by Alex Kava
Now he couldn’t remember when the game started to not be enough. When it had gotten to the point that he needed more of a release. How could it be enough when the subject of his anger was still free to wander the earth? How could he continue to allow that?
Suddenly he realized that his fingers, his hands were still bloody. He had smeared the keyboard and riddled his desktop with droplets. The unexpected sight of it made him jump out of his chair, holding his hands up and staring at them as though they belonged to someone else. They did belong to someone else. Someone he hardly recognized anymore. It was getting worse. It was an evil penetrating through his skin, into his veins, even down into his bones. An evil that would destroy him if he didn’t soon find a way to destroy its source. And he knew the source. He just needed the courage to eliminate it.
He took several deep breaths, checked the computer clock again. He had just enough time to clean up. He turned to go to the bathroom and only gave a fleeting glance to the freshly decapitated head that sat staring at him from his living-room coffee table.
CHAPTER 32
Monday, July 5
Archdiocese of Omaha Administrative Offices
Tommy Pakula shifted his weight, but there was no getting comfortable in the hardback chair. It sat low in front of the gaudy ornate desk. Lower, he was certain, on purpose. Probably so that when the archbishop sat behind the desk he would be looking down on his visitor. That was when the archbishop would finally grace his visitor with his presence. Pakula was also certain this waiting was a part of the intimidation.
He had nothing better to do than look at the huge framed portraits on the wall behind the desk, a line of past archbishops. He recognized only Curtiss and Sheehan, and Curtiss seemed to be staring him down. He shifted in the chair again, glancing around the rest of the room. Sterile was the word that came to mind. He wanted to run an index finger over the windowsill, maybe the top of the bookshelf, just to see if any dust dared to exist in His Holiness’s presence.
He wouldn’t be here if Chief Ramsey hadn’t insisted on one last-ditch publicity attempt just to say they had made every effort before they announced they were calling in the feds. Pakula had never met Archbishop Armstrong. Chief Ramsey had acted surprised at that revelation. “But aren’t you one of those offertory collectors or some crap like that at Saint Stan’s?” the chief had asked, obviously not worried about revealing his own long-expired Catholicism.
Truth was, being a part of the church meant more to Clare than it did to him. But he had given in, wanting his daughters to grow up knowing enough of what was available to reject or accept. Clare had even pointed out to him that they must have done something right because their oldest, Angie, had decided on her own to stay in Omaha and go to Clare’s alma mater, Creighton University. And she had been serious enough about it to work hard all through her final years of high school to land a soccer scholarship that would thankfully help pay for the expensive but prestige college.
He already ribbed Angie that if she wasn’t leaving Omaha to go to college he wouldn’t be able to bring his punching bag and all his weights in from the garage and take over her bedroom just yet. But he had to admit, he was proud of her. And he liked keeping her close, being able to watch over her for at least a few more years. Of course, he also looked forward to going to the games and watching her play on the Creighton soccer team this fall. She had bragged that they have VIP seats for all the parents. He stopped himself from telling her bleachers were still bleachers to his butt.
A door opened, startling him, and he caught himself sitting up straight almost as if he was in church and had fallen asleep during the sermon. He twisted around in the chair, not sure what was appropriate. Should he stand? Why the hell stand?
“Mr. Pakula.” Archbishop Armstrong said it like an announcement, only getting the pronunciation wrong, so that it ended up being PAYkoola instead of Pa-koola.
“It’s Pakula and it’s detective,” he said, correcting the archbishop. Getting it wrong was just another way he thought he could intimidate Pakula, make him feel he needed to explain himself. He noticed the archbishop stayed standing alongside the desk, hesitating. Was he waiting for Pakula to stand? Chief Ramsey had assured him he needed to be polite, but no sucking up was required. Pakula remained seated.
“Czech?”
“Polish.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” Armstrong said and glided to his chair behind his desk, finally taking his place, as if the ancestry of Pakula’s name was something they needed to get out of the way, as if that might help him understand Pakula.
