by Alex Kava
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Well, that all sounds like a lot of fun, but I thought you might be interested in the phone call I just got. A Brother Sebastian from the Omaha Archdiocese’s office wants to know the condition of Monsignor William O’Sullivan’s body.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. How the hell did he already find out? We just ID’d the padre less than an hour ago.”
“Said he received an anonymous phone call.”
“Really?”
Pakula could hear Detective Kim Carmichael crunching, a nervous habit that added to her waistline. Then the rest of them would pay, having to listen to her complain in a burst of choppy Korean expletives. But he’d trade Kasab for her, too.
“Here’s the thing, Pakula, actually two items I think you’ll find interesting. Brother Sebastian seemed awfully concerned about the monsignor’s personal effects, particularly one leather portfolio. Second, he wanted us to know that Archbishop Armstrong would help us, so it certainly wouldn’t be necessary to bring in the FBI.”
“The FBI?” Pakula laughed. “Okay, Carmichael. Very funny. But it’s been a long day, and I’m really not in the mood for—”
“I’m not kidding, Tommy. That’s what he said. I even wrote it down.”
“Why the hell would we call in the FBI for a local homicide?”
“He tried to sound nonchalant about it when he said it,” Carmichael replied, “but I could hear something, you know. He was nervous and careful with his words, and yet, trying to be all like it’s no big deal.”
Pakula stopped, leaned against the wall, keeping out of earshot of the coffee and doughnut counter. He couldn’t remember seeing a leather portfolio. From the beginning he thought this was a random hit, maybe a robbery gone badly despite the padre’s wallet left behind filled with euros. Euros were worthless to a local petty thief. But what if the killer hadn’t been looking for quick cash? What if he knew exactly who he had followed into the men’s bathroom? Was it possible someone intended to kill the good monsignor? That made it a whole different case.
“Hey, Pakula, you fall asleep on me?”
“Do me a favor, Carmichael. Give Bob Weston a call and fill him in on the details.”
“You sure you wanna do that?”
“The archbishop says he doesn’t want us to bring in the FBI. Yeah, maybe I might check with the FBI to see why that is.”
CHAPTER 7
Newburgh Heights
(Just outside of Washington, D.C.)
Maggie had just gotten home when her cell phone began to ring. She and Harvey were in the middle of their “welcome home” routine even though she had seen him several hours ago. Ever since she had rescued the beautiful white Lab, he treated each of her arrivals as if it was a pleasant surprise, those sad brown eyes so grateful she hadn’t abandoned him like his previous owner. Rather than cut short his slobberfest, she sat down in the foyer and pulled out her phone.
“Maggie O’Dell,” she answered, trying to convince Harvey to keep his licks confined to her other hand. Now on the floor with her face within his reach, Harvey decided it, too, was fair game.
“O’Dell, it’s Racine. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Maggie wondered if Racine could hear the sloppy kisses and was referring to the sound or the time of night.
“I just got home. What’s up?”
“I know it’s late. You sure this isn’t a bad time?”
Maggie smiled. No doubt Racine could hear the wet licks. She patted Harvey’s head rather than push him away. Maybe it was time there were some scandalous rumors about her nonexistent sex life.
“No, this is fine. Go ahead.”
“The cell phone turned out to be a dead end.”
“Stolen?” Maggie guessed, continuing to rub Harvey behind the ears.
“Yup. Reagan National. Last week. At least that’s the last time the owner says he saw it. He seems to be on the level. Reported it missing to Sprint. It hadn’t been used until this morning.”
“Any way to track where it was when the call was made?”
“Only that it was in the D.C. area. It’s probably been tossed in some Dumpster by now.”
Maggie wasn’t sure why Racine was calling her after midnight to tell her what they both already suspected. She couldn’t be expecting a profile before the autopsy. But there was something more and Racine’s sudden quiet telegraphed it. Maggie waited her out.
“I talked to Chief Henderson about the other two. Both he and Stan agree that we need a forensic anthropologist to take a look.”
