by Alex Kava
“Ms. O’Dell.” The flight attendant startled her. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” She smiled at the woman and waited for her to go on to the next passenger. But she wasn’t fine. Her palms were slick with sweat and her stomach twisted in knots. Only this time neither was from her fear of flying. Not much consolation. Gwen had mentioned “unfinished business” and that’s exactly what Father Michael Keller was to Maggie. Anyone who could kill innocent little boys and slice a cross into their chest had not stopped just because he had escaped. He may have a change of scenery, but she knew there would not be a change of heart. That wasn’t the way evil worked.
And on the subject of evil, she had a hunch that these three cases were, indeed, connected, if not by the same killer, then perhaps by the victims. Maggie slid a file folder out from underneath the others. She had put it together hastily before Gwen picked her up for the airport. Now she had an opportunity to flip through the articles she had downloaded from the Internet. From Boston to Portland, from New York City to Albuquerque there had been allegations of sexual abuse by priests all over the country. Nowhere seemed to be exempt. James Porter, Paul Shanley, John Geoghan—the names read like a who’s who of the few who had been convicted and punished. But from her brief research she had learned that there had been an estimated fifteen hundred American priests in the past fifteen years who had faced allegations of sexual abuse.
Of course, she needed more information. Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions, but these three cases didn’t sound like a serial killer who happened to single out priests because he was trying to make some crazy religious statement. Instead, Maggie couldn’t help wondering if someone had taken it upon himself to carry out his own brand of justice. Because a single stab wound to the chest and through the heart sounded more like an execution.
CHAPTER 37
Washington, D.C.
Gwen finally conceded defeat, allowing the voice-messaging service to start answering the phone and collecting the messages. Besides, after Benny Hassert’s call, telling her that he couldn’t match the fingerprints from the manila envelope to those on the water glass, she didn’t want to talk to anyone else. Had she been wrong about Rubin Nash? Or had he simply been more careful than she anticipated? He could have delivered the envelope without getting his fingerprints on it, but it would be tricky. She was too exhausted to think about it.
Even letting the voice-messaging service answer the calls still meant the phone had to ring. It was beginning to wear on her nerves. It didn’t help matters that each ring startled Harvey from his sleep. He’d get up and pace, following her even after she commanded him to stay. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He did stay once or twice, but looked absolutely miserable doing so, as if she was asking him to do something totally contrary to his nature. At the rate she was going she’d never get any of her work done, and Harvey would never get any of his required naps. It was a good thing she didn’t have appointments on Mondays.
She had called and left several messages for Dena at her apartment and on her cell phone. Gwen’s first thought was that she had decided to take off with her new beau. She had been irritated, but more with herself than with Dena. After all, why did she seem to have such a knack for hiring irresponsible young women? No that wasn’t fair. Their chance meeting at Mr. Lee’s World Market Saturday evening had been awkward. Dena had appeared…flustered, anxious, but what young woman wouldn’t, running into her boss when she was in the middle of preparing for a romantic evening? And despite Dena’s occasional faux pas at work, Gwen could hardly call her irresponsible.
That’s why she had started to get concerned. Was the girl hurt? Had there been a family emergency? Gwen was beginning to regret not even knowing if Dena had a roommate or any family close by. If something had happened, who would she contact?
It was a recent necessity, the vow to adopt a policy of not getting involved with her hired staff. Past assistants had milked her for advice and free diagnosis as if both should be a part of every psychologist’s employee benefits plan. It wasn’t doling out free advice that bothered Gwen. It was, instead, the emotional drain of being dragged into the chaos of their lives.
One assistant had gotten Gwen to act as a mediator between her and her ex-husband during their custody battle, then to evaluate the children’s mental and emotional capacity to testify at the trial that followed. Another had Gwen appealing to the state’s parole board on her brother’s behalf. Still another pleaded with Gwen to convince her elderly mother that it was time to give up her home and independence for the security of an assisted-living facility. That was the one that broke the camel’s back, when Gwen discovered her assistant and the man she was living with had moved into the mother’s home, instead of selling it—as they had agreed—to pay for her mother’s care. It was one thing to be taken advantage of, quite another thing to be taken for a fool.
Sometimes Gwen wondered if it wasn’t one of the hazards of not having a family of her own, to constantly be drawn into the lives of the people around her. She had purposely never returned to Manhattan to establish a practice, lest she forever be destined to follow in her father’s footsteps and live in his shadow, as well as be judged by their professional peers under a much different standard—the standard of being John Patterson’s daughter. Even at Christmas parties she was still introduced as John’s little girl. She was almost fifty years old and definitely not anyone’s little girl.
She saw her parents maybe a half-dozen times a year. Every Christmas she made her annual pilgrimage to New York, accepting her parents’ traditions as her own. She went through the motions, never really considering if there might be an alternative. It wasn’t until last Christmas when R. J. Tully had asked her to join him and his daughter for Christmas Eve that she realized she had no traditions of her own.
