A Necessary Evil
Alex Kava

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

CHAPTER 73

CHAPTER 74

CHAPTER 75

CHAPTER 76

CHAPTER 77

CHAPTER 78

CHAPTER 79

CHAPTER 80

CHAPTER 81

CHAPTER 82

CHAPTER 83

CHAPTER 84

CHAPTER 85

CHAPTER 86

CHAPTER 87

CHAPTER 88

CHAPTER 89

CHAPTER 90

CHAPTER 91

CHAPTER 92

CHAPTER 93

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again, many thanks to all the professionals who generously gave of their time and expertise. If I’ve gotten any of the facts wrong or have creatively manipulated a fact or two, it’s my doing and not theirs. Also special thanks to my family and friends who continue to support me despite my long absences.

My appreciation and special thanks go to:

Deborah Groh Carlin for your love and support, but also for your constant help in researching, brainstorming and making sense of the puzzle pieces along the way, not to mention putting up with my annoying “writer quirks.” You are a true friend and partner in crime.

Amy Moore-Benson, my agent and friend, for being my advocate and being there time after time no matter how small the question or how difficult the problem.

Feroze Mohammed, my editor, for challenging me to make this my best book yet.

Patricia Kava, my good Catholic mother, who allows me to tackle tough subjects in my novels, all the while lighting candles for me.

Emilie Carlin for your love and support, but also for sharing your own wonderful stories and making them such a delight to listen to.

Leigh Ann Retelsdorf, Deputy County Attorney and friend, for being my go-to person whenever I have a “killer of a question.”

Detective Sergeant Bill Jadlowski of the Omaha Police Department for inspiring the creation of Detective Tommy Pakula.

Christopher Kava, my nephew, for helping me understand teenage boys and their computer obsessions…er, I mean computer skills.

Mary Means for taking such good care of my kids while I’m on the road.

Sharon Car. Fellow writer and friend, for being there no matter how much time transpires between our lunch dates.

Marlene Haney and Sandy Rockwood for your unconditional love, support and friendship.

Patti El-Kachouti for always being there.

Patti Bremmer, fellow writer, and her husband, Martin, for your friendship and inspiration.

Patricia Sierra and her mother, Kay, for cheering up and cheering on, and always at just the right times.

Father Dave Korth for exemplifying the very best of your profession and being a constant reminder of good.

A special thank-you to my new friends and neighbors in the Florida Panhandle for showing me what true strength and perseverance looks like while we picked up the pieces after Hurricane Ivan and then did it all over again after Hurricane Dennis.

And last, but certainly not least, thank you to all the librarians, bookstore owners and managers, book buyers and sellers around the country and around the world for recommending my books.

This book is dedicated to all you faithful readers who insisted on the return of Father Keller.

From San Mateo, California, to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, from McCook, Nebraska, to Milan, Italy—it didn’t matter where I went or which of my five books I was promoting, readers always asked the same question. “When are you going to take care of Father Keller?”

I must confess that five years ago when I wrote A Perfect Evil, I never dreamed it would make such an impact on so many of you. And so this book, A Necessary Evil is dedicated to all of you who have patiently waited for this long-overdue sequel.

Please consider this book my thank-you for an invaluable lesson that as writers and storytellers we do have the ability to breathe life into characters—characters who otherwise live only in our imaginations. And with that ability comes, perhaps, a certain responsibility to allow those characters to continue to breathe, to speak, to grow and even to be brought to justice.

“It is necessary only for the good

to do nothing for evil to triumph.”

—Edmund Burke

CHAPTER 1

Friday, July 2

Eppley Airport

Omaha, Nebraska

Monsignor William O’Sullivan was certain no one had recognized him. So why was his forehead damp? He hadn’t gone through the security checkpoint yet. Instead, he had decided to wait until it got closer to his flight time. Just in case someone did recognize him. On this side, he could still pretend to be picking up a colleague rather than admit he was leaving.

He fidgeted in the plastic chair, clutching the leather portfolio closer to his chest. So close, so tight it seemed to crush his lungs, causing that pain again, a pain he may have dismissed too quickly as heartburn. But of course, it was only heartburn. He simply wasn’t used to eating such a large meal for lunch, but he knew the flight to New York and the later one to Rome would include cardboard renditions of food, causing much more damage to his overly sensitive stomach than Sophia’s leftover meat loaf and mashed potatoes did.

Yes, surely the leftovers were responsible for his discomfort, he told himself, and yet his eyes darted around the busy airport terminal, looking for a bathroom. He remained seated, not wanting to move until he examined and found an acceptable path. He shoved a thumb and index finger up under his wire-rim glasses to dig the fatigue out of his eyes, and then he began his search again.

He’d avoid the shortest route, not wanting to pass the exotic black woman handing out “reading material”—as she called it—to anyone too polite to say no. She wore colorful beads in her hair, what looked like her Sunday best dress with splashes of purple that made her hips even larger, but sensible shoes. Her smooth, deep voice almost made it a song when she asked, “Can I offer you some reading material?” And to everyone—including those who huffed their responses and rushed by—she greeted them with yet another melodic, polite stanza, “You have a most pleasant day.”

Monsignor O’Sullivan knew what her reading material was without seeing it. He supposed she was a sort of present-day missionary, in her own right. If he passed her, would she sense their connection? Both of them ministers, distributors of God’s word. One in sensible shoes, another with a portfolio stuffed with secrets.

Better to avoid her.

He checked the Krispy Kreme counter. A long line of zombies waited patiently for their afternoon dose of energy, like drug addicts getting one more shot before their flight. To his right he watched the bookstore entrance, quickly glancing away when a young man in a baseball cap looked in his direction. Had the youth recognized him, despite his street clothes? His stomach churned while his eyes studied his shoes. His cotton-knit polo—a gift from his sister—was now sticking to his wet back. Over the loudspeakers came the repetitive message, warning travelers not to leave their luggage unattended. He clutched the portfolio, only now discovering that his palms were also slick with sweat. How in the world had he believed he could just leave without being noticed? That he could just get on a plane and be free, be absolved of all his indiscretions.

But when Monsignor O’Sullivan dared to look again, the young man was gone. Passengers rushed by without a glance. Even the black woman greeting and passing out her reading material seemed totally unaware of his presence.

Paranoid. He was just being paranoid. Thirty-seven years of dedication to the church and what did he get for it? Accusations and finger-pointing when he deserved accolades of respect and gratitude. When he tried to explain his predicament to his sister, the anger had overwhelmed him, and all he had managed to tell her in their brief conversation was to have the title of the family’s estate changed to her name only. “I won’t let those bastards take our home.”

He wished he were there now. It was nothing extravagant—a two-story split-timber on three acres in the middle of Connecticut, with walking trails surrounded by trees and mountains and sky. It was the only place he felt closest to God, and the irony made him smile. The irony that beautiful cathedrals and huge congregations had led him further and further away from God.

A squawk coming from near the escalator startled him back to reality. It sounded like a tropical bird, but was instead a toddler in full temper tantrum, his mother pulling him along, unfazed, as if she couldn’t hear the screech. It grated on Monsignor O’Sullivan’s nerves, scratching them raw and resetting the tension so tight in his jaw that he feared he’d start grinding his teeth. It was enough to get him to his feet. He no longer cared about accessible paths, and he made his way to the restroom.

Thankfully, it was empty, yet he glanced under every stall to make certain. He set the portfolio at his feet, leaning it against his left leg, as if needing to maintain some contact. He removed his glasses and placed them on the corner of the sink. Then, avoiding his own blurred reflection, he waved his hands under the faucet, his frustration fueled by the lack of response. He swiped his hands back and forth, finally eliciting a short burst of water, barely wetting his fingertips. He swiped again. Another short burst. This time he closed his eyes and splashed as much as he could on his face, the cool dampness beginning to calm his nausea, beginning to quiet the sudden throbbing in his temples.

His hands groped for the paper-towel dispenser, ripping off more than he needed and gently dabbing, disgusted by the smell and harsh feel of the recycled paper. He hadn’t even heard the bathroom door open. When he glanced in the mirror, Monsignor O’Sullivan was startled to see a blurred figure standing behind him.

“I’m almost finished,” he said, thinking he might be in the way, though there were other sinks. Why did he need to use this one? He noticed a faint metallic odor. Perhaps it was a member of the cleaning crew. An impatient one at that. He reached for his glasses, accidentally knocking them to the floor. Before he could bend down to retrieve them, an arm came around his waist. All he saw was a glint of silver. Then he felt the burn, the streak of pain, shooting up through his chest.

At the same time there was a whisper in his right ear—soft and gentle. “You’re already finished, Monsignor O’Sullivan.”

CHAPTER 2

Washington, D.C.

There was no easy way to pick up a human head.

At least that’s what Special Agent Maggie O’Dell had decided. She watched the scene below and sympathized with the young crime lab technician. Maggie wondered if that was exactly what he was thinking as he squatted in the mud, looking at it from yet another angle. Even Detective Julia Racine remained quiet, standing over him, but unable to offer any of her regular advice. It was the quietest Maggie had ever seen the detective.

Stan Wenhoff, chief medical examiner for the District, yelled down an instruction or two, but stayed beside Maggie on top of the embankment, not making any attempt to find a way down. Actually Maggie was surprised to see Stan on a Friday afternoon, especially at the beginning of a holiday weekend. Normally he would have sent one of his deputies, except that he wouldn’t want to miss out on making headlines. And this case would certainly start making headlines now.

Maggie looked beyond the riverbank, out at the water and the city on the other side. Despite the usual terror alerts, the District was preparing for the weekend festivities, expecting sunny skies and cooler-than-average temperatures. Not that she had any big plans beyond lounging in the backyard with Harvey. She’d throw a couple of steaks on the grill, read the latest Jeffery Deaver.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear though the breeze immediately tugged another one free. Yes, it was an absolutely beautiful summer day, except for the decapitated head someone had discarded on the muddy riverbank. What level of evil did it take to slice another person’s head completely off and leave it like a piece of trash? Her friend, Gwen Patterson, accused her of having an obsession with evil. Maggie didn’t look at it so much as an obsession as an age-old quest. She had decided long ago that it was part of her job to root out evil and destroy it.

“Finish going through the surrounding surface,” Stan called down. “Then just scoop it up into a bag.”

Maggie glanced at Stan. Scoop it up? Easy for him to say from up here where his polished shoes were safe and the waft of death hadn’t yet arrived. But even from above, Maggie could see it was a daunting task. The riverbank was littered with cans and discarded take-out containers and wrappers. She knew the area—this stretch under the overpass—well enough to know there were also cigarette butts, condoms and a needle or two. The killer had taken a risk, discarding the head in such a well-trafficked area.

Ordinarily Maggie would find herself assessing that risk as the killer’s apparent disorganization. Taking risks could amount to simple panic. But since this was the third head to show up in the District in three weeks, Maggie knew this had little to do with panic and everything to do with the killer’s twisted strategy.

“You mind if I come down and take a closer look?” Maggie called down.

Racine shrugged. “Help yourself,” she said, but she came to the bottom of the embankment and offered her arm for leverage. Maggie waved her off.

She searched instead for anything—branches, rocks, roots—to hang on to. There was nothing but river mud and tall grass. She didn’t have much choice but to slip and slide. Like a skier without poles, she tried to keep her balance, managing to stay on her feet, skidding past Racine, but stopping within inches of ending up in the Potomac.

Racine shook her head, a slight smirk on her lips, but thankfully didn’t say anything. Maggie didn’t need to be reminded that perhaps she went a bit overboard when it came to Racine, not wanting to accept any favors, or worse, feel she needed to repay a debt. She and Racine had had enough challenges and obstacles in the last several years. And more importantly, they were even. That’s where Maggie wanted to leave it.

Maggie tried to clean her shoes of the clumps of mud, rubbing them against the tall grass, not wanting to bring any more foreign particles to the scene. Her leather flats would be ruined. She was careless about shoes, often forgetting her slip-on boots. Gwen constantly warned her that her treatment of shoes bordered on irreverence. It reminded Maggie of Stan’s shiny, polished ones, and she glanced back up the embankment, noticing that he had backed away from the edge. Was he worried she may have started a mud slide, or did he want to make sure no one expected him to follow her path? Either way, she knew he wouldn’t be coming down.

Julia Racine caught Maggie looking up.

“Heaven forbid he gets his shoes dirty,” Racine said under her breath as if reading Maggie’s thoughts. But her eyes and attention quickly returned to the decapitated head as she added, “It’s got to be the same killer. But we may have gotten lucky this time.”

Maggie had only recently seen pieces of the case files on the other two heads. This was her first invitation to the crime scene, now that Racine and Chief Henderson suspected they might have a serial killer on their hands.

“Why lucky?” Maggie finally asked when it became obvious that’s what Racine was waiting for. Some things never changed, like Racine demanding everyone’s attention before she announced her brilliant theories.

“Getting that tip allowed us to get here before the critters finished their snack. The other two were down to the bone. We still haven’t been able to identify them.”

Maggie swiped her shoes against the grass one last time and came closer. Then the smell hit her like a blast of hot air. The mixture of scents that accompanied death was difficult for Maggie to describe, always the same and yet always different, depending on the surroundings. There was the faint metallic smell of blood, but this time overpowered by that of rotting flesh and the muck of river mud. She hesitated, but only for a second or two, focusing instead on the grisly scene less than three feet in front of her.

From above on the embankment she had thought there was a tangle of algae and muddy grass holding the head in place. Now she could see it was actually the victim’s long hair, twisted and wrapped around the back of the head, allowing the face to stare up at the clear blue sky. A little closer still, and Maggie could see that stare was not the correct word. The eyelids seemed to flutter as dozens of milky-white maggots pushed and shoved their way into the eye sockets. Even the victim’s lips appeared to be moving as if allowing one last whisper, but it was rather the slow-moving masses of maggots. They were pouring from the woman’s nostrils too, unrelenting, determined and focused on their task of devouring their prize from the inside out.

Maggie waved at the lingering blowflies and squatted opposite the crime lab tech to get an almost eye-level view. Beyond the buzzing flies, this close she could hear the squishing sound as the maggots pushed and shoved at each other to squeeze inside the various orifices. There was a sort of sucking sound, too.

God, she hated maggots.

During her early days as an FBI newbie when she had no fear and much to prove, at the request—or rather the dare—of a medical examiner, she had put her hand into a corpse’s maggot-filled mouth to retrieve the victim’s driver’s license. It had been the killer’s trademark and not an unusual one, allowing his victims their identities even though he stuffed them down their throats. Ever since then it was still difficult for her, whenever she saw maggots up close and personal, to not feel that sticky trail of slime they had left all over her hands and up her arms as they quickly grasped at self-preservation and began sucking at her own flesh.

