She made her way back to the lounge, only now realizing she had left her jacket and laptop along with the envelope. Though the lounge was packed, no one had attempted to take over her small table. Even the envelope leaned against the fresh drink where the bartender had left it.
She eased into the hard chair and stared at the small envelope. She gulped the remainder of Scotch in her glass and set it aside. She started on the fresh drink despite the swirling inside her head. She wanted to be numb.
She took the envelope carefully by a corner. The seal broke easily, and she slipped the index card out onto the table without touching it. Even the Scotch couldn’t prevent the nausea and the stab of terror the words inflicted.
In the same boxy lettering, the note said:
SORRY TO SEE YOU LEAVE SO SOON. PERHAPS I CAN STOP BY YOUR CONDO THE NEXT TIME I’M IN THE CREST RIDGE AREA. SAY HI TO GREG FOR ME.
CHAPTER 51
From down on the sidewalk, he could see Maggie O’Dell inside, scrambling up the escalator. He did have to admit she moved quite nicely—definitely a runner. He imagined those strong, athletic legs looked good in a pair of tight shorts, though the image didn’t much interest him.
He pushed the handcart aside and removed the cap and jacket he had borrowed from the sleeping airport employee. He rolled them into a ball and shoved them into a trash can.
He had left the Lexus with the radio blaring in the loading zone. With the radio and the jets overhead, no one would ever hear Timmy, should he wake up sooner than expected. Besides, the trunk was tight, almost soundproof, meaning there was also very little air.
He got into the car just as a security guard with a pad of tickets started in his direction. He squealed away from the curb and zipped around the unloading vehicles. It would be pitch-black by the time he got Timmy settled in, but the detour had been worth seeing the look on Special Agent O’Dell’s face.
The wind had picked up, creating swirls of snow and promising drifts by morning. The kerosene heater, lantern and sleeping bag in the backseat, originally packed for the camping trip, would come in handy, after all. Perhaps he would drive through McDonald’s on the way. Timmy loved Big Macs, and he found himself getting hungry.
He eased into traffic, waving a thank-you to the red-haired lady in the Mazda who let him in front of her. The day had not been a waste. He gunned the engine, ignoring the slip and slide of the tires on icy pavement. He was in control again.
CHAPTER 52
“This guy’s making a fuckin’ spectacle out of you,” Antonio Morrelli lectured Nick while looking quite comfortable behind Nick’s desk, twirling back and forth in the leather chair that was once his. It was the only piece of the elaborate furnishings Nick had kept when replacing his father as sheriff.
“You need to spend some time with those TV people,” his father continued, “reassure them you know what you’re doing. Last night Peter Jennings made you sound like some country hick who couldn’t find his own ass with a flashlight. Goddamn it, Nick, Peter fucking Jennings!”
Nick stared out the window, past the snow-covered streets and toward the dark horizon beyond the streetlights. A hint of an orange moon peeked from behind a veil of clouds.
“Did Mom come with you?” he asked from his window perch without looking at his father, ignoring his insults. It was the same old game they played. His father hurled insults and instructions, and Nick kept quiet and pretended to listen. Most of the time he followed the instructions. It was easier. It had come to be expected.
“She stayed with your aunt Minnie and the RV down in Houston,” his father answered, but his look told Nick he wouldn’t be sidetracked from the real subject. “You need to start hauling in suspects off the street. You know, the usual scumbags. Bring 'em in for questioning. Make it look like you’re on top of things.”
“I do have a couple of suspects,” Nick said suddenly, remembering that he did, indeed.
“Great, let’s haul them in. Judge Murphy could probably get a search warrant by morning. Who are your suspects?”
Nick wondered whether it had been that easy with Jeffreys: a late-night search warrant used only after the evidence had been carefully planted.
“Who are your suspects, son?” he repeated.
Perhaps he just wanted to shock his father. Common sense should have kept his mouth shut. Instead, he turned from the window and said, “One of them is Father Michael Keller.”
He watched his father stop rocking in the chair. The older man’s face registered surprise, then he shook his head and frustration creased the leather-like forehead.
“What the fuck are you trying to pull, Nick? A fucking priest—the media will crucify you. Is this your idea, or that pretty, little FBI agent the guys told me about?”
The guys. His guys. His department. Nick could imagine them laughing and making jokes about Maggie and him.
“Father Keller fits Agent O’Dell’s profile.”
“Nick, how many times do I have to tell you. You can’t go letting your Mr. Johnson make your decisions for you.”
“I’m not.” Nick’s face grew hot. He turned back toward the window, pretending to stare down at the streets, but his vision was blurred by his anger.
“O’Dell makes a good point. And I’m sure she makes a good omelet for breakfast after a night of fucking. Doesn’t mean you should listen to her.”
Nick rubbed a hand across his jaw and mouth to prevent the rage that formed its own words. He swallowed hard, waited, then turned to face his father again.
“This is my investigation, my decision, and I’m bringing in Father Keller for questioning.”
“Fine.” His father held up his hands in surrender. “Make a fucking asshole of yourself.” He got up and started for the door. “In the meantime, I’ll see if Gillick and Benjamin can round up some real suspects.”