That was it? Racine had actually taken her advice. “That will definitely help,” Maggie said, but something in Racine’s voice told Maggie it wasn’t quite that simple.
“Stan said he could get someone late next week, but I’m headed up to my dad’s on Sunday. We’re supposed to go fishing. I figured I’d leave before sunrise, maybe around five. Oh, by the way, Stan said he’d do the autopsy first thing tomorrow.”
Racine paused as if expecting Maggie to complain, but instead she was trying to imagine Racine keeping still and quiet long enough to fish. The image didn’t fit.
“Anyway,” Racine continued, “I suggested I take the other two heads up to Professor Bonzado. He and my dad have become big buds ever since…well, you know.” Racine left it there and it was just as well. Maggie did know. Ever since Professor Bonzado and Luc Racine rescued her from a madman’s freezer. It wasn’t your ordinary male-bonding ritual, but she wasn’t surprised that the two men had continued to grow close.
“Are you sure there isn’t someone in the District Stan might recommend?” Maggie found herself asking, which was ridiculous because earlier she had found herself thinking she would suggest Bonzado to Racine. No sense in letting Racine think she was anxious to see him again.
“I’m sure there is, but not on a holiday weekend.” Racine paused. “Look, O’Dell, I’ll be honest with you. I’ve got reporters chomping at my ass. Now that there are three victims I need some answers and I need them quick. I already talked to Bonzado. He promised he’d take a look Sunday afternoon and since I was driving up anyway, I’ll take them with me. I know it’s not exactly the ideal mode of transport, but Stan didn’t seem to mind a personal escort for his precious cargo. Besides, I usually drive. I can do the trip in about four hours.” Now it was almost as if Racine was rambling. Why did she feel she owed Maggie any explanation?
Maggie pushed up and sat on the first step of her staircase. Harvey lay beside her and now he rested his head on her feet.
“It’d be impossible to get a flight with it being a holiday weekend,” Racine kept explaining. “Besides, can you imagine trying to get two decapitated heads through airport security?” Racine’s laugh had a nervous edge to it. There was something else, something more. Maggie wanted to tell her to spit it out already. Again, she waited out the silence.
“So I was wondering if you wanted to ride along.”
And there it was. Racine had been working her way up to extending an invitation.
“Adam said he might have some basic information for us before we left. It’d just be for the day. I know that makes a long day.” Now Maggie noticed it was Adam instead of Professor Bonzado. “I’m sure my dad would love to see you. He asks about you all the time. Well, when he remembers. He’s actually been having some good periods. Though they say you can’t count on those lasting long.”
“It would be good to see your dad again,” Maggie said, thinking she had more connections than perhaps she had bargained for in Connecticut. In fact, she had seriously considered contacting her new stepbrother, Patrick, to suggest they get together for the holiday weekend. Then she immediately chastised herself for thinking instant family meant instant holiday get-togethers. He surely had his own plans and they wouldn’t include a sister he had found out about less than a year ago. No, she had decided Patrick would need some time. She’d need to let him come to her when he was ready.
Why
kid herself? Patrick wasn’t the only reason for her wanting to suggest a family reunion. She did want to see Adam Bonzado again. Here Racine was handing her a perfect excuse. And yet at the same time, she couldn’t help thinking that four, no, eight, hours in a car with Julia Racine might be eight hours too many.
CHAPTER 8
Venezuela
He turned up Vivaldi on his cheap boom box and swatted at yet another mosquito. This one had gotten him good, splattering more blood, his own blood, and adding one more bump, reducing his overly sensitive skin to that of a blister-riddled leper. Father Michael Keller had learned a long time ago to ignore the constant itch, just as he had learned to deal with his body being sweat-drenched even after his evening shower. Instead, he concentrated on the simple things, the few pleasures he counted on, like Vivaldi, and he closed his eyes, letting the strings stroke him and calm him. It was all mind over matter. And he had discovered that his mind could convince him of anything, if he only let it.
