Night Sins

by Tami Hoag

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he snarled, his temper sparking like a live wire. He turned to Natalie. “Call Hannah and tell her I'm on the way and tell her why. Radio Steiger. Tell him I need Paul ASAP and to get him away from the search with as little hoopla as possible.”

  He rattled off the orders like a field general, a man who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. The top dog, Megan thought. The alpha wolf.

  His assistant nodded, sifting through the sheaf of pink message slips she carried, sorting them by priority. “Just so you know, Professor Priest and his students are setting up in that vacant store next door to the command post—used to be Big D Appliance. It looks like all the volunteers are going to move in there, too. There's too many of them to all fit into the fire hall.”

  “Go take a look at their setup,” Mitch ordered Megan as her phone rang.

  She scowled at his back as he left the room. “Bossy son of a bitch,” she muttered.

  The answering machine spun out its request to leave a message and Bruce DePalma growled out an order to return his call immediately. Megan winced and reached for her parka.

  10:02 A.M. 16°

  With the scanner we're able to create a high-grade computer image of Josh that can be transmitted electronically to computers all over the country and printed off from those computers onto more fliers,” Christopher Priest explained, raising his voice to be heard above the din of voices and the clank of chairs and tables being set down and shoved into place. In the background a radio was tuned to a local country station blasting out Wynonna Judd.

  The student at the terminal was one of five in down coats and stocking caps clacking away on keyboards. Megan watched as Josh's image came up on the screen in full color. The bright smile, the unruly hair, the Cub Scout uniform—everything about the picture hit her like a fist in the solar plexus every time she saw it. He looked like such a happy little boy. He had so much life ahead of him.

  If they could find him. Soon. She felt the seconds ticking by one after another, and resisted the urge to glance at her watch.

  She looked away from the screen, taking in the makeshift volunteer center. The room was being transformed before her eyes. Tables and chairs and office equipment were being hauled in through both the front and back doors, creating a wind tunnel of frigid air through the building. The volunteers took positions at the tables the instant the legs hit the floor, piling all available surfaces with fliers and envelopes, staplers and stamps and boxes of rubber bands.

  They came from all walks of life, from all over the state. Some men, many women. Middle-aged, elderly, college aged. They had already papered over the big front windows of the store with bright yellow Missing posters and with posters that had been drawn by Josh's third-grade classmates calling for Josh to come home, as if the power of their collective plea might be enough to bring him back. Nearly every storefront in town wore similar window dressing.

  “We can also communicate with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and with Missing Children Minnesota,” the professor went on. He was bundled into a black down parka that seemed to be swallowing him whole. It crept up around his ears, and he jammed his hands in his pockets and jerked it back down. “We can connect with a number of missing children's networks and foundations around the country. It's amazing how many there are. Tragic is the word I ought to use, I suppose. It seems for every child that disappears, a foundation springs up in his name.”

  “Let's hope we don't need a Josh Kirkwood Foundation,” Megan murmured.

  “Yes, let's hope,” he said on a sigh. He tore his eyes away from the computer screen and blinked at her behind the lenses of his oversize glasses. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee, Agent O'Malley? Hot cider, hot tea? We don't have a shortage of volunteers or food.”

  “Cider would be great, thanks.”

  She followed him to a long table at the back of the main room, where all the edible donations had been laid out, and gratefully accepted the cup of steaming spiced cider. The heat radiated out through the cup and through her gloves to fingers that felt brittle with cold. She looked across the room bustling with volunteers, people who were giving their time, their talents, their hearts, and their money to bring Josh home. A fund had already been established for reward money, and donations were pouring in from all over the Upper Midwest, from individuals, civic groups, businesses. At last report they had collected in excess of $50,000.

  One table of volunteers was dedicating their time to stamping the latest reward information on reams of fliers. Another table addressed and stuffed envelopes, another sorted the packets by zip code and bagged them for delivery to the post office. The fliers would go to law enforcement organizations, civic organizations, businesses, schools, to be distributed and posted in windows, on bulletin boards, stapled to light poles, tucked under windshield wipers all across the country.

  Megan knew too well that their efforts could all be for nothing, that no matter how many people helped, hoped, prayed, Josh's fate was ultimately in the hands of one twisted person, and finding him would make wandering through a maze blindfolded seem simple by comparison. Still, it helped to know people cared.

  “Seeing a community rally together this way helps to renew my faith in humanity a little,” she confessed.

  Priest watched the crowd, his face lacking the animation he had shown while explaining the computer setup. “Deer Lake is a nice town full of nice people. Everyone knows and loves Hannah. She gives so much to the community.”

  “What about Paul? Does everyone know and love him, too?”

  He shrugged. “Everyone goes to the doctor, not that many people seek out accountants. Paul is less visible. But, then, I suppose most people would be less visible next to Hannah.”

  Paul was the more visible of the two now, Megan thought, missing the hint of color that stained the professor's cheeks when he mentioned Hannah's name. Paul was shoving his face in front of a camera every chance he got, while Hannah was sentenced to house arrest.

  “I believe people come together this way as a defense.”