But now, sitting back on muddy heels, she knew what Racine meant about getting lucky this time. Despite all the movement, Maggie could see clumps of yellow-white eggs stuffed in the victim’s ears and at the corners of her lips and eyes. Not all of the maggots had hatched yet and those that had were in their first stage, which meant the head couldn’t have been here more than a day or two.

In the July heat, Maggie knew the process moved quickly. As disgusted by them as she was, she had learned to also have a healthy respect. She knew adult blowflies could sense blood from up to three miles away. They would have arrived in a matter of hours of death. As disgusting as flies on a corpse look, the flies eat very little. They’re more interested in laying their eggs in the dark, moist areas of the corpse, reducing what was once a warm, living, breathing human being to a warm, moist host.

The eggs hatch within a day or two and immediately the baby maggots start to devour everything down to the bone. While working a case in Connecticut, Professor Adam Bonzado had told her that three flies could lay enough eggs and produce enough maggots to devour a body as quickly as a full-grown lion. Amazing, Maggie thought, how efficient and organized the creatures of nature were.

Yes, Racine was right. This time they had lucked out. There would be enough tissue left for DNA samples. But more importantly, there might be telltale signs embedded or bruised or hidden in the flesh, the last remains of this poor woman to tell them what had happened to her in her final hours.

Unfortunately, though, for the crime scene tech, his greatest challenge would be to contain the head and maggots. It’d be so much easier to brush them off, rinse, spray, fumigate the head and be rid of the pesky things, but cleaning away the maggots could mean washing away evidence.

Maggie looked around for footprints, tracks of any kind.

“How do you think she got here?” she asked, remembering to personalize the victim instead of falling into Stan’s habit of using “it,” something that could simply be “scooped up.” But she knew it wasn’t irreverence as much as it was a coping mechanism.

The crime scene tech followed Stan’s lead. “It wasn’t tossed—not from the overpass, not from the ledge of the embankment. I can’t see any impact marks or skids in the mud. It looks like he simply placed it here.”

“So, the killer brought her down here himself?” She glanced back at the steep embankment, but saw only her own skid marks.

“From what I can tell.” The tech stood, stretched his legs and looked grateful for the distraction. “There are some footprints. I’ll make a plaster cast.”

“Oh, yeah, the footprints,” Racine said. “You’ve got to see this.” She stepped carefully, pointing out the remnants of the impressions in the mud.

Maggie stood up and looked to where Racine pointed, except it was almost fifteen feet from the victim’s head.

“How can you be sure they’re the killer’s?”

“We haven’t found any others,” the tech replied, shrugging. “It rained pretty hard two nights ago. He had to have been out here after that.”

“The prints come out of nowhere,” Racine said. “And get this—they seem to lead right into the river.”

“Maybe a boat?” Maggie suggested.

“Out here? And not be noticed? I don’t think so.”

“You said you had a tip?” Maggie examined the oversize prints. The tread marks were pronounced, but there was no recognizable logo.

“Yup,” Racine said, crossing her arms as if finally feeling more in control. “An anonymous call. A woman actually. Called 911. I have no idea how the hell she found out. Maybe the killer told her. Maybe he got tired of us being so slow in finding the other two.”

“Or maybe he wanted us to know the identity of this one,” Maggie said.

Racine nodded, instead of coming up with a competing theory.

“So what do you suppose he does with the rest of the body?” the tech asked both women.

“I don’t know.” Racine shrugged and began to walk away. “Maybe our anonymous woman caller can tell us. They should have her number tracked down by the time we get back.”

CHAPTER 3

Washington, D.C.

Dr. Gwen Patterson tried to see the crime scene from her office window, only she was on the wrong side of the Potomac. Even with binoculars the overpass blocked most of her view. But she could make out Maggie’s red Toyota parked up on the road next to the mobile crime lab van.

There was an annoying tremor in her fingers as she ran them through her hair. Was it excitement? Nerves? It didn’t matter. She knew the stress was starting to take its toll. And why wouldn’t it? Three weeks, three victims. And yet today she had expected to feel a sense of relief. She expected the tension to begin to leave. Except there was no relief. Instead, the knot between her shoulder blades only seemed to tighten. Maybe it was silly to think that just because Maggie was on the case she would feel she had gained some sort of control over the situation. How did she ever let it get this far?

She was meeting Maggie later for dinner at their favorite hideaway—Old Ebbitt’s Grill. She’d order the pecancrusted chicken. Maggie would have steak. Maybe they would share a bottle of wine, depending on Maggie’s mood. And her mood would depend on what she had seen down by the river, under the overpass. But it didn’t matter. She could count on Maggie sharing with her what evidence had been left behind. Maggie would be her eyes and ears. Gwen would ask questions, play devil’s advocate like she usually did. And hopefully Maggie wouldn’t recognize that Gwen already knew some of the answers. She could make this work. What other choice did she have?

It was ironic that something like this would happen, now that she had purposely distanced herself from patients and assignments that included criminal behavior. Gwen left the window and glanced at the walls of her office. The sunlight reflected off the glass of her framed credentials, creating prisms of color. A whole wall full of certificates and degrees—and what good were they in a situation like this? Gwen rubbed at her eyes—the lack of sleep was catching up with her, too, but she smiled. Yes, it was also ironic that the older and wiser and perhaps even the more deserving she became, the less those framed credentials mattered.

She was at the top of her game, or at least that’s what her colleagues kept telling her as they referenced her articles and books in their own studies and research. All of those hard-earned credentials had gained her entrance to Quantico, the White House and even the Pentagon. She had contacts with United States senators, members of congress, ambassadors and diplomats, many of them patients. Several even had her number on their speed dial. Not bad for a little girl from the Bronx. And yet, here she was, all those contacts and credentials worthless.

The notes had all been brief, the instructions simple, but the threat had been ambiguous, that is, until today. If there had been any doubt before, she knew now that he wouldn’t hesitate to follow through on his threat. But finally she would have Maggie. Yes, Maggie could go where Gwen could not. Maggie would describe the crime scene, create a profile and help her figure out who the bastard was. They had done it before, together, plenty of cases where they took the evidence, examined the victims’ similarities, considered all of the circumstances and then followed a trail that led them to the killer. She would simply be Maggie’s guide, just like the old days when Maggie had first come to Quantico as a forensic fellow.

God, that seemed like a lifetime ago. What had it been? Ten years? Eleven?

Back then Gwen had been Assistant Director Cunningham’s number-one independent consultant. She had taken Maggie under her wing, acting as the seasoned mentor, gently pushing her and coaxing her. Despite their age gap, the two of them had become friends, best friends. And yet because of the fifteen years that separated them, Gwen oftentimes found herself in a variety of roles with her best friend—sometimes mentor, sometimes psychologist, sometimes mother. Though the latter still surprised her. She had always believed she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, except when it came to Maggie. Maybe that’s why this didn’t seem so strange. Perhaps that’s exactly why she thought she could pull this off without Maggie knowing, without anyone knowing. Why couldn’t Maggie be her surrogate, going places she herself couldn’t go, following this killer and yes, even capturing him? All Gwen had to do was lead her to him. She’d beat him at his own game. Could it be that simple? Could it actually work? It had to work.

Gwen packed her briefcase, stuffing papers and folders inside without really looking or choosing. Another sign that the fatigue was taking hold. Even her ordinarily pristine desktop looked as if a wind had blown through the office, disheveling the stacks of paper.

She grabbed the cell phone that had been left for her that morning in a plain manila envelope and dropped through the office complex’s mail slot. She carefully wiped it down and while still holding it with a paper towel, she placed it in a brown paper sack. On her way home she’d find a Dumpster to toss it into, just as the note had instructed her to do.

CHAPTER 4

Omaha, Nebraska

Gibson McCutty found the back door unlocked, just as he had left it. He stumbled into the kitchen, bumping into the vegetable bin and cursing under his breath when he heard something thump to the floor. He hesitated, listening. It was difficult to hear over his gasps for air.

Why couldn’t he breathe?

He had raced all the way from the airport, standing and pedaling, pumping and pushing his Ironman Huffy through red-lighted intersections, ignoring honks and slowing only to climb up the final incline. So of course he was gasping for breath. He just needed to stop for a minute. He leaned against the refrigerator, waiting to catch his breath. He was surprised to feel an immediate sense of comfort from the appliance’s familiar noisy hum. He was home. He was safe. At least for now.

He could feel the stupid refrigerator magnets digging into his shoulder blades—annoying little garden creatures his mom used to tack up his brother’s “artwork.” Like she was even a gardener. No way would she allow dirt under her fingernails. The thought made him smile, and he forced himself to remember each of the magnets, hoping the tactic would block out the image of all that blood. He closed his eyes—bunny, squirrel, raccoon, hedgehog. Was a hedgehog a garden creature? Had anyone really seen a hedgehog?

It wasn’t working.

The details had been scorched into his mind—that face all twisted in pain. Blood coming out of his mouth. And those eyes, staring without blinking. Had he recognized Gibson? Had he been able to see him? Of course not. He was dead. Wasn’t he?

Gibson shook his head and pushed away from the refrigerator. He stumbled into the living room and stepped over the laundry basket left at the bottom of the staircase. Then he took the steps slowly, counting them out in his mind, stopping when he reached number eight. Using the handrail, he pulled himself up, bypassing the creaky ninth step. Once he made it past his mother’s door he was home free. Sometimes she watched the five o’clock news in her room while she changed from work. He couldn’t risk her hearing him. How would he explain where he had been? And she would certainly ask, especially when she saw he was one smelly, wet glob. Even his hair was plastered to his sweaty head under his baseball cap.

As he got closer, he didn’t hear anything coming from behind her door. Maybe she wasn’t home yet. And then he remembered. Of course she wasn’t home yet. It was Friday. No work tomorrow, plus tonight was his little brother’s sleep-over. He remembered her telling him that she might treat herself and join the other ladies from the office for drinks after work. Was that tonight? Yeah, it was Friday night. He was sure of it. What a stroke of luck. Maybe things weren’t as bad as he thought.

Still, he hurried to his own room and closed the door behind him, careful to muffle the noise. He tossed his backpack on the bed, then he pressed his entire body against the door as if the extra pressure was necessary to turn the lock. He held his breath and listened again, not trusting his good fortune on a day where none had existed. He heard nothing. He was home alone. He was safe. And yet, he was shaking, not just shivering, but shaking like some convulsing idiot.

He wrapped his arms around his chest, but jerked them away when he felt the wet front of his T-shirt. He really was a sweaty mess. He had almost wiped out on his bike several times as he jumped curbs and sped through blind intersections. Now he pulled off his ball cap and threw it on his bed, then wrestled out of the T-shirt, getting tangled in it and almost ripping it at the seams just to be free of the smell of sweat and diesel and vomit. The stink reminded him that he had upchucked his fast-food meal, leaving it somewhere just past the exit ramp from the airport parking garage.

Finally, he allowed himself to turn on the small desk lamp. Immediately, he noticed the blood caked under his fingernails. He tried to dig it out, wiping it on the T-shirt. Then he opened his closet door, wadded up the T-shirt and stuffed it into an empty Best Buy plastic bag he found on the closet floor. He slung the T-shirt and bag hard into the back of the closet, away from everything else. He knew his mom would never find it. After she discovered the moldy, half-eaten bologna sandwich tucked in his sock drawer, she had threatened that she wouldn’t be responsible for any of his things except those in the laundry chute. He supposed she thought it was a way to make him more responsible for taking care of his own things, but he wondered if it was just another way for her to avoid seeing or knowing any negative stuff going on with him.

He kicked his running shoes off without untying them, leaving them in the middle of the floor. That’s when he saw the icon flashing on his computer screen. He stared at it, approaching slowly. There wasn’t a game scheduled, and any messages usually came through the chat room.

He lowered himself into his desk chair, continuing to stare at the skull-and-bones icon that blinked at him from the corner of the computer screen. Any other time he’d be anxious and excited and ready to play. Instead, he felt his stomach churning again. His finger hesitated, then he double clicked the icon. The screen jumped to life immediately, the words filling the space in bold type.

YOU BROKE THE RULES.

Gibson gripped the chair arms. What the hell was this? Before he could figure it out, the screen came alive with a new message.

I SAW WHAT YOU DID.

CHAPTER 5

Old Ebbitt’s Grill

Washington, D.C.

Maggie waved off the busy hostess. She made her way through the crowded restaurant, trying to ignore the heavenly aromas of grilled beef and something garlic. She was starving.

She found Gwen waiting in their usual corner booth. A large goblet of what Maggie guessed was Gwen’s favorite Shiraz sat untouched in front of her.

“Did you not want to start without me?” Maggie asked, pointing to the glass as she slid into the opposite side of the booth.

“Sorry, just the opposite. This is my second glass.”

Maggie checked her watch. She was ten minutes late, if that. Before she could respond, Marco appeared alongside their table. “Good evening, Ms. O’Dell. May I interest you in a cocktail before dinner?”

Maggie marveled at his ability to make them feel as though they were his only concern in the crowded, noisy restaurant. Despite the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, she thought he still had that youthful, tanned sleek look of an experienced and well-paid cabana boy. One who took pride in knowing his clientele. He sure knew Gwen and Maggie well enough that when they reserved a table he made sure it was this corner booth.

So it was without hesitation or confusion that when Maggie told him she’d have her “usual,” he said, “Of course. I’ll have your Diet Pepsi with a twist of lemon right out.” Just like that. No further questions. No lectures, or worse, sympathetic glances. She liked that.

Marco handed her a menu, “May I suggest some fresh escargots for an appetizer?”

“No,” Maggie said too quickly. “None for me,” she added, hoping she hadn’t already telegraphed her disgust at the very idea. After an afternoon filled with maggots, she wasn’t sure she could stomach a plateful of snails.

“None for me, either,” Gwen agreed.

“But perhaps we could start with an order of stuffed mushroom caps?” Maggie suggested. The scent of garlic had already primed her mouth for the delicious appetizer.

“Excellent choice,” Marco said, rewarding her with a smile. “I’ll have those out to you right away.”

When Maggie glanced at her, Gwen was smiling, sipping her wine.

“What?” Maggie asked. “I’m starving, but I’ll share.”

“I wish you could have seen your face when he recommended the escargots. So it must have been one of those afternoons, I take it?”

“Maggots. Way too many maggots,” she said as she pushed strands of hair off her forehead, surprised to find them still damp. She had gone back home for a quick shower, hoping also to wash away the memory and the feel of the wormy critters even though she hadn’t touched a single one this time. Then she added, “The District PD finally called us in on the decapitated Jane Doe cases.”

“Does that mean they believe both were killed by the same killer?”

“It looks like the same M.O. Plus—” Maggie stopped while Marco placed a goblet of Diet Pepsi with a wedge of lemon in front of her.

“I’ll be back with your appetizer. Is there anything else I can get either of you at this moment?”

