“Timmy, are you okay?” Father Keller asked, and suddenly his cold eyes warmed with concern. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”
The panic settled, sliding back down Timmy’s throat and resting like a lump in his stomach. He never left Father Keller’s eyes, mesmerized by the drastic change in them. Or had he imagined it all?
“Timmy,” Father Keller said softly. “Do you think your mom and dad will get back together? Do you think you can be a real family again?”
Timmy swallowed hard, making sure the icky taste and feeling were gone for good. His stomach still ached. Maybe it was eating the candy bar on an empty stomach.
“I hope so,” he answered. “I miss my dad. We used to go camping sometimes. Just the two of us. He’d let me bait my own hook. We’d talk and stuff. It was pretty cool. Except my dad’s an awful cook.”
Father Keller smiled at him now as he zipped up the duffel bag without ever taking anything out.
“Here you two are,” Grandpa Morrelli said, swinging open the door to the morgue and startling both Timmy and Father Keller. “Nurse Richards thought she saw the elevator go down here. What are you two up to?”
His grandpa smiled at them while bracing the door open and staying in the doorway. His hands were filled with bags, all with the yellow Subway logo. Timmy could smell pastrami, vinegar and onion despite the overwhelming smell of cleaning solution in the room.
“Father Keller was just picking up Father Francis for their trip.” Timmy checked the priest’s face and was pleased to see the smile still there. Then to his grandpa, he said, “Doesn’t this look like something from The X-Files?”
CHAPTER 101
Nick slowed his pace when he noticed the tight, pale look on Maggie’s face. Of course, she was hurting and, of course, she wouldn’t complain.
The Friday crowds had descended upon Eppley Airport. Business men and women hurried to get home. Fall vacationers and those getting away for the weekend moved more slowly, dragging too many pieces of home to really get away.
Mrs. O’Malley, St. Margaret’s cook, had told Nick that Father Keller’s flight left at two forty-five, and that he was escorting Father Francis’ body to its final resting place. When Nick had asked to speak with Ray Howard, she said Ray was gone, too.
“I haven’t seen that one since breakfast,” she had told Nick. “He’s always sneaking off somewhere, saying it’s for Father Keller, but I never know when to believe him.” Then she added in a whisper, “He’s sneaky.”
Nick had tried to ignore her extra comments. He had been in a hurry and not interested in the seventy-two year old’s paranoia. Instead, he had tried to keep her focused and on the facts.
“Where is Father Francis being buried?”
“A place somewhere in Venezuela.”
“Venezuela! Jesus.” Mrs. O’Malley must have never heard the “Jesus,” or Nick was certain she would have lectured him on using the Lord’s name in vain.
“Father Francis absolutely loved it there,” she had offered, glad to be the expert, to have and hold Nick’s attention. “It was his first assignment out of seminary. A small, poor farming parish. I don’t remember the name. Yes, Father Francis always talked about all those beautiful, brown-skinned children, and how some day he hoped to return. Too bad it couldn’t have been under different circumstances.”
“Do you remember what city it was close to?” Nick had interrupted.
“No, I can’t say that I remember. All those places down there are so hard to remember, hard to pronounce. Father Keller will be back next week. Can’t this wait until then?”
“No, I’m afraid it can’t. What about the flight number or airline?”
“Oh my, I don’t know if he said. Maybe TWA…no, United, I think. It leaves at two forty-five out of Eppley,” she added, as if that should be all that was necessary.
Now Nick glanced at his watch. It was almost two-thirty. He and Maggie split up at the ticket counters, flashing credentials and badges to shove their way through the lines and hurry the desk clerks.
The tall woman at the TWA counter refused to be rushed by a county sheriff’s badge. Nick wished he had Maggie’s FBI influence. Instead, he used his smile and a little flattery. The woman’s rigid expression slowly softened, though it was hard to see the change. Her hair was pulled back so tightly into a neat little bun that it made all her features look severe, stretched and pinned down. Perhaps that was also what made her lips so thin, barely moving when she talked.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff Morrelli. I cannot disclose our passenger list or information about any of our passengers. Please, you’re holding up the line.”
