by Alex Kava
She stayed calm, glanced over her shoulder at him. He was pacing, hands on his hips as if waiting for a verdict. “When I asked you to pick up my bags from the airport, I didn’t mean for you to deliver them.” She tried a smile, but he looked determined not to let her off so easily.
“Next year I’ll make partner. We’re on our way, Maggie.”
“On our way to what?” She pulled out a matching bra and panties.
“You shouldn’t have to do all this dangerous fieldwork. For God’s sake, Maggie, you’ve got eight stinking years with the Bureau. You finally have the clout to be…I don’t know, a supervisor, an instructor…something, anything else.”
“I enjoy what I do, Greg.” She started to pull off the hideous gown, hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder. Greg threw his hands in the air and rolled his eyes.
“What? You want me to leave?” His voice was filled with sarcasm, a hint of anger. “Yes, maybe I should leave so you can invite your cowboy back.”
“He’s not my cowboy.” Maggie felt the anger color her cheeks.
“Is that why you haven’t returned my calls? Is there something going on with you and Sheriff Hardbody?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Greg.” She yanked off the gown and struggled into the panties. It hurt to bend, to lift her arms. She was grateful a bandage covered the unsightly stitches.
“Oh my God, Maggie.”
She spun around to find him staring at her wounded shoulder, a grimace contorting his handsome features. She couldn’t help wondering whether it was disgust or concern. His eyes examined the rest of her body, finally resting on the scar below her breasts. Suddenly, she felt exposed and embarrassed, neither of which made sense. He was her husband, after all. Yet, she grabbed the gown and pressed it to her breasts.
“Not all of those are from last night,” he said, the anger more prevalent than the concern. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you notice?”
“So this is my fault?” Again, the hands in the air. It was a gesture she recognized from when he practiced his summations. Perhaps it worked with jurors. To her, it was worthless melodrama, a simple technique to draw attention to himself. How dare he make her scars about him.
“It has nothing to do with you.”
“You’re my wife. Your job leaves your body carved up. Why shouldn’t I be concerned?” His fair complexion turned crimson with anger, large raspberry splotches that looked like a rash.
“You’re not concerned. You’re angry because I didn’t tell you.”
“Damn right I’m angry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She threw the gown aside, giving him a good look at the scar.
“This is from over a month ago, Greg,” she said, tracing the scar that Stucky had left. “Most husbands would have noticed. But we don’t even have sex anymore, so how could you notice? You haven’t even noticed that I don’t sleep next to you. That I spend most nights pacing. You don’t care about me, Greg.”
“This is ridiculous. How can you say I don’t care about you? That’s exactly why I want you to leave the Bureau.”
“If you really cared, you’d understand how important my job is to me. No, you’re more concerned about how I make you look. That’s why you don’t want me in the field. You want to be able to tell your friends and associates that I have some big FBI title, a huge office, a secretary to put you on hold. You want me to be able to wear sexy black cocktail dresses to your fancy attorney parties so you can show me off, and my hideous scars don’t fit into that scenario. Well, this is me, Greg,” she said with her hands on her hips, trying to ignore the chill on her naked body. “This is who I am. Maybe I just don’t fit into your country-club lifestyle anymore.”
He shook his head at her, like a father impatient with his errant child. She grabbed the crumpled gown again and smashed it against her breasts, suddenly feeling vulnerable, having exposed much more than her nakedness.
“Thank you for bringing my things,” she said quietly, calmly. “Now, I want you to leave.”
“Fine.” He swung his arms into his trench coat. “Why don’t we get together for lunch after you’ve cooled off.”
“No, I want you to go back home.”
He stared at her, his gray eyes going cold, his pursed lips stifling the angry words. She waited for his next onslaught, but he turned on his expensive, leather heels and stomped out.
Maggie collapsed onto the bed, the pain in her side only a minor contributor to her exhaustion. She barely heard the tap on the door but braced herself for the rest of Greg’s fury. Instead, Nick came in, took one look at her and spun around.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you weren’t dressed.”