“No thanks,” Gwen told him. Then to Maggie, she said, “Go on,” before Marco was gone.

Maggie, however, waited until he was out of earshot. She couldn’t believe Gwen. Usually she wasn’t so abrupt and never was she indiscreet. In fact, lately she seemed to be only humoring Maggie by listening, at times appearing bored and tired of the grisly details. Why was she so anxious? Almost overly anxious. Maggie leaned forward, wrapping her hands around the goblet and keeping her voice hushed. “A third head was found today.”

“Jesus,” Gwen said and Maggie watched her sit back as if the comment had shoved her against the booth’s cushion.

“Oh, and Racine’s first detective on this one,” Maggie said, shaking her head as she took a sip. “I think she’s already in over her head.” Then she gulped half her glass. When she had raced back home to shower and change, Harvey convinced her they had time for a quick run. Only now did she realize how thirsty she was.

“Are you sure you’re being fair?” Gwen asked. “After all, you’re not Racine’s biggest fan.”

It wasn’t the first time Gwen had reminded her that she wasn’t exactly objective when it came to Detective Julia Racine. Maggie thought about it while she chewed some ice, a recent nervous habit that kept her from replacing her empty Pepsi goblet with a Scotch. Whether she liked it not, Gwen was right. She had started out years ago with very little respect for Julia Racine. The detective had advanced her career by taking advantage of too many shortcuts given to her just because she’s a woman, while Maggie had always fought to be treated like any of her male FBI colleagues. The result was that sometimes Racine got careless, oftentimes even reckless. It didn’t help matters that she had made a pass at Maggie several years ago while they worked their first case together. Throw into the mix the fact that Racine had saved Maggie’s mother from committing suicide. But Maggie had repaid that favor by rescuing Racine’s father from a serial killer. Theirs was, indeed, a complex relationship. Okay, so maybe Maggie wasn’t quite objective when it came to Julia Racine, let alone her job performance.

“She’s dragging her feet on identifying the other two victims,” she said anyway.

“Is that her responsibility or the M.E.’s? Maybe it’s him who’s dragging his feet? Sounds like you need to give Racine a break.”

Maggie shrugged. She wasn’t sure why Gwen wanted her to play nice with Racine all of a sudden. How could Gwen defend a woman she’d never met? “She doesn’t play by the rules,” Maggie offered as a weak defense and realized her mistake as soon as she saw Gwen’s smile.

“And you do?”

“Sometimes I bend the rules. Weren’t you the one who told me about a dozen years ago that there are no rules in battling evil?”

“There are always rules,” Gwen said, serious again. “Good is held to them, evil is not. Sort of an unfair advantage right from the start.”

Marco chose that moment to deliver the plate of steaming, garlic-scented mushroom caps and small serving plates. “Ladies, enjoy. I’ll return in a few minutes.”

Both of them stared at the appetizer even though Maggie had been starving.

“So what about Stan?” Gwen said and scooped up several of the mushroom caps onto Maggie’s plate. She served herself a couple as well, but kept her plate to the side. “Why is he dragging his feet?”

“From what I understand there was little tissue left.” Maggie glanced around the restaurant. The tall wooden booths allowed much privacy, but this was also a regular hangout for high-level politicos. Which meant plenty of eavesdroppers, too. Satisfied that no one was trying to listen to their conversation, Maggie continued, “There were no dental records to match, either. Stan says he wasn’t able to do an autopsy, but he also hasn’t sent them to a forensic anthropologist.”

“And you’re thinking you’ve got just the forensic anthropologist he could send it to.” There was another knowing smile, and Maggie tried to suppress a blush.

“That’s not exactly what I was thinking.” She knew Gwen was referring to Adam Bonzado, a professor in West Haven, Connecticut, with whom Maggie had worked the previous year. A professor of forensic anthropology who had made it quite clear he was interested in more than Maggie’s bones.

“Seriously, though,” Gwen continued, letting her off without what Maggie had come to expect was Gwen’s regular lecture about her nonexistent love life. “What are the chances of using an outside expert like Professor Bonzado? Would Stan be offended?”

“Actually, I would hope he’d welcome it,” she said, slicing off a bite of mushroom. “I’ve already mentioned the idea to Racine that the other two victims should be handed off to an expert. It’s up to her to bring it up with Stan. As soon as I got to the site today, he reminded me that technically this wasn’t even his case.” Maggie gulped the remainder of her Diet Pepsi and started looking for Marco.

“What did he mean, it wasn’t his case?”

“Traditionally when a body’s been dismembered, or in this case decapitated, whoever has the heart has jurisdiction.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Gwen said with enough force to make Maggie stop searching for a waiter and get her attention. Evidently she realized her mistake. Gwen sat back and in a much calmer, more controlled voice she said, “It’s silly, isn’t it? I don’t remember such an archaic rule. I mean, what if the rest of the body is never found?”

“First, Racine needs to check the computer again and see if any torsos have shown up. The killer could be traveling to dump them somewhere else.” Maggie watched her friend out of the corner of her eye as she opened the menu and pretended to be interested. What was it that seemed to have Gwen on edge? In the dim gaslight of the restaurant Maggie tried to study Gwen, only now noticing that her strawberry-blond hair was tousled, her usually manicured fingernails looked neglected, and there were dark lines under her eyes.

“That would mean he has a job that includes travel or it allows some flexibility in his schedule.” Gwen’s tone was back to normal, but Maggie noticed her fingers nervously curling the tips of her cocktail napkin.

“Quite possibly. But whatever the killer’s doing with the torsos, Stan won’t be able to just shrug off his responsibility. Right now jurisdiction is the last thing we need to worry about.”

Gwen sipped her wine, and this time Maggie thought she could see a slight tremor in her hand. She wondered if Gwen was simply tired, perhaps stressed about a particular patient. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Maggie was looking for something that wasn’t there. She’d ask anyway. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.”

Gwen’s answer came too quickly, and she must have noticed the concern on Maggie’s face.

“I’m fine,” Gwen said, sounding a bit defensive, but then catching herself and adding, “Just a bit tired.”

She smiled at Maggie as she pretended to be interested in her menu, closing the subject as she strategically hid her eyes. Maggie couldn’t help wondering if Gwen was afraid she might reveal something more than exhaustion.

She followed Gwen’s lead and reopened her own menu, but kept it slanted so she could watch her friend. What in the world was it that was Gwen wasn’t telling her?

CHAPTER 6

Eppley Airport

Omaha, Nebraska

Detective Tommy Pakula hated messes. He didn’t really mind the blood. After almost twenty years as a cop there wasn’t much he hadn’t seen. He could handle splattered brain matter or sawed-off body parts. None of that bothered him. What he absolutely hated was a contaminated crime scene.

He ran his hand over his shaved head, the bristles becoming a bit pronounced at the end of what had already been a long day. He had been home only long enough to change his shirt and socks, the latter at his wife, Clare’s, insistence. They’d been married for as long as he’d been a cop, and his stinky feet still bothered her. The thought made him smile. There were a lot worse things she could complain about. He should be grateful. Things like calls interrupting dinner, forcing him to leave behind homemade lasagna and hot garlic rolls in order to take care of some dead guy in a toilet at the airport.

From the doorway he could easily see what irritated him most, at least three different sets of footprints. One set trailed blood from inside the bathroom out into the hallway, leading all the way around the cleaning cart that had been parked in front of the doorway to block the entrance. The footprint’s owner had ignored the yellow plastic Out Of Order sign. From what Pakula had been told, the cart had been placed there after the stiff was found, so this set of tracks belonged to one of the sightseers. If all that wasn’t bad enough, the stiff just happened to be a priest, a monsignor, according to his driver’s license.

“Holy crap,” Pakula said to no one in particular. “My eighty-year-old mother can’t get past airport security without disrobing and being patted down, but every Tom, Dick and Harry can drop by to take a piss and see the dead guy on the bathroom floor.”

“Guy who found him said he asked a janitor to pull his cart in front of the doorway while he went to get help.” Pete Kasab consulted his two-by-four notebook, jotting down more chicken scratch.

Pakula tried not to roll his eyes at the wet-behind-the-ears junior detective and instead, watched the young black woman from the Douglas County Crime Lab. She hadn’t reacted or responded to any of their chatter. Instead, she had already finished with the video camera and was now starting to work her grid on gloved hands and padded knees, filling specimen bags and bottles with items at the end of her forceps, items that seemed invisible from where Pakula stood. He had never worked with her before, but he knew Terese Medina by reputation. If the killer left something behind, Medina would find it. He wished he could trade Pete Kasab for Medina.

“The guy said he may have bumped into the killer,” Kasab continued, reading it as if it were just another of his scribbles.

“He said what?” Pakula stopped him in midflip of his pages.

“The guy thinks he may have bumped into the perp on his way out of the bathroom.”

Pakula winced at his use of the term “perp.” Was this kid for real? “This guy have a name?”

“The guy he bumped into?’

“No.” Pakula shook his head, biting down on the word idiot before it escaped his lips. “The witness. The guy who found the body.”

“Oh, sure.” And the pages started flipping again. “It’s Scott…” Kasab squinted, trying to read his own notes. “Linquist. I’ve got his work phone, home phone, cell phone and home address.” He tapped the page, smiling, eager to please.

“Happen to have a description?”

“Of Linquist?”

“No, damn it. Of the supposed killer.”

Kasab’s face looked crushed, and he flipped more pages as he mumbled, “Of course I do.”

Now Pakula felt like the asshole. It was a little like stepping on a puppy. He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to get rid of the exhaustion and his impatience. Overdosing on caffeine only made him cranky.

“Linquist said he looked young, was shorter than him. I figured Linquist at about five-ten. He said he had on jeans and a baseball cap. Said the kid bumped into him, you know, in a hurry, on his way out of the bathroom just as Linquist came in. In fact, Linquist said he saw the body and the blood, turned around and raced back out to get help and the kid was nowhere in sight.”

“How young a kid?” Pakula doubted this was the killer. Probably a kid in shock, not knowing what to do or not wanting to get involved. Maybe even afraid he’d get blamed for it.

“He couldn’t say,” Kasab said, but he continued to check his notes. “Oh, here it is. He said he never got a look at the kid’s face.”

“Then how’d he know he was a kid?”

Kasab looked up at him as if checking to see if the question was a test. “I guess by his demeanor or maybe his stature.”

Great, Pakula thought. Now the rookie was guessing. Brilliant police work. Pakula wanted to groan, but instead turned and glanced back at Terese Medina who had meticulously made her way to the corpse. Pakula watched Medina pick at the back of the stiff’s polo shirt with her forceps. Maybe they’d get lucky and there’d be some interesting transfer debris. Now, that would be brilliant police work. Just then Medina held up something at the end of her forceps.

“This is weird,” she said, turning it around for a more thorough inspection. To Pakula it looked like a piece of white fuzz, no bigger than a dime.

“What is it?” Pakula came closer while she slipped it into a plastic bag and was picking another off the monsignor’s polo shirt.

“I could be really off base,” she said, holding it up to her nose this time, “but it looks like crumbs.”

“Crumbs?”

“Yeah, bread crumbs.”

Before Pakula could respond, his cell phone started tinkling, the sound of a million tiny little bells. He should never have let his daughter Angie—the techno nerd—program the damn thing. He had no idea how to change the tone and instead he resorted to ripping the phone off of his hip, breaking his record at two rings.

“Pakula.” All he got was static. “Hold on.” He turned his back and walked down the hallway, hoping for a stronger signal. “Yeah, go ahead.”

“Pakula, it’s Carmichael.”

“Where the hell are you, Carmichael? I could use your butt down here at the airport.”

“I’m still at the station.”

“I’ve a got a sliced-up priest on the bathroom floor with idiots walking around him to take a piss and maybe even eat a sandwich over his dead body.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, that all sounds like a lot of fun, but I thought you might be interested in the phone call I just got. A Brother Sebastian from the Omaha Archdiocese’s office wants to know the condition of Monsignor William O’Sullivan’s body.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding. How the hell did he already find out? We just ID’d the padre less than an hour ago.”

“Said he received an anonymous phone call.”

“Really?”

Pakula could hear Detective Kim Carmichael crunching, a nervous habit that added to her waistline. Then the rest of them would pay, having to listen to her complain in a burst of choppy Korean expletives. But he’d trade Kasab for her, too.

“Here’s the thing, Pakula, actually two items I think you’ll find interesting. Brother Sebastian seemed awfully concerned about the monsignor’s personal effects, particularly one leather portfolio. Second, he wanted us to know that Archbishop Armstrong would help us, so it certainly wouldn’t be necessary to bring in the FBI.”

“The FBI?” Pakula laughed. “Okay, Carmichael. Very funny. But it’s been a long day, and I’m really not in the mood for—”

“I’m not kidding, Tommy. That’s what he said. I even wrote it down.”

“Why the hell would we call in the FBI for a local homicide?”

“He tried to sound nonchalant about it when he said it,” Carmichael replied, “but I could hear something, you know. He was nervous and careful with his words, and yet, trying to be all like it’s no big deal.”

Pakula stopped, leaned against the wall, keeping out of earshot of the coffee and doughnut counter. He couldn’t remember seeing a leather portfolio. From the beginning he thought this was a random hit, maybe a robbery gone badly despite the padre’s wallet left behind filled with euros. Euros were worthless to a local petty thief. But what if the killer hadn’t been looking for quick cash? What if he knew exactly who he had followed into the men’s bathroom? Was it possible someone intended to kill the good monsignor? That made it a whole different case.

“Hey, Pakula, you fall asleep on me?”

“Do me a favor, Carmichael. Give Bob Weston a call and fill him in on the details.”

“You sure you wanna do that?”

“The archbishop says he doesn’t want us to bring in the FBI. Yeah, maybe I might check with the FBI to see why that is.”

CHAPTER 7

Newburgh Heights

(Just outside of Washington, D.C.)

Maggie had just gotten home when her cell phone began to ring. She and Harvey were in the middle of their “welcome home” routine even though she had seen him several hours ago. Ever since she had rescued the beautiful white Lab, he treated each of her arrivals as if it was a pleasant surprise, those sad brown eyes so grateful she hadn’t abandoned him like his previous owner. Rather than cut short his slobberfest, she sat down in the foyer and pulled out her phone.

“Maggie O’Dell,” she answered, trying to convince Harvey to keep his licks confined to her other hand. Now on the floor with her face within his reach, Harvey decided it, too, was fair game.

“O’Dell, it’s Racine. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Maggie wondered if Racine could hear the sloppy kisses and was referring to the sound or the time of night.

“I just got home. What’s up?”

“I know it’s late. You sure this isn’t a bad time?”

Maggie smiled. No doubt Racine could hear the wet licks. She patted Harvey’s head rather than push him away. Maybe it was time there were some scandalous rumors about her nonexistent sex life.