He continued his evening ritual. He lit several citronella candles and checked the kettle of water on his hot plate. His white shirt, made fresh and crisp by one of the village women, was already sticking to his back. He could feel the sweat trickling down his chest, but still he looked forward to his evening cup of scorching hot tea. Tonight he selected chamomile from the package his Internet friend had sent him. What a treat it had been to receive the box with a variety of loose-leaf teas, jelly-filled cookies and shortbreads. He had been saving it, rationing it, wanting to savor it as well as savor the idea that someone he had never met would send him such a wonderful gift, such a perfect gift.
He scooped just the right amount into his mesh-ball infuser then dunked it into the hot water, covering the mug and letting it steep. He lifted the cover, letting the steam rise into his face, breathing in the delicious aroma. He pulled out the infuser, tapping it against the lip of the mug, making it surrender every last drop.
A lone mosquito ignored the citronella scent and continued to buzz around his head. Outside, an evening shower added another layer of humidity to the stifling heat. But he sat back with his tea and his music and for a brief moment he felt as if he truly were in heaven.
He hadn’t finished his first cup when a noise outside his door startled him. He sat up and waited for a knock, but one never came. Odd. It was unusual for him to be summoned at this time of night, and no one stopped by without an invitation. They were respectful of his privacy, apologetic even when there was an emergency.
Maybe it had been the wind. He sat back again and listened to the rain. Tonight it tapped soft and gentle on the tin roof. He listened, and he realized there was no wind.
Curiosity made him set his mug aside. He stood, but stopped suddenly, feeling a bit light-headed. Maybe it was the heat. He steadied himself, then approached the door slowly, quietly, still listening if anyone was on the other side. It was silly to be so paranoid. No, not paranoid—simply cautious. Something else he had learned long ago out of necessity.
He unlocked the door and swung it open with such force he startled the small boy and almost knocked him to the ground.
“Arturo?” he said and he reached out to steady the boy.
He recognized him as one of his faithful altar boys. He was smaller than others his age, thin and frail with sad dark eyes and always so anxious to please. He looked even more vulnerable, standing in the rain holding out the brown cardboard box.
“What are you doing here?” Then, noticing Arturo’s confused look, he repeated, “¿Arturo, qué hace usted aquí?”
“Sí, para usted, Padre.” Arturo presented the package with outstretched arms, smiling and obviously proud to have been entrusted with this mission.
“A package for me? But who? ¿Quién lo mandó?” he said, taking the package from the boy and immediately noticing how light it felt.
“Yo no sé. Un viejo…old man,” he added.
Father Keller squinted into the dark to see down the worn path to the church. There was no one. Whoever gave Arturo the package was gone now.
“Gracias, Arturo,” Father Keller said, patting him on the head, thinking the boy had so little in his life he was glad to make him smile. Arturo reminded him of himself as a boy, wanting and needing someone to notice him and care about him. “Hasta domingo,” he told him with a brief stroke of the boy’s cheek.
“Sí, padre.”
The boy was still smiling when he ran off down the path, quickly disappearing into the black mist.
He picked up the box, finding himself a bit anxious. Perhaps it was another special package from his Internet friend in the States. More teas and cookies. Arturo said it had been an old man who had given him the package, but it could have been a substitute postman, someone Arturo didn’t know. To young boys, anyone over thirty was old. But there was no mailing label this time. No postage stamp, nothing at all.
He brought the package in, noting, again, that it was light—too light to cause much harm. Yet he set it on his small wooden table and began to examine it from all sides. There were no marks, no markings anywhere on the box. It didn’t even look as if a label had perhaps been removed. Sometimes packages were a bit battered by the time they reached him. After all, this was the rain forest.
Finally he gave in and reached for the fillet knife. He sliced through the packing tape and hesitated before slowly pushing back the flaps. He was still pulling out tissue paper when he saw it. And he snatched back his hand as if he had gotten burned.
What kind of a joke was this? It had to be a joke. Who would know? And how had they found him?
His hands were already shaking when he took the plastic Richard Nixon Halloween mask out of the box.
