She stared at him. Had it been that obvious how much she had wanted him? Or was it simply his ego?
“What did you expect to happen, Nick? Are you disappointed you’re not able to add one more name to your list of conquests?” She glanced around them. No one seemed to notice her angry whispers.
“You know that’s not what this is.”
“Then maybe it’s simply the thrill of being forbidden. I am married, Nick. It may not be the best marriage in the world, but it still means something. Please, let’s just forget about last night.” She stared at her coffee, feeling his eyes on her.
“Here’s your toast and coffee,” Angie interrupted, and Maggie found no relief in ending the subject. Maybe she didn’t want to forget it, either.
Angie set the plate and cup in front of Nick, forcing him to sit back, though his eyes stayed on Maggie. She wondered if the pretty waitress could feel the tension.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked only Nick.
“Maggie, do you need anything?” He purposely drew attention to Maggie, and Angie immediately looked embarrassed.
“No, thanks.”
“Okay,” Angie said, now anxious to make an exit.
There was an awkward moment of silence.
“You said Judge Murphy is hedging on the rectory warrant. Why?” Maggie tried to focus, still avoiding his eyes and pouring more sugar into her coffee. She waited out his silence, then finally she heard a sigh of resignation.
“Murphy and my dad come from a generation that believe you just don’t mess with Catholic priests,” he said, slathering his toast with quick, jerky swipes of butter.
“So is a warrant even possible?”
“I tried to convince him that it’s Ray Howard we’re after.”
“You still think it is Howard.”
“I don’t know.” He pushed the toast aside without taking a bite and scratched at his bristled jaw. She noticed the bandage again.
“What did you do to your hand?”
He stared at it for a moment as though he couldn’t remember.
“It’s no big deal. Look,” he said, leaning toward her again, and she could smell the faint hint of his aftershave lotion though he obviously hadn’t shaved. Behind the exhaustion in his eyes, Maggie could see the beginning panic he was so desperately trying to hide. Suddenly, she realized he was waiting for her attention.
“Sorry,” she said, putting down the spoon, folding her arms and giving him her attention.
“Father Keller told me last night that Ray Howard left the seminary last year. While I was waiting on Murphy I did some checking. Howard was at a seminary in Silver Lake, New Hampshire. It’s just across the border to Maine and less than five hundred miles from Wood River.”
Now he did have her attention. She sat up and stared at him.
“How long was he there?”
“The last three years.”
“Well, that rules him out on the Wood River murder.”
“Maybe, but isn’t that just a little too strange of a coincidence? Three years in the seminary, he should know a little about administering last rites.”
“Was he here during the first murders?”
“I’m having Hal check it out. But I did talk to the head guy at the seminary. Father Vincent wouldn’t give me the details, but he did say Howard was asked to leave due to improper conduct.” He said it as if it were some sort of proof.
“Improper conduct at a seminary could be anything from breaking a vow of silence to spitting on the sidewalk. I don’t know, Nick. Howard just doesn’t seem sharp enough to pull this off.”
“Maybe that’s what he wants everyone to believe.”
Maggie watched Nick fold his paper napkin over and over again, his fingers revealing his internal turmoil. Underneath the table, she heard his foot nervously tapping.
“Both Howard and Keller would have had the opportunity to get rid of Father Francis.”
“Jesus, Maggie. I thought you believed that only because you were drunk last night. You really don’t think it was an accident?”
“Father Francis told me yesterday morning that he had something very important to tell me. I know someone was listening in on our conversation. I could hear the click.”
“So maybe it’s a coincidence.”
“I learned a long time ago that there are few coincidences. An autopsy might show whether he was pushed or whether he simply fell.”
“Without any evidence, we can’t just order an autopsy.” Nick fidgeted with the cellular phone, and Maggie could feel his restlessness.
“Maybe I can talk to Father Francis’ family. Or the archdiocese.”
