A Necessary Evil (29 page)

CHAPTER 72

Omaha, Nebraska

N
ick hadn't meant to scare Timmy and his friend. He was just in a lousy mood. He hadn't slept much last night. And then instead of checking out of the hotel he found himself asking if the suite was available for another night. What the hell was wrong with him? Was he seriously trying to screw up his engagement?

"Don't you have your Explorers' thing today?" he asked when it looked like both boys were too guilty to offer an explanation on their own.

"Um... we, uh... " Timmy gave it his best shot, glancing over at his friend, expecting help. Nick didn't think his friend would be capable of offering any help. The kid looked like he was about ready to jump out of his skin.

"Your mom doesn't know you skipped, huh?"

Timmy finally gave up and nodded. "We have a good reason."

"Yeah, I'm sure you do and you'll need it when you tell her."

"You're gonna make me tell her? Ah, come on, Uncle Nick."

"Hey, I don't make the rules in this house. So who's your friend?"

"Sorry. Gibson, this is my uncle Nick." Timmy waved his hand between the two of them as if that made the introduction official and complete. "So where've you been the last couple of nights? I thought you were staying here."

"I had a suite at the Embassy Suites."

"The one down in the Market?"

"Yep."

"Sweet. Does it have one of those minibars in the room with the five-dollar M&Ms and six-dollar Cokes?"

"Yeah, it does. So, Gibson, are you in the Explorers' Program, too?" Nick was beginning to wonder if the kid talked

"Yes, sir."

Nick wanted to laugh. Instead, he smiled and shook his head. "You can call me Nick, okay?"

"Okay."

"So what's the deal? You two skipped just to sit around the house eating cereal and watching talk shows? Doesn't sound very exciting."

He glanced from one to the other, watching them exchange guilty looks that seemed to include a scuffed-up backpack. They were hiding something. Didn't much matter what it was. Christine would be royally pissed when she found out Timmy was wasting her five hundred dollars, sitting around the house chewing the fat with his friend instead gobbling up all that explorer trivia.

Before either one answered there was a knock at the front door. Both boys scrunched down in their seats. Nick shook his head at them. Something was definitely up. This wasn't just about skipping school.

"Don't run out on me," he whispered, pointing a finger at the two of them. Then he went back down the hall to the foyer. Kids! It was probably a delivery person and they're practically pissing their pants for nothing.

It wasn't a delivery person. The tall man with white skin, a hooked nose and black narrow-set eyes stared at Nick, probably surprised to find a man answering Christine's door.

"Can I help you?" Nick asked, trying to place the guy. He knew he had seen him before but where?

"Is this the Hamilton residence?"

"Are they expecting you?" Nick asked instead. And then he remembered. It was the guy from Our Lady of Sorrow. The one rummaging through the monsignor's office. The one Christine had had a verbal sparring match with. She couldn't possibly be expecting him and she would never have invited him to her home.

"I'm Brother Sebastian from Our Lady of Sorrow," he told Nick while his eyes tried to get a look beyond and behind Nick. He got the impression the man didn't like having to explain himself, but he continued, "Timmy Hamilton and Gibson McCutty didn't show up for class this morning."

Nick waited, but that seemed to be all Brother Sebastian thought was necessary. As if that accusation deserved some sort of explanation from Nick.

"Wow," Nick said. "And the school sent you to check on them? I didn't realize schools did that." There was something fishy about this guy, and Nick was definitely starting to piss him off.

"Mrs. McCutty told me her son spent the night here. Is he here?" He kept his tone clipped and even, but Nick could sense the underlying anger.

"McCutty," Nick repeated like it required some thought. "I don't recognize that name." Tony wasn't the only one good at evading a question without lying. He supposed priests and prosecutors weren't all that different, twisting the truth to suit their needs.

"So the boys aren't here?"

"I don't see them? Do you?"

Brother Sebastian raised an eyebrow, the black eyes staring at him, but Nick didn't flinch.

"Very well then " he finally said then turned on his heels and left.

Nick stayed in the doorway, waiting for him to glance over his shoulder to see that he was watching. Yes, there was the glance and Nick waved, smiling despite Brother Sebastian's scowl. Whoever this asshole was, he hadn't come here to make sure Timmy and Gibson were okay. In fact, now Nick realized Brother Sebastian probably had something to do with the boys not going to their Explorers' class. Of course, it had to be something like that. What red-blooded teenage boy wouldn't want to go to a class where a pretty teacher taught them about swords and daggers?

Brother Sebastian climbed into a shiny black Lincoln Town Car, and Nick waited until he drove away. Then he closed and locked the door. When he came back into the living room both boys were staring at the entrance as if they had just escaped a firing squad.

