A Necessary Evil

by Kava, Alex

  “It’s nothing for sure,” he told her. “Just rumors. More of the same, except Father Rudy preferred eleven-year-old girls.”

  He watched O’Dell close her eyes and take a deep breath, needing to compose herself. And he wondered if she ever got the urge to hit something, too.

  “So Father Rudy had reason to be on the list,” she finally said and Pakula nodded. “Then why wasn’t he on it?”

  CHAPTER 77

  Washington, D.C.

  From her office window, Gwen Patterson watched the rush-hour traffic below. Detective Julia Racine had left Gwen’s nerves frayed and her mind preoccupied. Yet, somehow she had managed to get through the day of appointments, and she had managed to do so despite all the interruptions from her temp. The poor girl had jammed the copier, broken Gwen’s brand-new gourmet coffeemaker and hung up on everyone she thought she was putting on hold, including a United States senator with an urgent question for Gwen. His impatience, however, seemed to override his urgency. He never called back. She was glad she had left poor Harvey back at her brownstone. He would have been a nervous wreck trying to keep track of all the chaos in the office today.

  “Is there anything else, Ms. Patterson? I mean, Dr. Patterson?” the girl asked from the doorway.

  Gwen took a good look at the girl…the young woman, Gwen corrected herself. Normally Gwen would have shaken her head at the eyebrow piercing and too short and too tight knit top. She had always tried to instill, or perhaps drill was more appropriate, into her assistants that their appearance became a reflection of her and her practice. They influenced her patients’ first impressions of this office. They were the gateway to her business. All of that seemed insignificant at the moment. Her gateway had allowed a killer to pass back and forth, getting and taking advice that evidently had encouraged him to continue to kill. It certainly hadn’t stopped him.

  “No, there’s nothing else, Amanda. Let’s call it a day.”

  “I’m so sorry about your coffeemaker. I’ll buy you a new one.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Gwen told her, knowing poor Amanda didn’t realize it would take her almost a whole week’s salary to replace it. “Go home. Get some rest. We’ll try it all over again tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Patterson.” It was the first smile Gwen had gotten out of her all day.

  Amanda would probably go home and complain to her roommate or her boyfriend, maybe her mother or a girlfriend. And suddenly Gwen realized what luxury it must be to have someone like that to release the day’s trials and tribulations to. And who did she have? Only Harvey and even he was on loan. She decided she’d call Maggie tonight. For a person who made her living convincing her patients that confession is actually good for the soul and the mind, she sure didn’t practice what she preached. Maybe it was about time that she started.

  Gwen decided she’d also take her own advice about going home and getting some rest. She slid her laptop and some folders into her leather briefcase just as the phone began to ring. She was tempted to let the voice-messaging service pick it up, but at the last minute grabbed the receiver.

  “This is Dr. Patterson.”

  “Hey, Doc, it’s Julia Racine.”

  So much for rest, and Gwen leaned against her desk, expecting to need the extra support.

  “What can I do for you, Detective Racine?” she asked instead of saying what she wanted to say—What the hell do you want now?

  “The Boston guys found some prints they think the killer left on a coffee mug. I just thought you’d like to know the prints don’t match up. They’re not Rubin Nash’s.”

  “Am I supposed to be relieved?” All it meant was that Nash hadn’t traveled to Boston to cut the head off some priest. She had already guessed that the two cases weren’t related. “That only means he hasn’t switched from killing young women to killing priests.”

  “I’m not too sure about that,” Racine said and Gwen could barely hear her with what sounded like traffic noise in the background. The detective must be en route somewhere. “The rest of it is very much like our guy. Father Conley was strangled just like the other victims and the killer used a hatchet to chop and rip off his head. Sounds like he even dismembered him in the garden shed behind the rectory.”

  Gwen didn’t want these details. She couldn’t hear them without visions of Dena being mutilated piece by piece. She wanted to tell Racine to stop, to save it for Maggie or Tully or anyone else. She didn’t want to do this anymore. After Rubin Nash her criminal-profiling days would be over.

  “Those are details,” Racine continued, “that we haven’t released to the media, so it’s not likely we have a copycat.”

  “Why are you telling me all this, Detective Racine?”

  “Because I have nothing. And unless you can tell me something more about Rubin Nash, I can’t even bring him in for questioning.”

  Gwen resisted the urge to hang up. She released a heavy sigh, hoping to release her frustration.

  “I’ve told you everything I can think of,” she told Racine. “The notes, the things he’s left me, aren’t any of them proof enough?”

  “They would be if we could find his fingerprints on any of it.”

  “But I noticed myself that there are fingerprints. There’s even a smudge of one on the map of the park.”

  “They’re not his.” Racine was shouting now, but not out of anger. It was only to make herself heard over the noise surrounding her. “Look, I’ve gotta go, Doc. If you think of anything, anything at all, call me.”

  And she was gone before Gwen could respond. She was beginning to think Racine had dropped the ball. Had she really checked out the fingerprints? Was it possible Nash had used someone else as his courier? Maybe he wanted to throw them all off.

