A Necessary Evil (33 page)

CHAPTER 85

M's Pub
Omaha, Nebraska

M
aggie had never believed that confession was good for the soul. As far as she was concerned, nothing much came from it, other than wasted time that could be better spent elsewhere. There was no such thing as closure. Everyone had past baggage they carried around, some just a little heavier than others. She had never talked about her mother's drunken binges with anyone other than Gwen. What good did it do to relive those miserable times? Without effort she could easily conjure up the hot, sour smell of whiskey breath from her mother's boyfriends trying to slam her small, twelve-year-old frame into the corner for a kiss or a "quick rub," as one had put it.

Instead of sharing the gruesome details, she simply told Sister Kate, "Let's just say my mother's suitors were not always the most polite of gentlemen."

Sister Kate nodded as if she understood the entire situation from that brief statement. "How old were you?"

"Twelve, thirteen. By the time I was fourteen she finally made them get hotel rooms. Of course, that wasn't until one of her men friends suggested a threesome."

"Ah, I see," Sister Kate said, but without alarm or surprise. "Which left you all alone?"

"It felt like a blessing at the time," Maggie confided. She didn't need all her years of studying psychology to self-diagnose that being alone as a child and associating it with freedom from harm had certainly overlapped into her adult life.

"Did you ever think," Sister Kate said, "that might be one of the reasons you joined the FBI?"

"What exactly do you mean?" Maggie had no intention of this turning into a shrink session.

"Maybe it's a way for you to be that knight in shining armor who comes to the rescue __ the one who never came to your rescue as a child."

Maggie took a sip of her wine when she really wanted a gulp. She was beginning to realize this conversation would take more than one glass of wine unless she could turn it around soon.

"So what about you?" she asked. "You said your grandfather had rescued you from what I believe you said was a particularly difficult situation?"

"I suppose it wasn't all that different from your situation. It was the year I turned eleven. He was a friend who my parents trusted and respected __
revered,
actually, is a better word. They'd invite him one Sunday every month for dinner." As she told Maggie her eyes began to wander across the street again. "My mother always fixed pot roast, with potatoes and those little carrots, because it was his favorite. And after dinner he'd volunteer to take me upstairs to my room, read me a bedtime story and tuck me in even though I told all of them that I was too old for such things. And so once a month for three months he raped me in my own bed."

She looked back at Maggie, checking to see if she still had her attention. Maggie simply stared at her, unable to speak.

"My parents didn't believe me at first," Sister Kate continued. "But there're some things... details, proof that an eleven-year-old girl can't make up." She reached for her wineglass and took a sip. "To this day I still can't look at a pot roast," she said, smiling.

"That's one thing that always amazes me," Maggie said. "The different ways in which each of us deals with the evil we've experienced. Most serial killers have been abused at some point during their childhood. They end up butchering innocent people, usually at random, sometimes using their abuse as an excuse or a justification. But you turned around and gave your life to the church."

"And you the FBI," Sister Kate followed up. "I guess we both wanted to be knights in shining armor."

CHAPTER 86

The Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska

N
ick tried not to panic. It wouldn't do any good to panic. And yet, he couldn't stop thinking that it was happening all over again just like four years ago.

No, that wasn't right, that wasn't fair. Timmy was older now. And he wouldn't go with just anyone. But what if someone had grabbed him? Brother Sebastian was a lot taller and bigger than Timmy. Why hadn't he taught the boy some self-defense stuff? Yeah right, how could he? How could he teach Timmy anything from thirteen hundred miles away in Boston. Nick shook his head. It wouldn't help to beat himself up with guilt.

He had asked the desk clerk, on the off chance that someone from the hotel had called his suite. No such luck. The clerk had been there since three and hadn't taken any outside calls for a Nick Morrelli. Although the clerk thought he remembered putting through a room-to-room call to a Morrelli. That didn't make sense. Something wasn't adding up.

He checked everywhere __ the swimming pool, the fitness center, the terrace, even the restaurant and lounge. He felt like apparent looking for his toddler and asking everyone he saw.

He walked each floor's hallway and asked housekeepers coming in and out of rooms. Those who spoke no English just shrugged. Those who spoke English also shrugged.

Finally after what felt like several hours but was, in fact, not even one hour, he returned to the suite.

"Did he call?" he asked Gibson as soon as he came in the door.