She glanced down, only now realizing she just wore underpants and the thin gown carelessly pressed across her breasts, hardly covering anything. She looked up at him, checking to make sure his back was to her before she grabbed the bra and wrestled into it. The stabs in her side slowed her down.
“Actually, I should be the one to apologize,” she said, adopting Greg’s sarcasm. “It seems my scarred body repulses men.”
She snatched a blouse from the pile and thrust her arms into it, then realized it was inside out. She whipped it off and tried again.
Nick glanced over his shoulder, but snapped back to his same position. “Jesus, Maggie, you should know by now that I’m the wrong one to say that to. I’ve been trying for days now to find one little thing about you that doesn’t turn me on.”
She heard the smile in his voice. Her fingers stopped at the buttons, a slight tremor making it difficult to continue as the heat crawled down her body. She stared at the back of him and wondered how in the world Nick Morrelli could make her feel so sensuous, so alive without even looking at her.
“Anyway, I didn’t mean to barge in on you,” he said, “but there’s a slight problem with bringing in Father Keller for questioning.”
“I know, I know. We don’t have enough evidence.”
“No, that’s not it.” Another glance to see if it was safe. Maggie had her trousers halfway up, but he turned again to the door. She smiled at his caution. After all, he had already seen her in much less. She remembered the football jersey and his soft, comfortable robe.
“If it’s not evidence, what’s the problem?” she asked.
“I just called the rectory and talked to the cook. Father Keller is gone and so is Ray Howard.”
CHAPTER 100
As soon as they got off the elevator Timmy noticed the sign that read Restricted Area—Hospital Personnel Only. Father Keller didn’t seem to notice the sign. He walked down the hallway without even hesitating, as if he had been down here many times before.
Timmy tried to keep up, although his ankle still hurt. It almost hurt more after the doctor wrapped it in all that elastic stuff, so tight Timmy was sure it was adding more bruises.
Father Keller glanced down at him, only now noticing the limp.
“What happened to your leg?”
“I guess I sprained my ankle last night in the woods.”
Timmy didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to remember. Every time he remembered, that terrible knot returned inside his stomach. Without much prompting, he knew the shivers would start again.
“You’ve been through quite a lot, huh?” The priest stopped, patted Timmy on the head. “You want to talk about it?”
“No, not really,” Timmy said without looking up. Instead, he stared at his own brand-new Nikes. Air Nikes, the cool expensive kind. Uncle Nick had given them to him this morning.
Father Keller didn’t insist, didn’t ask more questions like the rest of the adults. Timmy was getting tired of all the questions. Everybody—Deputy Hal, the reporters, the doctor, Uncle Nick, Grandpa—everybody wanted to know about the little room, the stranger, his escape. He just didn’t want to think about it anymore.
Father Keller pushed open a door and flipped a light switch. The huge room grew bright as the lights flicker
ed on, one at a time.
“Wow, this does look like on The X-Files,” Timmy said, running his fingers over the spotless counters, stainless steel just like the table in the center of the room. His eyes jumped around the assortment of odd equipment and tools neatly placed on trays. Then he noticed the drawers, lined up side by side in the opposite wall. “Is that…” He pointed. “Is that where they keep the dead people?”
“Yes, it is,” Father Keller said, but he seemed distracted. He carefully placed the duffel bag on the metal table.
“Is Father Francis in one of the drawers?” Timmy whispered, then felt stupid. After all, nobody could hear them.
“Yes, unless they have already picked up his body.”
“Picked up?”
“The mortuary may have already picked up Father Francis and taken him to the airport.”
“The airport?” Timmy was confused. He’d never heard of dead bodies traveling on planes.
“Yes, remember I told you I was taking Father Francis to his burial place?”