She missed Tully, and she didn’t particularly like admitting that even to herself. She had gone for over a decade without missing anyone. She considered calling him. Just to talk. Before he and Emma left on vacation he had made sure she had his cell-phone number along with the number for their hotel and another for a friend they would be visiting. Yet he had been careful in telling her that it was no big deal if she called and no big deal if she didn’t. But she had been able to read his tight smile as an indication that he really would like it if she did call. And so of course she didn’t. Which was silly. That at their age they still played games like they were a couple of teenagers, not wanting to let the other know just how much they might care. When in reality they were two very independent adults, comfortable and complacent in the lives they had carved out for themselves and a bit reluctant to relinquish some of that independence. Perhaps she was also a bit reluctant to take a chance at having her heart broken again. She had gotten to a point in her life where she was happy, content with being alone. But somehow, despite how careful and calculated she had tried to be, she ended up caring for R. J. Tully. And…she missed him.
She heard the door to the reception area open and Harvey stood up again, looking at her, waiting for her direction. With no appointments scheduled, Gwen thought it would be quiet most of the day, but Dena evidently had decided Mondays would be delivery day. Gwen had already signed for a case of her beloved gourmet coffee, three boxes of supplies from Office Depot and a new patient’s medical report sent via messenger service from a Dr. Kalb.
“Package for Dr. G. Patterson?” The messenger didn’t look up from his electronic pad, punching in numbers. He had already set the box on the reception desk. “Just need a quick signature.”
When he looked up, he jumped at the sight of Harvey. He had been so focused he hadn’t noticed that the big dog had managed to sit down on the floor beside him.
“He’s harmless,” Gwen assured him and signed the electronic pad he held out for her.
“Not a bad idea to have extra security.” He gave Harvey a pat on the head before he left.
She shoved the box aside on the re
ception counter, glancing for the sender’s address, but not concerned when she didn’t find one. She picked up the phone, tucking it under her chin, checking voice messages while she slit open the envelope that accompanied the box. But there wasn’t a note inside. Instead, a single gold earring slipped out of the envelope, falling onto the counter. Gwen watched it spin like a coin on one end. For a second everything stopped, all sound, all movement other than the earring that now spun in slow motion. Even her heart seemed to stop. She didn’t need to examine it closely. She knew this was the match to the one left on Saturday.
Gwen slowly put the phone back in its cradle, her eyes never leaving the earring. The dread immediately gripped her stomach. She forced herself to look at the box. It was about a one-foot cube. Much bigger than any of his other packages. More instructions? Another map? Could it be another cell phone? What would he have sent her this time to direct her to his victim? And why the box? Certainly he wouldn’t…no, he wouldn’t dare. Or would he? She couldn’t help thinking it was probably the right size, just big enough for a human head to fit into.
She glanced down at Harvey who sat at her feet, staring up at her. He’d be able to sense, to smell, to know if it was something…dead. Wouldn’t he? There’d be blood, even dried blood. Yes, of course, he would.
She used the letter opener to carefully slit the packing tape on the sides of the box. Using the palms of her hands rather than her fingers, she lifted the flaps, trying to avoid adding her fingerprints to the many that may already be on the outside. Once the flaps were pressed back she still couldn’t see beyond the white packing material. She poked at it with the letter opener and made no contact. There seemed to be nothing of substance under the crinkled white paper. Did she dare peel it back?
She stood paralyzed, staring at it. Finally she set the letter opener aside and commanded her fingers to touch, then grip a corner, to lift, to pull it back. She found herself squinting and cringing as if preparing for something to jump out at her. When had she started holding her breath? Her chest already ached. But her fingers were steady. Thank goodness, since nothing else seemed to be.
Her fingers peeled and pulled and tugged until all the white packing paper had been removed, a pile of it now on the counter. At the bottom of the box remained only a single key on top of an index card. Without removing either, she recognized his familiar block-style handwriting. And what was worse, she recognized the address he had scrawled on the card.
CHAPTER 38
Our Lady of Sorrow High School
Omaha, Nebraska
Nick couldn’t find Christine. He wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t waited for him right outside the classroom like she’d said she would. He wandered over to the second-story windows facing the street. No police cruisers. No cops. That was a good sign.
He dug his hands into his jeans pockets. He hated waiting. He could go back in for the second half of Sister Kate’s class and make Christine come get him. Yep, that’s exactly what he’d do. Make her wait on him for a change. He was headed back to do just that when he noticed down the hall the door to Tony’s office was open. He hesitated. He and Tony had known each other a long time. Maybe he’d been too hard on him the other day when all Tony had wanted and needed was a friend, not an attorney.
He reached in and knocked on the open door, startling Tony.
“Hey, come on in.” He nodded at Nick, but his eyes returned to the computer screen and his fingers flew over the keyboard, as if he needed to close down whatever he was working on before Nick could get a glimpse. Or was Nick still just being suspicious?
“You haven’t seen Christine, have you?”
“No, is she here, too?”
“We brought Timmy for the Explorers’ class. I sat in on the first half. I think Christine’s downstairs giving that guy in the monsignor’s office a piece of her mind.”