"No. You didn't see him?" Gibson sat on the edge of one bed, rocking back and forth.

"Nobody's seen him. And I've been all over this place."

Nick started pacing but stopped at the window and looked out over the Old Market. He was the adult. He was supposed to keep them both calm but all Nick could think about was four years ago when Timmy had been kidnapped by a madman and they had almost lost him for good. Where the hell could he be? Should he call Christine? No. It was too soon to call Christine. He had to be around here. He couldn't have just disappeared into thin air.

"Do you think he would have gone over to the Old Market?" Nick asked. "You know, just to pick something up or out of curiosity?"

Gibson shrugged and Nick looked out at the small shops across the street, checking out anyone wearing orange or red.

"Mr. Morrelli," Gibson said and Nick didn't know what to tell the kid. He let out a sigh before he turned around to look at him, expecting him to have questions.

"I think there's something I'd better show you," Gibson said and pulled out of his backpack what looked like a leather portfolio.

CHAPTER 87

The Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska

M
aggie had barely returned to her suite when there was a knock at the door. It was Nick Morrelli, only this time his hair was tousled and his eyes had a wild, almost panicked look. He had a teenage boy with him, standing back out of the way, but Maggie knew he wasn't Timmy.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Maggie, but I really need your help." Nick couldn't seem to stand still, walking back and forth outside her door and constantly glancing down the hallway. The boy seemed to repeat Nick's actions though he stood still, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, perhaps prepared to run if necessary.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"I don't know what to do. Timmy's disappeared."

"What do you mean disappeared?"

"Before... when I was down in the gift shop... some guy... I'm not sure who. He called our suite. Gibson says the guy told Timmy __ "

"Wait a minute," she interrupted. "Timmy was here with you at the hotel?"

"Yeah. I asked him and Gibson to spend the night. But when I was getting junk food in the gift shop some guy called. Gibson said he claimed he was the desk clerk and told Timmy I needed him to meet me in the lobby."

Maggie immediately thought of Keller as Nick continued his explanation.

"But you see, earlier today there was this guy __ " He stopped, looked both ways again and leaned closer, lowering his voice. "A guy from the archdiocese office, a Brother Sebastian looking for Timmy and Gibson. I think he may have taken Timmy somewhere."

'The archdiocese office? Why would someone from the archdiocese take Timmy?" Nick wasn't making any sense.

"The boys have something the archbishop might want," he whispered.

She looked at the boy, Gibson, and he met her eyes briefly before he looked away and stared at his scuffed tennis shoes.

"It's a very long story," Nick told her, glancing back at Gibson. "I'm not sure I understand it all. They've been playing some sort of Internet game where they had to submit the name of a priest." He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "It all sounds crazy."

"It's not crazy," she said with a sinking feeling. "And Timmy submitted Father Michael Keller's name."

Nick stopped and stared at her. Gibson did, too. "How did you know?"

"I don't have time to explain. He's here," she told them and closed the door to her suite, joining them in the hallway. "Who's here?"

"Keller." She wanted to kick herself because she was the one who'd kept forcing Keller to think about who may have submitted his name. How could she be so stupid?

"Why the hell is Father Keller back in Omaha?" He sounded angry but Maggie recognized it as panic.

"You need to call Detective Pakula," she told him as she tucked her hand inside her jacket, readjusting her shoulder holster. Gibson's eyes grew wide when he saw the gun. Nick didn't move. "Go back to your room, Nick, and call Detective Pakula."

"You think he has Timmy, don't you?" It didn't help matters to lie to him. "Yes, I do." "And you know exactly what room he's in?" This time she hesitated before she said, "Yes, I do." "Then let's go," and he started down the hallway. "You're not a law enforcement officer anymore, Nick," she said to his back and didn't follow.

"But I'm his uncle. And you're wasting time." "No, you're wasting time by arguing with me." "Gibson can call Pakula, right, buddy? You don't mind, do you?" Nick put his hand on the boy's shoulder as if only now realizing that he had someone else to worry about besides Timmy.

"You're not coming with me, Nick. And the longer you argue with me the longer Timmy is with Keller."

"Damn it, Maggie." He turned and slammed the same hand that had been on Gibson's shoulder against the hallway wall. At the end of the hall a woman opened her hotel-room door, peeked out and shut the door. "Okay," he finally said. "You win."