“Thing is, Maggie, we don’t have time to wait for permission or for autopsies or even search warrants. I’d like to just scare the living crap out of Howard.”
She couldn’t believe he still thought it was Howard. Or was it simply his desperation, grabbing for easy answers. Instead of arguing, she said, “Whether it’s Howard or Keller, we need to be very careful. If he panics…”
She stopped herself, remembering this was Timmy, Nick’s nephew, they were talking about and not an anonymous victim. She hadn’t shared with Nick her discovery of the killer’s acceleration. She glanced at him and saw the realization there in his eyes. Somehow he already knew.
“We don’t have much time,” he said as though reading her mind. He was getting good at it. “He’s speeding things up, isn’t he?”
She nodded.
“Let’s get out of here.” He threw a wad of bills on the table without counting it out and wrestled back into his jacket, waiting while she did the same.
“Where are we going?”
“I need to impound a pickup, and you need to apologize to Father Keller for last night.”
CHAPTER 61
Father Keller looked quite official this time when he answered the rectory door, still dressed from morning mass. However, Nick immediately noticed the white Nikes peeking out from under the black floor-length cassock.
“Sheriff Morrelli, Agent O’Dell. I’m sorry, but this is a surprise.”
“Can we come in for a few minutes, Father?” Nick rubbed his hands together to ward off the cold. Although the sun had made its first appearance in days, the piles of snow and sharp wind kept the temperature well below freezing. Even for Nebraska, this was unusual Halloween weather.
Father Keller hesitated. At first, Nick thought he’d protest as he glanced at Maggie, checking to see if it was safe to let her in. Then he smiled and moved away from the door, leading them into the living room where a fire blazed in the grand fireplace. Only this morning there was a faint scent of something scorched—something not meant to burn. Immediately, Nick wondered if Keller was trying to hide something.
“I’m not sure how I can be of help to the two of you. Last night—”
“Actually, Father Keller,” Maggie interrupted, this morning back to her cool, calm self. “I wanted to apologize for last night.” She glanced up at Nick, and he saw a spark of indignation in her eyes. “I had a bit too much to drink, and I’m afraid I get somewhat antagonistic. It was certainly nothing personal. I hope you understand and accept my apology.”
“Of course, I understand. And I’m relieved to know it wasn’t anything I did. After all, we hadn’t even met.”
Nick watched the priest’s face. Maggie’s apology relaxed him. Even his hands dropped to his sides, no longer wringing behind his back.
“I was just about to make myself some hot tea. Can I get some for the two of you?”
“We are here on official business, Father Keller,” Nick said.
“Official business?”
Nick watched the young priest stuff his hands into the deep pockets of the cassock, suddenly uncomfortable, though his voice appeared remarkably calm. Nick couldn’t help wondering if this, too, was something Father Keller had learned in the seminary. He pulled the warrant from his jacket pocket and began unfolding it, while he said, “Last night we no
ticed the old pickup you have out back.”
“Pickup?” Father Keller sounded surprised. Was it possible he didn’t know or, again, was this only a part of his schooling?
“The one in the trees. It matches the description a witness gave of a pickup she saw Danny Alverez get into the day he disappeared.” Nick waited and watched. Maggie stood silently by his side, but he knew she would memorize every twitch and shift Father Keller made.
“I don’t know if that old thing even runs. I think Ray uses it when he goes to chop wood out by the river.”
Nick handed Father Keller the warrant. The priest held it by its corner and stared at it as though it were a foreign object, secreting slime.
“Like I told you last night,” Nick said calmly, “I’m just trying to follow up on as many leads as possible. You probably know that the sheriff’s department has come under considerable fire lately. I just want to make sure no one can say we didn’t check. Do you have the keys, Father?”
“The keys?”
“To the pickup?”
“I can’t imagine that it’s locked. Let me put on a coat and some boots, and I’ll go back with you.”