“Oh, okay.” Timmy scanned the countertops again, this time paying more attention. He came in for a closer look, tempted to touch but keeping his hands at his sides. Some of the tools were sharp, some long and narrow with teeth. One of them looked like a miniature chain saw. He’d never seen such odd tools before. He tried to imagine what each one did.
“I heard your father is back in town,” Father Keller said, standing stiff and still next to the table.
“Yeah, I’m hoping he’ll stay,” Timmy said with only half a glance at the priest. There were too many interesting vials, test tubes, even a microscope. Maybe he would ask for a microscope for his birthday.
“Really? You’d like your father to stay?”
“Yeah, I guess I would.”
“Wasn’t he mean to you?”
Timmy looked at Father Keller. The question surprised him, and he wondered what Father Keller meant, but the priest unzipped the duffel bag and was immediately preoccupied by its contents.
“How do you mean?” Timmy finally asked.
“Didn’t he hurt you?” Father Keller said without looking up. “Didn’t he do unpleasant things to you?”
Timmy wasn’t sure what unpleasant things were. He knew he wore that scrunched look on his face that automatically happened when he was confused. He could hear his mom saying, “Don’t look at me like that, or your face will stick that way.” He tried to wipe it away before Father Keller noticed, but the priest was busy digging in the bag.
“My dad was mostly nice to me. Sometimes I guess he yelled.”
“What about your bruises?”
Timmy felt his face grow warm with embarrassment. But, thankfully, Father Keller still didn’t look up. “I guess I just bruise easily. Most of ‘em are from soccer.” Soccer and Chad Calloway.
“Then why did your mom make him go away?” Father Keller’s voice surprised Timmy. Suddenly, it was low with a hint of anger while his eyes stayed focused inside the bag.
Timmy didn’t want to make Father Keller mad. He heard the clink of metal and wondered what kind of tools Father Keller had in the bag.
“I don’t know for sure why my mom made him leave. I think it had something to do with a slutty, big-breasted receptionist,” Timmy said, trying to use the exact words he had overheard his mom use.
This time Father Keller did look up at him, only the piercing blue eyes sent a shiver through Timmy. Usually, Father Keller’s eyes were kind and warm. But now…those eyes…no, it couldn’t be. Timmy’s stomach churned. He felt sick, tasted the sourness backing up into his mouth. He resisted the urge to throw up. The shivers started in his fingertips. One slid down his back. He felt dizzy.
“Timmy, are you okay?” Father Keller asked, and suddenly his cold eyes warmed with concern. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”
The panic settled, sliding back down Timmy’s throat and resting like a lump in his stomach. He never left Father Keller’s eyes, mesmerized by the drastic change in them. Or had he imagined it all?
“Timmy,” Father Keller said softly. “Do you think your mom and dad will get back together? Do you think you can be a real family again?”
Timmy swallowed hard, making sure the icky taste and feeling were gone for good. His stomach still ached. Maybe it was eating the candy bar on an empty stomach.
“I hope so,” he answered. “I miss my dad. We used to go camping sometimes. Just the two of us. He’d let me bait my own hook. We’d talk and stuff. It was pretty cool. Except my dad’s an awful cook.”
Father Keller smiled at him now as he zipped up the duffel bag without ever taking anything out.
“Here you two are,” Grandpa Morrelli said, swinging open the door to the morgue and startling both Timmy and Father Keller. “Nurse Richards thought she saw the elevator go down here. What are you two up to?”
His grandpa smiled at them while bracing the door open and staying in the doorway. His hands were filled with bags, all with the yellow Subway logo. Timmy could smell pastrami, vinegar and onion despite the overwhelming smell of cleaning solution in the room.
“Father Keller was just picking up Father Francis for their trip.” Timmy checked the priest’s face and was pleased to see the smile still there. Then to his grandpa, he said, “Doesn’t this look like something from The X-Files?”
CHAPTER 101
Nick slowed his pace when he noticed the tight, pale look on Maggie’s face. Of course, she was hurting and, of course, she wouldn’t complain.
