“Yes, but I cannot share any of that with you. I hope you understand.” His voice was suddenly frail, as though the subject drained the energy from him.
Maggie wondered whether he was sick, something terminal that would explain the gray pallor to his skin. Even his breathing came in thick, short gasps when he talked. When he was silent, a soft wheeze lifted his bony shoulders in an odd rhythm.
“Of course, we understand,” she lied. The fact was, she didn’t understand, but she prevented the impatience from creeping into her tone. “However, if there is anything that would shed light on the Alverez case, I would hope you’d share it with us.”
“O’Dell, that’s Irish Catholic, yes?”
Maggie was startled and annoyed by his distraction. “Yes, it is.” Now she allowed a bit of the impatience to slip out. He didn’t seem to notice.
“And Maggie, named for our very own St. Margaret.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Father Francis, you do understand that if Ronald Jeffreys confessed anything that would lead us to Danny Alverez’s murderer, you must tell us?”
“The sanctity of confession is to be preserved even for condemned murderers, Agent O’Dell.”
Maggie sighed and glanced back at Morrelli, who also looked as though he was becoming impatient with the old priest.
“Father,” Morrelli said. “There’s something else you might be able to help us with. Who, other than a priest, can or is allowed to administer last rites?”
Father Francis looked confused by the change of subject. “The sacrament of extreme unction should be administered by a priest, but in extreme circumstances, it’s not necessary.”
“Who else would know how?”
“Before Vatican II, it was taught in the Baltimore Catechism. The two of you may be too young to remember. Today, I believe, it is taught only in the seminary, although it may still be a part of some deacon training.”
“And what are the requirements for becoming a deacon?” Maggie asked, frustrated that this might add to their list of suspects.
“There are rigorous standards. Of course, one must be in good standing with the church. And unfortunately, only men can be deacons. I’m not sure I understand what any of this has to do with Ronald Jeffreys.”
“I’m afraid we can’t share that with you, Father.” Morrelli smiled. “No disrespect intended.” Morrelli glanced at Maggie, waiting to see if she had anything more. Then he said, “Thanks for your help, Father Francis.”
He motioned to her for them to leave, but she stared at Father Francis, hoping to see something in the hooded eyes that held hers. It was almost as though they were waiting for her to see what they revealed. Yet, the priest only nodded at her and smiled.
Morrelli touched her shoulder. She turned on her heels and marched out alongside him. Outside on the church steps she stopped suddenly. Morrelli was down on the sidewalk before he realized she wasn’t beside him. He looked up at her and shrugged.
“What’s wrong?”
“He knows something. There’s something about Jeffreys that he’s not telling us.”
“That he can’t tell us.”
She spun around and ran back up the steps.
“O’Dell, what are you doing?”
She heard Morrelli behind her as she threw open the heavy front door and walked quickly up the aisle. Father Francis was just leaving the altar, disappearing behind the thick curtains.
“Father Francis,” Maggie yelled to him. The echo instantly made her feel as though she had broken some rule, committed some sin. It did, however, stop Father Francis. He came back to the middle of the altar where he watched her hurry up the aisle. Morrelli was close behind.
“If you know something…If Jeffreys told you something that could prevent another murder…Father, isn’t saving the life of an innocent little boy worth breaking the confidence of a confessed serial killer?”
She didn’t realize until now that she was breathless. She waited, staring into those eyes that knew so much more than they were willing or able to reveal.
“What I can tell you is that Ronald Jeffreys told nothing but the truth.”
“Excuse me?” Her impatience was rapidly changing to anger.
“From the day he confessed to the crime to the day he was executed, Ronald Jeffreys told only the truth.” His eyes lingered on Maggie’s. But if there was something more they were saying, she couldn’t see it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Morrelli was at her side. They stood quietly, watching the priest disappear behind the flowing fabric of the curtains.
“Jesus,” Morrelli finally whispered. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means we need to take a look at Jeffreys’ original confession,” she said, pretending to know what she was talking about. Then she turned and walked out, this time carefully keeping her heels from clicking noisily on the marble floor.
