The coffee was ready. She got up, leaving the afghan draped over the back of the chair and the box of cereal on the table.
“Mom, what does dead feel like?”
She spilled coffee all over the counter and snatched a towel to stop the puddle from running over the edge.
“Sorry,” he said, realizing it had been his question that had caused her clumsiness. Adults got so bent out of shape about stuff.
“I really don’t know, Timmy. That’s probably a good question for Father Keller.”
CHAPTER 42
The breakfast Maggie had ordered from Wanda’s sat untouched on the small table. It had come bundled in an insulated pack, served on stoneware and encased in stainless-steel covers. Steam had risen from the plate when the desk clerk had proudly unveiled it as though he had prepared it himself.
She was becoming a regular of Wanda’s cuisine without ever stepping foot in the diner. And although the golden eggs, butter-slathered toast and glistening sausage links smelled and looked delicious, she had lost her appetite. She had left it somewhere on the bathroom floor while she fought to gain control over her panic. The only thing she touched was the frothy cappuccino. One sip, and she thanked Wanda for having the good sense to invest in a cappuccino maker.
Her laptop occupied the other side of the table, close to the wall where a recently installed phone jack allowed the hotel to advertise itself to business travelers. She paced while her computer slowly connected her to Quantico’s general database. She wasn’t able to access any classified information. The FBI remained skeptical about the confidentiality of modems, and rightly so. They were constantly a target for hackers.
She had already put in several calls to Dr. Avery. The old-fashioned desktop phone confined her to the bed, so she couldn’t do her usual pacing. She stretched out on the hard mattress. After her shower, she had put on jeans and her Packers jersey. The exhaustion was overwhelming. It had taken every last bit of her strength to pull herself together, and that frightened her. How could one simple note provoke such terror? She had received notes from killers before. They were harmless. It was only a part of the sick game. It came with the territory. If she were going to dig into a killer’s psyche, she had to be prepared for the killer to dig back.
Albert Stucky’s notes had not been harmless. God, she needed to get past Stucky. He was behind bars and would be there until they executed him. She was safe. At least this note hadn’t been accompanied by a severed finger or nipple. Besides, the note was now carefully packaged and on its way Express Mail to a lab at Quantico. Maybe the idiot had sent her his own arrest warrant by leaving his fingerprints or his saliva on the envelope’s seal.
By this evening, she would be on a plane home, and this bastard wouldn’t be able to play his sick, little game. She had done her job, more than what was asked. So why did it feel as if she was running away? Because that’s exactly what she was doing. She needed to leave Platte City, Nebraska, before this killer unraveled any more of her already frazzled psyche. She could feel the vulnerable fray already, starting when she had cowered on the cold bathroom floor.
Yes, she needed to leave, and she needed to do it quickly—today—while she still felt in control. She would tie up a few loose ends and then get the hell out. Get out while she was still in one piece. Get out before she started coming apart at the seams.
She decided to make a quick phone call while she waited for her computer to connect on the other line. She found the number in the thin directory and dialed. After several rings, a deep male voice answered, “St. Margaret’s rectory.”
“Father Francis, please.”
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
She couldn’t tell whether or not the voice belonged to Howard.
“This is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell. Is this Mr. Howard?”
There was a brief pause. Instead of answering her question, he said, “One moment, please.”
It took several moments. She turned to see the computer screen. Finally, the connection was completed. Quantico’s royal-blue logo blinked across the screen.
“Maggie O’Dell, what a pleasure to talk with you again.” Father Francis’ high-pitched voice was almost singsong.
“Father Francis, I wonder if I might ask you a few more questions.”
“Why, certainly.” There was a faint click-click.
“Father Francis?”
“I’m still here.”
And so was someone else. She’d ask the questions, anyway. Make the intruder sweat.
“What can you tell me about the church’s summer camp?”
“Summer camp? That’s really Father Keller’s project. You might speak to him about it.”