He waited until his father was out the door and down the hall. Then Nick turned and slammed his fist into the wall. The rough texture ripped open his knuckles and pain shot up his arm. He tried to control his breathing, waiting for the rage to settle, for the frustration and humiliation to be overwhelmed by the pain. Then, without thinking, he wiped at the blood running down the wall using his white shirtsleeve. He already had to pay for a broken glass door; he couldn’t afford to have his office repainted, too.
CHAPTER 53
The house was dark when Christine pulled into the driveway. She loaded the warm pizza box on top of her laptop computer and realized she’d probably be eating the pizza herself if Timmy was still at one of his friends’ houses. He’d come home with storybook descriptions of something they called meatloaf and mashed potatoes—food that didn’t come from a can, a box or a carton. Surely he remembered the days when she had actually fixed real dinners and had them on the table at the same time every night. She wondered if he missed their life as a family. What had she cost him for the price of her own self-respect?
She fumbled through the dark foyer until she found the light switch. For some reason the quiet sent a chill down her spine. Perhaps it was only the wind. She kicked the front door closed and made her way to the kitchen, stopping by the answering machine. No blinking red light, no messages. How many times did she have to tell Timmy to call and leave a message? There was no excuse, especially now that she had a cellular phone, although even she hadn’t memorized that number yet.
She threw her coat over a kitchen chair and piled her computer and handbag onto its seat. The pizza’s aroma reminded her how hungry she was. After Eddie Gillick’s visit at Wanda’s, she had lost her appetite and left most of her lunch unfinished.
She poured herself a glass of wine, tucked a folded newspaper under her arm and scooped up a piece of pizza, using only a napkin as a plate. Hands filled, she kicked off her shoes and padded into the living room, finding refuge on the soft sofa. No food was allowed in the living room, especially on the sofa. She expected Timmy to come in at any moment and catch her in the act.
She set her dinner on
the glass coffee table and unfolded the newspaper. This evening’s paper carried the same headline from the morning: Second Body Found. Only underneath, she had now confirmed that the body was Matthew Tanner’s. Tonight’s article also included a quote from George Tillie. She found the paragraph and reread her handiwork, letting George confirm that the murders were the work of a serial killer, since Nick wouldn’t.
She had closed the article with a quote she had gotten from Michelle Tanner on Monday, a melodramatic plea for her son’s return. Christine followed the quote with, “A mother’s desperate plea has, once again, fallen on deaf ears.” Now, seeing it in print, it seemed a tad too much; however, Corby had loved it.
She flipped through the rest of the paper and scanned the readers’-comment column to see whether her name was mentioned. Suddenly, she remembered the time, frantically searched for the remote and turned on the TV, flipping to Channel Five.
As usual, Darcy McManus looked impeccable in a deep purple suit and crimson red blouse. Christine examined McManus’s silky black hair, large brown eyes, darkened even more by the eyeliner and smudge of highlight on the eyelids. The lipstick was bold, a red to match her blouse. Christine couldn’t imagine herself in McManus’s place. She’d need a whole new wardrobe, but then she’d be able to afford one with what Ramsey was offering to pay her.
She had to admit the idea of being on TV did excite her. The Omaha ABC affiliate claimed a viewership of almost a million people throughout eastern Nebraska. She’d be a celebrity and maybe even cover national events. Though she had told Ramsey she needed time to decide, she knew her mind was already made up. She couldn’t justify turning down the money. Not with bills stacking up and the remote possibility of losing their home. No, she had no room for principles. She would accept the position in the morning, but only after talking to Corby.
She finished her wine. Another piece of pizza sounded good, but suddenly she was too exhausted to move. She decided to lay her head down for just ten or fifteen minutes. She closed her eyes and thought of all the things she and Timmy would spend her new salary on. In minutes, she was fast asleep.
CHAPTER 54
“Why don’t you eat some of your Big Mac?” the man in the dead president’s mask was saying.
Timmy curled into the corner. The bedsprings squeaked each time he moved. His eyes darted around the small room lit only by a lantern on an old crate. The light created its own creepy shadows on the walls with spiderweb cracks. He was shaking, and he couldn’t control it, just like last winter when he got so sick his mom had had to take him to the emergency room. And he did feel sick to his stomach, but it wasn’t the same. He was shaking because he was scared, because he didn’t know where he was or how he had gotten here.
The tall man in the mask had been nice so far. When he had stopped Timmy by the church to ask for directions, he had been wearing a black ski mask, the kind robbers wore in the movies. But it was cold out, and the man seemed lost and confused but not scary. Even when the man had gotten out of his car to show Timmy a map, Timmy hadn’t felt scared. There was something familiar about him. That was when the man had grabbed him and shoved a white cloth against his face. Timmy couldn’t remember anything else, except waking up here.
The wind howled through the rotted boards that covered the windows, but the room was warm. Timmy noticed a kerosene heater in the corner, the kind his dad had used when they had gone camping. Only that was ages ago, when his dad still cared about him.
“You really should eat. I know you haven’t had anything since lunch.”