"That was sweet, Uncle Nick" Timmy told him. "You were awesome."

Before they could go into any kind of victory dance, Nick gave them a look that wiped the smile off Timmy's face and made Gibson slide back into the couch.

"What the hell did you boys do?"

CHAPTER 73

Omaha, Nebraska

F
ather Michael Keller wished his vision would return to normal. He had almost changed his mind in Chicago during a two-hour layover. Not because of fear or regret, but because his insides felt as though they would explode. He spent most of those two hours in the bathroom, vomiting until there was nothing left but the urge. As soon as his insides had settled down, his eyesight had started playing tricks on him.

It was the worst when he first arrived in Omaha, making him see double and triple. There had been one uniformed officer and a detective to meet him and suddenly there seemed to be three uniformed officers and then almost a dozen. He had walked through the airport with them, trying to ignore the feeling of walking through a fun house with mirrors alongside, distorting, elongating and multiplying images all around him. That was when he told them he wanted to go to his hotel. That if they wanted to get the information from him they'd need to come to his hotel room. And what a hotel room it was, bigger than his shack, with a sitting area and a counter with rninifridge and microwave.

He'd been in the rain forest for too long. He reveled in everything, from the tiny shampoo bottles and the bright white cotton towels to the king-size bed and carpeting so soft it felt like walking on feathers. He hadn't realized how much he missed, how much he had sacrificed. Like air-conditioning ! He'd forgotten how glorious air-conditioning felt except that it had given him such a chill during the ride from the airport that when the hotel desk clerk asked if there was anything they could bring to his room for him he immediately asked for some hot tea. Yes, some hot tea would ease his frayed nerves and settle his stomach. Some tea that wasn't laced with monkshood, that would restore the comforting memory of his mother and not let him dwell on the poison.

The young detective asked if everything was to his liking, if there was anything else he needed. He told him the others would be coming soon. lust as a hotel person brought in a tray with all the makings for his hot tea, the detective left in search of the meeting room they were to use downstairs off the lobby.

Keller stood back and admired the contents on the tray: a porcelain carafe of hot water, a delicate bone-china teacup and saucer, a matching plate with an assortment of teas in colorful packages, a small stainless-steel pitcher with milk and a small dish with miniature sugar cubes. If that wasn't enough of a treat, they had included a small basket, and he peeked under the linen napkin to find a treasure of biscuits and muffins still warm.

He rubbed his hands together, content, sitting and staring at the surprise feast. Finally, he chose a package of tea and poured a cup, relishing the aroma. Yes, this would make it all better. He could feel a warmth start to fill him even with the first sip.

He had been wrong to think he should have to do without these simple pleasures. It had been almost four years, four long years of punishment he didn't deserve. He had fried to make his time as productive as possible. But there were so many who needed him. So many who were miserable and starving, neglected and abused. At times it was overwhelming. He knew he couldn't be expected to save them all. But Arturo was different, special. Those sad, dark eyes were like a window into his own childhood, a constant reminder of what it was like to have no one who cared. He had been lucky to have his mother, though only for twelve short years. But Arturo had no one except those who knew only how to punish and abuse him. No, he could never have left without saving Arturo. It was the least he could do.

A knock at the door rudely interrupted him. He wished he could ignore it. Perhaps it was simply the hotel person, coming back for the tray. Did they come back this quickly? Or it could be someone else checking to make sure he was comfortable.

He opened the door just a crack. The detective had already returned.

"We're ready for you," he said, and suddenly all the therapeutic magic of the tea seemed to dissipate.

CHAPTER 74

Washington, D.C.

H
e called in sick. Two days in a row. His boss wasn't happy. Yesterday wasn't much of a problem. Today meant canceling an account meeting in Saint Louis, which meant canceling a flight, maybe not getting back the full refund on the ticket. The cheap bastard would buy wing seats if he got a good enough discount. Last week's trip to Florida he had even been on standby. Standby, for God's sake. Was that any way
to
run a business? He didn't care if he got fired. Right now he didn't care about anything except the banging in his chest that had rapidly moved to include the back of his head. He worried that soon his entire body would become one throbbing ache.

He had ignored the blinking e-mail icon in the corner of his computer screen, but he knew he couldn't ignore it forever. He felt it watching him, could feel it through the walls like some laser beam following him from room to room. It was ridiculous. Of course, The Sin Eater couldn't see him, certainly couldn't watch him. So how did he know?