The chair seemed to swallow the archbishop’s tall, lean body. Evidently he was aware of its effect because immediately he sat forward on the edge of the seat with his hands in front of him on the desk, clasped almost reverently as if in constant prayer mode. They were the smallest hands Pakula had seen on a man, smooth, not a callus or cuticle in sight with buffed, pearly white-tipped nails. Definitely a professional manicure. So much for that vow of poverty.
“What can I do to help you, Mr. Pakula?” he asked with a tilt of his head to show concern, but already purposely exchanging “detective” for “mister.” Pakula recognized it for another maneuver or strategy in the archbishop’s game of control. The detective decided to ignore it for now.
“You offered your assistance through Brother Sebastian. I wondered if you might have some thoughts, some insights…you know, on who could have killed Monsignor O’Sullivan?” No sense in beating around the bush, be it burning or camouflaged.
“Who, indeed?” Archbishop Armstrong said in a deep voice as if it were the beginning of a sermon.
He opened his clasped hands, holding them palms up before bringing them to the desk again, this time softly and slowing tapping all ten fingertips on the desk’s polished surface. The gesture reminded Pakula of some ritual right before a blessing, although he doubted that it was a blessing the archbishop had in mind for him at the moment.
“Perhaps it was a drug addict? Some poor soul only looking to find money for his next fix?”
Pakula restrained himself from laughing. The archbishop was serious. His youthful face creased with concern. The fingertips continued to tap out some secret code as he added, “It was a random act of violence. Was it not?”
“It’s still too early to answer that.”
“So you have no suspects?”
“Not at the moment.” Pakula watched to see if the archbishop looked disappointed or relieved. He couldn’t tell.
“Was the monsignor having any problems at the school?” Pakula asked.
“Problems?”
“He was the principal of Our Lady of Sorrow, correct?”
“Yes, he was, and he did a fine job.”
Interesting, Pakula noted. He hadn’t asked what kind of a job the monsignor had done, only if there had been any problems.
“Did he voice any concerns recently?” He’d try again. “Any trouble with other instructors. Maybe a student?” He continued to watch closely, more interested in reaction than verbal responses, although this could be fun if the archbishop continued to throw in things Pakula didn’t ask about.
“Students,” he said, but it wasn’t a question. Instead, it seemed an idea he hadn’t thought of before. “He never mentioned any threats.”
Pakula wanted to smile. He had asked about trouble. The archbishop had converted it to threats. What the hell was he hiding?
“We had Father Tony Gallagher down at the station on Saturday.” Pakula waited to see what that did to the archbishop although he certainly already knew this. Pakula wondered if it was a sin to bluff an archbishop. He’d do it anyway. “Why did you ask the monsignor to go to Rome? Was he delivering something to the Vatican for you?”
“Is that what Father Tony told you?” He shook his head, disappointed and hesitant about confessing what he was about to say, opening his hands again as if necessary to forgive his priest, “I’m afraid there may have been a bit of jealousy. You may find that
’s true with Sister Kate as well. Both of them have projects that require funds—funds that we just don’t have available right now.” He shrugged and looked at Pakula as though surely he could understand.
“Sister Kate?”
“Sister Katherine Rosetti. She teaches history, takes the teenagers on field trips to museums and such. She gives little conferences and seminars in various places. For the most part her speaking fees cover her own travel expenses, but she seems to think such travel experiences should be available to her students. We simply can’t afford the expense nor the liability. I’m afraid she can be a bit vocal when she’s not pleased, and we’ve had to cut back on her budget recently.”
“So she’s not pleased right now.”
“No, I imagine not. I wouldn’t be surprised if she mentioned something.”