“Okay, okay. How about flights? Do you have a flight to anywhere in Venezuela, say in…” He glanced at his watch again. “In ten to fifteen minutes?”
She checked her computer screen, taking time despite the heavy sighs and shuffling coming from the line behind him.
“We have a flight to Miami that connects with an international flight to Caracas.”
“Great! What gate?”
“Gate 11, but that flight left at two-fifteen.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. The weather is excellent. All our flights are running on schedule.” She looked around him at a short, gray-haired man, anxious to hand off his ticket.
“Can you check to see if a coffin was on that flight?” Nick asked, refusing to budge despite an elbow in his back.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A coffin, as in a dead body.” He could feel the eyes around him, now staring, now interested. “It would be considered cargo. I’m sure I wouldn’t be infringing on its rights.” He tried another smile. From behind him, someone giggled.
The ticket clerk wasn’t pleased. The thin lips drew even tighter. “I still cannot divulge that information. Now, if you’ll step aside.”
“You know I can get a court order and be back later this afternoon.” No more Mr. Nice Guy. He was quickly losing his patience and time was slipping away.
“Perhaps that would be a good idea. Next, who was next, please?” she said, stepping aside when Nick wouldn’t, so she could help the elderly man behind him in line. The man shoved his way to the counter, shooting Nick a look filled with anger and impatience.
Nick moved over to stand near where Maggie talked to another ticket agent.
“Thanks, anyway,” she told the desk clerk at the United counter, then followed him to a corner out of the traffic.
She looked drained, even more pale, if that was possible. He wanted to ask if she was okay, but had already gotten three or four “I’m fine’s” on the drive to the airport.
“TWA has a flight to Miami that connects to one that goes on to Caracas,” Nick told her, watching her face.
“Let’s go. What gate?” But she didn’t move, leaning against the wall as if to catch her breath.
“It left about twenty minutes ago.”
“We missed it? Was Keller on board?”
“The desk clerk wouldn’t tell me. We may need a court order to find out. What do we do now? Is it worth going down there, trying to catch him before the connecting flight leaves? If he gets to South America we may never find him. Maggie?”
Was she even listening? It wasn’t the pain that distracted her. Her eyes were focused over his shoulder.
“Maggie?” He tried again.
“I think I just found Ray Howard.”
CHAPTER 102
Maggie recognized the confusion in Nick’s face. She felt a bit of her own stuck somewhere down between her throat and chest. Confusion bordered on frustration, or perhaps frustration bordered on panic.
“Maybe he simply brought Father Keller to the airport,” Nick said in a low, quiet voice, though Howard was clear across the ticket lobby, far from overhearing.
“I usually don’t take along luggage when I drop people off at the airport,” Maggie said.
The large gray and black duffel bag looked heavy, making Howard’s limp more prono
unced. He wore his usual uniform of well-pressed brown trousers, white shirt and tie. A navy blazer replaced the cardigan.
“Tell me again why he isn’t a suspect?” Nick asked without taking his eyes off Howard.
Suddenly, Maggie couldn’t remember any of her reasons. Finally, she said, “The limp. Remember the boys may have been carried into the woods. And Timmy was sure the guy didn’t limp.”
They watched Howard stop to examine the flight-schedule board, then head for the escalators.
“I don’t know, Maggie. That duffel bag sure looks heavy.”
“Yes, it does,” she said, and hurried toward the escalators with Nick alongside.
Howard hesitated at the down escalator, waiting to get his footing right before stepping on.
“Mr. Howard,” Maggie called out.
Howard looked over his shoulder, grabbed the railing and did a double take. This time a flash of panic appeared in his lizard eyes. He jumped onto the escalator and ran down the moving steps, clearing a path with the duffel bag, striking and pushing people out of the way.