He paced in front of the computer. Calling in sick wasn't really a lie. He did feel sick, nauseated and feverish. When he glanced at himself in the mirror this morning he hardly recognized his image. His hair looked like it had thinned overnight and there seemed to be a sickly yellow tinge to his skin. His bloodshot eyes were swollen from little sleep. How could he sleep when Mrs. Sanchez kept waking him up, staring at him from the dark corner of his bedroom?

The nightmare had been so real he had forced himself to stay awake. If only she hadn't been there at the rectory. How could he know she'd be there in the middle of the afternoon? The others were different, whores waiting to have the evil slit out of them. But Mrs. Sanchez... she shouldn't have gotten in his way. It wasn't his fault. But how did The Sin Eater know?

He stared at the computer screen from across the small room. When he was invited to play the game he had to submit a name and he did: Father Paul Conley. Terminating him in a make-believe computer game hadn't been enough. He wanted him dead. He wanted to control Father Paul Conley's last breath and he had.

He had to think about this. If The Sin Eater had heard or seen the news that the priest had really been murdered, would he automatically know it was him? The Sin Eater could go back to the original list, see who submitted Father Paul's name and then know the priest's killer. Would he feel the need to punish him? Would he turn him in to the police?

It didn't matter. He had been especially careful, very careful... except for the fucking coffee mug. Jesus! He couldn't believe he had forgotten it. Everything else he had wiped down or thrown into the garbage bags. Everything except the most obvious fucking thing. By the time he remembered, it was too late to go back. But it didn't matter. He didn't care. It was over and done, and Father Paul Conley couldn't, wouldn't, be able to hurt anyone else.

Pumped with a fresh wave of adrenaline he marched across the room to the computer and clicked on the e-mail waiting for him. He could handle whatever it was. There was only one e-mail message, and it was from The Sin Eater:

YOU BROKE THE RULES.

CHAPTER 75

Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska

M
aggie rubbed her shoulders, trying to get rid of the chill. The room was freezing and she couldn't shake that old saying from her mind, "When hell freezes over... " It seemed appropriate since she never believed she would be making a deal with the devil. Technically, Assistant Director Cunningham had taken care of the details, but she was the one who had to sit across the table from Keller.

"Isn't it awfully cold in here?" she asked Pakula, who sipped his fifth coffee of the day.

"Actually I was just thinking it feels good."

He was no help. Maggie gave in and poured herself a cup of hot tea from the service butler in the corner. The Embassy Suites's concierge had prepared a room for them with little notice, doing an impressive job that included an assortment of afternoon refreshments. She couldn't help thinking Pakula would be pleased __ more tree food. However, the detective seemed content with only coffee. She had recognized his feeding frenzy as a nervous habit, which would mean that he wasn't at all anxious this afternoon. How could he not be? Was she the only one who realized the significance of this meeting?

"Chief Ramsey must know someone important," Maggie said, lifting the stainless-steel lid off a plate of fruits and cheeses and trying to calm her nerves by pretending they were here for an ordinary interview. She glanced over her shoulder at Pakula. "No doughnuts though."

"Very funny."

The look he shot back made her smile, and she realized she missed her partner, Special Agent R. J. Tully. Not an easy realization, since she prided herself in being a sort of lone warrior. But Tully had a way of calming her in situations like this and it usually included his corny sense of humor.

There was little time to take refuge in humor. Suddenly the meeting-room door opened and Detective Kasab came in, holding the door for Father Michael Keller as he entered, as if he deserved such a courtesy.

Maggie was stunned. She hardly recognized Keller. He looked much older. His skin was tanned but leathery, his dark hair prematurely peppered with gray. If she remembered correctly he was younger than her. His escape to South America had weathered him and converted his smooth, handsome, boyish looks to that of a haggard older man.

He carried a cardboard box gently in his hands, as though the contents would shatter with the slightest jerk or slip. And when he glanced around the room, slowly examining it, his eyes brushed her aside. Was he checking for back doors, maybe an escape? Did he expect to be tricked?

Pakula introduced himself, and like Kasab, was cordial and polite, treating Keller like some visiting dignitary. When Pakula made a motion to introduce Maggie she stepped forward, preempting him.

"No need for introductions," she said. "Father Keller and I are old friends. Isn't that right?" She looked Keller in the eyes, but didn't offer her hand as Pakula had. Instead, she set her cup of tea at the end of the table and took a seat.

"I'd like to believe that we certainly are not enemies, Agent O'Dell," he said with that same smooth, deep voice she remembered so well. "Do you mind if I call you Maggie?"

"Yes, I do."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, I do mind." She sipped her tea while the three men stood silently and stared at her in the same way they'd stare at someone who stood up in the middle of a wedding ceremony and said, "I object."