“Yes, of course. I will. Did he start the project, or was it something St. Margaret’s has been doing for years?”
“Father Keller started it when he first came. I believe that was the summer of 1990. It was an instant success. Of course, he had a track record. He had been running one at his previous parish.”
“Really? Where was that?”
“Up in Maine. Let’s see, I usually have a very good memory. Wood something. Wood River. Yes, Wood River, Maine. We were quite lucky to get him.”
“Yes, I’m sure you were. I look forward to talking to him. Thanks for your help, Father.”
“Agent O’Dell,” he stopped her. “Is that all you needed to ask me?”
“Yes, but you’ve been very helpful.”
“Actually, I was wondering if you found the answers to your other questions. Your inquiries about Ronald Jeffreys?”
She hesitated. She didn’t want to sound abrupt, but she didn’t want to discuss what she knew with someone listening. “Yes, I think we did find the answers. Thanks again for your help.”
“Agent O’Dell.” He sounded concerned, the lilt no longer present in his voice. If she wasn’t mistaken, he suddenly sounded distressed. “I may have some additional information, though I’m not certain of its importance.”
“Father Francis, I can’t talk right now. I’m expecting an important phone call,” she interrupted before he revealed anything more. “Could I meet you perhaps later?”
“Yes, that would be nice. I have morning confessions and then rounds at the hospital this afternoon, so I won’t be free until after four o’clock.”
“As a matter of fact, I’ll be at the hospital this afternoon. Why don’t I meet you in the cafeteria about four-fifteen?”
“I look forward to it. Goodbye, Maggie O’Dell.”
She waited for him to hang up, then heard the second set of clicks. There was no mistake. Someone had been listening.
CHAPTER 43
Nick stormed into the sheriff’s department, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled. Everyone came to a halt in mid-sentence and midstride. They stared at him as though he had gone mad. He felt as if perhaps he had.
“Listen up, everybody!” He yelled over the ringing in his ear. He waited for those sauntering in from the conference room with their mugs of coffee and glazed doughnuts. “If we have another breach of confidence from this department, I personally will kick the ass of whoever is responsible and see to it that that person never works in law enforcement ever again.”
His jaw hurt like hell, especially when he clenched his teeth. The tip of his tongue found a sharp edge where a tooth had chipped. The corner of his mouth bled again, and he wiped at it with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Lloyd, I want you to get some men together and check every abandoned shack within a ten-mile radius of Old Church Road. He’s keeping these boys somewhere. Maybe it’s not here in town. Hal, find out everything you can about a Ray Howard. He’s a janitor at the church. Not just where he’s from and details about his unpleasant childhood. I want to know this guy’s shoe size and whether or not he collects baseball cards. Eddie, get over to Sophie Krichek’s.”
“Nick, you can’t be serious. The lady’s loony.”
“I’m dead serious.”
Edd
ie shrugged, and there was a smirk under the pencil-thin mustache that Nick wanted to knock off.
“Do it this morning, Eddie, and treat it like your job depends on getting the details right.”
He waited for any other grumbling, then continued, “Adam, call George Tillie and tell him Agent O’Dell will be assisting him this afternoon with Matthew’s autopsy. Then call Agent Weston and get the evidence his forensic team found. I want photos and reports on my desk by one this afternoon.
“Lucy, find out anything you can about a summer church camp that St. Margaret’s sponsors. Get together with Max and see if you can connect Aaron Harper and Eric Paltrow to that camp.”
“What about Bobby Wilson?” She looked up from her notes.
He paused while he watched their faces, wondering whether he’d be able to pick out the Judas—that is if he was still a part of the department. Six years ago, someone had gone to the trouble of making it look as though Ronald Jeffreys had killed all three boys. Someone had taken Eric Paltrow’s underpants from the morgue and planted them in Jeffreys’ trunk with other incriminating evidence connecting Jeffreys to all three murders. It could easily have been someone in the sheriff’s department, someone who was still here. And if he was, why not make the bastard sweat?