She left them there, walking away quickly and not glancing back. She expected footsteps and was relieved when she heard a door open and close. But she knew Nick might try to follow her. She turned the corner to the elevators but ducked into the stairwell instead, gently closing the door behind her. She wouldn't be able to get back onto any of the floors and need to go all the way down to the lobby, but at least Nick wouldn't be able to race to the elevator and watch at which floor it let her off.

She'd go down to the lobby and take a different elevator to the fourth floor. And hopefully when she got to Keller's room it wouldn't be too late.

CHAPTER 88

The Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska

F
ather Michael Keller listened to Timmy talk about the Explorers' Summer Program he was taking. He had gone into great detail describing the swords and ceremonial cups and musical instruments his new teacher had on display in her classroom. He told Timmy what he knew about the Crusades and the early Catholic Church's attempt to spread Christianity even if it meant slaughtering thousands.

They talked about the Black Plague and the Knights Templar. They drank three-dollar Cokes from the minibar until there were none left and they devoured a can of Pringles, several candy bars and a jar of Gummi Bears.

Keller wasn't sure how much time had passed. It didn't matter. The digitalis had relieved him of most of his symptoms, though he still felt a bit feverish. The throbbing hadn't begun. The boy had begun to trust him. He had made a phone call to his own room's voice-messaging service, and while Timmy believed Keller was talking to his uncle Nick, he actually talked over the menu telling him how to access his voice mail. As long as Timmy believed he was in contact with his uncle he didn't seem to question the delay.

A loud knock on the door startled both of them.

Keller thought it might be someone from the hotel, perhaps bringing the extra towels he had requested when he knew he'd be inviting Timmy back to his suite, when he knew there would be a bit of a mess to clean up. He checked the peephole but no one was there. He started to open the door, when it swung open, slamming into his nose and knocking him back against the wall.

He couldn't see through the blur and grabbed his nose, his hand filling with blood. The sting spiderwebbed across his face. Someone shoved him into the wall and he felt the gun muzzle against his temple just as he heard the door slam shut.

"Don't move, you bastard," came a woman's voice he quickly identified. "I'd like nothing better than to blow your brains all over this room."

"Hello, Agent O'Dell." He tried to sound calm but the blood was trickling down his throat now. He hated tasting his own blood. It started to panic him, reminding him too much of his stepfather.

"Hey, what's going on?" He heard Timmy yell from the other side of the room.

"Stay over there, Timmy," she said. "Do you remember me? Maggie O'Dell."

"Yeah, I remember. I saw you at school the other day."

"You need to stay over there, Timmy," she repeated and tightened her grip on Keller's arm. Only then did the pain make him realize she had twisted his left arm up against his back.

"You can relax, Agent O'Dell," he said, hating the catch in his voice telegraphing his fear. Now that his vision was no longer blurred, he noticed the blood running between his fingers and down his arm. The sight of his own blood made him nauseous and a bit light-headed.

"Like hell I will," she hissed in his ear and the muzzle pressed farther into his skull.

"But Agent O'Dell," Timmy said, "I don't understand. He's with the Omaha police."

"Is that what he told you?"

"The boy misunderstood," Keller tried to explain, despite his arm being yanked even higher up his back. He could feel the texture of the cheap wallpaper scrape against his cheek, and again, a memory flooded back to him of his stepfather shoving him against another wall, all those years ago. It made him angry. But it also scared him. "I only said that I was working with the Omaha Police Department." He spit out blood but more trickled down his throat and the taste almost made him gag.

"Did he hurt you, Timmy?"

"Hurt me?"

"Are you okay?"

"I didn't hurt the boy."

"Shut up! I'm not asking you." O'Dell shoved the gun muzzle so hard against his temple he could taste metal, or was it his blood that now tasted like metal?

'Timmy, did he hurt you?"

"I'm okay. We just talked and stuff."

"You what?"

Her surprise at this made Keller smile, despite the pain shooting up between his eyes. He was sure she had broken his nose.

"We talked. About knights and the Crusades and stuff. We just talked."

Keller wished he could see O'Dell's face. She had probably hoped to catch him doing something worthy of her shooting him between the eyes. So that when the others showed up __ because, of course, the fearless Margaret O'Dell had not waited for backup once again __ she'd have to tell them that it was necessary. That she had to shoot him, had to unload every single one of her bullets into his chest or else he'd hurt the poor boy.