“I’ll take the stairs.” Nick raced for the emergency exit.
Maggie followed Howard, ripping her revolver from its holster and holding it nose up.
“FBI!” she yelled, clearing her own path.
Howard’s speed surprised her. He weaved through the crowd, zigzagging around luggage gurneys and leaping over an abandoned pet carrier. He shoved travelers aside, knocking down a small, blue-haired lady and smashing through a group of Japanese tourists. He kept looking back at Maggie, his mouth open to breathe, his forehead glistening with sweat.
She was closing in on him, though her own breathing disappointed her. The ragged gasps sounded as if they were coming from a ventilator, surely not her own chest. She ignored the flame in her side, burning her flesh once again.
Howard stopped suddenly, grabbed a luggage cart from a stunned flight attendant and shoved it at Maggie. The suitcases snapped free. One burst open, spewing cosmetics, shoes, clothes and assorted unmentionables across the floor. Maggie skidded on a pair of lace panties, lost her balance and fell into the mess, smashing a bottle of liquid makeup with her knee.
Howard headed for the parking garage, smiling over his shoulder. He was almost to the door, hugging the duffel bag, his gait finally staggered by the limp. He pushed open the door just as Nick grabbed his jacket collar and swung him around. Howard fell to his knees and covered his head with his arms as if expecting a blow. Nick’s hands, however, never left Howard’s collar.
Maggie struggled to her feet while the flight attendant scrambled for her belongings. Nick’s eyes were filled with concern for Maggie, even as his hands clutched Howard’s collar, rendering him immobile.
“I’m fine,” Maggie said before he asked. But when she replaced her revolver, she felt the sticky wetness through her blouse. Her fingertips were smeared with blood when she brought her hand out from inside her jacket.
“Jesus, Maggie.” Nick noticed immediately. Howard did, too, and he smiled. “What are you doing here, Ray?” Nick responded, tightening his grip and turning Howard’s smile into a grimace.
“I brought Father Keller. He had a flight to catch. Why were you chasing me? I didn’t do nothing wrong.”
“Then why did you run?”
“Eddie told me to watch out for you two.”
“Eddie did?”
“What’s in the duffel bag?” Maggie interrupted the two of them.
“I don’t know. Father Keller said he wouldn’t be needing it anymore. He asked me to take it back for him.”
“You mind if we take a peek?” She pried it out of his hands. His resisting arrest justified a search. The bag was heavy. She swung it up onto a nearby chair, stopped, then leaned against a pay phone until the faintness passed.
“You sure it’s not your bag?” she said, grabbing the familiar brown cardigan and several well-pressed white shirts. Howard’s face registered surprise.
A stack of art books accounted for the bag’s weight. Maggie put them aside, more interested in the small, carved box tucked between several pairs of boxer shorts. The carved words on the lid were Latin, but she had no idea what they said. The contents didn’t surprise her: a white linen cloth, a small crucifix, two candles and a small container of oil. She glanced up at Nick and watched his eyes examine the contents, his confusion replaced with frustration. Then Maggie reached underneath the pile of newspaper clippings to the bottom of the box. She pulled out a small pair of boy’s underpants tightly wrapped around a shiny fillet knife.
CHAPTER 103
Sunday, November 2
Maggie punched another code into the computer and waited. Her laptop’s modem was excruciatingly slow. She took another bite of her blueberry muffin, homemade, special delivery from—where else?—Wanda’s. The computer screen still read “initializing modem.” She sat down and looked around the hotel room, her foot tapping nervously, impatiently, but not making the computer work any faster.
Her bags were packed. She had showered and dressed hours ago, but her flight didn’t leave until noon. She rubbed her stiff neck and still couldn’t believe she had slept the entire night in the straight-backed chair. Even more surprised that she had slept through the night without visions of Albert Stucky dancing in her head.