“Perhaps she will. I haven’t met her yet, but I’m sure we’ll be talking with her soon,” Pakula said, wondering if Sister Kate had been a bit vocal about the archbishop cutting her budget or if the archbishop had cut her budget because the good sister had been a bit vocal. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that there had been no denial about the monsignor’s mission to Rome. The archbishop’s only concern appeared to be about a couple of disloyal shepherds in his flock.
“Was there something in the missing portfolio? Anything that perhaps you asked Monsignor O’Sullivan to deliver to the Vatican?”
“There seems to be no portfolio.” The fingers stopped tapping and the hands clasped again.
“No, you’re right. There doesn’t seem to have been a portfolio with the monsignor. Of course, I have no way of knowing that it wasn’t with his checked luggage since Brother Sebastian picked it up from the airport.” He waited a beat, and added, “Illegally.”
“I’ve instructed him to have all of it ready for you to take back this morning.”
Never mind that it had already been ransacked, Pakula wanted to say, but let a smile at the corner of his lips do it for him.
“Hopefully, we’ll be able to put all of this behind us soon,” Archbishop Armstrong said with a sweep of his hands, now standing and putting an end to their meeting. “I trust you’ll keep me informed.”
Now Pakula couldn’t resist. Chief Ramsey would be pissed, but what the hell, the archbishop would find out anyway. Certainly it would be in the news by tonight. He stood and said, “I appreciate your taking time to talk to me. I’m sure we’ll have more questions especially after the FBI get here.”
“The FBI?”
Pakula nodded as he turned to leave.
“Does Mayor Franklin really think that’s necessary?”
Pakula stopped at the door. So Ramsey was right. Archbishop Armstrong was prepared to round up the yes-men. The power play was on and Armstrong was announcing his first move.
“Actually, it’s not Mayor Franklin’s decision. I’m sure you understand in a case as sensitive as this that it’s simply procedure to call in other experts.”
“Of course,” the archbishop said and waved at him as if he understood completely. This time he turned to leave out the side door, but stopped in the doorway so that now the two of them were each in an exit, like gunslingers ready to hurl the last word at each other rather than the last bullet.
“Of course I understand. We, too, have procedures that we need to follow. Procedures, for instance, with our college scholarship allocations. I’m sure you understand. Good day, Mr. Pakula.”
And he left without letting Pakula get a shot at him. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to hurl anything with the knot that suddenly formed in the center of his chest.
CHAPTER 33
Our Lady of Sorrow High School
Omaha, Nebraska
Gibson McCutty pretended to be bored while his eyes scanned the shelves. Secretly he loved this room. It was the most fascinating one in the high school. But he’d be a total nerd if he admitted it.
He didn’t know how Sister Kate managed to do it. There was always a gob of new stuff mixed in with the old faithful. Well, not really new. Most of it was hundreds of years old. Some of the fragile or valuable pieces she kept locked in a glass case, like the hurdy-gurdy. It was a weird kind of fiddle but with a hand crank and a row of keys. It was used by street musicians and beggars in twelfth-century Europe.
Geez! He couldn’t believe how many details he remembered. But Sister Kate made the classes interesting.
He watched her greet the new kids, how cool and calm she was. There was something about her that calmed Gibson just being around her. It didn’t hurt that she also looked good. He heard his mom once describe Sister Kate as an ageless, natural beauty. He wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by it, but he supposed it was because when she wore khakis and a T-shirt like today she looked more like one of the kids than one of the instructors. Even her usual clothes set her off from the other instructors, classy suits—sometimes jackets with skirts, sometimes jackets with pants—but in bright colors: gold, red, bright blue, even lime green. With either wardrobe Gibson thought she always looked cool, and he wasn’t the only one. All the kids thought so, even the in crowd who thought history sucked.
