by Alex Kava
She shook her head at him and smiled, acknowledging that was all she was getting from him. Nick smiled back and took another swallow of beer. They knew each other too well. When had everything become a game with them? Two steps forward, three steps back—it was something his father always said, though Nick couldn’t remember at the time what his dad meant by it. Antonio Morrelli was the power broker of mind games. Or rather, he had been. There weren’t too many games the old man could play these days, lying in his bed, unable to move or speak, the massive stroke leaving him with eye movement his only communication tool.
“Actually I shouldn’t be telling you this,” Christine said, but paused, waiting for his attention. “We’ve been putting together a piece for the paper that involves the Omaha Archdiocese. It involves O’Sullivan.”
She got his attention, just like she wanted. He couldn’t help wondering if this was what Tony couldn’t talk about.
“Involves the archdiocese in what exactly?” he asked, pretending it really didn’t matter to him.
“What else? The same thing that’s been plaguing the Catholic Church all over the country for the last several years.”
“You’re saying Monsignor O’Sullivan’s been abusing boys?”
“Keep it down,” Christine whispered, getting up from the porch swing to glance inside the house. “If Mom found out I was working on something that might go against the church, she’d be lighting candles for the salvation of my soul for weeks.” Satisfied that their mother wasn’t listening at the door, she leaned against the porch rail and took a sip of her beer before she continued. “A lot of what we have right now is considered speculation and rumor, because no one’s willing to go on the record.”
“Maybe no one’s willing to go on the record because it is speculation and rumor.” Nick wasn’t good at hiding his disdain for the news media, despite his sister being a part of that crazy world. And right now, he hated that Christine seemed willing to point to O’Sullivan’s death as proof of a bunch of rumors, some sort of way to validate a story she was trying to dig up. Hadn’t she learned anything from four years ago?
“Sometimes even the most outrageous rumors have a grain of truth to them.”
“And sometimes they’re simply started by bitter, vengeful people,” he added.
“Okay, then how about the rumor that O’Sullivan was taking secret documents with him to Rome and now all of a sudden they’re missing.”
Too late. The expression of surprise must have registered on his face, because she was nodding at him with that “I gotcha” look.
“What kind of documents?” he asked.
“So the police did ask about them?” Now Christine sat down next to him again on the swing, leaning in as if they were about to exchange secrets.
“They asked Tony if Monsignor O’Sullivan was delivering anything to the Vatican for Archbishop Armstrong. And they asked about a brown leather portfolio.”
“Really? So the documents might be missing.”
“What kind of documents, Christine?”
She hesitated as if she needed to think about what she could and couldn’t tell him. Ordinarily he might have enjoyed having the tables turned for a change. She was concerned about divulging classified information to him instead of him trying to decide what pieces of an investigation or criminal indictment he could share with her.
“It hasn’t just been rumors. There have been complaints registered against Monsignor O’Sullivan, but not with the police department. Only with the archbishop,” she said in almost a whisper. Her eyes darted to the front door again as if she was still worried their mother might overhear. “Affidavits have been signed, money exchanged, promises made. But all in secret.”
“If it’s all so secret, how did you find out?”
“People feel less motivated to keep secrets when promises are broken. Let’s just say Armstrong hasn’t been holding up his end of the bargain.”
“So why wouldn’t he just shred any so-called documentation? Why even bother to hand deliver all of it to the Vatican?” Nick wasn’t sure he was buying any of this. It sounded too sensational, too much like some conspiracy theory.
“Nicky, I’m surprised at you. Shredding such documents would be against the law,” she said with a smile before she resumed her serious tone. “When the Boston Globe did its investigation on Cardinal Law and the Boston Archdiocese, they discovered that bishops were being told to send any documents in question to the Vatican to store. After all, the Vatican has diplomatic immunity.”
“And that’s what you think is happening here? In Omaha?”
She smiled again and shrugged, took another sip of her beer.
Maybe it wasn’t so sensational after all, and it was exactly the kind of thing Tony would feel he couldn’t talk about, couldn’t tell anyone because of his loyalties to the church. Sometimes Tony could be loyal to a fault. But he also knew his friend wouldn’t sit back and keep quiet if there was a chance the allegations might be true. No way would Tony allow a child abuser to get away with it even if the abuser was a priest and his boss.
“Do you think Tony knows about any of this?” Nick asked, hoping that might be the case, but from the look on his sister’s face, he could tell she didn’t think so.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Christine said.
CHAPTER 22
Washington, D. C.
Someone was following her. Gwen glanced in her rearview mirror as she pulled into the tiny four-slot parking lot behind Mr. Lee’s Market World. She had circled the block three times and so did the black SUV. Only now she didn’t see it. Was it possible she was being paranoid?
The SUV’s tinted windshield had been too dark to see the driver, although during the left turn at the last intersection she had gotten enough of a glimpse to know it was a man’s silhouette. Traffic was crazy on a Saturday evening and it was a holiday weekend at that. Finding a parking spot in this neighborhood of small shops with a few clapboard houses tucked in between sometimes took three and four times around the block. That’s probably all it was—someone trying to find a parking space. And yet, she stayed in her car, waiting, checking the mirrors and watching along the street, giving him plenty of time to catch up with her.