CHAPTER 19
He skidded out of the church parking lot. The bag of groceries tumbled across the seat and spilled onto the floor. Oranges rolled underneath his feet as he pressed down on the accelerator.
He needed to calm down. He searched the rearview mirror. No one followed. They had come to the church asking questions. Questions about Jeffreys. He was safe. They knew nothing. Even that newspaper reporter had insinuated that Danny’s murder was a copycat. Someone copycatting Jeffreys. Why hadn’t it occurred to any of them that Jeffreys was the copycat? The fact that Jeffreys had also been a cold-blooded murderer had simply made him the perfect patsy.
Within blocks of the school, parents scurried like frightened rats leading their children, huddling at intersections. They carted them to the curb. They watched them skip up the steps of the school until they were safely inside. Until now, they hardly noticed their children, left them alone for hours, pretending that “latchkey” was a term of endearment. Leaving them with bruises and scars that, if not stopped, would last a lifetime. And now those same parents were learning. He was actually doing them a favor, providing a precious service.
The wind hinted at snow, biting and whipping at jackets and skirts that would be quickly out of season. It reminded him of the blanket in the trunk. Did it still have blood on it? He tried to remember, tried to think while he watched the rats cover the sidewalks and clog the intersections. He stopped at a stop sign. Waited for the crossing guards. A stream of rats crossed. One recognized him and waved. He smiled and waved back.
No, he had washed the blanket. There was no blood. The bleach had worked miracles. And it would be warm, should the weather turn cold.
As he drove out of town, he noticed a flock of geese overhead getting into formation like fighter pilots from the base. He rolled down his window and listened. The squawks and honks cut through the crisp morning air. Yes, this time the thick, bulging clouds would bring snow, not rain. He could feel it in his bones.
He hated the cold, hated snow. It reminded him of too many Christmases, quietly unwrapping the few presents his mother had secretly put under the tree for him. Following his mother’s instructions, he would get up early Christmas morning and unwrap his gifts by himself. Quiet enough to hear his mother keeping his stepfather preoccupied in their bedroom, just several feet away.
His stepfather never suspected a thing, grateful for his own early-morning present. Had he found out, he and his mother would have both received beatings for their frivolous waste of his stepfather’s hard-earned money. For it was that first Christmas beating that had initiated their secret tradition.
He turned onto Old Church Road and drove along the river. The riverbank was on fire with brilliant reds, oranges and yellows. Thousands of cattails waved at him, poking up out of the tall, honey-colored grass. The snow would ruin all of this. It would cover the vivid colors of life and leave its shroud of white death.
It wasn’t much farther. Suddenly, he remembered the baseball cards. In a mad panic, he patted himself down, checking all his jacket pockets while he steered with one hand. The car veered sharply
to the right. The tire slammed into a deep rut before he twisted the steering wheel and gained control. Finally, he felt the bulge in the back pocket of his jeans.
He pulled off the road into a grove of plum trees. The canopy of branches and leaves hid the car. He stuffed the spilled groceries back into the sack and shoved it under his arm. He popped the trunk. The thick wool blanket was rolled neatly and tied with rope. He grabbed it and slung it over his shoulder. He slammed the trunk, its echo bouncing off the trees and water. It was quiet and peaceful despite the wind whispering through the branches, threatening to bring cold. It swept up the smell of river water, a wonderful musty mixture of silt, fish and decay. He stopped to watch the water rolling in ripples and waves, moving quickly and carrying with it driftwood and other debris. It was alive and dangerous with powers of destruction. It was alive and redemptive with powers of healing and cleansing.
The muddy leaves hid the wooden door so well that even he had to search for its exact location. He cleared it of all debris, then, with both hands, yanked and pulled until it creaked open. A haze of light dimly lit the steps as he descended into the earth. Immediately, the smell of wet dirt, moist with mold, filled his lungs. As soon as he reached the bottom, he put down the sack and blanket.
