunderstood Keller when he told him he was working with the Omaha Police Department. Although the boy insisted Keller had shown him a police badge, it wasn’t enough for Pakula to rally for a search warrant.

  So in a couple of days she would have no choice but to live up to her end of the bargain and allow Keller to leave, allow him to crawl back into the rain forest somewhere in South America. The problem was she remained convinced, now more than ever, that he was still killing little boys, and no matter what Detective Pakula said, she knew he would have killed Timmy had she not intervened.

  Only now did Maggie realize how grateful she should be to Pakula, not for talking her down from blowing away Keller—she still almost wished he hadn’t intervened—but later for handling it like it wasn’t worth discussing. After they had left Timmy with Christine, Nick and Gibson, Pakula walked her back to her suite. She had expected a lecture or at least a scolding. Instead, he told her that if he believed as strongly as she did that Keller was still killing little boys, someone may have had to pull him off the bastard, too. Then he reminded her that they still didn’t have anything to go on. That even Timmy’s description about the night’s events didn’t indicate that Keller had committed any crimes. Timmy had gone with him willingly and despite whatever story Keller may have made up, he hadn’t harmed the boy.

  Pakula seemed more interested in Brother Sebastian’s threats and his possible role—if any—in the computer game the boys had been playing. Maggie could understand if Pakula was thinking Brother Sebastian might be The Sin Eater. Although according to Timmy and Gibson, the master of their game—The Sin Eater—had been trying to protect them, not hurt them. Even their invitations to play the game had come after they had been surfing the Net, checking out Web sites and chatrooms that might help them if they were being abused by a priest. The invitation promised help. All they had to do was submit the name of their abuser. They believed the name was submitted to become a character in the game, a character that they could pretend to execute. They never ever dreamed that someone would actually execute the real priests.

  Maggie had left several messages for Racine and Gwen. She was anxious to test out her theory and needed to know if Gwen’s patient could possibly be playing the game, too. It seemed a bit far-fetched, but Father Paul Conley’s death didn’t fit The Sin Eater’s M.O. Maggie wondered if the D.C. killer could have taken the game into his own hands. It was possible that if he was playing the game and had read about or heard about the other priests being killed, he may have decided to execute his own submitted priest. Whatever the connection, there was definitely one. Maggie didn’t believe in coincidences.

  She rolled over onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow with an irritated sigh. And there was Nick Morrelli. He had hugged her when she brought back Timmy. She didn’t want to remember how good his arms felt around her. Besides, he was getting married in a month.

  Her cell phone startled her, and she practically jumped out of bed. She stumbled trying to find her way in the dim light from the bathroom. When she stayed in hotels she always kept the bathroom light on and the door half closed to provide a night-light. Finally she found the phone where she had left it in her jacket pocket.

  “Maggie O’Dell.”

  “O’Dell, it’s Racine.”

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?” Actually Maggie was glad to have the detective finally getting back to her.

  “Look, O’Dell, I’m not great at delivering bad news, so give me a break. Okay?”

  “What happened? Is Gwen all right?” Racine didn’t answer. She was quiet, too quiet. It was Gwen. Maggie found the edge of the bed with her left hand, dropping down onto it, feeling the lead weight in the pit of her stomach.

  “She’s not all right,” Racine finally said in a soft conciliatory voice. “One of her patients shot her last night.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Then he shot himself.”

  Seconds then minutes ticked by as Maggie tried to breathe and stop shaking. Suddenly she was freezing cold again.

  “She’s still in surgery,” Racine said and for a moment Maggie thought she hadn’t heard her correctly.

  “She’s alive?”

  “She’s very lucky. Her briefcase slowed the bullet down. Otherwise it might have gone through her heart.”

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  “Yes, I think so. She’s lost a lot of blood, but the doctors sound pretty positive.”

  Maggie wiped at her tears and took a deep breath.

  “This patient,” Racine continued, “his name was James Campion. We’re pretty sure he killed that priest up in Boston. And probably the four women here in D.C. We’re checking more prints to confirm. Which means the doc was right. It was one of her patients. She just guessed wrong as to which one.”

  But Maggie couldn’t listen, couldn’t concentrate on anything else other than Gwen.

  “Hey, Racine,” Maggie said, relieved enough to lie back on the bed. “You’re right. You aren’t very good at delivering bad news. You scared the crap out of me.”

  “I think I’ll consider us even, O’Dell, because your friend scared the fuck out of me.”

  CHAPTER 90

  Friday, July 9

  Omaha Archdiocese Office

  Tommy Pakula knew he was enjoying this just a little too much. He sat in the same hardback chair across from Archbishop Armstrong’s desk and he was waiting for him, again. But this time he didn’t mind. He was finally putting to rest another chapter of the toughest case in his career. Oh sure, there was more to figure out, but it was looking like James Campion may have been their priest killer. In the last several weeks his job had taken him to Saint Louis and Tallahassee, Florida. From Saint Louis he could have easily driven to Columbia and Omaha. And Pensacola was only about a three-or four-hour drive from Tallahassee.

  Maybe he wanted it to be Campion so badly that he was willing to overlook Minneapolis. He had Carmichael checking to see if there could be a connection between Campion and Brother Sebastian. If the two men might know each other. He hadn’t ruled out O’Dell’s hunch that there may have been two killers working together. Sebastian could easily have taken care of Monsignor O’Sullivan in Omaha and Daniel Ellison in Minneapolis while Campion killed the other three.

  Something still nagged at him, though. Agent O’Dell agreed that James Campion could have been the killer after discovering that Father Paul Conley had raped Campion as a young altar boy. That, according to O’Dell, would explain h
is rage during that murder. Unfortunately with Campion gone there were some things they might never know.

  In the back of his mind he still didn’t let Father Tony Gallagher off the hook. Nor had Carmichael. She had reminded him again before he left the station that Father Tony’s past experience as a victims’ rights advocate fit O’Dell’s profile of The Sin Eater, a tragic hero killing and taking on the sins of the boys that the system may have failed to previously win justice for. Carmichael also pointed out that Father Tony would have had access to lists of victims as well as lists of the abusing priests.

  The side door opened, interrupting his analysis. The archbishop strolled in, nodding at him as he took his place behind the desk.

  “Mr. Pakula,” he said, still substituting mister for detective, “I understand you have some important information on Monsignor O’Sullivan’s case. Is it possible you already have a suspect?”

  “Possibly.” Pakula sat back. The uncomfortable chair made his back ache but he didn’t mind. He glanced at his watch. “We’re picking up one of our suspects right about now for questioning.” And he imagined Kasab and Carmichael escorting Brother Sebastian to the station.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” the archbishop said, folding his hands together on the desk’s surface and sitting forward in his ridiculously large throne. “Perhaps we can finally put all of this behind us.”

  “Well, I’m not too sure it’ll be any time soon.”

  “Of course not,” Archbishop Armstrong agreed. “I realize these things take some time with all the details and a trial. I was simply speaking rhetorically about all of us having some closure.”

  “I’m sure there’re quite a few people who’d be glad to hear that you’re anxious and willing to provide some much-needed closure.”

  “Excuse me?”