“No, this is fine. Go ahead.”

“The cell phone turned out to be a dead end.”

“Stolen?” Maggie guessed, continuing to rub Harvey behind the ears.

“Yup. Reagan National. Last week. At least that’s the last time the owner says he saw it. He seems to be on the level. Reported it missing to Sprint. It hadn’t been used until this morning.”

“Any way to track where it was when the call was made?”

“Only that it was in the D.C. area. It’s probably been tossed in some Dumpster by now.”

Maggie wasn’t sure why Racine was calling her after midnight to tell her what they both already suspected. She couldn’t be expecting a profile before the autopsy. But there was something more and Racine’s sudden quiet telegraphed it. Maggie waited her out.

“I talked to Chief Henderson about the other two. Both he and Stan agree that we need a forensic anthropologist to take a look.”

That was it? Racine had actually taken her advice. “That will definitely help,” Maggie said, but something in Racine’s voice told Maggie it wasn’t quite that simple.

“Stan said he could get someone late next week, but I’m headed up to my dad’s on Sunday. We’re supposed to go fishing. I figured I’d leave before sunrise, maybe around five. Oh, by the way, Stan said he’d do the autopsy first thing tomorrow.”

Racine paused as if expecting Maggie to complain, but instead she was trying to imagine Racine keeping still and quiet long enough to fish. The image didn’t fit.

“Anyway,” Racine continued, “I suggested I take the other two heads up to Professor Bonzado. He and my dad have become big buds ever since…well, you know.” Racine left it there and it was just as well. Maggie did know. Ever since Professor Bonzado and Luc Racine rescued her from a madman’s freezer. It wasn’t your ordinary male-bonding ritual, but she wasn’t surprised that the two men had continued to grow close.

“Are you sure there isn’t someone in the District Stan might recommend?” Maggie found herself asking, which was ridiculous because earlier she had found herself thinking she would suggest Bonzado to Racine. No sense in letting Racine think she was anxious to see him again.

“I’m sure there is, but not on a holiday weekend.” Racine paused. “Look, O’Dell, I’ll be honest with you. I’ve got reporters chomping at my ass. Now that there are three victims I need some answers and I need them quick. I already talked to Bonzado. He promised he’d take a look Sunday afternoon and since I was driving up anyway, I’ll take them with me. I know it’s not exactly the ideal mode of transport, but Stan didn’t seem to mind a personal escort for his precious cargo. Besides, I usually drive. I can do the trip in about four hours.” Now it was almost as if Racine was rambling. Why did she feel she owed Maggie any explanation?

Maggie pushed up and sat on the first step of her staircase. Harvey lay beside her and now he rested his head on her feet.

“It’d be impossible to get a flight with it being a holiday weekend,” Racine kept explaining. “Besides, can you imagine trying to get two decapitated heads through airport security?” Racine’s laugh had a nervous edge to it. There was something else, something more. Maggie wanted to tell her to spit it out already. Again, she waited out the silence.

“So I was wondering if you wanted to ride along.”

And there it was. Racine had been working her way up to extending an invitation.

“Adam said he might have some basic information for us before we left. It’d just be for the day. I know that makes a long day.” Now Maggie noticed it was Adam instead of Professor Bonzado. “I’m sure my dad would love to see you. He asks about you all the time. Well, when he remembers. He’s actually been having some good periods. Though they say you can’t count on those lasting long.”

“It would be good to see your dad again,” Maggie said, thinking she had more connections than perhaps she had bargained for in Connecticut. In fact, she had seriously considered contacting her new stepbrother, Patrick, to suggest they get together for the holiday weekend. Then she immediately chastised herself for thinking instant family meant instant holiday get-togethers. He surely had his own plans and they wouldn’t include a sister he had found out about less than a year ago. No, she had decided Patrick would need some time. She’d need to let him come to her when he was ready.

Why kid herself? Patrick wasn’t the only reason for her wanting to suggest a family reunion. She did want to see Adam Bonzado again. Here Racine was handing her a perfect excuse. And yet at the same time, she couldn’t help thinking that four, no, eight, hours in a car with Julia Racine might be eight hours too many.

CHAPTER 8

Venezuela

He turned up Vivaldi on his cheap boom box and swatted at yet another mosquito. This one had gotten him good, splattering more blood, his own blood, and adding one more bump, reducing his overly sensitive skin to that of a blister-riddled leper. Father Michael Keller had learned a long time ago to ignore the constant itch, just as he had learned to deal with his body being sweat-drenched even after his evening shower. Instead, he concentrated on the simple things, the few pleasures he counted on, like Vivaldi, and he closed his eyes, letting the strings stroke him and calm him. It was all mind over matter. And he had discovered that his mind could convince him of anything, if he only let it.

He continued his evening ritual. He lit several citronella candles and checked the kettle of water on his hot plate. His white shirt, made fresh and crisp by one of the village women, was already sticking to his back. He could feel the sweat trickling down his chest, but still he looked forward to his evening cup of scorching hot tea. Tonight he selected chamomile from the package his Internet friend had sent him. What a treat it had been to receive the box with a variety of loose-leaf teas, jelly-filled cookies and shortbreads. He had been saving it, rationing it, wanting to savor it as well as savor the idea that someone he had never met would send him such a wonderful gift, such a perfect gift.

He scooped just the right amount into his mesh-ball infuser then dunked it into the hot water, covering the mug and letting it steep. He lifted the cover, letting the steam rise into his face, breathing in the delicious aroma. He pulled out the infuser, tapping it against the lip of the mug, making it surrender every last drop.

A lone mosquito ignored the citronella scent and continued to buzz around his head. Outside, an evening shower added another layer of humidity to the stifling heat. But he sat back with his tea and his music and for a brief moment he felt as if he truly were in heaven.

He hadn’t finished his first cup when a noise outside his door startled him. He sat up and waited for a knock, but one never came. Odd. It was unusual for him to be summoned at this time of night, and no one stopped by without an invitation. They were respectful of his privacy, apologetic even when there was an emergency.

Maybe it had been the wind. He sat back again and listened to the rain. Tonight it tapped soft and gentle on the tin roof. He listened, and he realized there was no wind.

Curiosity made him set his mug aside. He stood, but stopped suddenly, feeling a bit light-headed. Maybe it was the heat. He steadied himself, then approached the door slowly, quietly, still listening if anyone was on the other side. It was silly to be so paranoid. No, not paranoid—simply cautious. Something else he had learned long ago out of necessity.

He unlocked the door and swung it open with such force he startled the small boy and almost knocked him to the ground.

“Arturo?” he said and he reached out to steady the boy.

He recognized him as one of his faithful altar boys. He was smaller than others his age, thin and frail with sad dark eyes and always so anxious to please. He looked even more vulnerable, standing in the rain holding out the brown cardboard box.

“What are you doing here?” Then, noticing Arturo’s confused look, he repeated, “¿Arturo, qué hace usted aquí?”

“Sí, para usted, Padre.” Arturo presented the package with outstretched arms, smiling and obviously proud to have been entrusted with this mission.

“A package for me? But who? ¿Quién lo mandó?” he said, taking the package from the boy and immediately noticing how light it felt.

“Yo no sé. Un viejo…old man,” he added.

Father Keller squinted into the dark to see down the worn path to the church. There was no one. Whoever gave Arturo the package was gone now.

“Gracias, Arturo,” Father Keller said, patting him on the head, thinking the boy had so little in his life he was glad to make him smile. Arturo reminded him of himself as a boy, wanting and needing someone to notice him and care about him. “Hasta domingo,” he told him with a brief stroke of the boy’s cheek.

“Sí, padre.”

The boy was still smiling when he ran off down the path, quickly disappearing into the black mist.

He picked up the box, finding himself a bit anxious. Perhaps it was another special package from his Internet friend in the States. More teas and cookies. Arturo said it had been an old man who had given him the package, but it could have been a substitute postman, someone Arturo didn’t know. To young boys, anyone over thirty was old. But there was no mailing label this time. No postage stamp, nothing at all.

He brought the package in, noting, again, that it was light—too light to cause much harm. Yet he set it on his small wooden table and began to examine it from all sides. There were no marks, no markings anywhere on the box. It didn’t even look as if a label had perhaps been removed. Sometimes packages were a bit battered by the time they reached him. After all, this was the rain forest.

Finally he gave in and reached for the fillet knife. He sliced through the packing tape and hesitated before slowly pushing back the flaps. He was still pulling out tissue paper when he saw it. And he snatched back his hand as if he had gotten burned.

What kind of a joke was this? It had to be a joke. Who would know? And how had they found him?

His hands were already shaking when he took the plastic Richard Nixon Halloween mask out of the box.

CHAPTER 9

Omaha, Nebraska

Gibson wondered where the noise was coming from. It was too dark to see, but it sounded like running water. Maybe it was the toilet bowl in the bathroom between his bedroom and his little brother’s. All it took was a jiggle of the handle but Tyler always forgot.

He tossed and turned onto his side. He pulled the blanket up over his ears and tried to ignore the noise, burying his head in the pillow. It didn’t work. The water kept gurgling. Louder now.

Damn it, how hard was it to jiggle the frickin’ handle?

He crawled out of bed, feeling his way to the door like he usually did when he got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. If he turned on a light his mom got hysterical and wanted to know what was wrong. Besides, she kept a night-light in the hallway, one of those light-sensored gizmos that turned on automatically in the dark. Only tonight there was no light. The frickin’ thing must have burned out. Piece of crap.

He felt along the wall. The gurgling hadn’t stopped. And he was right. It did seem to be coming from the bathroom between his and Tyler’s rooms. He had a notion to go wake up Tyler and show him how to fix it. But wait, wasn’t Tyler supposed to be sleeping over at his friend’s? The big baby must have changed his mind.

Gibson noticed the light under the closed bathroom door. Not only did Tyler leave the toilet running, he left the light on. Geez, what a pain in the ass. He pushed open the door and froze. There on the bathroom floor was Monsignor O’Sullivan, lying on his side. The gurgling noise was blood streaming from his nose and mouth and chest. And his eyes were staring, unblinking, directly at him.

Gibson started backing away and slammed into the wall. He shook his head and looked around the small bathroom. Everything else was in place. Even the wadded-up towel he had left on the floor. He closed his eyes and opened them again.

That’s when the priest’s eyes blinked.

Jesus! Gibson turned to run, but the door had closed behind him. He couldn’t find the doorknob. What the hell happened to the doorknob?

He glanced back over his shoulder. The monsignor jerked and turned, then started to get to his feet. Now Gibson pressed himself against the wall, too stunned to move. Paralyzed, with his heart pounding in his ears and a cold sweat sliding down his back. The last time Gibson had seen him he was lying on the bathroom floor at the airport. That’s where Gibson had left him. There had been blood, lots of it. How did he get here?

Monsignor O’Sullivan looked at him and smiled as he brushed off his trousers.

“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you, Gibson? You just left me lying there.”

The priest rubbed at the blood trickling down the front of his shirt, getting his fingers red and dripping all over the ceramic tile. He was alive. And there was a flash of anger in his eyes. Anger at Gibson.

“Because you thought I was dead?” The monsignor said exactly what Gibson was thinking as if he could read his mind. “Did you really think it’d be that easy to be rid of me? Gibson, Gibson, Gibson. You of all the boys should know better than that.”

Monsignor O’Sullivan started walking toward him.

“My mom’s just down the hall,” Gibson warned him.

“No, she’s not. I checked.”

He kept coming, shaking his finger at Gibson and splattering blood as he did so. And he had that smile, that knowing look that sank Gibson’s stomach. He hadn’t heard his mom come home and now he remembered that even Tyler was at a sleep over. No one would hear him even if he yelled or screamed.

“On your knees, son. You know what you need to do,” Monsignor O’Sullivan told him, and as he got closer and closer, Gibson could even smell the alcohol on his breath.

Gibson woke with a violent thrashing, fighting and swinging at the blanket he had managed to tangle around himself. He was wet and shaking, but when he finally realized it was only a dream, relief swept over him. Only then did he notice that he was still reciting the Our Father in a panicked whisper.

He made himself stop. He tried to lay still and listen.

There was no gurgling. Nothing.

He stared up at his ceiling, watching the familiar shadow of a tree branch from outside the window. Watching and still listening. Finally the panic subsided and that’s when he noticed the smell. He cringed and allowed a disgusted sigh as he crawled out of bed. In the darkness he began stripping his bedsheets. Maybe he could change them and get them in the washer without his mom noticing. He didn’t need her worrying about him. And he didn’t want her knowing. It was too embarrassing even though it had been over a year since he had wet the bed.

CHAPTER 10

Saturday, July 3

Washington, D.C.

Gwen Patterson sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of her living room dressed only in her robe. Her hair was still dripping from her shower. Her usual one cup of coffee had extended to three. She had pushed the coffee table out of the way and surrounded herself with newspaper articles and scattered files. To her right were the assorted handwritten notes from the killer—scraps of paper, each now in a plastic bag and lined up beside her. She treated the notes as evidence, handling them carefully, as if trying to compensate for not turning them over to the proper authorities. The proper authorities being Detective Julia Racine and company, which now included Maggie.

Outside, she could hear the early-morning thunderstorm receding, reduced to a gentle patter against the windows and a distant rumble of thunder. She had left the living-room windows open, hoping the cool breeze and the fresh scent of rain would revive her after another night of tossing and turning.

She glanced around at her mess, wondering what exactly she was looking for. And would she recognize it if she saw it? Was it possible the killer was someone she didn’t even know? Maybe he had seen her photograph in a newspaper or on TV? He could have heard a radio interview or perhaps attended one of her book signings? Was it possible that he had randomly chosen her as his contact because he thought she was an expert? All he had to do was a LexusNexus search and discover plenty of information about her professional background. Enough information to sound as if he knew her without ever having met her.

She poked at one of the plastic-encased notes, reading the carefully chosen block-lettered words that gave basic instructions, and then almost as an afterthought came the subtle threat. The first one reminded her of something you’d find in a fortune cookie: DO AS YOU’RE TOLD OR SOMEONE YOU LOVE WILL SUFFER. It wasn’t until this third note that she decided the killer had to be someone she knew. But how could she be certain? The warning simply read: IF YOU LOVE YOUR FATHER YOU WON’T SAY A WORD.

Gwen wondered if perhaps even this warning could still be seen as ambiguous and empty. Anyone could easily find out who her father was, and when they discovered that he also was a leading psychologist, might presume that the two of them were very close. Besides, Dr. John Patterson was over five hundred miles away in New York City, living in a high-security apartment complex and working at a research facility that required government clearance. In fact, if she were to tell him later about the threat, he would laugh and shrug it off, quick to excuse it as his little girl being overly cautious.