The killer had no reason to be following her. He had to know by now that his threat—albeit subtle—had kept her in line. She had done everything he had demanded, played along with his evil game of scavenger hunt. Why would he think she’d suddenly run to the police with his latest puzzle piece? Although this one was different from the rest. In the past he had sent her instructions, maps, information—even a cell phone—all for the purpose of directing her, leading her to find his victims. She believed it was to show her what he had done, what he was capable of doing. But why send a single earring? She couldn’t help wondering if this latest victim was still alive. If that was true, was this a cruel taunt? Or was he giving her a chance to stop him?
Gwen twisted around, searching up and down the side streets in both directions. No black SUV with dark tinted windows. This was ridiculous. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She was allowing him to screw with her mind and he wasn’t even here.
She glanced down at the manila envelope sitting on the passenger seat, now encased in plastic. Next to it was the water glass she had offered Rubin Nash, also in plastic. Before she left her office she had phoned Benny Hassert at Hassert Independent Labs. She had decided to drop off the items on her way home. Benny had agreed to put them on his priority list, no questions asked. After all, she was a longtime client. He was used to her bringing him anything, from human saliva for DNA testing to soil samples. He had no idea if this was for an FBI case she had been independently contracted to help on. He hadn’t asked. He didn’t care. He would simply have the results for her on Monday. And then she would know whether or not the fingerprints on the envelope with the earring matched those on the water glass and whether or not Rubin Nash was the killer.
And if it was Nash, she’d have so
mething solid, something substantial. There would be enough of a reason to believe he posed a serious threat to do harm. And she would have just cause to give everything to Maggie, to disregard any and all patient/doctor confidentiality. The police would have enough to make an arrest. He couldn’t possibly hurt her father or any other woman ever again once he had been arrested and became their prime suspect.
Maybe it sounded a bit arrogant to think she could catch Rubin Nash so easily. Had she suspected him sooner, she could have already put an end to his killing spree. And maybe, just maybe, if the earring’s owner was still alive, she could save her.
Gwen checked both sides of the street again and finally decided the SUV must have found a parking space somewhere else. She must have been wrong about it. She convinced herself that she needed some rest. A good night’s sleep would be a nice change, and once inside Mr. Lee’s World Market she started to browse the wine aisle, looking for a choice chardonnay.
The scents of ginger, garlic and fresh-baked bread worked its magic, soothing her frayed nerves. Each aisle was a sort of aromatherapy. She didn’t need a degree in psychology to know that she sought comfort in food, not just eating it, but preparing and sharing a meal. She had her mom to thank for that. Her Italian mother had always insisted mealtimes were to be joyful and enjoyable. Arguments were never allowed around the dinner table and everyone, including guests, participated in the preparations. Almost every important conversation she had ever had with her parents happened during this time. It was while stuffing a batch of cannoli that she convinced her father she should leave New York City to go to college. Her mother had been her silent advocate, not realizing at the time that Gwen would never return home to live and work alongside her father.
It wasn’t until Gwen had her doctorate that she realized what an education in mediation and negotiation her mother’s mealtimes were. Once in a while she’d recommend to her own patients—especially those who respected rituals—to share a meal as an excuse to reach out to someone they otherwise had difficulty talking to.
“Hey, Doc, how you today?” Mr. Lee nodded and waved at her from behind the meat-and-cheese counter as he sliced what looked like a chunk of corned beef.
“I’m in dire need of some buffalo mozzarella,” she told him.
“Yes, yes, I have plenty. And I give you some garlic butter, too. I just made. Fresh. Lots of garlic, the way you like it.”
“Sounds wonderful.” Gwen smiled at him, thinking how wonderful, indeed, it was to have a man know exactly what she liked and needed. Never mind that he was eighty-one, five inches shorter than her and had a jealous wife who accused him of flirting with all his redheaded female customers.
He shuffled to the back room as he always did, as if getting her mozzarella and garlic butter came from his private stash instead of from what he kept out front. What he kept out front looked equally delicious and fresh, but what came from the back he put in special containers made of hard plastic. It was almost like taking food home from a relative or friend and feeling the need to return the container.
She glanced around the store again as she waited, looking for anything else that might help make her feel better, that might ease the tension. That’s when she saw a woman turn and duck into the next aisle.
“Dena?” she called, but stayed put, not wanting to embarrass the young woman or herself if it wasn’t her assistant.
It took longer than it should have for Dena to come back around the corner and when she did, her pale cheeks were flushed as though she had been caught somewhere she shouldn’t be.
“Hi, Dr. Patterson. I thought that was you.” She flipped her unruly dark hair out of eyes as if it may have been the reason she hadn’t been able to recognize her boss.
“I didn’t know you shopped here,” Gwen said, noticing that Dena’s handbasket was filled with a variety of cheeses, a bottle of wine and some Bavarian chocolates, an assortment one might choose for a romantic evening. But as far as Gwen could tell, it looked as though Dena was alone. Or perhaps not? There was a slight glance over her shoulder.