As for the in crowd, he couldn’t help thinking how geeky these kids coming through the door looked. The Summer Explorers’ Program was open to qualifying students from all of the parochial high schools in the area. It was here at Our Lady of Sorrow since Sister Kate started and ran it. Gibson had the home-school advantage. For once maybe he’d be one of the cool kids simply because he had all the insider knowledge. Stuff like where the restrooms were and how to make the Pepsi machine spit out a free can if you fed it one more dime at the right time. Earlier, all of his insider knowledge hadn’t mattered at all when he tried to figure out a way to get to the second-floor history room without passing Monsignor O’Sullivan’s office at the bottom of the stairs. There just wasn’t a route, probably why the monsignor had chosen that office.
Gibson had tried to rush by it without looking, swinging around to go up the next flight of stairs, but then he saw him. He was standing in front of the monsignor’s desk, wearing a black polo shirt and black trousers, just like the monsignor. For a minute Gibson thought his imagination was playing tricks on him again. He broke out in a cold sweat, unable to move. He was beginning to believe in ghosts when suddenly the man turned. Of course, it hadn’t been Monsignor O’Sullivan, but instead a tall man with a hawk nose and powder-white skin but coal-black eyes that sliced into Gibson, pinning him right where he stood.
“Is there something you need?” It was a deep voice, one Gibson thought he recognized.
“Uh, I just…I thought you were Monsignor O’Sullivan.” Gibson knew it sounded stupid, but it fell out of his mouth before he could stop it.
“Monsignor O’Sullivan won’t be returning,” the man said and he started to close the door, but something furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes, something he saw just over Gibson’s shoulder.
The guy had given him the major creeps. Gibson had spun, readjusting his backpack on his shoulder, and raced up the flight of stairs. He thought the guy had called to him, but he didn’t stop. Just kept going, not looking back until he got to Sister Kate’s room.
The guy hadn’t followed him, but he still felt a little sick to his stomach.
He wouldn’t think about it. He needed to focus on something, anything else. Now he tried to concentrate on the kids wandering in, the so-called qualifying students. He took a deep breath and sat back, waiting for the nausea to leave. He reminded himself how much he liked this room, how comfortable it felt. He watched the faces of the kids coming in and it actually made him feel better. He realized it might not be so tough to be one of the cool kids. These kids all looked like losers.
There were supposed to be a dozen of them, three girls and nine boys. Gibson had stolen a peek at the roster on Sister Kate’s desk. He already knew that he was the only one from Our Lady of Sorrow. His mom had been thrilled, like it was some big honor. There was
no talking her out of it even when she discovered there was a five-hundred-dollar tuition fee to cover their field trips. She shrugged and said she’d get Grandma McCutty to pay it. Gibson complained that the three weeks would totally ruin his summer, but he knew he had already lost the argument. He overheard his mom on the phone telling Grandma McCutty what a privilege it was for Gibson to make the program, if only she could contribute the thousand-dollar tuition fee, then Gibson wouldn’t have to turn down such an honor. So there was the real reason his mom was so excited—not that he had qualified. Not that he would get out of the house and do something all summer other than play computer games. No, it was just one more opportunity to scam Grandma McCutty.
“What do you suppose this is?” a small kid with freckles and reddish-blond hair asked.
Gibson hadn’t even noticed the kid come up beside him. He was pointing to one of Gibson’s favorites, not daring to touch what at first glance looked like some kind of primitive chalice.
“It’s called a skullcup,” Gibson told him and picked it up carefully, watching the kid’s blue eyes widen as if Gibson had done something forbidden, but Gibson knew Sister Kate wouldn’t mind. The items she left on the counters were to be handled, carefully, of course, and examined. He turned it over to show the new kid where the base adhered to the top of a human skull.
“In Tibet, priests use these for ceremonies and stuff. See, they cut a human skull in half and use the top for the cup part. They attach all this decorative crap.” He pointed out the jewels and polished stones and his stomach hardly hurt anymore. “It’s supposed to symbolize consuming the mind of the dead guy. Or something like that.”
The kid was looking at him as if Gibson was not just cool but brilliant. Gibson pretended it was no big deal, yet he started thinking maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it wouldn’t ruin his summer after all.