"Timmy, you still don't recognize him, do you?"

There was silence and now he could hear her breathing. She was breathing too hard to be in control.

"It's Father Keller," she said.

And she yanked him away from the wall for Timmy to see his face. The boy now looked at him like he was some monster. Keller saw him stepping back even farther into the room before she smashed his face into the wall again. This time he heard the gun make some weird click when she pressed it into his temple.

"What are you doing, Agent O'Dell?"

"What I should have done back in that tunnel. You remember that dark hole under the cemetery? The one where you shoved your fillet knife into my side."

"You're wrong. You don't know what you're talking about. I think you should __ "

"Maybe if I had, little boys like Arturo would still be alive. How many others have there been, Keller?"

"You can't do this. You're an FBI agent." He didn't recognize his own voice, a high-pitched whine, almost a cry.

"And my job as an FBI agent is to hunt down and destroy evil."

Was she possessed? He wanted to turn and look at her, but he was afraid the slightest move and she might use it as an excuse to pull the trigger. His stomach ached. His face throbbed and he tried to keep from sobbing or the blood running down his throat would choke him.

Someone banged on the door and his heart skipped a beat. O'Dell, however, didn't seem to flinch. Her hold remained steady.

"Police " someone called from the other side of the door. "Open up."

Keller held his breath. O'Dell didn't move. Not an inch. It felt like the muzzle was making a hole in the side of his head.

"O'Dell?" the voice called. "It's Pakula. Are you okay?"

Silence except for her heavy breathing and an annoying whining sound. Oh God, the whine was coming from deep inside his throat.

"O'Dell? Are you in there? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she finally said and adjusted her hold on his arm.

"I'm coming in."

There was a pause and then Keller saw the door begin opening slowly. He lifted his face away from the wall only to have it shoved back, this time knocking the side of his head. But he could see Detective Pakula's alarm before the detective was able to disguise it.

"Whadya doing, O'Dell?"

"What I should have done four years ago."

"Come on, O'Dell." He saw Pakula look around them. "It looks like the kid is okay."

"But he wouldn't have been if I hadn't gotten here."

"You okay, son?" Pakula called out to Timmy.

"Yeah." But Keller noticed the boy's voice wasn't very convincing, weak and small.

"I didn't do anything to him. We just talked." Keller tried to defend himself.

"If he's done something, we'll take care of him," Detective Pakula told her, but she still didn't ease up. "Come on, O'Dell."

Keller could see that the detective was close enough to reach out and touch her, take the gun away. Why didn't he? He could stop her. He needed to stop her.

'Timmy," she said without flinching. "Go with Detective Pakula."

Keller didn't hear the boy move.

This time she yelled, "Now!" And he heard Timmy rush out, squeezing past them.

"I didn't hurt him," Keller pleaded. He knew exactly why she was making the boy leave. She didn't want him to see what she was going to do. She didn't want him to have nightmares.

"O'Dell," Detective Pakula said, checking to make sure the boy was safe in the hallway. Keller could see the detective was becoming anxious. "Come on. You don't want to do this."

Keller started whining again, sobs with chokes. Then all of a sudden he was free.

O'Dell pulled the gun away. She dropped his arm. He stayed pressed against the wall, not trusting her. He didn't move until she pushed past Detective Pakula. And even then he shut his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He thought he heard the door close. And when he opened his eyes again, he was alone.

Keller locked the door's dead bolt and made his way to the bathroom. He was shocked by the bloody, sweaty face that looked back at him. His nose wasn't broken, despite all the blood. He pulled off his sweat-drenched clothes and washed himself, rinsing his mouth and then standing under the showerhead, letting the warm water run over his pain. By the time he slid into a fresh pair of boxers he was feeling better. He had already begun to wipe the episode from his mind.

He wandered back to the bed where his suitcase lay, where he had left it earlier, ready for his evening before his unexpected visitor. He opened the suitcase and found his wooden box on top. He lifted the lid off the box and pushed aside the newspaper articles, the small tin of oil and the vial of ether. He ran his fingers over Arturo's small underpants and then lifted several more pairs until he saw the fillet knife safely tucked underneath. With a heavy sigh he covered it again and closed the lid of the wooden box.