“His little girl.” Just the phrase still infuriated her. All of her accomplishments, all of her prestigious degrees and certificates, a bestselling book and dozens of published articles in respected journals and he still didn’t take her seriously. He thought she was wasting her brilliant mind and her time with what he referred to as her fascination and obsession with criminal behavior.

She picked up one of the articles she had clipped from the Washington Post, although she knew she wouldn’t find anything new. She had read it so many times she could recite the twelve paragraphs by heart. The article was worthless with only the basic information. Gwen tossed the clipping aside. Now she grabbed the stack of patient file folders she had brought home with her. It didn’t take long for her to choose one. She started flipping through her notes. Could there be something here? Something she may have noticed or written down from one of her sessions with Rubin Nash?

Ordinarily she kept her notes brief, jotting down single words and abbreviations, her own archaic form of shorthand. It was best to keep it brief or else the patient became anxious, too focused on what she was writing. Gwen had learned to do it in such a nonchalant manner that even scratching out things like “ERRATIC,” “11” and “DAD GONE” attracted neither attention nor alarm. To anyone else the notes might be meaningless, but one look and Gwen remembered that Rubin Nash’s behavior became erratic whenever he talked about the summer of his eleventh birthday when his mother told his father to leave and he did.

This set of notes included disturbing words and phrases her patient had used during their fifty-minute session. She didn’t need to rely on her awful handwriting. She remembered him explaining, or rather telling—there was too much confidence for him to feel he needed to explain—how he had the urge to strangle someone, a woman, any woman. It didn’t matter whether or not he knew her. A total stranger would do. Women had taken so much away from him that he wanted to make them pay. It would be a symbolic gesture, he had said later, laughing, when he calmed himself. And yet at the same time he added, and this she had written down word for word, that he wondered what it would “feel like to twist someone’s neck and hear it snap.”

Gwen reminded herself that just because he said it it didn’t mean Rubin Nash was capable of doing it. She had heard plenty of strange rantings from patients. Most of the time, the threats were simply a part of the process, a verbal exercise to blow off steam. It wasn’t necessarily a sign of destructive or dangerous behavior when patients shared their darkest secrets, urges, or even their desire for vengeance. More often it was a sign that they felt comfortable enough and trusted her enough that they could share such things. However, Gwen had spent too many years profiling and assessing the criminal mind to let the violent comments, especially those delivered as calmly as Rubin Nash had delivered his, to go unnoticed. And perhaps out of habit, she had already started listening and watching Nash a bit closer even though he was a patient and not a suspected killer the FBI had asked her to psychoanalyze.

Maybe her father was right. Maybe it had been an obsession. At one time she had spent so much time at Quantico, consulting with the Behavioral Science Unit, Assistant Director Cunningham joked that she should have her own office. But in recent years when her District practice finally took off, she was surprised to find herself relieved, almost anxious to trade in the analyzing of rapists and murderers for listening to frustrated wives of senators and the nervous ramblings of overambitious members of congress. In fact, she had recently bragged to Maggie that she hadn’t been in the same room as a killer since two years ago in Boston when survivalist Eric Pratt had threatened to shove a sharp lead pencil into her throat.

What a thing to brag about, her father would tease her. If he only knew. But she had always been careful not to tell him or her mother about the dangers her so-called obsession had often put her in the middle of. Would he take her seriously if he knew or would he consider her reckless?

Of course, it didn’t matter now. It was no accident the FBI called on her expertise less frequently, respecting her wishes. These days she preferred to write books and articles about criminal behavior. She liked it that way. It wouldn’t have bothered her in the least to never have to sit across from a killer again, coaxing and prodding his psyche to get him to trust and confide in her. And yet, despite her best efforts, she found herself being dragged into another killer’s world. The bastard had decided to coax and prod her into being his accomplice. Only it wasn’t a knife or pencil shoved against her throat or a gun pointed at her head. She would have almost preferred any one of those rather than the threat he had chosen. And he had chosen wisely. She couldn’t risk telling the police and she wouldn’t dare tell her father. That’s why she was certain she must know him. She wondered if it could possibly be someone who sat across from her every week, examining and studying her all the while he paid to be examined and studied by her.

She checked the clock on her mantel. She had a couple more hours before she needed to get to the office for her Saturday-morning sessions; the first one had been rearranged to accommodate Nash’s new travel schedule. Suddenly Gwen remembered what Maggie had said about the torsos of the three Jane Does being dumped somewhere else, perhaps somewhere outside the District. She couldn’t help wondering if it wasn’t a coincidence that Rubin Nash had suddenly started to do more traveling for his business.

Her cell phone interrupted her thoughts. She had to pull it out of her briefcase.

“This is Dr. Patterson.”

“Hi, sweetie, it’s Dad.”

A chill came so suddenly she bolted to her feet, then realized almost as quickly how silly she was being. He sounded fine, cheerful even. It was a holiday weekend. He always called on holiday weekends.

“How are you and Mom?”

“Fine. Excellent. Your mom’s playing bridge. But, sweetie, where are you? I’ve been waiting here at Regis for almost a half hour.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your note said to meet you at eight for breakfast at Regis. Why didn’t you tell me sooner that you were going to be in the city today?”

Gwen found the edge of the sofa and eased herself down. So the killer knew her well enough to know that she would have misgivings. This had to be his way of telling her how easy it would be to carry out his threat.

CHAPTER 11

Omaha Police Department

Detective Tommy Pakula took another gulp of cold coffee. Raised a Catholic, he had never doubted the existence of God, but too often he found himself not appreciating the divine creator’s sense of humor. This was one of those moments. As he sat in the hardback chair listening to Special Agent Bob Weston drone on and on, Pakula decided this was God’s way of punishing him. In fact, after a solid twenty minutes of the little man’s lecturing and yammering, Pakula was convinced that Bob Weston was probably God’s punishment for quite a few things.

“Stop for a minute or two,” Pakula finally said, throwing up his hands in surrender. Weston appeared so shocked anyone would dare to interrupt him that he immediately went silent. “You’ve been at it for almost a half hour and I still don’t see what fucking connection this Ellison guy getting knifed at an art festival in Minneapolis has with the monsignor getting stuck in a toilet at the airport?”

“Do you want me to start from the beginning?”

“No!” Pakula and Carmichael answered in unison. “Maybe you should just tell us the punch line.” Pakula almost said please. It had to be the exhaustion. “Come on, what’s the connection?”

Now Weston grinned like a guy who knew he was the only one with the secret answer to the puzzle. “Ordinarily, most people wouldn’t see any connection. At least not on the surface. But I happen to be from Minneapolis, so I tend to pay attention. I still have a brother up there. He has a family.”

Pakula groaned and rubbed his eyes. Weston noticed. The grin was replaced with a lifted eyebrow. Pakula wondered if an irritated Weston was any worse than a cocky Weston. He decided he didn’t care. He sat back in his chair and stared him down.

“Come on, Weston,” Carmichael finally gave up and broke in. “We know you’re brilliant. Just tell us the fucking connection.”

“I’m trying to tell you. My brother and his family used to attend Saint Pat’s where Daniel Ellison used to be an associate pastor for a very short time. He left the church, got married and became an advertising executive.” Finished and looking pleased with himself, Weston sat down on the edge of the desk, his designer-clad butt crushing a stack of reports. He didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he seemed to be waiting for his accolades.

“That’s it?” Carmichael asked. “That’s your secret connection? That he happened to be a priest?”

“And that he was stabbed in the chest and that it was done in a very public place. This was in the middle of the afternoon, a crowded festival.” Weston was back on his feet. “Nobody saw it happen. Ellison’s wife sort of remembered him bumping into someone and then suddenly slumping over and falling to the ground.” He handed Pakula the folder he had brought with him. “After you get your autopsy report, just take a look at the two cases.”

“What should I be looking for?”

“I don’t know, but I bet there’ll be some similarities.”

“And if there are similarities, you think we have a priest killer on the loose?” Pakula shook his head. He wasn’t convinced. “One dead monsignor and a guy who used to be a priest—sounds more like a coincidence to me.”

“Hey, you called me.” It was Weston’s turn to put up his hands as if in surrender. “You asked me what possible reason Archbishop Armstrong would have for not wanting the FBI involved.”

Pakula saw Kasab in the doorway, waving him over. Normally, he would have yelled for him to just get his butt in here, instead, he saw an opportunity for escape.

“Be right back,” he told Carmichael and nodded at Weston. Before he got to the door, he couldn’t help thinking Kasab looked like a guy with his own secret. He wanted to tell him he should never play poker, but after wrangling Bob Weston, Detective Pakula was too tired for more games.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“Okay,” Pakula said. It took a few beats before he realized Kasab was waiting for him to say which he wanted first. “Okay, good news first.” It was easier to play.

“I was able to get the monsignor’s cell-phone record. The only calls he made were one to Our Lady of Sorrow rectory that lasted about a minute and another to Father Tony Gallagher’s cell phone. He’s the assistant pastor at the church. That one lasted just over seven minutes. It was made about an hour before his flight.”

“So he was probably the last person to talk to the monsignor.”

“Most likely, yes. Outside of anyone at the airport.”

“Sounds like we need to talk to Father Gallagher. Can you arrange that?”

“Oh, sure.”

“So what’s the bad news?”

“I went back to the airport to pick up Monsignor O’Sullivan’s luggage. Remember they told us they’d intercept it in New York and have it back in Omaha this morning?”

“Let me guess,” Pakula interrupted him, “it’s in Rome.”

“No, it made it back to Omaha, but someone picked it up before I got there.”

“You gotta be kidding. What numb nut gave it to someone without any authority?”

“Actually the desk clerk was told it had been authorized.”

“Who the hell told him that?”

Kasab flipped his notebook pages, checking, wanting to be accurate. “It was a Brother Sebastian. Said he was with the Omaha Archdiocese office. And like the guy told me, who’s not going to believe someone sent by the archbishop?”

CHAPTER 12

Washington, D.C.

It was on mornings like this that Maggie O’Dell wondered if perhaps something was wrong with her. Here it was another beautiful day, after rains had washed everything clean, the beginning of a holiday weekend and she had nothing to cancel. No plans to change. No friends or family or lover to let down. Even Harvey, who watched her leave with his head still planted on her bed pillow, let her off the hook too easily, it seemed, by allowing her to postpone their gardening and lounging in the backyard. What was worse, she actually looked forward to this autopsy. Not exactly looked forward to it in the same way someone would relish a good time. But rather, her mind had already begun plucking at the puzzle pieces, trying to place them in some order and needing more details, more pieces. So much so that she had awakened at two in the morning and pulled out the copies of the case files.

Dismemberment cases bothered even the most seasoned of veterans, and Maggie certainly wasn’t immune. Dismemberment cases and ones involving dead kids usually had a way of staying with her long after the killers were arrested, tried and convicted. Sometimes she still had nightmares that included body organs stuffed in take-out containers courtesy of Albert Stucky. And then there were those with dead little boys, naked and blue-skinned, left in the mud and tall grass along the Platte River. Albert Stucky was dead and buried. She had seen to it personally. However, Father Michael Keller had gotten away scot-free, escaping to South America, and even the Catholic Church didn’t seem to know where he was.

Maggie paused at the door to the autopsy suite to clear her mind and to finish her Diet Pepsi. Stan Wenhoff was known to expel anyone for as little as unwrapping a candy bar during one of his autopsies. Not a bad rule, though perhaps Stan’s claim that it was out of respect for the dead might be a bit disingenuous. After all, this was the same guy who yelled things like, “Just scoop it up.”

It felt like walking into a refrigerator. Maggie grabbed two gowns off the pile and said hello to Stan who only grunted. Julia Racine wasn’t in a much better mood. She looked to be in her usual futile hunt, searching through the pile for a size smaller than the X-large that Stan stocked for his visitors.

“Why is it so fucking cold in here?” Racine complained.

“We have a choice, Detective. We either deal with the cold or we deal with the maggots crawling all over us.”

Maggie couldn’t remember Stan ever using the air-conditioning before this. The basement autopsy suites had recently been renovated, but the old steel ducts had not. Turning on the heat or the A/C during an autopsy could compromise evidence by adding debris. So Stan usually had it turned off for the hour or two during the autopsy. Evidently he would rather deal with the debris and the cold than with the maggots.

Racine didn’t answer. Instead, she glanced at Maggie, who was putting on the second gown on top of the first. Racine followed her lead and took another off the pile. Racine needed to wrap both gowns several times around her tall, thin body almost like a mummy. Only then did Maggie notice that the usually athletic and fit detective looked as if she had lost weight since Maggie had seen her last. She had heard that Racine had been making frequent trips between the District and Connecticut to visit her deteriorating father even before Racine’s late-night invitation. Maggie had met and grown attached to Luc Racine while working a case practically in his backyard. Despite Luc’s early onset of Alzheimer’s, he and Maggie had exchanged favors, sort of coming to each other’s rescue. Her fondness and concern for the older Racine had created a connection with the younger Racine, one Maggie didn’t necessarily want. Sometimes she wondered if she and Julia Racine had met and gotten to know each other under different circumstances, circumstances that didn’t include an almost botched case and an unwanted sexual advance, that maybe they would have become friends.

She watched Racine check out the reflection of her spiky blond hair in a dissection tray. Behind all the cockiness and bravado, Maggie knew there had to be a vulnerable and insecure woman, walking a fine line, trying not to screw up, hiding any hint of fear or doubt. She had seen glimpses and in those few and brief fleeting moments Maggie realized that she and Julia Racine had that in common. They were both very good at hiding who they really were.

Maggie handed Racine a pair of latex gloves and Racine raised an eyebrow at their purple color.

“I have to hand it to you, Stan,” Racine said as she pulled on the exotic-colored gloves. “You always have the newest and coolest toys.”

He scowled at her over his shoulder as he slid the bagged head out of the wall refrigerator and onto a tray. Maggie realized Stan had taken Racine’s attempt at making light of the situation as an insinuation that he spent department funds in a frivolous manner. Hadn’t he realized by now that Racine’s inappropriate behavior and remarks were simply her way of masking her discomfort at autopsies? Perhaps he was too used to working with the dead to notice, or to have patience with something as simple as human emotion or inane idiosyncrasies.

“Do you need any help?” Maggie offered, rolling up the double-gown sleeves and hoping to relieve the tension in the suite. But a second scowl from Stan, this one leveled in her direction, immediately telegraphed her mistake. Silly of her—she knew better. She stepped back, out of his way. Poor Stan. Maggie often wondered if he wished he could post a No Visitors sign on the door.

“Last time I had to rig up a device.” He ignored her offer, and instead, pointed to a contraption on the autopsy table that looked like a clamping device made of PVC pipe and aluminum. “I didn’t think I’d be using it again this soon,” he said and he didn’t sound happy about it.

