This was different. There was no uniformed officer right outside the door ready to come running to her rescue. R. J. Tully wouldn’t be racing in to protect her either. Not this time. She’d never make it to the door let alone the hallway or the elevator without Campion overpowering her. Her only available weapon was talk. She needed to control him with her voice and her words. She glanced around the room one more time in search of anything else. No, there wasn’t anything else. At least not until she settled him down. Maybe then she had a chance of catching him off guard.
James Campion’s rage came in bursts then quieted almost as quickly. He stood between Gwen and the doorway, quiet now but glaring at her with a new distrust that she was attempting to dismantle. She had to convince him she was on his side, that she wasn’t the enemy.
“I’m on your side, James. Father Paul Conley abused you in a way no boy should experience. He deserved to be punished,” she said, stopping herself from adding that ripping his head off and placing it on his own altar may have been a bit much. She needed to win his trust. He needed to believe she understood. “He won’t be able to hurt any more boys ever again.”
“That’s right,” he said, nodding. “Playing the game and pretending to kill him wasn’t enough. It didn’t stop him.”
“But, James, what about the others?”
“The others? The other priests?”
“No, the young women. There were four of them, weren’t there? Tell me about them. Why did you hurt them?”
“Oh, you mean the whores.”
“Excuse me?”
“I met them over the Internet. We talked, got to know each other. You told me that I needed to try to have normal relationships with women. Remember? You told me.” He was getting anxious again.
“Yes, that’s right. I did tell you that.” And she had.
It had been a major concern to him that he couldn’t have an ordinary relationship with a woman. She remembered their conversations. She knew his abuse had left him with an immature attitude about sex. He always seemed anxious and concerned about it but never angry. He had talked about it all so calmly. How he wanted to take it slow and get to know and trust a woman before it turned to sex. It was the sex that seemed to worry him, to almost frighten him. Of course it did. It all made sense to her now even before he started to explain.
“We would talk on the Internet. It was comfortable, enjoyable.” Campion’s eyes were somewhere else as if remembering. This was good. Get his mind on something else so she would be able to catch him off guard.
“You could get to know each other,” Gwen encouraged him, “without the pressure of going out on a date.”
“That’s right. It was nice,” he said, almost like a teenage boy. “We would talk about computer games and movies and stuff in the news. But then they would want to meet me.” His forehead creased with worry and his jaw became so taut she could see he was clenching his teeth. “That would have been okay, too, except that they always wanted to…go somewhere. To be alone with me. And by alone they always meant…you know,” and he looked to her for help.
“They wanted to be more intimate with you?”
“They wanted sex,” he hissed at her and his whole face seemed to turn a shade darker.
What was wrong with her? She was making him angry again, when she needed to keep him calm. She needed to make him believe she was on his side. That she agreed with him. He needed to consider her an ally. And yet there was one question that could not go unanswered.
“What about Dena?”
“Who?” He looked at her as though she had awakened him.
“Dena Wayne. My assistant?” Could she still pretend to be on his side if he called Dena a whore?
“I thought she’d be different. She was actually nice to me. I liked her a lot. We went out and had fun. We talked. But then, no matter how much I thought I wanted it…I kept seeing his face. Every goddamn time. I couldn’t do it without seeing him and smelling him and feeling him. I wanted to rip off his head. I wanted to take my bare hands and rip his fucking head off. And I did. Each time I killed one of them I was really killing him. But then I realized…” His eyes met hers. They could go from angry and mad to calm and pathetic so quickly. “I left you her earring ahead of time. I thought you’d stop me.”
“I…I didn’t recognize it,” Gwen said and her insides felt as if liquid ice had just been injected into her. He had meant for it to be a call to stop him and she hadn’t even recognized the earring as Dena’s.
Campion didn’t seem to hear her and continued, “The notes and even a map—I sent you all of it. I thought you’d help me. But you didn’t. You couldn’t help me.”
She had backed up against her desk and her hands reached behind her, feeling, searching for anything to use as a weapon since it was becoming obvious that her words, that her voice was not enough. But she had just slid anything and everything into her leather briefcase moments before he arrived. It sat on the chair next to the desk.
“I can help you, James,” she lied, not having a clue what to even offer. “We can go over everything.” She reached for her briefcase as if there was something in it that could help.
“No, goddamn it!”
His voice slammed her back against her desk again as if he had struck her with his fist, and Gwen pulled the briefcase to her chest like a shield, wrapping her arms around it tightly. It was closed, damn it. The locks snapped shut, making it impossible for her to just slip a hand inside.
“No, you can’t,” he said. “But I can.” He pulled out a small revolver from his pocket. He held it out and pointed it directly at her.
Her heart hammered at her rib cage. Almost instantly, her breathing came in labored gasps. And her palms were slick with sweat.
“James, where did you get a gun?” It hadn’t been more than a whisper and still it had been an effort. It was too late to worry about showing fear. But how could he have a gun? None of his victims had been shot. Racine had said strangled. But then how would they know for sure? All the torsos were missing. “James, put the gun down.” If she said please would it matter? If she screamed would anyone hear her?
“This feels good,” Campion said, waving it around. “This…this can help. I bought it a few days ago. I wanted to use this with Father Paul, but I couldn’t figure out a way to get it on the plane.” He was smiling now. And calm. Way too calm. His hand didn’t shake in the least as he held it stretched out in front of him. “It feels so good. Better than any of our sessions. Makes me feel strong. Yes, I wanted to see the fear in his eyes. But I got something better. I got to hear his last breath. His very last breath as I strangled the life out of that bastard.”
Then he stopped and looked as if he was listening for something. Gwen listened, too, hoping it had been the elevator. Maybe it was someone in the hall. She couldn’t hear a thing over the pounding of her heart in her ears.
He tilted his head, still listening, and then he smiled again. “The banging. It’s gone.”
Of course it was gone she wanted to tell him. It was inside her now.
“You shouldn’t have made me dredge up all those memories, Dr. Patterson,” he said, shaking his head.
She couldn’t believe it. He was really going to do this. She couldn’t swallow and it hurt to breathe. Her knees threatened to go out from under her. If she fell would he shoot her where she lay? Even his eyes—though they stayed on hers—they had gone somewhere far away. Should she make a run for it? What did she have to lose? Getting shot in the back or between the eyes, what did it matter?
“You didn’t fix it,” Campion said and Gwen couldn’t help thinking how much he sounded like an executioner, her executioner. “I gave you all those chances and you couldn’t help.”
“James, you don’t want to do this,” she said, but, again, he didn’t seem to hear her.
“I forgive you,” he told her and then he pulled the trigger.
The pain seemed to blossom, spreading throughout her body. She didn’
t even remember falling, but from the floor she saw James Campion put the gun in his mouth and fire one more shot. That was the last thing Gwen Patterson saw before everything went black.
CHAPTER 85
M’s Pub
Omaha, Nebraska
Maggie 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
Nick 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 a parent 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
Maggie 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 archdio
cese 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.