  She had just finished packing her briefcase when she heard the outside door to the office open. Amanda had either forgotten something or she’d neglected to lock it on her way out. She couldn’t handle one more delivery or repairman and was about to say just that when James Campion stopped in her doorway.

  “Hello, Dr. Patterson,” he said, sounding out of breath.

  He looked awful compared to his usual neat and tidy self. His clothes were wrinkled as if he had slept in them, his hair disheveled and his eyes bloodshot and swollen.

  “James? Are you all right?”

  “I really need to talk to you, Dr. Patterson.”

  “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

  “No, no. Not hurt. At least not the way you mean.”

  She knew she should tell him to come back in the morning, that it was after hours. But he looked so frantic, so frightened, his boyish face grimacing, and she worried morning might be too late, remembering the hesitation marks on his wrists.

  “Come in and sit.” She needed to calm him down, but he was pacing the length of her office, watching out the window with every pass as if expecting to see that someone had followed him. She didn’t like her patients up and about. It made them too out of control.

  “We can talk, James, but you need to sit down and tell me what’s happened.”

  Finally he stopped long enough to meet her eyes and in what sounded like a very small boy’s voice he whispered, “The pounding, the banging,” and he pointed to his chest and his head, “it won’t stop. I think it’s because I broke the rules.”

  CHAPTER 78

  The Embassy Suites

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Nick actually looked forward to the evening. After some persuasion, he had gotten Christine to agree that Timmy could spend the night with him in his suite. He had even gotten Christine to call Mrs. McCutty and convince her that Gibson could spend the night, too. Of course, it hadn’t been easy. At first Christine didn’t like the idea.

  “I can’t believe you want to reward them for skipping school,” she yelled at him over the phone. “You know how much I spent on that Explorers class?”

  When he told her about Brother Sebastian coming to the house, looking for the two boys, she went s
ilent.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” Nick told her, “but you have to admit, this Sebastian guy is pretty creepy.”

  “He’s the archbishop’s henchman,” Christine said. “If there’s something going on it involves Archbishop Armstrong. You don’t think he’s trying to get at Timmy because I’ve been working on this article, do you?”

  “Are you kidding?” Sometimes he couldn’t believe how naive his big sister could be. “You’re trying to pin a cover-up on him and you don’t think he might try to stop you?”

  “Maybe it would be a good idea for the boys to be someplace else. I’ll call Mrs. McCutty and tell her.”

  His powers of persuasion worked on Jill, too, though he hated to admit there was little persuading. Jill seemed more than willing to forfeit an evening with him for another opportunity to check out flower arrangements, and oh by the way, the caterer was bringing by some samples so if he wasn’t going to be around she’d invite her bridesmaids over.

  He was beginning to wonder if she was more excited about the getting-married part than she was about marrying him. What was it about wedding planning that seemed to turn an intelligent, sophisticated, professional woman into a magazine-flipping, mall-hunting, shop-till-you-drop addict? Even when they did manage to get together their conversation invariably turned to mini-quiches versus miniature watercress sandwiches and whether or not one groom’s cake would be sufficient. Surely they had talked about other things once upon a time, though at the moment he couldn’t remember a regular conversation in quite a while.

  Right now he didn’t want to think about any of that. He just wanted to enjoy watching Timmy and Gibson gawk at everything in the hotel as if they were traveling through some futuristic world. They had stopped at Target on the way with the intention of buying Gibson a change of clothes, especially after the kid visibly cringed at the thought of stopping at his own house. Although they had bought pretty much only the basics, their miniature shopping spree ended up being a lot of fun. He hadn’t laughed that hard in a very long time. Of course, it wasn’t anything quite as elaborate as Jill and her friends would consider, but the boys seemed pleased and insisted on keeping their new shades on even as they walked the lobby and hallways of the hotel.

  “Can we go to Ted and Wally’s for ice cream later?” Timmy wanted to know.

  “I think we’d better stay in tonight and stick to room service,” Nick told him. “I don’t think your new friend would think to look here or in the Old Market for you, but let’s not take any chances, okay?”

  But Gibson and Timmy were smiling at each other about the room service and already forgetting about their fear of Brother Sebastian. Nick was glad he could make them feel safe, but in the back of his mind he kept remembering what Tony had said about Brother Sebastian, that the man would do anything for Archbishop Armstrong. Already the guy had ransacked Monsignor O’Sullivan’s office, roughed up Gibson in the school hallway and lied to the boy’s mother, making up a story about him selling drugs. Nick was beginning to wonder what else Brother Sebastian was capable of. Did it include murder?

  Timmy and Gibson weren’t telling him everything either. First Tony and now these two. They knew something but remained tight-lipped every time he asked. He’d ply them with junk food and try again later. His first priority tonight was to keep them safe from the archbishop’s henchman, as Christine had called him.

  Nick was so focused on looking for Brother Sebastian that he didn’t notice another tall man watching from one of the sofas in the hotel lobby.

  CHAPTER 79

  The Embassy Suites

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Father Michael Keller could feel the digitalis starting to work. He knew it was probably only his imagination. There was no guarantee that the antidote would help, let alone work this quickly. But the cold sweats had stopped. His stomach had settled down and despite being empty it no longer churned. However, he wasn’t too sure if his eyesight had returned to normal.