  Megan sipped her cider and glanced at the man who had joined them. He was a match for the professor in height—no taller than five nine—and in build, being slim almost to the point of slight. There the similarities ended. The newcomer's hair was blond and fashionably cut. His features were attractive. Pretty was the word that came to mind. Finely sculpted, almost effeminate with big dark eyes that seemed drowsy. He was dressed in gray wool trousers and an obviously expensive navy wool topcoat over a dark sweater.

  “An instinctive herd-mentality response,” he said. “Strength and safety in numbers. Band together to fight off a predator.”

  “You sound like an expert,” Megan said.

  “I can't say I've had a lot of direct experience with this kind of situation, but psychology is my department, so to speak. Dr. Garrett Wright,” he said, offering his hand. “I teach at Harris.”

  “Megan O'Malley, BCA.”

  “I'd say it's a pleasure, but that seems inappropriate,” he said, sliding his hands into his coat pockets.

  Megan conceded the point with a tip of her head. “Are you here to offer your services, Doctor? We could use some ideas about the mind of the person who took Josh.”

  Wright frowned and rocked back on the heels of his black oxfords. “Actually, I came to ask Chris for the keys to his file cabinets. We've got students working on a joint project together. In fact,” he said, turning to Priest, “I should probably get the key to your office if you're going over to Gustavus Adolphus tomorrow.”

  Setting aside his cider, Priest dug in his jacket pocket for a ring bristling with keys and set about the task of freeing the ones his colleague needed.

  “I wish I could be of some help,” Wright said to Megan. “Hannah and Paul are neighbors of mine. I hate to see them go through something like this. My wife has been helping Hannah out. I guess she's the official delegate from our household.” He s
hook his head. “I've studied socially deviant behavior, but I don't have any degree in criminology. My area of expertise is learning and perception. Although, I suppose it's safe to assume you're dealing with a loner, a sociopath. If what they're reporting on the news about the notes he left behind is true, you may be looking at someone delusional—delusions of grandeur, delusions specifically regarding religion.”

  “Everyone is buzzing about the notes,” Priest said, handing over a pair of small silver keys. His jacket crept up around his ears again. He tugged it down and took a sip of his drink, the steam from the cider fogging his glasses. “A lot of the volunteers saw Paige Price's report on the television in the fire hall. Dramatic stuff. What do you make of it, Agent O'Malley?”

  “It's not my job to speculate,” Megan said, congratulating herself for being a lady and not taking the opportunity to trash Paige Price. She would have given her last nickel to get her hands on the reporter and her inside informant. “I have to deal in facts.”

  “No intuition?” Wright asked.

  Megan regarded him with a cool look, one brow sketching upward. “Is that a sexist remark, Dr. Wright?”

  “Not in the least,” Priest returned on Wright's behalf. “For all police officers profess to be pragmatic, I've read a lot about ‘gut instinct.' What is that if not intuition?”

  “You're interested in police work?”

  “From a professional standpoint. With more and more law enforcement agencies moving into the computer age, the demand for new and better software increases. When I'm not teaching, I dabble at programming. It pays handsomely to keep abreast of new markets. In fact, we'll be using some of my programs here to sort information.”

  “I see.”

  “So, what are your gut feelings about the case?” Wright asked. “I've heard theories on everything from radical fundamentalists to satanic cults. You must have an opinion.”

  “Sure.” She tossed back the last drops of cider and set the cup aside, giving them a wry smile. “But I know better than to state it in public. That's something else you should know about cops, Professor—we're a wary bunch.”

  She wound her scarf around her neck. “Thanks for showing me the setup. If you need anything, please check with Jim Geist next door. Thank you for your time and effort—and your students' as well.”

  Priest shook off her gratitude. “It's the least we can do.”

  With one eye peeled for stray reporters, Megan slid behind the wheel of the Lumina and coaxed the engine to life. Mitch was off trying to smooth out the wake from the revelation of the note. The BCA agents who had been assigned to Megan were checking out hotline tips on vans; grunt work. Out in Lyon State Park, the ground search continued, but she would be of no real help there, just another pair of eyes, not to mention fair game for the press.

  That left the list of Josh's activities. Activities that brought him into contact with any number of adults in the community, from scouting to the summer soccer program to serving as an altar boy at St. Elysius. As she read the list she wondered which of these ordinary boyhood undertakings might have brought Josh to the attention of someone with the potential to hurt him. All of them, sad to say. The news was full of stories about children being abused by priests, coaches, Scout leaders, teachers. While those professions attracted people with a genuine love of children, they also attracted those with a sick obsession for children. There was no way of singling out the bad ones. Pedophiles seldom looked like monsters—quite often just the opposite was true.

  Who do you trust? She remembered being taught to trust and obey that same list of people—her teachers, the priest, “nice” people, “good” people. But how could anyone make those distinctions anymore? What were children supposed to be taught today? There seemed to be no one left they could trust absolutely. Not even in Deer Lake, where everyone knew everyone and no one locked their doors at night.

  ignorance is not innocence but SIN

  Someone who knows the community, she thought. Or someone halfway to Mexico who just enjoyed the idea of screwing with their heads long-distance.

  i had a little sorrow, born of a little SIN

  Sin. Morality. Religion. Everything from radical fundamentalists to satanic cults. Or maybe a Catholic priest named Tom McCoy.