Tony looked up at the mention of the intruder. Nick tried to figure out whether that was how Tony saw the guy, as an intruder. But Tony just shook his head and reached for a coffee mug that sat on the bookshelf. Nick waited, letting him take a gulp of what he knew was chocolate milk and not coffee. He only put it in a mug to draw less attention, or at least that was his explanation. Nick had ribbed him about it, jokingly asking if he thought a chocolate-milk-drinking priest would be taken less seriously than a coffee-drinking one.
Instead of some explanation of why the guy was going through the monsignor’s stuff, Tony said, “Christine should be careful.”
It wasn’t at all what Nick expected him to say.
“And why is that?”
Tony shrugged, took another sip. “Everyone’s on edge right now. I’m sure the archbishop won’t appreciate the media snooping around.”
“But he doesn’t mind sending some goon to snoop around?”
This time Tony smiled. “Brother Sebastian does look a bit like a goon, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah, in a freaky sort of way. Who exactly is he?”
“Assistant to Archbishop Armstrong, his right-hand man.”
“And his job description includes rummaging through dead priest’s offices?” Nick asked.
Another shrug from Tony. “Brother Sebastian would probably do anything the archbishop asked of him.”
Nick leaned against the doorjamb. Tony didn’t seem too concerned. Christine had probably blown it out of proportion. Of course, someone had to go through the monsignor’s stuff, box it up. He had never paid much attention to Tony’s office before, but suddenly he was taking it all in with new eyes, thinking of his own office back in Boston and what someone might find if they had to clean it out for him. Tony’s was a little neater, but not much. Stacks of magazines lined the far corner. Books and computer games were piled together on two shelves of the bookcase. They were an odd combination. The books were mostly English-lit stuff, poetry and Shakespeare. The computer games appeared to be about warriors and crusaders. A bulletin board had layers tacked over each other—anything from class changes and teachers’ phone numbers to Nebraska football ticket stubs, dry-cleaning receipts and take-out menus. A duffel bag had been thrown under his desk, the zippers undone with a dirty towel halfway out and a pair of muddy running shoes beside it. He’d forgotten how small Tony’s feet were. They looked like kids’ tennis shoes.
Nick glanced out into the hall. Then he came in and sat in the recliner Tony kept in the corner. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Christine seems to think the archbishop has a few secrets he’d like to have die with Monsignor O’Sullivan. Don’t worry, I know if something’s going on you probably can’t talk about it.”
He studied Tony while he hoped for a response, but didn’t expect one. There was a heavy sigh and Tony sat back, setting the wood creaking and the rollers squealing as he slid the chair so that they were facing each other. But then Tony crossed his arms over his chest and didn’t say anything. It was almost as if he wanted to hear what Nick thought he knew. Okay, Nick could play that game.
“I have to tell you,” Nick said, this time in almost a whisper. “I didn’t even know Monsignor O’Sullivan was gay.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“Nobody told me, but if he was messing with boys—”
“Pedophiles are rarely homosexuals, Nick.” Tony shook his head as if he couldn’t believe he needed to explain this.
“But I thought that was part of the church’s solution to the mess, to screen candidates better.”
“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time they ignored science and professional research. I guess you haven’t worked on any pedophile cases in Boston, because you’d know that if you had.”
“I’ve been lucky. Since I left Nebraska I haven’t had to work on any other cases involving kids. So how do you happen to know so much about pedophiles?”
“I was a victims’ advocate when I was at Saint Stephen of the Martyr in Chicago,” Tony said, but he was staring out of his window now. “It was an unofficial post, since officially the archdiocese didn’t
have a problem to begin with.”
“That had to be tough,” Nick said, watching him. “How could you work with those kids and know the guys who abused them were probably just being reassigned?”
“I didn’t know that. Not at the time. You have to understand, Nick—” and for this Tony met his eyes “—we were told things were being taken care of.”
“It didn’t clue you in when there were no charges brought against them?”
“That’s not the way it works,” Tony answered, but his eyes were away from Nick’s again, darting around the room, out the window and back to Nick. He scraped a hand over his jaw, as if looking for the right words. “The church didn’t look to the county or the state to handle things,” he said carefully, slowly, as if explaining it to a child, but there was nothing condescending in his tone. If Nick didn’t know better, his friend sounded almost remorseful. “Priests are to be held to a higher standard and should be judged as such. They answer to a higher authority.”
“Sure, I know,” Nick said. “You mean a higher authority as in the archbishop?”
“No. I mean a higher authority as in God.”
CHAPTER 39
Eppley Airport
Omaha, Nebraska
Tommy Pakula forked over five bucks for a Krispy Kreme doughnut and the grande designer coffee when he really just wanted a large, plain coffee with no cream, no sugar, no froufrou on top. Geez, for five bucks he could have gotten all the coffee he could drink plus two eggs, toast and a side of bacon down at the Radial Highway Café. Froufrou or not, it sure tasted good and he needed the blast of sugar and caffeine. Lately it seemed necessary to keep a steady injection of caffeine pumping through his system like some constant electrical charge. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see what happened if and when he got unplugged.