He fumbled with the plastic bag, a miniature version of a body bag. Maggie stopped herself from reaching over to help. It would be so easy to start the zipper that was closer to her side. Her medical background allowed her to assist with autopsies, but common sense usually told her which M.E.’s or coroners would welcome her help and which would be insulted. She already knew Stan was in the latter category even before his earlier scowl, yet his fumbling and slow-motion pace constantly challenged her patience.

She glanced at Racine, expecting her to be just as impatient with Stan. Instead, Racine looked distracted, her eyes examining the shelves of specimen jars and containers. Maggie watched the young detective tighten her gown’s belt and check out her shoe covers, then go back to the room’s contents. Her focus seemed to be anywhere and everywhere except on the head Stan finally had unwrapped and was now propping up with his makeshift device.

The maggots had retreated deep inside, huddling to keep warm. As a result, the woman’s eyes were now clear, staring straight ahead, her tangled hair plastered to one side of her head. Suddenly, a cloud of steam escaped from her opened mouth. And despite it being packed with the slow-churning worms, it looked almost as if the poor woman were taking one last breath.

“Jesus.” Racine had noticed, despite her attempt not to look. “What the hell was that?”

“The little bastards’ metabolism can keep them about ten to fifteen degrees higher than their surroundings,” Stan explained. “It’s similar to walking outside on a subzero day and seeing your own breath, the clash of warm with cold.”

“Pretty freaky,” Racine said.

Maggie noticed that this time Racine’s eyes didn’t leave the woman’s face, as if she didn’t dare look away for fear of missing the next “freaky” revelation. She couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before Racine would be checking her shoe covers again. Would it be the removal of the eyeballs or that sucking sound when the brain is pulled out after the top of the skull is sawed off? She actually found herself feeling bad for Racine. She wanted to tell her to think about ocean waves and listen for the sound they make lapping against a white sandy shore. Something, anything tranquil that would calm her nerves and settle her stomach. It had worked for Maggie during her first autopsy, a gunshot blast that ripped away the victim’s face, leaving behind what seemed like a cavernous hole of bloody cartilage and shredded tissue. The waves had been crashing in her head by the time the M.E. had finished.

“Let’s get started,” Stan said, grabbing a pair of forceps and a scalpel from his tray, “before these bastards start climbing up our arms and legs.”

Maggie saw Julia Racine’s face go white. That’s when she realized what Racine’s real problem was. So it seemed they had something else in common, because it wasn’t the autopsy Racine was dreading. It was the maggots.

CHAPTER 13

Omaha, Nebraska

Gibson McCutty sat in front of his computer screen, watching the clock in the lower right corner—watching and waiting. He was exhausted and trying to find something, anything, to take his mind off last night. The game wasn’t supposed to start for another twenty minutes, but some of the players checked onto the site early.

The game was by invitation only. He still remembered the day he received the e-mail. He had been depressed and angry, surfing Web sites, searching for answers, when suddenly the e-mail came through with an address he didn’t recognize. He almost deleted it as spam except that the call name caught his attention: TheSinEater. It sounded like something from a game of Dungeons and Dragons, something that promised, or rather suggested, to take away his sins.

Could it be that easy? Play a game and feel better? Sorta like going to confession in cyberspace. And the message had been simple, easy, enticing:

DO YOU WANT TO PLAY A GAME?

The rules were strict, though, prohibiting players from exchanging any personal information and using only their given code names. But before each game they were allowed to chat, to discuss strategy and talk about their characters, sometimes slipping in information about themselves disguised as information about their characters.

Not everyone participated in the chats; some rambled, some threw in only a comment here and there, others just sat back and watched. Gibson was in the last category. He learned more by sitting back and watching others, taking mental notes, keeping track of what each one said outside of the game when they had their guard down.

The first time he felt like a voyeur, feeling guilty for listening in and not participating. You had to log on to participate. Actually you had to log on to have access to the chat messages as they instant-messaged back and forth. But Gibson figured out a way to watch the chat without logging on. So none of the players knew he was listening. They didn’t even know he was there, until later when he really did log on to play the game.

Today was no different.

He waited and watched for them to begin. Anxious to see where the conversation would go. Ready to take notes, feeling almost safe again now in the light of day and from his comfortable hiding place. That is until a knock at his bedroom door startled him.

“Gibson, what are you doing in there? It’s a beautiful day outside.”

His hands immediately closed the lid of his laptop, not that she could see from behind the door.

“I’m just playing a few computer games.” Without the computer keyboard, his fingers were already probing his face, looking for new targets to erupt. It was a nervous habit he couldn’t seem to control.

“Don’t you want to go to the pool or maybe play ball with some of your friends?”

He found a new pimple on his forehead underneath his bangs. He knew his mom was trying. He had to give her credit for that. But she still treated him like he was ten or eleven instead of fifteen. Go play ball with his friends? And what friends? Hadn’t she noticed he didn’t have any, at least, none outside his computer world? She had this perception that somehow he would be an athletic superstar just like his father. Sometimes he wondered if his parents had thought that by giving him his dad’s name it would also transfer those athletic talents. How totally lame was that?

“Maybe later,” he told her, throwing her the false hope she always seemed to need.

It was easier in the long haul to agree and make her believe everything was fine. If she knew the truth, she’d be spazzing out on him. He already knew that he could handle crap much better than she could. He didn’t want her worrying about him.

“Okay, later. But do try. I don’t like you spending so much time in your room.”

“I will,” he yelled back over his shoulder, though he knew he wouldn’t.

He listened to her hesitate. She always did. He used to wish that she wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily, that she would challenge him or even threaten to reprimand him just like his dad used to. But she never did.

He listened for her footsteps until they were down the hallway. He waited for the squeak of the staircase’s telltale step. Then he wiped the blood from his fingertips onto his jeans and opened the laptop’s lid.

On his computer screen in the upper left corner was another message waiting for him, staring out at him in red type. He started to shake. He wanted to erase it, but his fingers suddenly were useless. And instead, he simply sat there and stared at the words.

I KNOW YOU’RE THERE, GIBSON. AND I SAW WHAT YOU DID.

Gibson bit down on his lower lip and balled up his hands to stop the shaking, keeping them over the keyboard, trying to think, waiting for the panic to subside. Finally he took a deep breath and punched at the keys, not stopping to check his spelling and hitting Send before he could change his mind.

WHO ARE YOU?

Then he waited.

It seemed like forever. Maybe the person was already gone. Maybe he didn’t expect a response. He could be bluffing. Or he didn’t have the guts to—

I’M THE MASTER OF THE GAME. AND YOU BROKE THE RULES.

A shiver slid down Gibson’s back. He stared at the words as if waiting and looking for more of an explanation. But he didn’t need one. He knew exactly what was going on. And worse, he realized he wasn’t safe even in his own home, in his own bedroom.

CHAPTER 14

Platte City, Nebraska

Nick Morrelli washed down his mother’s potato salad with iced tea, wishing the tea was something stronger. Not a good sign before noon. He couldn’t believe he had taken off the entire week, handed over his role as lead prosecutor on the Carlucci drug case and even given up Red Sox tickets. Okay, maybe the Red Sox tickets weren’t such a big deal, but still, all for what? To come back to Nebraska, stay at his sister’s house and attend events like this for a whole week?

“Why are you hiding over here?”

His older sister, Christine, startled Nick, suddenly appearing behind him, invading his corner of the backyard. He wasn’t hiding. The old rattan chair happened to be quite comfortable despite needing a new cushion and a fresh coat of spray paint.

“I’m not hiding. Someone needs to keep old Ralphie quiet.” He patted the dog’s shaggy head, keeping his paper plate up and out of Ralphie’s reach, even though the old dog was fast asleep.

“Yeah, he looks like he’s enjoying your company.” Christine sat down in an accompanying rattan chair, wincing when it wobbled a bit.

“You know Mom says guys never came to these things in the good ole days.” He looked around their parents’ large backyard, crowded with people, only a few he recognized.

“The good ole days? I think you mean back in the Dark Ages,” his sister told him. “I thought this was all a part of that new leaf you were turning over. You remember, your attempt at becoming a mature responsible adult.”

She offered him a zebra brownie, pristine, untouched and unlike when they were kids and her goodie offerings came with a bite removed. So how could he refuse? He broke a piece off and stuffed it into his mouth.

“I don’t think being a mature responsible adult is all that much fun,” he said with a mouthful as if to emphasize his point that perhaps he wasn’t adult material. “There’s hardly anyone here I know.” But now he realized he sounded a bit pathetic. He expected his sister to say, “When has that stopped you before?” Instead, she decided to stoop to his level.

“Mom and I wanted to limit the guest list only to those…shall we say, friends who you haven’t slept with. You know, out of respect for Jill. Sorry, if that left only Hal, Timmy and Father Tony.”

“Ouch,” he said, faking his best imitation of being sucker punched. And yet, he knew he probably deserved that. He had spent much of his bachelorhood perfecting the art of one-night stands, so perhaps he deserved a reminder now and then.

“Seriously, Nick. I don’t get it.” This time she waited for his eyes, and he knew the horseplay was over. “You claim this is what you want. That Jill Campbell is the best thing that’s happened to you. And yet, here you are at your own engagement party hiding out in the corner of the yard with an old, sleeping dog.”

He didn’t know what to tell her. Of course this was what he wanted. His eyes left hers to find Jill, making the rounds from one group of guests to another. She almost glided instead of walked, her yellow dress making her look like a model instead of an attorney. She wore her blond hair loose today, letting it brush her shoulders. In court she usually pulled it back or wore it up, attempting to add years and authority to her smooth, youthful face.

He told her time and again that she had saved him from himself, never really explaining, presuming that she already knew that there had been someone else he was trying to forget. But instead of pressing him for details, she seemed to take it upon herself to be the one who would finally replace the other woman she had never met.

“There you go again,” he heard Christine say and immediately he knew he had missed something. Before he could respond, she added, “You’ve been doing that a lot, Nicky. You never seem to be where you’re at.”

He rolled his eyes at her as if that was the most ridiculous, incoherent thing he had ever heard, but he knew exactly what she meant. He hadn’t been able to focus in months. His friend and co-worker, Will Finley, claimed it all began the day he and Jill had set a date for the wedding. Or to hear Will tell it, the day he surrendered to Jill.

At the time Nick joked that of course he couldn’t focus. “After all, wasn’t that what happened when you fell in love and decided to take the plunge?”

His friend had just done the same thing, marrying Tess McGowen, the love of his life, only months before. He expected Will to understand. He expected Will, of all people, to sympathize. Instead, his friend’s reaction felt like a sting. “Plunge?” Will had laughed. “You refer to marriage as a plunge and then you wonder what your problem is?”

Nick took another gulp of the iced tea as if needing to wash away the memory. What did Will Finley know anyway? People who were happy quickly forgot what misery felt like.

Misery?

What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t miserable. Jill had saved him from his misery. Suddenly, he realized he had done it again—strayed off. He glanced at Christine, expecting to see her impatience, but she wasn’t looking at him. He followed her gaze, only now seeing the black-and-white in the driveway.

“If this is one of those strip-o-grams, I know it was your idea, not Mom’s.”

But Christine wasn’t smiling.

“I’m not sure what’s going on.”

Two uniformed officers were talking with Father Tony. Nick’s first thought was that there had been a car accident or something awful that required a priest and last rites. He watched Tony’s head bob in agreement then watched him swing around, looking for and finally finding Nick. Nick attempted to wave to him that it was okay for him to leave the party, but Tony made his way through the crowded backyard, guests parting for him like a sea of pastels.

“What’s going on?” Christine asked, but Tony only shrugged, his eyes meeting and holding Nick’s.

“Omaha police want me to come down to the station to answer some questions.”

It took Nick by surprise. “To answer questions? About what?”

Tony shrugged again, and he reminded Nick of when they were boys. That same shrug came anytime they got into trouble and an adult asked for an explanation.

“Monsignor O’Sullivan was found dead in a restroom at the airport last night.”

“Oh my God,” Christine said. “And it wasn’t just a heart attack or they wouldn’t have questions.”

Nick shot her a warning look. He could hear her shift into reporter gear, probably already taking notes in her head.

“I hate to take you away from your own party, Nick. But can you come with me?”

“Of course,” Nick said without hesitation. He and Father Tony Gallagher had been friends since kindergarten when the two of them got deathly sick after eating almost a whole jar of paste. He thought he knew his good buddy pretty well, and unless it was his imagination, he didn’t think Tony looked all that surprised about the monsignor being dead.

CHAPTER 15

Washington, D.C.

The number-one tool for dismemberment was the hacksaw, but from what Maggie could see, this guy must have never had one handy.

Stan Wenhoff dropped several strands of the victim’s hair into a bottle of solvent, giving the liquid a swirl before capping the bottle and setting it aside. While he removed hair and tissue samples, Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off the decapitation area. A hacksaw usually left a fairly clean cut through the skin, joints and bone. Oftentimes there might be some bone chattering where the blade would jump and come down on a different area of the bone. For the most part a hacksaw was quite effective. Whatever tool this guy used had left a mess. Forget a little bone chattering. After Stan had cleaned the caked blood and river mud, the gaping area looked raw and shredded. There were jagged cuts, almost hacking marks in the bone and torn flesh where it looked as if he had ripped instead of cut.

She had ruled out a disorganized killer because of the planning and discipline it had taken not just to discard the heads but to complete the grisly process three times. Not to mention that he had also been able to hide or dispose of the torsos without getting caught. Dismembering a body took time and privacy. No matter where he killed his victims, he would need to take them back someplace safe, someplace where he knew he wouldn’t be interrupted, where he could make a mess and have time to clean up.

And yet, something bothered Maggie. If he was, indeed, organized and had carefully planned each murder, why hadn’t he gone to the trouble of buying a hacksaw or something that would have made the job much easier?

The sound of electric hair clippers interrupted her thoughts as Stan began shaving off the victim’s long hair. She looked younger than Maggie had first thought. Without the tangles of hair, she noticed small diamond studs in one of the victim’s earlobes. As far as she could tell, there were no other piercings in either brow, the nose, lip or chin. She made a mental note to have Stan check the woman’s tongue.

“We don’t have much to go on,” Stan said, as if reading her thoughts.

As soon as he finished with the clippers, however, he pointed to a wound, a circular indent smashed into the top left side of the victim’s skull.

“I’m guessing ball-peen hammer,” he said, running a gloved index finger over the area.

“Is that how he killed her?” Racine asked, swiping a couple of maggots to the floor before coming in for a closer look.

“He smacked her pretty good,” but Stan didn’t look convinced. He continued his hands-on examination. “The hair samples should tell us if she was on any drugs at the time.”

Maggie nodded; she knew the hair bulbs could be read almost like a drug timeline, since substances are captured and remain locked as the hair grows.

“What if he gave her something to knock her out?” Racine wanted to know. “Would that show up?”