“Thanks, Father. I appreciate it.” Nick watched the priest go to the side of the fireplace and slip on the pair of rubber boots he had noticed last night. So, they were Keller’s boots. Last night, he had told Nick that he hadn’t left the rectory. But then Nick reminded himself that snow-covered boots could mean that Keller had only stepped out to get more wood.
The three of them started for the door. Suddenly, Maggie grabbed on to a small table and doubled over.
“Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick again,” she mumbled.
“Maggie, are you okay?” He glanced at Father Keller and whispered, “She’s been like this all morning.” Then to Maggie, “What in the world did you drink last night?”
“Could I use your restroom?”
“Oh, sure.” Father Keller’s eyes darted across the floor, his obvious concern directed at the pearl-white carpeting. “Down the hall, second door on the right,” he said quickly, as if to hurry her along.
“Thanks. I’ll catch up with you guys.” She disappeared around the corner, holding her side.
“Will she be okay?” Father Keller seemed concerned.
“She’ll be fine. Believe me, you don’t want to be too close. Earlier she made a mess all over my boots.”
The priest grimaced and glanced at Nick’s boots, then followed him outside to the back of the rectory.
Drifts encased the pickup, forcing them to shovel a path and dig out the old metal heap. The door stuck then creaked, metal grinding against metal, as Nick jerked and pulled it open. A musty, pent-up smell hit Nick’s nostrils. The cab looked as though it had been closed up and unused for years. Disappointment stabbed at Nick. He was tired of coming up with empty leads. Still, he crawled into the cab with the flashlight and absolutely no clue as to what he was even looking for. Perhaps he should leave the search to the experts, but they were running out of time.
He lay on the cracked, vinyl seat then stretched and twisted his arm, allowing his hand to blindly search under the seats. The cramped quarters made it difficult to maneuver his body. The steering wheel cut into his side and the gearshift stabbed him in the chest. It reminded him of when he was sixteen and had used his dad’s old Chevy for making out with his dates. Only his body ached more now and certainly wasn’t as flexible as it used to be.
“I can’t imagine there being anything but rats in this old heap,” Father Keller said, standing outside the door.
“Rats?” He hated rats.
Nick snatched his hand back, hitting the raw knuckles on an exposed spring. He closed his eyes against the pain and bit down on his lower lip to contain the obscenities. He punched the glove compartment open and blasted the dark hole with the flashlight.
Carefully, he poked through the sparse contents: a yellowed owner’s manual, a rusted can of WD-40, several McDonald’s napkins, a matchbook from some place called the Pink Lady, a folded schedule with addresses and codes he didn’t recognize and a small screwdriver. He palmed the matchbook, feeling Father Keller’s eyes on him. Before he closed the compartment he ran his fingers back behind the contents in the deep groove. He felt something small, smooth and round, pinched it out of the groove and palmed it with the matchbook. He slipped both items into his coat pocket after checking to make sure he was out of Father Keller’s line of vision. As he started to close the compartment, he noticed handwritten notes scrawled on the folded schedule. Unable to read the writing, he grabbed the paper and tucked it up his sleeve. Then he slammed the compartment shut.
“Nothing here,” he said, scooting himself up and slipping the paper down into his pocket. He slid across the vinyl seat, taking one last look around. It occurred to him that, although the cab smelled musty and shut-up, everything—dash, seat, carpet—looked remarkably clean.
“Sorry you wasted your time,” Father Keller said as he turned toward the rectory and started up the path.
“Actually, I still have the bed to search.”
The priest stopped, hesitated, then turned back. The wind swirled the long cassock, snapping it violently, sounding like the crack of a whip. This time Nick noticed a hint of frustration in Father Keller’s blue eyes—frustration, impatience. If he wasn’t a priest, Nick would have said Father Keller simply looked pissed. Whatever it was, there was definitely something more. Something that made Nick anxious and apprehensive about what he might find in the pickup’s bed.
CHAPTER 62
Maggie checked the window again. Nick and Father Keller were still at the pickup. She continued her search down the long hall, stopping in front of each closed door, listening and carefully peeking into every unlocked room. Several were offices, one a supply room. Finally, she came across a bedroom.