From his jacket pocket he pulled the rubber mask. It was better than the ski mask, less frightening and more appropriate for this time of year. Although he hated the damn thing. But even more, he hated remembering the look in Danny’s eyes, recognizing him, trusting him and then looking at him as though betrayed. If only Danny had understood. But that look and that damn cross around the boy’s neck had almost unraveled him. No, he couldn’t take any more chances. He yanked on the mask. In seconds, his face began to perspire.
Like a zombie, with hands and arms outstretched, he took small steps until he bumped into the wooden shelf. His fingers found the lantern and matches. Fur brushed against his skin. He jerked his hand away, hitting the lantern and catching it without seeing it before it slid off the shelf.
“Damn rats,” he muttered.
His fingers lifted the rusty metal. He struck the match and lit the wick on the first try. The dark came to life in the yellow glow. Pieces of dirt wall crumbled and filtered down on him. He avoided looking up at the scratchy skitters of night creatures escaping. He waited. In a few seconds they would find new darkness and all would be safe and quiet again.
He shoved his weight against the thick wooden shelf, using his shoulder to push. The heavy structure groaned, wobbled and began to move. It scraped against the floor, taking clumps of dirt with it. Sweat rolled down his back. The mask was excruciatingly hot—his face crushed by a vapor lock. Finally, the secret passage revealed itself. He crawled through the small hole, reaching back to grab the sack and drag the blanket.
He hoped Matthew enjoyed the baseball cards.
CHAPTER 20
The Tanner house sat on the corner of its block at the edge of town. Behind it stretched an open field where huge, yellow construction equipment chomped at the landscape like hungry monsters removing trees in one gulp. It was one of the sights Nick hated most about Platte City’s rapid growth. Countryside covered with pink wild roses, blazing goldenrod and waving prairie grass suddenly turned into perfect sections of bluegrass and gray pavement sprinkled with plastic swing sets and Big Wheels.
“Jesus,” he muttered at the line of vehicles parked in front of the Tanner house.
“You have someone here to contain things?” O’Dell asked.
Nick glanced at her next to him in his Jeep.
“I’m only asking, Morrelli. There’s no need to get defensive.”
She was right. There was no accusation in her tone. He needed to remember that she was on his side. So he filled her in on what he had done so far, details they hadn’t had time to discuss in the early hours of the morning.
Last night, almost near panic, he and Hal Langston had set up a mini-command post in Michelle Tanner’s living room. Grudgingly, he had relied on lessons Bob Weston had taught him during the Alverez case. Within minutes of Michelle Tanner’s desperate phone call, Nick had sent Phillip Van Dorn to tap her phones and set up a surveillance around her house. Before midnight Lucy Burton had begun converting the sheriff’s office conference room into a strategy briefing room with maps and enlarged photos of Matthew tacked up and a hotline ready.
This time Nick had immediately called in the county police chiefs from neighboring Richfield, Staton and Bennet for extra feet to scour the alleys, surrounding fields and even the riverbank. His own men had gone door-to-door, instructed to politely ask questions without stirring panic. If that was possible. In fact, he wondered if it may already be too late. Especially after this morning’s drive and witnessing the panic of parents accompanying their children to school. The frenzy had already begun, thanks to his sister. He hated to think what would happen when everyone found out about Matthew. Nick knew he was fooling himself if he thought he could stop the frenzy or even contain it.
The front door of the Tanner house was open. The chatter of voices drifted into the yard. O’Dell knocked on the screen door and waited. Nick would have knocked and entered. Standing so close behind her he noticed she was about six inches shorter than he was. He leaned closer to smell her hair just as a breeze whipped several strands against his chin in a soft caress.
Her fingers brushed her hair back into place, almost grazing his skin. He stepped back and watched her tuck the unruly strand behind her ear, revealing soft, white skin. This morning she wore a dark burgundy suit jacket and matching trousers. The color made her skin seem softer, smoother.