  He sat in the hotel lobby enjoying the piped-in music—a commercial attempt at Pachelbel’s Canon in D Minor—and taking in all the sights outside: tourists in the Old Market strolling up and down the cobblestones, cars and buses and even Olley the Trolley zooming along. He watched it all, enjoying what in his previous life had annoyed and irritated him. His eyesight seemed fine until he saw a man and two teenage boys come through the revolving hotel door, then he wondered if he was seeing things again.

  Was he mistaken or did he know the man? He couldn’t place him. More importantly, the boy in the bright orange T-shirt and baggie cargo shorts looked very familiar. It was possible that they had been parishioners when he was at Saint Margaret’s in Platte City.

  He pretended not to watch as he sipped another glorious cup of hot tea. This place was like a dream—paradise on earth. He wished he could stay forever, but now that he had handed over everything to Maggie O’Dell and Detective Pakula his mission would soon come to an end.

  On the long flight here he had reaffirmed his decisions. He wasn’t going back. He’d get on the flight just as he had promised Agent O’Dell. But there was no reason to punish himself any longer. With everything he had given them, surely they would find The Sin Eater. It was only a matter of time. And in the meantime he needed to find somewhere else safe. Why not a small rural parish where no one knew him? Maybe someplace outside of Chicago.

  He’d tell them the archdiocese had sent him, just as he had each time in the past four years. It might take months, maybe even a year, before anyone would find out differently. And if they did, he’d simply pick up and go somewhere else. There was no reason it couldn’t work just as well here.

  But there was one thing that still bothered him. Maggie O’Dell’s question nagged at him. “Why do you suppose you’re on this list, Father Keller?”

  Until she had asked that simple question he had believed he could stay and be safe and free. But that one single question made him realize that there could still be someone else out there other than Agent O’Dell and The Sin Eater who could hurt him, who could continue to make his life miserable if he didn’t stop them.

  He was distracted again and heard the man with the boys speaking to the desk clerk. He couldn’t make out the words.

  He listened. Still no recognition.

  The man turned and pointed out something to the boys and called out to the one in the orange T-shirt. He called him Timmy, and then it all came back to him as if it had happened only yesterday. He remembered and immediately he knew that must have been how he had gotten on the list. His one regret was the one little boy he hadn’t been able to save. Timmy Hamilton had submitted his name to The Sin Eater.

  CHAPTER 80

  Washington, D.C.

  Gwen tried to calm him but he went from babbling like a small boy to a raging anger that she had never seen James Campion exhibit. Over and over he told her he had broken the rules. She had no idea what rules he was talking about.

  “The rules of the game,” he screamed at her. “The Sin Eater must have put some sort of spell on me. Is that possible?” he wanted to know.

  She had finally gotten him to sit on the sofa, though his hands and arms still flayed about. Nothing in her past experience with him would indicate a violent manner and yet she found herself checking the door, making sure she had an escape route if it became necessary. All of their previous sessions had been more than civil. He’d always been polite, gracious and respectful. She couldn’t remember him raising his voice even when confessing the most heinous of events from his childhood.

  His childhood.

  Why had it taken this long to hit her?

  James Campion had been abused and raped by a parish priest, a man he deeply respected and trusted. Had James ever spoken of him by name?

  Now her mind raced, trying to pull pieces of information from his file by memory. Where? Why couldn’t she remember where he had grown up? Not here. She was certain of that. Boston? Was it Boston? Or was she simply being paranoid
again, conveniently pushing puzzle pieces into empty slots?

  “James, slow down. Tell me about the game. You haven’t mentioned it before.” She spoke softly, the same tone that had worked for so many past sessions. “You must tell me about the game before I can help you. Do you understand?”

  He nodded and she tried to hold eye contact. If she could get him to remember how comfortable, how safe he had felt here before—safe enough to confess things he hadn’t shared with anyone—perhaps she could get him to tell her what had happened. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his hands in his lap, wringing the hem of his shirt. His fists balled up, the skin turning white. Suddenly she wondered if maybe she didn’t want to know what had happened, what he had done.

  “It helped for a little while,” he said, his voice calm despite the violent wringing of his shirt. She could hear him ripping it now. She held his gaze, resisting the urge to look down. “You helped for a while. You really did. But you made me talk about it too much. It wouldn’t go away when you made me talk about it. Instead it just brought out more anger. And then the game wasn’t enough. Our sessions weren’t enough. You—” He lifted a hand away from his shirt to point a finger at her. “You weren’t enough.”

  He stood slowly, his eyes still holding hers as if having some sort of revelation.

  “It’s your fault,” he said, only this time it was almost a hiss. “You made me dredge it all up again. You made me talk about it and remember. You made me remember all the disgusting details all over again. You made me do it.”

  And suddenly Gwen knew for certain that she had been wrong. The killer leaving her notes and maps and crying out for her attention was not Rubin Nash. It was James Campion. She had made a mistake and now she was about to pay for that mistake.