She could already feel the tension crawl into the room like fog over a cold lake. So she'd be the party pooper, the curmudgeon, the spoiler of this ever-so-cordial gentlemen's agreement. She didn't care. As far as she was concerned Keller was no gentleman and certainly couldn't be trusted. She only wished the hot tea would dull the chill that had settled deep inside her. She opened a small notebook and started tapping her pen, ready to begin.

"I'll be in the lobby if you need anything," Kasab said to Pakula, finally breaking the silence. Pakula gave him a nod and Kasab left, closing the door behind him.

Maggie didn't take her eyes off Keller, almost daring him to see if he could lie his way past her.

Pakula cleared his throat and shot her a look. They had known each other only a few days and she could already read his warning. He was telling her to cool it. Then he picked up his coffee mug and wandered over to the service butler for a refill.

"Can I get you some coffee, Father Keller?"

Maggie wanted to tell him to stop being so damn polite.

Keller pointed at her cup and said to Pakula, "May I have a cup of hot tea instead?"

"Oh sure. Do you take anything in it?"

"Do you have any of those little sugar cubes?"

Pakula poked around the service butler, lifting lids. "Doesn't look like it."

"Plain is fine, then."

Maggie wanted to yell this wasn't a frickin' tea party. Jesus!

Finally the three of them settled around the long table __ Maggie at the head so she purposely didn't have to sit across from Keller __ Pakula to her right and Keller to her left with his box and his cup of hot tea.

It had been Keller's request that he meet only with Maggie. At least Ramsey and Cunningham had the good sense to insist Detective Pakula be here at the meeting. Though Maggie couldn't help wondering if Cunningham had insisted on it because he was concerned for her safety or if it was Keller's safety he had considered.

Maggie watched Keller taking in everything about him. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks a bit sunken. She was pleased to see beads of sweat on his upper lip. He wore khaki pants and a plain white cotton shirt, a sleeveless white T-shirt visible underneath. Other than wet circles forming under his arms, his clothes looked crisp and clean and freshly pressed. Although on closer inspection she could see that the shirt's collar had become a bit threadbare.

She paid particular attention to his hands. Despite his haggard appearance his hands had been well taken care of __ smooth and without a single callus or unsightly cuticle, short but clean and neatly trimmed fingernails, straight long fingers. He seemed to use them with careful deliberation, almost with a reverence, everything they did was ceremonial. Even the way he picked up the teacup, slowly and delicately, bringing it to his lips as if it were a chalice. It reminded her how he had used those hands to consecrate the butchering of little boys and even try to turn that into a gruesome ritual.

He sat straight-backed and calm except that his eyes betrayed him as they continued to dart around the room. Again, she wondered if Keller was worried about them tricking him. Why shouldn't he worry? Surely he didn't think she wouldn't at least try to trap him, now that she finally had him right where she wanted him __ sitting in a room with a police detective alongside her? After all, that was exactly what she had in mind.

"What's in the box?" she asked. Not able to resist an opening taunt, she added, "A fillet knife? Maybe some boy's underpants?"

He was good. Not even a flinch as he met her eyes and said, "The person you're looking for has been e-mailing me and sending me things. I've brought as many of the items as possible in the hopes that you might be able to get his fingerprints."

"If he's been sending stuff," Pakula said, "how have you been getting it? Postal service? Special delivery?"

"Postal service. All but one of them. No return addresses even on the postal service ones."

"He's been sending you things?" Maggie said. "How did he find you?"

Keller shrugged. "Probably through the church."

"Actually, the church officials told me they had no record of your whereabouts," Maggie challenged. "In fact, they said you hadn't been issued a reassignment."

"The church is very protective of her priests. Perhaps you've noticed that with this case." When he answered this time he looked to Pakula.

"Are you saying they've had your address the entire time?"

"They've known how to get in touch with me."

Maggie couldn't determine whether it was a lie or not. After what she had learned about the Catholic Church this week, she almost found herself believing him.

"How about the other one?" Pakula asked.

"I'm sorry, the other one?"

"You said the postal service brought all but one. How did you get the other?"

"One of the village boys __ Arturo delivered it. He said an old man had given it to him." He reached for the teacup again.

"Any chance the kid got into it before he handed it off to you?" Pakula asked.

"No, absolutely not," he said, setting the cup down, and immediately Maggie saw why. There was a slight tremor to his fingers now. "Arturo was one of my best altar boys. He was a good boy. He would never have done something like that."

Maggie's stomach did a sudden flip. Keller had referred to the boy in the past tense. "Was? What do you mean, was?"