The screen door screeched on old hinges as a man Nick didn’t recognize opened it just enough to examine the two of them.
“Who are you?” the man asked suspiciously, wasting no time on good manners as his eyes darted over them.
“It’s okay.” Hal Langston came up behind him and gently nudged the man to the side. Hal grabbed the screen door and opened it. The man shot Hal a look, but walked away. Hal could be as imposing as hell when he wanted. He and Nick had played football together in high school, and although Hal had added some softness to his bulk, he was still in good shape.
“Married life,” he explained when Nick teased him about the extra weight. “You should try it, buddy,” he would always add. And to his credit, Hal had snagged one of the best catches in town.
Tess Langston had moved to Platte City ten years before to teach high-school history. As beautiful as she was smart, she had intimidated all the bachelors who drooled in her presence. All but Hal. For almost three weeks, he had called Nick, who’d been tucked away out East in law school, every night, racking up his long-distance bill. Between torts and breaches of contract, Nick had helped plot Hal’s next move.
Nick wrote snippets of poetry, recommended what flowers—daisies, not roses—and even advised when and where to touch—gentle flicks to the earlobe when cuddling, no breast groping. He had felt as though he was wooing Tess himself, so much so that, when the calls stopped, Nick had felt a loss. It wasn’t until later he realized the loss wasn’t of his buddy, but of a woman he had met only once and had come to know so intimately through his friend that he, himself, had fallen in love.
Hal and Tess had married after six short months, and even today Nick felt a closeness to Tess that he could never explain. Didn’t want to explain, really. He had no idea whether Hal had shared with her the secrets of their courtship, yet sometimes Tess looked at Nick in a way that told him she knew, and that she was grateful.
The Tanner living room was filled with his deputies and with police officers he didn’t recognize. Some were drinking coffee, while others huddled over notes and maps. Nick looked for Michelle Tanner and wondered whether he would recognize her. Last night in her pink chenille robe and red eyes and blotchy face, she had looked drunk and disoriented. Her red hair had fallen partially out of its bun and flew around her head like wild snakes. Her entire small body had seemed to convulse
with arms swinging and legs pacing.
The kitchen was clogged with more bodies.
“Who the fuck are all these people, Hal?” He turned and bumped into Hal, who was close behind. O’Dell had wandered over to Phillip Van Dorn, and without any introduction seemed to have Phil revealing all his secrets of the technology he strung around the house.
“It was her idea,” Hal whispered in his defense. “She called a few neighbors, her mother, the parents of her kid’s soccer team.”
“Jesus, Hal. We’ve got the whole fucking soccer team here!”
“Just a few parents.”
Nick elbowed his way through the crowd. Then he began shoving when he recognized the woman sitting at the table, sipping coffee with Michelle Tanner.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he bellowed, and the entire room went silent.
CHAPTER 21
Before Christine could answer, her brother charged through the group, spilling Emily Fulton’s coffee and almost knocking Paul Calloway to the floor. Everyone stared as Nick pointed his finger at her and said to Michelle Tanner, “Mrs. Tanner, do you realize this woman is a reporter?”
Michelle Tanner was a petite woman, slender to the point of being frail and, from what Christine had already learned, easily intimidated. Michelle’s small face went pale, the large hazel eyes widened. She looked at Christine, fumbled with her coffee cup, then stared at it as though surprised by its click-clack rattle amplified in the silence. Finally, she looked up at Nick.
“Yes, Sheriff Morrelli. I’m well aware that Christine is a reporter.” She folded her hands together, apparently noticed a slight tremor and tucked them under the table, safely into her lap. With her eyes now on her coffee, she continued, “We think it would be beneficial to have something in tonight’s paper…about Matthew.” The tremor was now in her voice.
Christine saw Nick softening. If there was one thing her macho brother couldn’t handle, it was a tearful woman. She had used them herself, though there was nothing manipulative about Michelle Tanner’s tears.
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