The Friday crowds had descended upon Eppley Airport. Business men and women hurried to get home. Fall vacationers and those getting away for the weekend moved more slowly, dragging too many pieces of home to really get away.
Mrs. O’Malley, St. Margaret’s cook, had told Nick that Father Keller’s flight left at two forty-five, and that he was escorting Father Francis’ body to its final resting place. When Nick had asked to speak with Ray Howard, she said Ray was gone, too.
“I haven’t seen that one since breakfast,” she had told Nick. “He’s always sneaking off somewhere, saying it’s for Father Keller, but I never know when to believe him.” Then she added in a whisper, “He’s sneaky.”
Nick had tried to ignore her extra comments. He had been in a hurry and not interested in the seventy-two year old’s paranoia. Instead, he had tried to keep her focused and on the facts.
“Where is Father Francis being buried?”
“A place somewhere in Venezuela.”
“Venezuela! Jesus.” Mrs. O’Malley must have never heard the “Jesus,” or Nick was certain she would have lectured him on using the Lord’s name in vain.
“Father Francis absolutely loved it there,” she had offered, glad to be the expert, to have and hold Nick’s attention. “It was his first assignment out of seminary. A small, poor farming parish. I don’t remember the name. Yes, Father Francis always talked about all those beautiful, brown-skinned children, and how some day he hoped to return. Too bad it couldn’t have been under different circumstances.”
“Do you remember what city it was close to?” Nick had interrupted.
“No, I can’t say that I remember. All those places down there are so hard to remember, hard to pronounce. Father Keller will be back next week. Can’t this wait until then?”
“No, I’m afraid it can’t. What about the flight number or airline?”
“Oh my, I don’t know if he said. Maybe TWA…no, United, I think. It leaves at two forty-five out of Eppley,” she added, as if that should be all that was necessary.
Now Nick glanced at his watch. It was almost two-thirty. He and Maggie split up at the ticket counters, flashing credentials and badges to shove their way through the lines and hurry the desk clerks.
The tall woman at the TWA counter refused to be rushed by a county sheriff’s badge. Nick wished he had Maggie’s FBI influence. Instead, he used his smile and a little flattery. The woman’s rigid expression slowly softened, though it was hard to see the change. He
r hair was pulled back so tightly into a neat little bun that it made all her features look severe, stretched and pinned down. Perhaps that was also what made her lips so thin, barely moving when she talked.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff Morrelli. I cannot disclose our passenger list or information about any of our passengers. Please, you’re holding up the line.”
“Okay, okay. How about flights? Do you have a flight to anywhere in Venezuela, say in…” He glanced at his watch again. “In ten to fifteen minutes?”
She checked her computer screen, taking time despite the heavy sighs and shuffling coming from the line behind him.
“We have a flight to Miami that connects with an international flight to Caracas.”
“Great! What gate?”
“Gate 11, but that flight left at two-fifteen.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. The weather is excellent. All our flights are running on schedule.” She looked around him at a short, gray-haired man, anxious to hand off his ticket.
“Can you check to see if a coffin was on that flight?” Nick asked, refusing to budge despite an elbow in his back.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A coffin, as in a dead body.” He could feel the eyes around him, now staring, now interested. “It would be considered cargo. I’m sure I wouldn’t be infringing on its rights.” He tried another smile. From behind him, someone giggled.
The ticket clerk wasn’t pleased. The thin lips drew even tighter. “I still cannot divulge that information. Now, if you’ll step aside.”
“You know I can get a court order and be back later this afternoon.” No more Mr. Nice Guy. He was quickly losing his patience and time was slipping away.
“Perhaps that would be a good idea. Next, who was next, please?” she said, stepping aside when Nick wouldn’t, so she could help the elderly man behind him in line. The man shoved his way to the counter, shooting Nick a look filled with anger and impatience.
Nick moved over to stand near where Maggie talked to another ticket agent.