  11:18 A.M. 19°

  St. Elysius was the one bastion of Rome in a town overrun with Lutherans. As such, it seemed only fitting that the church be of the grand old style, a mini-cathedral of native limestone and spires thrusting up to heaven, stained glass windows depicting the agony and triumph of Christ. It sat on the Dinkytown side of the lake, nearly out in the country, as if the Norwegians had thought it best to keep the papists out of sight.

  Megan climbed the front steps, memories from childhood rushing through her head, old, unwelcome feelings churning in her stomach and bringing sweat to the palms of her hands. She and Mick had gone to parochial school. Mick had participated in every sport he could—as much to avoid having to take care of his little sister after school as out of a love for athletics. And Megan had been left to the care of Frances Clay, the joyless, washed-out woman who cleaned the church. She had spent endless hours in St. Pat's, sitting on a hard, cold pew while Frances chased dust bunnies off the statues of the Holy Mother.

  Half a dozen older women were mumbling the rosary as Megan stepped into the nave, the leader rattling through Our Father like an auctioneer. The interior of the church was every bit as lovely as the exterior. The walls were painted slate blue and decorated with intricate stencil and trim work in gilt, white, and rose. The flames of dozens of votive candles flickered patterns of light and shadow against the walls.

  At the altar a tall, rail-thin man dressed in black moved around, arranging cloths and candelabra. Megan set her sights on him and marched down the center aisle, fighting the urge to genuflect. She had found neither refuge nor solace in the Church as a child, and so as an adult ignored it 363 days of the year, returning only on Christmas Eve and Easter—just in case.

  The priest stood motionless as she drew near, his stare as dark and somber as his clothing. He looked sixty. Silver flecked the temples of his thin brown hair. He stood with his hands braced wide apart on the table, his mouth unsmiling. His face was so thin, he appeared to be anorexic. Hair prickled on the back of Megan's neck, and she said a little prayer for the parishioners of St. Elysius for having the courage to face this grim man every Sunday. He looked like the sort who thought self-flagellation was an acceptable penance for farting in church.

  She held up her identification as she mounted the steps. “Agent O'Malley, BCA. I'd like to have a word with you about Josh Kirkwood, Father.”

  The man frowned at her. “The police have already been here.”

  “I'm doing follow-up on initial interviews,” Megan said smoothly. “I understand Josh had just begun serving as an altar boy here at St. Elysius. We're trying to get a feel for Josh's routines, speak with any adults who might have noticed a change in his behavior recently or made note of anything he might have said regarding someone he was frightened of.”

  “‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, and do not hinder them; for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.' ” The priest intoned the line from Matthew in a dramatic voice that made the rosary ladies falter in the middle of the Glory Be. The leader shot him a nasty look.

  “We've been praying for Josh,” he said, lowering his volume to a hushed drone. “I don't remember you being at the service last night.” His eyes narrowed just slightly, the perfect hint of censure tinted his words.

  Megan bit her tongue on the reflex to beg forgiveness. Four hundred people had crammed into the church for the prayer service. She couldn't imagine he had memorized every face. Still, she said, “No, I wasn't among the faithful in church. I was among the cops out in the cold, searching.”

  “His fate is in the hands of God. We must have faith that God will bring him home.”

  “I've been a cop for ten years, Father. I trust God about as f
ar as I can throw him.”

  He stepped back from her, looking as horrified as if her head had just spun around on her shoulders. Megan fully expected him to point a bony finger at her and scream, “Heretic.'' He drew in a breath that rattled in his throat ominously. The rosary ladies went silent and stared.

  The merry mechanical music of a GameBoy cracked the tension. Heads turned in the direction of the sanctuary as a good-looking man in his thirties emerged, head bent over the game. Big shoulders tested the seams of a Notre Dame sweatshirt. His tan corduroy trousers were rumpled and he was wearing cowboy boots. The game ended with a series of bleeps and he made a fist and whispered, “Yes! Twelve fifty-one!”

  Megan thought it was probably the thick quality of the silence that made him bring his head up. He looked at the people assembled, blinking behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. A blush rose in his lean cheeks, and he flicked the switch on the game.

  “Am I interrupting something?” he whispered, his mildly confused gaze landing on Megan.

  “Agent O'Malley, BCA,” she said automatically. “I need a few minutes of Father McCoy's time.”

  “Oh? Well, fine. I'm Father Tom McCoy.”

  “But—” Megan shot a look at the thin man.

  McCoy frowned. “Albert, thank you for entertaining Ms. O'Malley in my absence.” He took hold of Megan's arm gently but firmly and escorted her back whence he had come, his head bent down toward hers. “Albert is very devout,” he whispered. “In fact, he will gladly tell you he is more qualified for my job than I am.”

  “I don't think he'll gladly tell me anything,” Megan confessed. “I think he was about to douse me with holy water to see if I'd burn.”

  McCoy directed her to a chair as he closed the door of his office. “In another time Albert Fletcher would have been called a zealot. In the nineties with a shortage of priests we call him a deacon.”