Brother Sebastian and the archbishop seemed content with the monsignor being a victim of unfortunate random violence. They seemed more concerned about what happened to the leather portfolio than they did the monsignor. But Pakula's gut told him there was nothing random about this murder. If that was true, then there were more secrets being kept than what was inside that missing portfolio.
"This is interesting," Martha Stofko said, getting Pakula's attention.
Stofko had been hunched over the chest cavity, but now stood back, scooping out a yellowish glob and placing it on the scale. "Fifteen hundred grams," she mumbled, jotting down the information quickly then moving the glob to a dissection tray.
"Okay, what are we looking at?" Pakula asked, coming up beside her. Try as he might, Pakula still saw just a glob of tissue where M.E.'s saw tumors or nodules.
Stofko grabbed what looked like an ordinary butter knife and began slicing into and sectioning what resembled chicken fat.
"A healthy liver usually has the texture and color of calves' livers. You've probably seen them in the supermarket."
"This sure doesn't look like a healthy liver." Pakula grimaced at what looked more like a soft, yellow mush of tissue. "So what was wrong with Monsignor O'Sullivan?"
"I'd say the good monsignor liked to throw back a few. Actually, more than a few and over a very long period."
"Oh, great, an alcoholic priest," Pakula said as he wiped his hand over his shaved head. Just one more secret to add to the mess.
CHAPTER 26
Venezuela
Father Michael Keller folded the vestments and placed them in his special wooden box alongside the newspaper clippings. He was quite pleased with himself. The Sunday-morning mass had gone better than expected, despite his nausea. He only wished he could figure out what was making him ill.
By now he had grown accustomed to the heat and humidity. He had gained control over the insects, rarely sharing his home with them anymore. And although there was no end to the mosquitoes, he thought he had developed an immunity to their venom, unless… unless he had contracted malaria or West Nile Virus. Was that possible?
He felt his forehead again, wiping the dripping sweat off, then placing his palm flat against his hot brow. Definitely a fever: Perhaps he needed to fix himself another cup of tea.
It certainly had soothed him earlier and gotten him not only through the mass but the meet-and-greet afterward.
He hated the meet-and-greet, smiling and nodding, pretending he understood their crude English. He had come up with the perfect response, one they all seemed pleased with, one that sent them away smiling and nodding _ "I'll keep you in my prayers." It worked every time. Poor wretches needed to be in someone's prayers. And after all, he was here to help them, to be a part of their miserable little community.
He had grown weary of picking up in the middle of the night and moving to a new location. And for that reason, this place was supposed to be different, though it wasn't much different than any of the others. In fact, they all looked the same, the same weathered shacks and huts kept together by the grace of God. And the villagers were the same, too, apparently content with their rags for clothes and gruel for food, but so desperately needy for attention and praise, especially from God, and so of course, especially from him. He was, after all, the next best thing in their minds. And to some __ the dying old women and the innocent little children __ he was God.
Yes, he was tired of moving. He had come to that decision, even after hours of panic over the Halloween mask, that death mask from the past. He had convinced himself that it was someone's idea of a bad joke. It had to be. There was no way ayone could have tracked him here. It was impossible. Besides, he wasn't about to let anyone scare him into the night ever again.
The tea kettle began to hiss just as the rains started, again. He tried to remember how long it had been since he had seen the sun. It was beginning to take its toll. The familiar throbbing in his head was starting again, too. Maybe it was simply sinus problems, the humidity making it impossible to feel any relief. Could that be the reason for his fever? For the nausea? For the damn throbbing.
He poured the tea, inhaling its therapeutic aroma and already feeling better. It was times like this when he felt a bit vulnerable, that the tea reminded him of his mother, his dear saintly mother. Hot tea and cookies had been her one indulgence, which she hid from her husband lest he take that away from her, too. The day she shared it with him, treating him to the whole ritual __ the entire experience, including the secrecy __ he felt an eternal bond. It had been their special treat, their special time with each other. Perhaps that's why it was still such a comfort to him. It had become a way to conjure up those few good memories from his past.
He checked the time and brought his cup of tea to the wooden table with the laptop computer. The computer had been an enormous splurge, beyond a guilty pleasure, but also a godsend. It had become his connection to the outside world, to civilization, oftentimes restoring his sanity with a press of a button. And always, there was someone in the village who, no matter what cost or inconvenience or magical skills, was able to get an Internet connection for him as long as there was a phone line close by. However, the dial-up speed was slow and the time frame to access it annoyingly short.
He waited patiently for the computer to boot up and then for it to go through its tedious process of trying to locate and make the Internet connection. He sipped his tea and sat back, listening to the rain. The computer prompt asked for his password and he punched it in. Then he sat back again, expecting to wait some more. The connection came up immediately.
"YOU'VE GOT MAIL," the computerized voice told him and it brought a sense of comfort almost as strong as the tea. His friend from the States, it had to be. It was the only person he had given out his e-mail address to. Although they had exchanged very little personal information about each other, they had shared some wonderful in-depth discussions on current events and moral quandaries. It was the closest to a friend that he had had in years… actually, maybe ever.
He clicked on New Mail. Yes, it was his friend, the clever e-mail tag always making him smile: TheSinEater@aol.com.
There were never greetings, a detail he appreciated, not wanting to waste time on pleasantries that were no longer necessary. This message contained two separate links that looked like news articles. It was something they did quite frequently, drawing each other's attention to particular events and starting a whole new discussion. At the end of the message his friend simply wrote: YOU MAY BE NEXT. Probably another attempt at humor; he liked his friend's dry sense of humor, their occasional exchange of playful barbs.
He clicked on the first link and again sat back to wait for the ever-slow connection. When the page finally came up, the headline startled him enough that he jolted upright, almost spilling his tea: Omaha Monsignor Knifed To Death In Airport Restroom.
CHAPTER 27
University of New Haven
New Haven, Connecticut
Maggie stood back and watched Professor Adam Bonzado turn the flesh-eaten skull around in his hands, holding it and examining it as if it were a jeweled treasure. She had never realized before how strong his hands looked. The long fingers like that of a piano player, careful and gentle yet probing the loose flesh, inquisitive without hesitating and without cringing. Gwen had given her a hard time, suggesting she had met her match with Bonzado _ finally a man just as obsessed with evil as she was.