Bored, she grabbed the huge Sunday edition of the Omaha Journal. The headlines only added to her frustration. However, she was glad to see Christine’s byline back on the front page. Even from her hospital bed, Christine continued to crank out articles. At least she and Timmy were safe and sound.
Maggie scanned the article once again. Christine’s writing now stuck to the facts, letting quotes from the experts draw the sensational conclusions. She found her own quote and read it for the third time.
Special Agent Maggie O’Dell, an FBI profiler assigned to the case, said it was “unlikely Gillick and Howard were partners. Serial killers,” Agent O’Dell insisted, “are loners.” However, the district attorney’s office has filed murder charges against both former sheriff’s deputy Eddie Gillick, and a church janitor, Raymond Howard, for the deaths of Aaron Harper, Eric Paltrow, Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner. A separate charge has been entered for the kidnapping of Timmy Hamilton.
There was a tap at the door. Maggie tossed the paper aside and checked the computer screen again. “Redialing first number” flashed across the screen along with the low hum and a succession of beeps. It was Sunday morning. Why was it taking so long to make the connection?
On the way to the door, she checked her watch. He was early. They didn’t need to leave for the airport for another thirty to forty minutes.
As soon as she opened the door, the uninvited flutter arrived. Nick stood smiling at her, the dimples in full force. Strands of hair fell across his forehead. His blue eyes sparkled at her as if there was a special secret his eyes shared with hers. He wore a red T-shirt and blue jeans, both tight enough to outline his athletic body, teasing her eyes and making her fingers ache to touch him. Why did he have this effect on her? she wondered as they exchanged hellos, and he came into the room. She caught herself checking out his backside, shook her head and silently chastised herself.
“It must be warm out,” she heard herself say. Yes, resort to the weather. That seemed safe, considering the electrical current he had just brought into the room.
“It’s hard to believe we had snow a few days ago. Nebraska weather.” He shrugged. “Here, this is for you.” He handed her a gift-wrapped box that had escaped her notice. “Sort of a thank-you, slash, good-bye present.”
Her first inclination was to decline, to say it was inappropriate and leave it at that. But she took it and slowly unwrapped it, acutely aware of him watching her. She pulled out the red football jersey with a white number seventeen emblazoned on the back. She couldn’t help but smile.
“It’s perfect.”
“I don’t expect it to replace the Packers,” he said with just a trace of embarrassment in h
is voice. “But I thought you should have a Nebraska Cornhuskers, too.”
“Thanks. I love it.”
“Seventeen was my number,” he added.
Suddenly, the simple cotton jersey took on a greater significance. Her eyes met his, and without meaning it to, her smile disappeared as she combated the annoying flutter. However, he was the first to look away, and she saw a flicker of discomfort. It was times like this that he surprised her most, when the arrogant, self-assured bachelor showed just a hint of the irresistible, shy, sensitive man.
“Oh, and this is from Timmy.”
She took the videotape, and as soon as she saw the cover, her smile returned. “The X-Files.”
“He said that it has one of his favorite episodes—the one with the killer cockroaches, of course.”
With no more gifts to keep his hands preoccupied, he shoved them into his pockets.
“I’ll be sure to watch and…and I’ll let Timmy know what I think,” she said, surprised but pleased by the unfamiliar commitment to stay in touch.
They stood there staring at each other. Maggie didn’t want to move, couldn’t move. They had spent the last week together, almost around the clock, sharing pizza and brandy, exchanging opinions and views, wrestling madmen and holy men, dousing fears and expectations and grieving for small boys, neither of whom they knew. She had allowed Nick Morrelli access to vulnerabilities she had shared with no one else, not even herself. Perhaps that was why she suddenly felt as if a major chunk of herself would be left behind. And, of all places, in a small Nebraska town she had never even heard of before. What had happened to the cool, aloof FBI agent who maintained her professionalism at whatever the cost?