"I grew up in this neighborhood," the young man said. "I was an altar boy. I'm hurt you don't remember me, Father Paul."
"Really?" Father Conley came back to study him once more, but still he couldn't place him. Besides, the man certainly didn't look or sound upset. "I've been here for twenty years," he told him. "A lot of boys have served mass with me. Surely you can't expect me to remember every single one of them?"
Now the stranger shoved his coffee cup aside and brought out a plastic bag, unrolling it on the table. Father Conley thought it looked like one of those large transparent bags that dry cleaners used when they returned your freshly cleaned garments. Ah, perhaps that was what he had come for. He must be the dry cleaner, picking up the vestments. But why come to the rectory and not the church? It didn't make sense.
"I suppose it is difficult to remember everyone," the young man said, pushing away from the table and standing up with the plastic bag now unfolded, and twisted tightly around both hands, his fingers balling up around its corners until they were fists. "But I would hope you'd remember the ones you fucked, Father Paul."
Suddenly Father Conley found himself caught in a veil of plastic, stretched over his face, cutting off his breath. He fought, clawing at the hands that continued to wrap the plastic taut around his entire head, until he could feel the knot at the base of his neck. Desperate for air, he struggled, kicking and flaying his arms, trying to dig the plastic out of his face, but the layers were many and the fight was quickly being strangled out of him.
Still, he twisted and turned, thrashing about, banging into counters and knocking pots and pans to the floor, only they seemed to no longer make a sound. He slipped to his knees but still continued to pluck at the plastic, now much of it inhaled, sticking in his mouth and down his throat as he gasped like a fish out of water.
There was no more air, no more fight left in him. He fell to the floor and the last thing Father Paul Conley saw was Mrs. Sanchez's dead eyes staring out at him from under the butcher-block table in the far corner.
CHAPTER 62
Omaha, Nebraska
Maggie was completely exhausted by the time she got back to her hotel. She and Pakula barely said a word to each other on the drive from the Saint Francis Center to the Embassy Suites. Pakula told her he'd talk to Chief Ramsey about Father Michael Keller and that the chief and Assistant Director Cunningham could discuss how to handle it. Maggie felt relieved until she remembered that she'd still have to be the one to meet with Keller. He had told her he wouldn't relinquish any information to anyone but her.
She knew he didn't mean it as a favor or a professional courtesy. He had to know she had been tracking him, asking questions, creating suspicion, making it impossible for him to stay in one place for long. This was his way to mock her, to put her in her place.
While listening to Mark Donovan it had suddenly occurred to her that she wasn't all that different from this priest killer. Keller had committed horrendous crimes. No one could look at those dead little boys and not agree. And yet, he had eluded justice and it gnawed at her. Evil against children was the most difficult to stomach, the most difficult to stand back and watch the evil perpetrator escape and possibly continue. It wasn't only unlawful, it was immoral to allow that evil to continue, to go unchecked, unpunished. At times, she found herself not just wanting Keller to pay for his crimes, she wanted him gone forever so he could never hurt another innocent boy. Wasn't that exactly what this killer was doing? Carrying out a type of justice for those priests who had managed to escape punishment, stopping them before they had a chance to hurt another boy. The only difference between the two of them was that Maggie had a badge.
The comparison didn't sit well with her. What law enforcement official enjoyed thinking of herself as a hired killer? She had even lingered in the hotel lobby, considering a stop at the lounge. It wasn't that long ago that exhaustion would never have won out over her urge for Scotch. There used to be nothing better than two or three Scotches to ease the challenges of her profession.
However, as soon as she walked into her hotel room she flipped open her cell phone. She no longer bothered to check for messages. She knew Gwen wouldn't call. Instead, she simply dialed and was surprised when Gwen answered on the third ring.
"Gwen, are you okay?" Maggie asked.
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"Well, excuse me, but I haven't been able to ask you that because you haven't bothered to return any of my phone calls. I've been worried sick about you."
Silence. Maggie berated herself. Here she finally gets in touch with her friend and does the exact thing Gwen wanted to avoid by not returning her calls.
"I'm sorry, Gwen. I've just been really worried."
"I think Racine may be trying to figure out whether or not to arrest me."
"Arrest you? What in the world for?"
"You haven't talked to her today?"
"Early this morning," Maggie said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "What's going on?"
"It's complicated." Gwen sounded so tired.
"Tell me anyway."
Maggie listened without interrupting as Gwen told her about Rubin Nash and how she suspected that he might be the D.C. killer, but wasn't sure. She told her about the notes, a map, some earrings, even a cell phone that the killer had left for her, always at her office building. That was why she believed it had to be one of her patients, someone who could come and go and not be noticed. Gwen even admitted that when Racine called in Maggie to profile the case, Gwen thought she might be able to guide Maggie to the killer without endangering anyone close to her.
Maggie listened and wished she was there offering something more, something warmer than an "okay" or "go on." Gwen stopped and Maggie thought she was finished until Gwen said so softly she could barely hear her, "I should have told you. I should have told you from the very beginning."
"You thought you were doing the right thing," Maggie told her. "How many times have I done that?"
"But you've never gotten anyone killed in the process."
"That's not true. How could you forget Albert Stucky?" Maggie still cringed at the sound of his name. Stucky had been pure evil. He had played a deadly game of cat and mouse with her that included killing women Maggie came in contact with. By the time he was finished, he had killed four women _ four ordinary innocent women whose only mistake was meeting Maggie.
Gwen promised to call in the morning, thanking Maggie. She flipped her phone shut and set it onto the nightstand. It felt a little strange. Usually Gwen was the one comforting her, getting her out of hot water and calming her down. They had started out with Gwen as her mentor, her teacher, and went on to become best friends. This time Gwen had hoped Maggie could save her.
Maggie kicked off her shoes, took off her jacket and hung it on the back of the desk chair. She unbuckled her shoulder holster and laid it next to her cell phone. It was the only reason she continued to wear a jacket in the July heat. People talked differently to a woman with a gun strapped to her side. Sometimes it was advantageous, but most of the time it was annoying.
She keyed open the minibar, suddenly too thirsty and too tired to search for a vending machine. She started to grab a bottle of water when she saw the miniature bottle of Chivas. She sat back on her feet, staring at it, and suddenly her thirst wasn't quite as great as before. She plucked the miniature bottle out of the fridge, immediately noticing how tiny it felt between her fingers. The bottle was so small it could hardly be worth it. Yet she set it and the bottled water on the small table in the corner and decided if she had the Chivas on the rocks it would be okay.