“If I read any of this in tomorrow’s paper, I swear I’ll fire the whole lot of you. Ronald Jeffreys may have only murdered Bobby Wilson. There’s a good chance that the guy who killed Danny and Matthew also killed Eric and Aaron.” He watched their faces as it sank in, especially the group that had worked with his father and had celebrated the capture of Jeffreys.
“What are you saying, Nick?” Lloyd Benjamin had been one of them, and now his wrinkled forehead looked angry. “You saying we messed up the first time?”
“No, Lloyd, you didn’t mess up. You caught Jeffreys. You caught a murderer. But it looks like Jeffreys may not have murdered all three boys.”
“Is that what you think, Nick, or is it Agent O’Dell maybe influencing your way of thinking?” Eddie said, again with the smirk.
Nick felt the anger rising and knew he had to contain it. Now was not the time to defend his relationship with Maggie. He wasn’t even sure he could without getting tangled in his own personal feelings. And he certainly didn’t want to share any details about Jeffreys, especially since he was beginning to question the loyalty of his own department.
“I’m saying there’s a good chance. Whether it’s true or not, let’s make sure this bastard doesn’t get away with it, maybe for a second time.” He shoved past Eddie, knocking against his shoulder and dismissing the group. Lloyd caught up with him down the hall at his office door.
“Nick, wait up.” Lloyd’s short, stubby legs jogged to keep up with Nick. He was breathing hard and loosened his tie. “I didn’t mean anything back there. I’m sure Eddie didn’t, either. This thing is just taking a toll on all of us. Just like before.”
“Don’t worry about it, Lloyd.”
“About checking old shacks. Nick, there’s not much out there that we didn’t check the first time. There’s an old barn about ready to fall down on Woodson’s property. Other than a deserted lean-to or grain bin, there isn’t anything else. Except for the old church, but it’s boarded up tighter than a virgin on Sunday.”
Nick frowned at the reference.
“Sorry,” Benjamin apologized though he didn’t look sorry. “You’re getting awfully touchy, Nick. O’Dell isn’t even here.”
“Check the church again, Lloyd. Look for broken windows, footprints, any sign of entry in the last several days.”
“Hell, we’re not gonna find any footprints with this snow coming down.”
“Just check, Lloyd.”
Nick retreated to his office, already exhausted, and the morning had just begun. Within seconds there was a knock on the door. He slumped into his chair and yelled to come in.
Lucy peeked around the door, assessing his mood. He waved her in. She carried an ice pack and cup of coffee.
“What in the world happened to you, Nick?”
“Don’t even ask.”
She put aside her initial hesitation and came around the desk. She leaned against the corner and her skirt hiked up over her thighs. She saw him notice and made no effort to pull it down. Instead, she reached for his chin, cupping it in her hand and laying the ice pack against his swollen jaw. He jerked away, using the pain as an excuse to wheel out of her reach.
“Oh, poor Nick. I know it hurts,” she said, making baby talk sound sensual.
This morning she wore a rose-colored sweater pulled so tight across her breasts the knitted loops hinted at a black bra underneath. She scooted across the desk toward him, and he jumped out of his chair.
“Look, I don’t have time for ice packs. I’ll be fine. Thanks for thinking of it.”
She looked disappointed. “I’ll leave it in your little refrigerator, in case you want it later.”
She crossed the room to the small cube on the floor. She bent at the waist, purposely giving him a view of what he was missing, and put the ice pack in the small freezer space. She glanced back at him as if checking to see if he had changed his mind, smiled, then swayed out the door.
“Jesus,” he muttered, plopping down into the chair again. What kind of a department had he created? Michelle Tanner’s raging ex-husband was right. No wonder he was no closer to finding the killer.
CHAPTER 44
Father Francis gathered the newspaper clippings and slid them into his leather portfolio. He stopped, held up his hands and stared at the brown spots, the bulging blue veins and the trembling that had become commonplace.