Timmy stared at the man, who looked more ridiculous than scary dressed in a sweater, jeans and bright white Nikes that looked new except that one shoestring was knotted together. A pair of huge, black, dripping rubber boots sat by the door on a paper sack. It struck Timmy as odd that such new Nikes could already have a broken and knotted shoestring. If he had new Nikes, he’d take better care of them than that.
There was something about the muffled voice that Timmy recognized, but he wasn’t sure what it was. He tried to think of the president’s name—the one the mask resembled. It was the guy with the big nose who had to resign. Why couldn’t he think of his name? They had just memorized the presidents last year.
He wished he could stop shivering, but it hurt to try to stop, so he let his teeth chatter.
“Are you cold? Is there anything else I can get you?” the man asked, and Timmy shook his head. “Tomorrow I’ll bring you some baseball cards and comic books.” The man got up, took the lantern from the crate and started to leave.
“Can I keep the lantern?” Timmy’s voice surprised him. It was clear and calm, despite his body shaking beyond his control.
The man looked back at him, and Timmy could see the eyes through the mask’s eyeholes. In the light of the lantern, they were sparkling as if the man were smiling.
“Sure, Timmy. I’ll leave the lantern.”
Timmy didn’t remember telling the man his name. Did he know him?
The man set the lantern back down on the crate, pulled on his thick rubber boots and left, locking the door with several clicks and clacks from the outside. Timmy waited, listening over the thumping of his heart. He counted out two minutes, and when he was sure the man wouldn’t return, he looked around the room again. The rotted slats over the window were his best bet.
He crawled off the bed and tripped over his sled on the floor. He started for the window when something caught his leg. He looked down to find a silver handcuff around his ankle with a thick metal chain padlocked to the bedpost. He yanked at the chain, but even the metal-framed bed wouldn’t budge. He dropped to his knees and tore at the handcuff, pulling and tugging until his fingers were red and his ankle sore. Suddenly, he stopped struggling.
He looked around the room again, and then he knew. This was where Danny and Matthew had been taken. He crawled into his plastic sled and curled up into a tight ball.
“Oh, God,” he prayed out loud, the tremble in his voice scaring him even more. “Please don’t let me get dead like Danny and Matthew.”
Then he tried to think of something, anything else, and he began naming the presidents out loud, starting with, “Washington, Adams, Jefferson…”
CHAPTER 55
After making several phone calls and getting no response, Nick decided to drive over to the rectory. He couldn’t go home. Eventually, that would be where his father would go. That was the one disadvantage of living in the family home—the family moved back whenever they wanted. And although the old farmhouse was certainly large enough, Nick didn’t want to see or talk to his father for the rest of the evening.
The rectory was actually a ranch-style house connected to the church by an enclosed brick walkway. The church’s stained glass hinted at just a flicker of candlelight, but the rectory was lit up inside and outside as if for a party. Yet, Nick waited a long time before anyone answered his knock.
Father Keller opened the door, dressed in a long black robe.
“Sheriff Morrelli, sorry for the delay. I was taking a shower,” he said without surprise, as if he had been expecting him.
“I did try calling first.”
“Really? I’ve been here all evening, except I’m afraid I can’t hear the phone from my bathroom. Come in.”
A freshly fed fire roared in the huge fireplace that was the room’s center of attraction. A colorful Oriental rug and several easy chairs sat in front. Books were piled up next to one of the chairs, and at a glance Nick noticed they were art books—Degas, Monet, Renaissance painting. He felt silly expecting them to be on religious and philosophical topics. After all, priests were people. Of course, they had other interests, hobbies, passions, addictions.
“Please sit down.” Father Keller pointed to one of the chairs.
Though he knew Father Keller only from the few times he’d attended Sunday mass, it was hard not to like the guy. Besides being tall, athletic and handsome, with boyish good looks, Father Keller possessed an ease, a cal
m that immediately made Nick feel comfortable. He glanced at the young priest’s hands. The long fingers were clean and smooth with fingernails well manicured—not a cuticle in sight. They certainly didn’t look like the hands of a man who strangled children. Maggie was way off base. There was no way this guy killed little boys. Nick should be questioning Ray Howard, instead.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Father Keller asked, sounding as if he genuinely wanted to please his guest.
“No, thanks. This won’t take long.” Nick unzipped his jacket and pulled out a notepad and pen. His hand ached. The knuckles bled through his homemade bandage. He tucked it up into the sleeve of his jacket to avoid attention.
“I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you, Sheriff. I think he simply had a heart attack.”
“Excuse me?”
“Father Francis. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“What about Father Francis?”
“Oh dear, God. I’m sorry. I thought that was why you were here. We think he had a heart attack and fell down the basement steps sometime this morning.”
“Is he okay?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead, God rest his soul.” Father Keller picked at a thread on his robe and avoided Nick’s eyes.
“Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I’m sure it’s a shock. It certainly was for all of us. You served mass for Father Francis, didn’t you? At the old St. Margaret’s?”
“Seems like ages ago.” Nick stared into the fire, remembering how fragile the old priest had looked when he and Maggie questioned him.