“Oh, sure. Hair analysis can identify the heavy-duty stuff like cocaine and heroin, but we can also identify any tranquilizers or GHB. Should even be able to tell you whether she was a smoker or on Prozac. People think we can’t figure out much when we have only the head,” Stan continued. “There wasn’t much with the other two.”

“That reminds me,” Racine interrupted. “I’ve made arrangements to take the other two up to a forensic anthropologist in Connecticut.”

“Fine, fine. I can’t do much more on those because of the level of decomposition. But this one has a lot to tell.” And thankfully he was still anxious to share.

He tilted the head back, readjusting his vise-grip contraption so that she stared at the ceiling. More maggots slid off, hitting the stainless-steel table with tiny plops like raindrops on a tin roof.

“Despite the head wound, I doubt that was what killed her. Take a look,” he said, flinging maggots off her cheeks, “at the area around her eyes.”

He took a pair of forceps and, although Maggie thought Stan was a bit clumsy and slow at times, surprised her by expertly pinching and flipping up the right eyelid.

“See what I mean?”

“Petechial hemorrhages,” Maggie said.

“Petechial what?” Racine asked.

“Petechial hemorrhages are capillaries that ruptured,” Stan told her and his fingers moved on down the victim’s face.

Racine still looked confused.

“She was strangled,” Maggie said.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes,” Stan said without looking up. “Petechial hemorrhages occur when air is cut off. You see, we don’t need her neck to conclude that she was, in fact, strangled.”

“Wait a minute,” Racine said, hands on her hips. She wasn’t happy with Stan’s conclusions. “You’re saying he drugged her—”

“No, I don’t know that for certain, but we should be able to tell from her hair samples.”

“Okay, so he may have drugged her,” Racine qualified her remarks and continued. “He then hit her over the head with a ball-peen hammer. All this before he strangles her. Oh, and then just for fun he cuts off her head.”

“Actually I’d say it was more like ripped,” Maggie said, joining the speculations.

“Excuse me?” Racine came around the table for a better angle.

Stan turned his contraption so that Racine had a better view of the decapitation area.

“Agent O’Dell’s correct,” Stan confirmed.

“Jesus,” Racine said. “What kind of fucking monster are we dealing with?”

CHAPTER 16

Washington, D.C.

Dr. Gwen Patterson tried not to stare at Rubin Nash’s hands. He sipped from the glass of water she had offered him and set it aside, not letting it slow him down as he continued on and on about his mother’s best friend taking his virginity when he was fifteen. It was one more thing he felt a woman had taken from him. First, his mother had taken away his father, now her friend had taken away his virginity. Yet, that revelation seemed secondary to him. Instead, he wanted to share the illicit details, trying to be as graphic as possible. Perhaps he wanted to shock her, or at least get some reaction from her. There were few, if any, sexual deviances and perversions, let alone words or phrases, that could shock her. Besides he sounded too proud of his teenage prowess. The incident had certainly influenced him and shaped his attitudes about sex and women. However, would it have affected him enough to make him a murderer?

His hands were large but the fingers stubby. How much strength was needed to squeeze the life out of someone? Gwen wished she had turned off the air-conditioning in her office, forcing him to roll up his shirtsleeves. Were there scratches on his arms? Why else would he wear long sleeves on a hot July day?

Gwen studied his face. The cut on his lower jaw was probably a shaving nick. His open-collared shirt allowed a censored view of his neck. A person who was being choked or strangled would fight back. She would claw and scratch and punch. Unless he caught her off guard. Rubin had wondered what it would feel like to twist someone’s neck and hear it snap.

She would need to find out from Maggie how the victims were killed. Maybe she was way off base suspecting one of her patients as the killer.

“Isn’t that right, Dr. Patterson?” she heard Rubin ask and realized she had drifted too far.

“I’m sorry. What was that?”

“Why older women fuck young boys? It’s not just a control thing. It’s because they want to be adored. Isn’t that what they really want?”

“Did you adore her?”

He looked away before she could see the answer in his eyes. He wasn’t prepared for her to turn it around on him. Was it embarrassment or guilt he was trying to hide? The question had definitely surprised him.

“A good place for us to pick up next time,” he told her, reversing their roles with a glance at his wristwatch. “I’ll try not to be so crude next time,” he added with a smile—almost a smirk—that instead of a promise was more a revelation of how proud he was of today’s performance.

“That’s your choice,” Gwen told him, standing at the same time he did, never allowing her patients to tower over her. “Just keep that in mind, Rubin. Everything you do is ultimately your choice.”

This time his eyes met hers, dark gray eyes that reminded Gwen of a wolf’s. He held her gaze, then dropped his eyes to the front of her blouse and his smile resumed. It was a habit she was familiar with. His way of intimidating her when she dared get too close, too much on target. And to remind her that to him every woman was—what was that phrase he used—” a potential sexual conquest.”

“Until next time,” he said and turned to leave.

She waited for the door to close behind him before she began her frenzied note-taking, recording anything and everything she had observed whether or not she deemed it important at this time. There would eventually be some clue. Perhaps something Maggie discovered at the autopsy would shed new light on Gwen’s observations. She started the sixth page on her legal pad when her assistant buzzed her with her next patient.

Gwen ripped the pages from the notepad and shoved them into a file folder, but her mind was still racing. Still preoccupied with Rubin Nash when James Campion walked in.

“Hello, Dr. Patterson.”

“James.” She pointed for him to take a seat, but already knew he’d wait until she sat, ever the polite gentleman, a stunning contrast to Nash. He told her early on that the nuns at Blessed Sacrament had done an excellent job of drilling into him good manners and respect despite their failing him in other ways.

Gwen sat, nodding for him to do the same. His long legs stretched out and then crossed at the ankles. It was the most he allowed himself in an attempt to relax.

Today more than ever—probably because she had been focused on Nash’s physical traits—Gwen noticed the sharp contrast between the two men. Also she had never seen the two patients in back-to-back sessions until today, accommodating Rubin’s new travel schedule. For as cocky and boisterous as Rubin Nash was, James Campion was the direct opposite, introverted and self-conscious. Even James’s long-sleeved shirt could easily be explained away as an embarrassed attempt at hiding the hesitation marks on his wrists. She had noticed them during their very first session, long before he had confessed that sometimes he thought about suicide.

And instead of bragging about his sexual escapades or rather dysfunctions, or when discussing the sexual mistreatments of his childhood, James seemed almost shy and remorseful, especially when talking about the abuses he had suffered at the hands of a Catholic priest he had admired and trusted. Both Nash and Campion had been two teenage boys taken advantage of by adults they had trusted. But that’s where the similarities ended.

Gwen sat back, feeling her shoulders relax, only now realizing how close to the edge Rubin Nash was able to put her. She watched James cross his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits before deciding to uncross them again and leave his hands in his lap. His handsome, boyish face seemed almost soulful, his eyes attentive but patient as if waiting for her permission to begin.

No matter how long it took, Gwen felt certain she could help James Campion. Rubin Nash, she wasn’t sure about.

CHAPTER 17

Downtown Police Station

Omaha, Nebraska

“This is ridiculous,” Nick Morrelli told the detectives who introduced themselves as Detectives Carmichael and Pakula. They were an odd pair, a short, chubby Asian woman and a middle-aged linebacker with a shaved head. Hardly Hollywood’s version of the good cop/bad cop. “You’re treating him like he’s a suspect.”

“Who exactly did you say you are?” Carmichael asked.

“His friend, Nick Morrelli.”

“Who happens to be an attorney,” Tony added.

Nick could see it wouldn’t matter. Detective Carmichael already had that I-don’t-give-a-shit look that he recognized. He had even used it himself a time or two as a deputy prosecutor when he had to convince some lowlife that the deal he was offering was final.

“Morrelli?” Pakula was scratching his shaved head. “Do I know you?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Nick was growing impatient. Carmichael may have noticed. She uncrossed her arms, but that was all.

“My apologies if the officers may have given you the impression that you’re a suspect,” she told Tony. “And that they dragged you all the way down here. We only want to ask you a few questions. Is there a reason why you wouldn’t want to answer our questions?” Her voice was a little softer suddenly. Nick wondered if she wasn’t used to playing the role of bad cop. Or was she simply changing her route of manipulation?

Tony looked to Nick as if he expected Nick to answer for him again. Nick gave him a nod that it was okay, but at the same time, he didn’t like how nervous Tony seemed. Did he have something to hide?

“Go ahead,” Tony told the detective. “Of course I don’t mind answering your questions.”

“We understand that the monsignor called you from the airport,” Detective Pakula said as he started pacing the length of the room. Carmichael remained sitting, but Nick noticed her foot tapping out her nervous energy under the table.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You may have been the last person to talk to him. That he knew, that is. You mind sharing the contents of that conversation?”

“We had spoken earlier in the day about the schedule. I was going to fill in for him while he was gone. He couldn’t remember if he had told me about the church board meeting and where he kept his notes.” Tony crossed his legs, his right ankle rested on his left knee. To Nick he looked perfectly calm and natural. Almost too much so.

“Where were you when you got the call?”

“In the rectory,” Tony said without skipping a beat and Nick thought this should be easy. No big deal.

“Really?” Pakula asked.

Nick recognized that look. He had used it himself, a look that wobbled between surprise and sarcasm, but Tony didn’t flinch.

“You sure you were at the rectory?”

“Yes, of course. I usually do paperwork on Fridays.”

“Uh-huh. So Monsignor O’Sullivan would know this, right?” Pakula kept up his pacing, nodding.

“Of course.”

“Why do you suppose he called you on your cell phone instead of the phone at the rectory?”

“I have no idea,” Tony said.

It was a little like watching a tennis match, only Nick couldn’t tell what Pakula would do with that lame lob.

“What a minute,” Pakula said, spinning around to look at Nick and surprising them all. “Morrelli. Nick Morrelli. Now I remember you. You quarterbacked for the Huskers 1982, ’83.”

It took Nick a second or two to register the switch of subject. Earlier, when the detective thought he knew him, he had thought it might be from his stint as sheriff for Platte City, Nebraska, several years ago. After the media circus, it was difficult for anyone in the area to forget the murder of two little boys and the investigation that Nick almost flubbed up. Two men were serving life sentences and yet Nick wasn’t convinced he had caught the killer. Now he found he was relieved that Detective Pakula recognized him, instead, from another era, a more successful time in his life.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Nick said.

“I knew I recognized that name.” But as quickly as the detective had been distracted he returned to his questions. “So, Father Gallagher, how long have you worked with Monsignor O’Sullivan at Our Lady of Sorrow?”

“I’ve been the associate pastor there for almost three years.”

“Do you like him?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you like him? Did the two of you get along? Were you buddies?”

“I wouldn’t use the term buddies. We were colleagues.”

Nick noticed that Tony uncrossed his legs. Both hands were on his knees. Suddenly he didn’t seem so comfortable.

“Does he travel quite a bit?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘quite a bit.’”

“Why was Monsignor O’Sullivan going to Rome?”

“I believe the archbishop asked him to go. The monsignor had never been to the Vatican.”

“So he was excited about going?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t he be?”

“Was he delivering anything important for the archbishop?”

“Like what?” Tony asked, and Nick wanted to grab Tony by the collar and tell him to just answer the fucking questions. But instead he shifted in his chair, trying to catch Tony’s eyes, maybe give him a warning glare.

He saw Detectives Pakula and Carmichael exchange a glance. They might be pretending these were only fact-finding questions, but they were fishing for something. What exactly did they know and what did they think Tony wasn’t telling them?

“We were just wondering.” This time Carmichael took over while Pakula leaned against the wall as if taking a break. Carmichael braced her elbows up on the table, but she, too, looked calm, a bit too nonchalant, and Nick wondered what they were hoping to get out of this interview.

“The archbishop,” she continued, “asks the monsignor to go to the Vatican. Doesn’t it make sense that he’d want to make the most of the trip?”

“Yes, I suppose it does.”

Tony was good at this. Nick wasn’t sure why he was so surprised.

“Did Monsignor O’Sullivan carry a brown leather portfolio with him?” Carmichael moved on. Maybe he was wrong about them knowing what they were doing.

“Yes, I think I do remember a portfolio,” Tony finally answered.

“Did he have it with him yesterday?”

“I didn’t see him leave for the airport.”

“But you saw him right before?”

“Yes.”

Carmichael stared at Tony, waiting for more. Nick found himself staring and waiting, too. Tony, however, just shrugged and said, “If I didn’t see him leave for the airport how would I know for sure what he took with him?”

This time there was a sigh from Carmichael. Nothing from Pakula except a slight shift in his leaning.

“Last question…for now,” she emphasized. “Any idea why someone might want to kill Monsignor O’Sullivan?”

“Life is the ultimate gift from God. I can’t even imagine who would do such a thing,” Tony said with too much of a reverent whisper. Nick watched for Carmichael’s reaction, looking to see if she had noticed that Tony had managed to not answer yet another one of her questions.

Carmichael nodded without looking up from the notes she jotted. She glanced back at Pakula, then looked directly at Nick when she said, “If we have any more questions, we’ll be in touch.”

And immediately Nick figured that she and Pakula probably did know more. They hadn’t been interested in his presence the entire time. But now all of a sudden they were telling him they’d have more questions. They were telling Tony’s friend, the attorney.

CHAPTER 18

Washington, D.C.

Gwen Patterson made the last of her notes. She needed to head home. Maybe she’d stop at Mr. Lee’s World Market, pick up fresh mozzarella, some garlic and Italian sausage to make her stuffed manicotti with Bolognese sauce. Cooking had a way of relaxing her, soothing and calming her nerves. It worked twice as well if she cooked for company.

She thought about Maggie, but they had just had dinner last night. The last thing she wanted was to look too needy, especially with Maggie, especially now. She thought about R. J. Tully, Maggie’s partner, but he wouldn’t be back for another week. Gwen wished she didn’t miss him. Two weeks of vacation with his daughter, Emma, somewhere in Florida, and already…damn, she hated to admit it, but she did miss him. Not a good sign since the two of them had decided to take it slow, to get to know each other outside the stressful confines of the FBI files that had thrown them together in the past.

Funny. She was always telling Maggie to take some chances, to throw caution to the wind and have some fun when it came to love and romance, and yet, she couldn’t take her own advice. Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?

A soft tap at her office door startled her.

“Come in.”

Her assistant, Dena, peeked around the door. “I just finished. I’m taking off. Anything else I can do or get you?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks for coming in today, especially on a holiday weekend.”

“No problem. I needed to catch up on some things.”

Gwen refrained from following up with a comment about less time spent on the phone and looking for misplaced things and perhaps she wouldn’t need to come in on the weekends. But that wasn’t quite fair. The girl was doing a good job. And patients liked her, felt comfortable with her. That was more important than her misplacing a file or spending an hour extracting a bracelet caught in the copy machine.