The room was plain and small with wooden floors and white walls. A simple crucifix hung above the twin bed. In the corner sat a small table with two chairs. Another stand sat in the opposite corner with an old toaster and teapot. An ornate lamp sat on the nightstand, looking out of place. Other than the lamp, there was nothing to draw attention. No clutter, no drawers or boxes.
She turned to leave, and immediately, three framed prints on the wall next to the door caught her eye. They hung side by side and were prints of Renaissance paintings. Though Maggie didn’t recognize any of them, she recognized the style—the perfectly rendered bodies, the motion and color. Each one depicted the bloody torture of a man. Upon closer inspection she read the small print beneath each.
The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, 1475, Antonio Del Pollaivolo, showed a bound Saint Sebastian tied to a pedestal with arrows being shot into his body. The Martyrdom of Saint Erasmus, 1629, Nicolas Poussin, included winged cherubs hovering above a crowd of men who had one man stretched out and chained down while they pulled out his entrails.
Maggie wondered why anyone would want such artwork on their bedroom walls. She glanced at the last print. The Martyrdom of Saint Hermione, 1512, Matthias Anatello, showed a man tied to a tree while his accusers slashed at his body with knives and machetes. She started out the door when something made her look at the last print again. On the tortured man’s chest were several bloody slashes, two perfect diagonals intersecting to create a jagged cross, or from Maggie’s angle, a skewed X. Yes, of course. Now it made sense. The carving on each boy’s chest wasn’t an X at all. It was a cross. And the cross was part of his ritual, a mark, a symbol. Did he think he was making martyrs of the boys?
She heard footsteps. They were close and getting closer. She hurried into the hall just as Ray Howard turned the corner. She startled him, but he still noticed her hand on the doorknob.
“You’re that FBI agent,” he said in his accusatory tone.
“Yes, I’m here with Sheriff Morrelli.”
“What were you doing in Father Keller’s room?”
“Oh, is this Father Keller’s room? Actually, I need to use the
bathroom, and I can’t seem to find it.”
“That’s because it’s way down on the other end of the hall,” he scolded, pointing and keeping his eyes on her as though he didn’t trust her.
“Really? Thanks.” She squeezed past him and made her way down the hall, stopping in front of the correct door and glancing back at him. “Is this it?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks again.” She went in and listened at the door for a few minutes. When she peeked out again, she saw Ray Howard disappear into Father Keller’s bedroom.
CHAPTER 63
The bed of the pickup was filled with snow, but Nick crawled up over the tailgate.
“Could you hand me the shovel, Father?”
The priest stood paralyzed, staring at the drifts that swallowed Nick’s legs. Keller’s ungloved hands were at his chest, the long fingers intertwined as though he were in prayer. The wind whipped at his dark, wavy hair. His cheeks were red and his eyes watery blue.
“Father Keller, the shovel, please,” Nick asked again, this time pointing when the priest finally looked up at him.
“Oh, sure.” He made his way to the tree where they had left it. “I can’t imagine there being anything of use to you.”
“I guess we’ll see.”
Nick had to reach down to take the shovel, since Father Keller made no effort to lift it to him. The priest’s behavior propelled Nick’s adrenaline. There was something here. He could feel it. He started digging a bit frantically at first. He needed to slow down. How could he possibly find anything in all this snow? He scooped smaller shovelfuls for fear of tossing evidence over the side. The handmade wooden stock racks creaked and whined against the wind gusts. The cold sliced through Nick’s jacket. It assaulted his eyes and pricked at his face, turning his ears into red pincushions. Yet, perspiration slid down his back. His palms were sweating inside the thick leather gloves he had found with the shovel in the storage shed.
Suddenly, the shovel struck something hard, encrusted beneath the snow. The dull sound alerted Father Keller who approached the tailgate, close enough to look down into the hole Nick had created.