It had only been three months since Ronald Jeffreys’ execution. Three months since he had listened to the confession of the real killer. He could no longer keep silent. He could no longer preserve the sanctity of a killer’s confession. Maybe it wouldn’t make a difference, but he had convinced himself that it was the right thing to do.
He shuffled down the hall to the church. His footsteps were the only sound echoing off the majestic walls. No one waited for confession. It would be a quiet morning. Still, he entered the small confessional.
Despite his having seen no one in the church, the door in the black cubicle next to him opened within minutes. Father Francis sat up and laid his elbow on the shelf, allowing himself to lean closer to the wire-mesh window between the two small rooms.
“Bless me, Father, for I have killed again.”
Oh, dear God. The panic came crashing against the old priest’s chest. It was difficult to breathe. Suddenly, the small, wooden box had only hot and stale air. The throbbing began in his ears. Father Francis strained to see beyond the thick wire mesh that separated them. All he could see, though, was a huddled black shadow.
“I killed Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner. For these sins, I am truly sorry and ask forgiveness.”
The voice was disguised, barely audible, as if forced through a mask. Was there anything, anything at all, that he could recognize?
“What is my penance?” the voice wanted to know.
Could he speak if he could not breathe?
“How can…” It was difficult. His chest ached. “How can I absolve you of your sins…heinous, horrible sins…if you only intend to do them again?”
“No, y-you don’t understand. I only bring them peace,” the voice sputtered. He obviously hadn’t come prepared for a confrontation, Father Francis realized with some degree of satisfaction. He had come only for absolution and to do his penance.
“I cannot absolve you of your sins if you intend to only go out and do it again.” Father Francis’ strong, unflinching voice surprised him.
“You must…you have to.”
“I absolved you once before, and you’ve made a mockery of the sacrament by committing the sin again, not once but twice.”
“I am truly sorry for my sins and ask forgiveness from God,” he tried again, mechanically saying the phrase like a child memorizing it for the first tim
e.
“You must prove your remorse,” Father Francis said, suddenly feeling powerful. Perhaps he could influence this black shadow, make him face his demons, stop him once and for all. “You must show your repentance.”
“Yes. Yes, I will. Just tell me what my penance is.”
“Go prove your repentance and come back in a month.”
There was a pause.
“You aren’t absolving me?”
“If you can prove your worthiness by not killing, I will consider absolving you then.”
“You will not give me absolution?”
“Come back in a month.”
There was silence, but the shadow made no motion to leave. Father Francis leaned closer to the wire mesh, again straining to see into the pitch-black cube. There was a soft smack, then a hiss as a spray of saliva flew through the wire mesh, hitting him in the face.
“I’ll see you in hell, Father.” The low guttural tone sent shivers down Father Francis’ spine. He clung to the small shelf, gripping the Bible. And though the sticky saliva dripped down his chin, he couldn’t move even to wipe at it. When he heard the door open and the shadow exit, his paralyzed body made no attempt to follow or look out after him.
He sat for what seemed like hours. Thankfully, no one else came in. Perhaps the snow had kept other sinners home, he thought absently. Which meant no one had seen the shadowy figure enter or exit the confessional.
Finally, his heart resumed its normal beating. He could breathe again. He fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped his face with hands trembling more violently than usual. He held on to the walls of the small confessional as he eased himself out of the hard chair and onto wobbly knees. He gathered his leather portfolio and Bible and peered out. The church was empty and silent. Outside, he heard the laughter of children, probably crossing the parking lot to go sledding on Cutty’s Hill. At least they traveled in groups.
He shuffled to the front of the church, hanging on to the backs of pews as he made his way down the aisle. The panic and terror had exhausted him, drained him of energy. He would share this morning’s visit with Maggie O’Dell. The decision to do so made him feel stronger. Already the guilt lifted from his soul. Yes, it was the right thing to do. He started down the hallway from the church to the rectory, and even his feet seemed lighter. The ache in his chest eased to a mere annoyance.