“Any plans for tomorrow?” she asked instead.

“Actually, a friend called this morning and we’re thinking about trying out that new nightclub. How about you?”

“I’m hoping to catch up on some rest.”

“That’s probably a good idea. You’ve been looking kind of…well, not quite yourself. Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course. Just a bit tired. I need a day off.”

“Okay. Well, I hope you have a restful day off.”

“Thanks, Dena.”

“I’ll see you on Monday. Oh, wait, I almost forgot.” She left the door open and Gwen could hear her scurry back into the reception area, probably to her desk. Seconds later she came in with a manila envelope.

“This was left for you.”

Gwen watched her place the envelope on the corner of her desk. She could see there was no return address, no indication who it was from, but already she knew, and immediately she felt as if the air had been knocked out of her.

“Did you see who left it?”

“No. It must have been when I was fixing coffee or maybe when I stepped out to make copies.”

“What time?”

“Excuse me?”

“What time did you notice it?”

Gwen tried to get rid of the alarm from her voice, but she may not have been as successful as she’d like to be, because Dena was looking at her with concern.

“Gosh, I’m not sure exactly. It was between Mr. Rubin’s and Mr. Campion’s appointments.”

Gwen tried not to stare at the envelope. Of course, he must have brought it with him. But wasn’t that a bit risky, or perhaps ballsy was a better term? Would he actually bring it with him and simply place it on her receptionist’s desk? Could he have slipped this time and left his fingerprints on it? Surely he wouldn’t have worn gloves in the July heat.

“Is it something important?”

Gwen had briefly forgotten about Dena and did her best not to let it show on her face. She shrugged as if it were no big deal. “I doubt it. If it was important, the person who left it wouldn’t have just placed it on your desk without an explanation, right?”

“I suppose. And I really wasn’t gone that long to make the coffee, although that new contraption you bought takes a little more time.” She smiled as if to make sure Gwen knew she was only joking, giving her a hard time about the fancy gourmet coffeemaker Gwen had made a fuss over. “So I’ll see you on Monday.”

But Dena stayed in the doorway and when Gwen didn’t respond, she added, “Maybe you should take off and get started on that relaxing time.”

Gwen glanced up at the girl and returned her smile. She was the first one she had hired in years who seemed to have a genuine concern for her. Others had been wonderfully precise—not one of Dena’s top skills—but they lacked what Gwen could only describe as warmth, something she believed essential for the person outside her office door who greeted and cared for the mentally fragile patients who sometimes came through those doors.

“I’ll take that under serious consideration. Now, go get out of here and enjoy what’s left of your weekend.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And she left, gently closing the door behind her. For a moment Dena had almost made her forget about the envelope.

She picked it up by a corner with only her forefinger and thumb, careful in case there were fingerprints. She hadn’t noticed the slight bulge at the bottom. With her other hand she reached for a letter opener and tucked it under one of the flaps, holding firm as she slit the envelope open. Then she took a deep breath and turned the envelope over, letting the contents slide to the top of her desk. This time there was no note and she even peeked inside to make sure it didn’t get stuck to one of the sides. The only thing in front of her was the bulge, a plastic bag, zipped shut, the contents of which looked like a single gold earring.

CHAPTER 19

Omaha, Nebraska

Nick knew he should wait.

He grasped the steering wheel a bit too tight, took the left turn a little too wide. He wasn’t even sure why he was angry, but he knew he should wait until he calmed down. It would be better if he and Tony sat down across a table from each other, over a cup of coffee or maybe even a beer. It would be better if he waited.

He glanced at Tony who was staring out the passenger window of the rental car. That was one bad thing about his trips back to Nebraska. He missed his Jeep. There was a lot of thinking a guy could do taking the long way home in his Jeep. He could let off some steam by getting off the beaten path, kicking up some dirt, feeling the challenge of some rocks and mud beneath him. It just didn’t work in a rented Oldsmobile Alero.

The Jeep wasn’t the only thing he missed. Over the last several years there were plenty of things that made him feel as if he was split between two homes, maybe even two worlds. Some days his move to Boston felt like the right choice, the best thing that had happened to him. It had allowed him to get out from under his father’s shadow and expectations. Besides, he liked his job as deputy prosecutor for Suffolk County. He had met some incredible people, including Jill. But on days like today, it felt as though he had never left Nebraska, that it simply wasn’t possible when there were still so many connections, so many pieces of himself that had stayed behind. So much of who he used to be still floated to the surface, despite his attempt to change and to move on. His impatience—as he was certain his sister, Christine, would be happy to agree—was one of those flaws.

“What the hell’s going on?” Nick blurted out, deciding he couldn’t wait.

“Pretty weird, huh? That something like that could happen?”

“No, what’s weird is that you think you can pull something over on me.”

“Excuse me?”

Finally he had his friend’s attention diverted from the passing scenery.

“Detectives Carmichael and Pakula might have let you get away with all that dancing around because they don’t know you. I know you, Tony. You’re not fooling me. And you know what, you didn’t fool those detectives, either. They’ll be bringing you in again for more questioning.”

“What are you talking about? I already answered all their questions.”

“Oh, yeah, you answered their questions, all right. You know what it reminded me of?” Nick tried to calm his anger down a notch. “Remember in sixth grade when we kidnapped Mrs. Wilkes’s antique vase off her desk because she always made us come up with those stupid poems about it?”

“They were supposed to be haiku.”

“Yeah, well, see, that’s even more lame.”

“I remember,” Tony said, but from the look on his face Nick could tell he had a different memory of the event, one that didn’t instill shame and guilt like Nick’s.

“We hated that ugly vase,” Nick continued. “We wanted it gone. But we really were just going to hide it in the closet for a while. Make her sweat, then find it and be her heroes.”

“Still sounds like a brilliant idea,” Tony said, laughing.

“Yeah, brilliant. Only you dropped it.”

“It slipped out of my hands.”

“And it shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.”

“It was an accident.”

“Principal Kramer called us into his office,” Nick said, now pleased that Tony’s renewed memory was not quite as pleasant as his initial one. His sudden defensive tone was accompanied by his arms crossed over his chest, and his interest in the scenery was no longer convincing. “He asked if we stole Mrs. Wilkes’s vase. You told him no. It wasn’t a lie because we called it kidnapping. He asked if we broke the vase. You told him no. That wasn’t a lie either because you accidentally dropped it. I felt like we were back in Principal Kramer’s office again. You sidestepped all of Detectives Carmichael’s and Pakula’s questions.”

He took a long glance at his friend, catching his eyes if only for a brief moment. “I gotta ask, Tony. What the hell are you lying about?”

Nick expected more sidestepping. He expected Tony to get angry with him. Instead, he simply said, “I can’t tell you, Nick.” And he looked away, to stare back out the window, closing the subject and keeping Nick completely in the dark.

CHAPTER 20

Omaha, Nebraska

Gibson didn’t realize he had been sitting staring at the computer for what must have been hours. The game had come and gone and he had watched, not participating, not really even paying attention. It was the first time ever that he hadn’t played.

He heard the front door slam and searched for the time in the lower right-hand corner of his computer—5:25 p.m. His mom would be pissed. She’d go on and on about how worried she was that he was cooping himself up in his room. That he’d become a recluse like Emily Dickinson and die without anyone really knowing him. This week it was good ole Emily because his mom’s summer college class had been discussing dead poets. Several weeks ago she had compared him to some fourteen-year-old Palestinian boy terrorist whose tearful parents described him as always being so quiet and smart and keeping to himself until he walked into an Israeli café with enough dynamite strapped to his body to kill fifteen innocent people. There seemed to be a new comparison every other week.

His mom wasn’t like this when his dad was alive. At least Gibson didn’t remember her being like this—worried all the time about the littlest of things, the stupidest things. So tense and nervous that she couldn’t make a decision or stand up to even a rude grocery clerk who wouldn’t give her a discounted price. And now she cried all the time. At least she did at first. Maybe not so much anymore, not since the Zoloft.

He didn’t remember her ever crying when his dad was still alive. But then his dad had a way of making them all feel safe and secure. They didn’t need to worry as long as he was around. He just took care of things. He had been the strongest and most confident…the best man Gibson had ever known.

For Gibson it hadn’t just been about knowing that his dad could and would fix his broken bike or that he’d not be afraid to tell Mr. Fitz, the Nazi English teacher, that Gibson and the rest of his class needed more time for their assignments. It was more. It was a feeling that everything would be okay. A feeling of just plain old happiness. A feeling Gibson hadn’t felt since.

But then his dad had to go and get himself killed, getting in the way of some frickin’ drunk driver. And that’s when Monsignor O’Sullivan started calling Gibson into his office at school, claiming to be worried about him, wanting to make sure he was okay. He’d make Gibson pray with him. They’d recite the Our Father while the monsignor told him how special he was. He’d stand behind Gibson, leaning in against him so that sometimes Gibson could even smell the alcohol on his breath. He’d rub Gibson’s shoulders, his neck and then not just his shoulders and neck. The first time it happened, Gibson could hardly believe it.

He shook his head and pushed away from the computer. He didn’t want to think about it. It wasn’t right, no matter what the bastard said. It just wasn’t right. And he knew it. Why else would he insist Gibson tell no one? Only, who would he tell? He didn’t have anyone he could tell. Nobody’d believe him. Nobody, except The Sin Eater.

He heard firecrackers in the distance. Someone down the block. Maybe Tyler and his buddies. He couldn’t believe he had almost forgotten tomorrow was the Fourth of July. It used to be one of his favorite holidays. Now it was just a lot of irritating noise.

CHAPTER 21

Omaha, Nebraska

Nick smiled and waved, disguising his relief. Jill evidently didn’t notice. She climbed back into the BMW packed with four of her old college girlfriends. Her high from the engagement party continued. He’d never seen her like this—almost giddy. Maybe it was just being around her old friends. Whatever it was, Nick was quickly learning that he played a small role in this week’s events.

“So I guess you’re stuck with me tonight,” Christine said, coming out onto the porch of their parents’ farmhouse. She let the screen door slam behind her and handed him one of the two longneck beers in her hands.

He took her offering, moving over and making room for her next to him on the old wooden porch swing, setting it creaking and swinging. The beer was cold, the condensation wetting his fingers. It was just what he needed. He guzzled half the bottle before Christine’s sudden laughter made him stop.

“Is the prospect of spending an evening with your big sister that bad?”

“It’s been a helluva day,” he told her, but now he rolled the bottle between his hands, watching the amber liquid swish against the inside of the bottle. “How ’ bout I take you and Timmy out for pizza? Mom, too.”

“You can ask, but I think Mom’s pooped. And Timmy went with a couple of his friends to a movie.”

“What movie?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even care. It’s bad enough I had to bribe him to go. He’s been spending way too much time alone in his room on his computer.”

Nick glanced over at his sister, seeing her frustration. He knew it had to be tough raising a teenage boy all by herself. Christine complained about many things, but Timmy was rarely one of those. After her husband, Bruce, cheated on her a second time, Christine threw him out again, but this time with little of the fanfare or emotion of the first blowout. It was almost as if Christine had expected it, had prepared herself.

Sometimes Nick wondered if the emotion would catch up with her, sort of like an aftershock knocking her off her feet long after the initial impact. Christine had a way of reacting on impulse without thinking things through, without weighing the consequences. He hoped that wasn’t the case with Bruce, especially where Timmy was concerned. But then, who was he to judge? He certainly was no expert on relationships. After all, here he was an engaged guy, sitting on his parents’ front porch asking his sister to go get a pizza with him on a Saturday night.

“How did things go with Father Tony?”

“Are you asking as a friend of Tony’s or as a reporter?”

“Give me a break,” Christine said, but he recognized that faked, hurt look. Yet she diverted her eyes and was suddenly interested in the dust she brushed from the porch-swing arm. “I heard that Monsignor O’Sullivan may have been murdered, too much blood on the bathroom floor for a heart attack.”

“How did you already hear that?”

Now she gave him her eyes, only to roll them at him. “I work for the largest newspaper in the state. How do you think I found out?”

“Which brings me back to my original question. Are you asking about Tony as a friend or a reporter?”

“As a friend, stupid. I have other ways of finding out about the case. Come on, give me a break. It’s been almost four years.”

Nick took another gulp, watching her out of the corner of his eye, letting her know it wasn’t that easy to forget, to let bygones be bygones. Almost four years ago when he was sheriff of Platte City, she undermined a murder investigation—his investigation—using him to scoop her competition and to get front-page headlines and front-page bylines for herself.

“They just had some basic questions for Tony,” he said, carefully leaving out any information.

“Basic questions like who would want O’Sullivan dead?”

“Yeah. Basic questions like that.”

She shook her head at him and smiled, acknowledging that was all she was getting from him. Nick smiled back and took another swallow of beer. They knew each other too well. When had everything become a game with them? Two steps forward, three steps back—it was something his father always said, though Nick couldn’t remember at the time what his dad meant by it. Antonio Morrelli was the power broker of mind games. Or rather, he had been. There weren’t too many games the old man could play these days, lying in his bed, unable to move or speak, the massive stroke leaving him with eye movement his only communication tool.

“Actually I shouldn’t be telling you this,” Christine said, but paused, waiting for his attention. “We’ve been putting together a piece for the paper that involves the Omaha Archdiocese. It involves O’Sullivan.”

She got his attention, just like she wanted. He couldn’t help wondering if this was what Tony couldn’t talk about.

“Involves the archdiocese in what exactly?” he asked, pretending it really didn’t matter to him.

“What else? The same thing that’s been plaguing the Catholic Church all over the country for the last several years.”

“You’re saying Monsignor O’Sullivan’s been abusing boys?”

“Keep it down,” Christine whispered, getting up from the porch swing to glance inside the house. “If Mom found out I was working on something that might go against the church, she’d be lighting candles for the salvation of my soul for weeks.” Satisfied that their mother wasn’t listening at the door, she leaned against the porch rail and took a sip of her beer before she continued. “A lot of what we have right now is considered speculation and rumor, because no one’s willing to go on the record.”

“Maybe no one’s willing to go on the record because it is speculation and rumor.” Nick wasn’t good at hiding his disdain for the news media, despite his sister being a part of that crazy world. And right now, he hated that Christine seemed willing to point to O’Sullivan’s death as proof of a bunch of rumors, some sort of way to validate a story she was trying to dig up. Hadn’t she learned anything from four years ago?

“Sometimes even the most outrageous rumors have a grain of truth to them.”

“And sometimes they’re simply started by bitter, vengeful people,” he added.

“Okay, then how about the rumor that O’Sullivan was taking secret documents with him to Rome and now all of a sudden they’re missing.”

Too late. The expression of surprise must have registered on his face, because she was nodding at him with that “I gotcha” look.

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