“I remember you raving about it,” Dena said. Then as if she felt the need to explain, she added in almost a whisper, “I just started dating someone new.”
“You’ve come to the right place.” Gwen found herself glancing around, hoping for a glimpse, which only seemed to make Dena flinch.
“Yeah, I know. It’s great. I’m sort of in a hurry though.” And she started to back away. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Have a great weekend,” she said, but Dena had already escaped around the same corner.
Was she that uncomfortable sharing a piece of her private life with her boss? But then, Gwen knew she had contributed to the discomfort. She had purposely not encouraged any kind of personal relationship with her assistant, never so much as confiding any special hangouts, habits or even where she lived.
Dena was free to shop wherever she wanted. So why would she bother to lie about Gwen telling her about Mr. Lee’s World?
CHAPTER 23
Saturday evening
Columbia, Missouri
Father Gerald Kincaid excused himself from the group of chattering women. If they gave their husbands or children half the attention they gave him, they’d have less to complain to him about. A vicious circle, no doubt.
However, he enjoyed the attention. It felt good to be needed again. He knew he could take their vulnerabilities, their weaknesses, their sins, and gain energy and power from them. Perhaps he needed them as much as they needed him.
This party, though it officially celebrated All Saints Catholic Church’s silver jubilee and an early Fourth of July, was also a special occasion for him, too. Today was six months since he’d arrived, having finished his required leave of absence. The time away had been good for him. Though the New Mexico air had dried out his skin, the Servants of the Paraclete had been kind and generous. Now he was ready—more than ready—to get back to work.
He walked through the crowded parking lot, greeting everyone by name. The surprise on each face at his ability to remember was worth the memorization drills he had put himself through.
The entire congregation had worked for two days to transform the parking lot and children’s playground into a carnival. There were pushcarts with anything from funnel cakes and pink cotton candy to corn dogs and Sno-Kones. Game booths lined the back lot and the local hardware store had even constructed a fun house. Streamers and balloons snapped and waved in the breeze, a few of the balloons breaking free and sailing off into the cloudless sky. A barbershop quartet, made up of two church council members, a deacon and his son, found themselves with a constant audience, though Father Gerald couldn’t help thinking that positioning themselves next to the altar society ladies’ baked-goods stand added to their popularity.
Families had begun to lay out blankets on the grass, setting out their picnic dinners and settling into their spots for the fireworks show that would come later, just after dark. The small children already had their glow tubes ready, swirling them around, preparing for their preshow. Some of the teenagers made themselves comfortable on the hoods of the family cars that lined the far end of the parking lot.
Some of the younger boys had gathered in the back field for a game of touch football. There were a dozen things Father Gerald needed to check on, and yet that’s where he found himself headed—to the field of boys. That’s where he felt most at home. He still believed it was because his own childhood had been cut short. If only his mother had let him finish high school with his classmates instead of insisting he enter the seminary two years early. If only…
Being with the boys made him feel young. It seemed to make up for what he had missed as a boy. Just being around them rejuvenated him in a way the New Mexico treatment center could never accomplish. He had tried to explain it to Dr. Marik, but the old doctor didn’t quite understand. Nor did he want to understand. Instead, he seemed more concerned with writing glowing reports that would please Cardinal
Rose.
Two of the boys waved at Father Gerald, and he jogged the rest of the way to the field. Someone tossed him the ball, and after several runs and handoffs he found himself at the bottom of a pile of giggling and yelling boys. Sean Harris lay stretched across him with his butt up against Father Gerald’s groin, and despite having an elbow in his side and Jacob Raine’s foot in his face, he found himself getting excited, excited enough that he could feel an erection starting. Excited enough that he asked Sean Harris to help him clean up after the fireworks show.
He knew the boy’s father had recently lost his job. The family was strapped for cash and the twenty dollars he offered Sean for an hour’s work would be considered very generous. In fact, the boy’s mother would probably even agree to Father Gerald’s suggestion of driving Sean home.
Yes, this was turning out to be a wonderful occasion for him. He tried to make his way through the crowd, now bumping into people as they oohed and aahed, their faces turned up to watch the spectacular light show that was just getting started. The only light came from the fireworks since even the parking lot had gone dark to accommodate the show. Music blasted on four large speakers, synchronized to the flashes and pops.
He stepped over several blanket corners, trying to avoid stepping on any occupants. The flashes of light gave an odd sense of motion almost setting him off balance as he tried to adjust his eyes. He stumbled over a cooler, waving off a muffled apology from its owner and bumping into several boys who pushed to get a better view.
“Sorry, Father,” one of them sang out.
The blasts were louder now, and Father Gerald could even feel the vibrations of sound. Finally he was almost through the crowd when someone ran into him again, only this time without stopping and without an apology. It knocked the air out of him. He couldn’t breathe. He grabbed his chest and gulped for air. His fingers, his hand, became wet and sticky. Only in the dark he couldn’t see.
