He had sent back an e-mail asking his so-called friend just that:
WHY DO YOU BELIEVE I MAY BE NEXT?
He hadn't received an answer until this evening. And the answer had hit him like a bullet through his heart.
I KNOW BECAUSE I EXECUTED EACH OF THEM. AND YOU'RE ON THE LIST.
The e-mail came with an attachment, the list, and yes, his name was there, just under Monsignor William O' Sullivan's.
He had to wait until the shock and betrayal finally diminished to an ache instead of the debilitating throbbing in his temple. Then he could begin his defense the only way he knew how: know thy enemy. He started with a mad search, looking up and reading anything and everything he could find on the ancient practice of sin eating, finding only bits and pieces. At one Web site, he read: "Traditionally, each village maintained its own sin eater who lived a reclusive life on the outskirts of the village."
At another Web site he found a description of the sin eater's duties: "The sin eater came after nightfall, after all had left the dead one's side. He would eat the bread left on the chest of the dead one, thus removing the sins of the dead and consuming their sins, taking them into his own soul." The early Catholic Church called it an "illicit practice" especially when used to provide absolution to those who had "committed crimes the church considered unforgivable," crimes such as "suicide or the assassination of church officials."
So this sin eater had taken on a double role. How clever. As an assassin he was not only killing church officials, but he was also eating, or rather consuming, the sins of those he was killing for. He had become a mediator of sorts.
Father Keller wiped his sweaty face with the sleeve of his white shirt. When that wasn't enough, he yanked out the shirttails and pulled them up to wipe again. Yet the sweat seemed to keep pouring out of him. And the throbbing in his temples would not go away. It banged against his skull until he wanted to rip out the pain with this fingers when rubbing wasn't enough anymore.
He was exhausted. The panic had drained him. Even the ' tea, the wonderfully comforting tea, continued to make him nauseous. Then it hit him and he stared at the cup of steaming tea as if for the first time seeing it for the Judas cup that it might be. Was it possible? Had his friend _ no, not a friend at all. Had his enemy sent him a wonderful gift of lovely teas and cookies that were actually poisoned?
He tried to remember when he had started feeling sick. Did it coincide with the receipt of the gift? Was that the plan? To poison him? Or was it simply to weaken him so that he couldn't leave, couldn't escape and would be helpless when The Sin Eater came to finish him off?
He shoved the cup away, knocking it off the rickety wooden table and watching it splatter against the wall. That was the final betrayal. His so-called friend wanted to play games. Well, he could play as well.
He pulled his chair up to the computer and typed:
YOU POISONED THE TEA.
He clicked on Send and sat back.
Usually it took hours for a response, but it was as if The Sin Eater was sitting and waiting, expecting Keller. An e-mail came back within minutes:
YES, WITH MONKSHOOD. SINCE I CAN'T BE THERE TO KILL YOU MYSELF I WANTED YOU TO DIE A SLOW AND PAINFUL DEATH.
Why? How could he? The panic started to eat away at his insides. Or was it the poison? Could it already have caused irreparable damage? Could it already be too late?
He left the e-mail site and started clicking on news links, trying to find any new information on the slain priests. There had to be something, anything, he could use. Someone had put him on a hit list. He would find out who it was. Who could possibly know? There wasn't anyone he could think of.
This Sin Eater, this assassin, had sent him things. Surely there was DNA on the envelopes. And what about all the e-mails? Maybe someone could track them. A new AP story was posted, one he hadn't seen. It must have been posted late, expecting to hit the morning wires and newscasts. He clicked it open. Before he read a single word, he stared at the accompanying photo. He should have been alarmed, but instead he was pleased that he recognized one of the investigators. Because that's when the idea came to him. And that's when Keller knew exactly what he would do. It would work. It had to work. He had no other choice.
The only question was what price would Special Agent Maggie O'Dell be willing to pay to catch this killer?
CHAPTER 47
Tuesday, July 6 Blackwater Bay Campground South of Bagdad, Florida
Corey Lee ignored his stepdad's yelling and kept walking. He rolled his eyes at his best friend, Kevin Potter.
"Shouldn't we wait for him to catch up?" Kevin asked.
Corey shook his head. "He won't come this way. He's taking the road. It'll take forever."
Besides, Corey didn't want to wait. They were almost to the boat ramp. And it was stupid to turn back now. Corey knew this shortcut. He and Kevin had taken it the last time the troop used this campground. It was a straight shot to the ramp, which was just on the other side of these trees. Yeah, the brush was thick and the no-see-ums came at you in swarms, but wasn't that what camping was supposed to be all about?
His stepdad didn't want them taking the shortcut. It wasn't safe, or so he'd said. He thought warning them about water moccasins and alligators would stop them, instead it only made Corey and Kevin more excited to take the shortcut. Ever since the dweeb took the position as a Scout leader he thought he knew everything about the outdoors. He already thought he knew everything about everything else. But Corey had been a Boy Scout for three years. He grew up around these wetlands. He didn't need his mom's latest "special friend" telling him what to do.
He still couldn't believe she actually married this one. Which meant Corey was stuck with him hanging around the house, but it wasn't fair that he thought he could invade Corey's escapes, too. When he complained to his mom, she told him to stop "being a baby" about it. She said that Ethan wanted this to be a bonding experience between them. Corey didn't tell her that bonding with the major dweeb was the last thing he wanted to do.
"Sounds like he's following us," Kevin said.
Both of them looked over their shoulders as they kept walking. Corey could hear Ethan, but he couldn't see him. The brush was thick, but he could hear something snapping the branches and swishing through the tall grass.
"Maybe he's not such a dweeb. Maybe you should cut him a break," Kevin said, but Corey shook his head again.
"He doesn't want us showing him up. You know, proving him wrong. Geez! Something sure stinks," Corey said and then he tripped.
Before he could catch himself he was falling, knocking into Kevin and bringing him down, too. He slammed his shoulder into a tree trunk and felt his elbow scrape against the bark. Kevin went facedown. Corey could hear the marshy slosh underneath the pine needles. Immediately his jeans were soaked. And geez! It smelled bad, like rotting garbage.
Suddenly Corey jumped up, quickly forgetting any pain. He saw worms crawling up his pant legs, fat little worms. He brushed and hit at them. Kevin watched until he saw them on his arm, then Kevin was back up on his feet, too, doing a dance to get them off.
They were so frantic getting the worms off that it took them a few minutes before they looked to see what had tripped them. Corey glanced back first. It looked like a pile of debris, dirty black rags covered with mud and leaves. There was a lot of household crap left over from Hurricane Ivan that had gotten caught up in the trees and brush.