Keller's eyes met hers then darted off to the left. In that brief moment she thought she could see him backpedal, shifting gears. Had she caught him or was it the effect of the poison? He looked past her and to Pakula when he answered, "He used to be an altar boy for me. He's not anymore."

Pakula seemed to ignore the entire exchange.

"I highly doubt we're gonna get this guy's fingerprints no matter how much crap you've got in that box," he told Keller.

"I agree with Detective Pakula," Maggie said. "I doubt there's anything you have that will help us."

Keller pulled the box to him, suddenly protective of it, keeping it on the table but now wrapping both arms around it. "I don't think he was careful, because I don't think he believed I'd live long enough to hand this over to the authorities. And if you aren't able to match his prints, there's always the trail of e-mails. I have the list."

"Why do you suppose you're on the list, Father Keller?" Maggie asked.

"I have no idea."

"Really? No idea at all?"

She waited, giving him a second chance. He shifted ever so slightly in his chair and leaned his elbows on the table. There were a few blinks of his eyes but nothing excessive. Maggie had known killers who had convinced themselves that they had done nothing wrong, so effectively, so completely, that it became difficult to detect the lies even with a polygraph test. She believed Keller had done the same. Four years ago she had come to the conclusion that he had been on a mission. He had appointed himself a sort of savior of abused boys. Unlike The Sin Eater who Maggie suspected avenged, and thus rescued boys by executing their abuser, Father Keller simply rescued boys by murdering them, ending their alleged abuse and getting them out of their misery.

Keller must have realized they wouldn't go on until he answered. He finally said, "I have no idea why I'm on the list."

"Now, you see, that's curious to me," Maggie started to explain, keeping a calm, even tone though, she'd admit, a bit sarcastic. Surely sarcasm could be forgiven when what she really wanted to do was reach across the table, grab him by the collar and tell him he knew damn well why he was on the list. She continued, "We already know that the other priests have been accused of hurting little boys in one way or another. In fact, we believe the accusers may have somehow submitted the priests' names to be on the list. What about you, Father Keller? Who might have submitted your name? Who would want you eliminated?"

She tried to stare him down, but he didn't blink when he repeated, "I'm sure my name was submitted by mistake."

"A mistake?" She couldn't believe it. Did he really believe they would buy this crap? She looked to Pakula, hoping to see similar disbelief and frustration. Nothing. He was definitely the better poker player.

"What e-mail name does this guy use?" Pakula took over without missing a beat.

'The Sin Eater."

"Does that mean anything to you?" Pakula wanted to know.

"Not personally. I've done some research. The sin eater was a prominent figure in medieval times. Villagers would leave food items, usually bread* on the chest of their deceased loved one. After everyone was gone the sin eater would come in, eat the bread and ritualistically take the sins of the dead person into his own soul, thereby absolving the dead person of his or her sins."

'"Bread?" Pakula shook his head and glanced over at Maggie. "We found goddamn bread crumbs on Monsignor O'Sullivan, and in Columbia they found some in Kincaid's shirt pocket. This is freaky crap."

"But wait a minute," Maggie said. "This killer is eliminating abusers. Why would he want to absolve the abusers of their sins?"

"I believe," Keller said, taking a quick swipe at his sweaty upper lip, "this person may feel he's absolving the sins of the person he's killing for, instead of the priest he's killed." He said it with almost an admiration for The Sin Eater, the same person who was attempting to kill him. He looked at Maggie and added, "Does that fit your profile, Agent O'Dell?"

She held his gaze without flinching. That actually made sense. The Sin Eater believed he was not only killing for the boys, but taking on their sins of submitting and wanting their abusers dead.

"Yes, actually it does fit my profile," Maggie told him. "I think you're right." Keller blinked hard at her as if he didn't hear correctly. Even Pakula did a double take. "Maybe he is rescuing abused boys from their tormentors by killing their tormentors." She paused. "Unlike you, Father Keller, who thinks he's rescuing abused little boys by killing the boys."

Both men stared at her, silenced for a second time by her bravado. Keller plucked at a piece of packing tape on his box. The room had gone so silent she could hear the scraping, pinching and pulling of his long nervous fingers.

"Is that what you did with Arturo, Father Keller?" she asked. "Did you rescue him before you left Venezuela?"

"Agent O'Dell," Pakula said, his warning calm but she could hear the impatience. "I think it's best we remember why we're here today. We're trying to stop a killer."

"Exactly," Maggie said and she looked at Keller. That's exactly what she was trying to do, stop a killer who should have been stopped four years ago. But she sat back, instead, and laced her fingers together in front of her on the table, preventing them from balling up into fists and slamming them into Keller's smug, sweaty face.