CHAPTER 9
Omaha, Nebraska
Gibson wondered where the noise was coming from. It was too dark to see, but it sounded like running water. Maybe it was the toilet bowl in the bathroom between his bedroom and his little brother’s. All it took was a jiggle of the handle but Tyler always forgot.
He tossed and turned onto his side. He pulled the blanket up over his ears and tried to ignore the noise, burying his head in the pillow. It didn’t work. The water kept gurgling. Louder now.
Damn it, how hard was it to jiggle the frickin’ handle?
He crawled out of bed, feeling his way to the door like he usually did when he got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. If he turned on a light his mom got hysterical and wanted to know what was wrong. Besides, she kept a night-light in the hallway, one of those light-sensored gizmos that turned on automatically in the dark. Only tonight there was no light. The frickin’ thing must have burned out. Piece of crap.
He felt along the wall. The gurgling hadn’t stopped. And he was right. It did seem to be coming from the bathroom between his and Tyler’s rooms. He had a notion to go wake up Tyler and show him how to fix it. But wait, wasn’t Tyler supposed to be sleeping over at his friend’s? The big baby must have changed his mind.
Gibson noticed the light under the closed bathroom door. Not only did Tyler leave the toilet running, he left the light on. Geez, what a pain in the ass. He pushed open the door and froze. There on the bathroom floor was Monsignor O’Sullivan, lying on his side. The gurgling noise was blood streaming from his nose and mouth and chest. And his eyes were staring, unblinking, directly at him.
Gibson started backing away and slammed into the wall. He shook his head and looked around the small bathroom. Everything else was in place. Even the wadded-up towel he had left on the floor. He closed his eyes and opened them again.
That’s when the priest’s eyes blinked.
Jesus! Gibson turned to run, but the door had closed behind him. He couldn’t find the doorknob. What the hell happened to the doorknob?
He glanced back over his shoulder. The monsignor jerked and turned, then started to get to his feet. Now Gibson pressed himself against the wall, too stunned to move. Paralyzed, with his heart pounding in his ears and a cold sweat sliding down his back. The las
t time Gibson had seen him he was lying on the bathroom floor at the airport. That’s where Gibson had left him. There had been blood, lots of it. How did he get here?
Monsignor O’Sullivan looked at him and smiled as he brushed off his trousers.
“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you, Gibson? You just left me lying there.”
The priest rubbed at the blood trickling down the front of his shirt, getting his fingers red and dripping all over the ceramic tile. He was alive. And there was a flash of anger in his eyes. Anger at Gibson.
“Because you thought I was dead?” The monsignor said exactly what Gibson was thinking as if he could read his mind. “Did you really think it’d be that easy to be rid of me? Gibson, Gibson, Gibson. You of all the boys should know better than that.”
Monsignor O’Sullivan started walking toward him.
“My mom’s just down the hall,” Gibson warned him.
“No, she’s not. I checked.”
He kept coming, shaking his finger at Gibson and splattering blood as he did so. And he had that smile, that knowing look that sank Gibson’s stomach. He hadn’t heard his mom come home and now he remembered that even Tyler was at a sleep over. No one would hear him even if he yelled or screamed.
“On your knees, son. You know what you need to do,” Monsignor O’Sullivan told him, and as he got closer and closer, Gibson could even smell the alcohol on his breath.
Gibson woke with a violent thrashing, fighting and swinging at the blanket he had managed to tangle around himself. He was wet and shaking, but when he finally realized it was only a dream, relief swept over him. Only then did he notice that he was still reciting the Our Father in a panicked whisper.
He made himself stop. He tried to lay still and listen.
There was no gurgling. Nothing.
He stared up at his ceiling, watching the familiar shadow of a tree branch from outside the window. Watching and still listening. Finally the panic subsided and that’s when he noticed the smell. He cringed and allowed a disgusted sigh as he crawled out of bed. In the darkness he began stripping his bedsheets. Maybe he could change them and get them in the washer without his mom noticing. He didn’t need her worrying about him. And he didn’t want her knowing. It was too embarrassing even though it had been over a year since he had wet the bed.
