Brother Sebastian climbed into a shiny black Lincoln Town Car, and Nick waited until he drove away. Then he closed and locked the door. When he came back into the living room both boys were staring at the entrance as if they had just escaped a firing squad.
"That was sweet, Uncle Nick" Timmy told him. "You were awesome."
Before they could go into any kind of victory dance, Nick gave them a look that wiped the smile off Timmy's face and made Gibson slide back into the couch.
"What the hell did you boys do?"
CHAPTER 73
Omaha, Nebraska
Father Michael Keller wished his vision would return to normal. He had almost changed his mind in Chicago during a two-hour layover. Not because of fear or regret, but because his insides felt as though they would explode. He spent most of those two hours in the bathroom, vomiting until there was nothing left but the urge. As soon as his insides had settled down, his eyesight had started playing tricks on him.
It was the worst when he first arrived in Omaha, making him see double and triple. There had been one uniformed officer and a detective to meet him and suddenly there seemed to be three uniformed officers and then almost a dozen. He had walked through the airport with them, trying to ignore the feeling of walking through a fun house with mirrors alongside, distorting, elongating and multiplying images all around him. That was when he told them he wanted to go to his hotel. That if they wanted to get the information from him they'd need to come to his hotel room. And what a hotel room it was, bigger than his shack, with a sitting area and a counter with rninifridge and microwave.
He'd been in the rain forest for too long. He reveled in everything, from the tiny shampoo bottles and the bright white cotton towels to the king-size bed and carpeting so soft it felt like walking on feathers. He hadn't realized how much he missed, how much he had sacrificed. Like air-conditioning! He'd forgotten how glorious air-conditioning felt except that it had given him such a chill during the ride from the airport that when the hotel desk clerk asked if there was anything they could bring to his room for him he immediately asked for some hot tea. Yes, some hot tea would ease his frayed nerves and settle his stomach. Some tea that wasn't laced with monkshood, that would restore the comforting memory of his mother and not let him dwell on the poison.
The young detective asked if everything was to his liking, if there was anything else he needed. He told him the others would be coming soon. lust as a hotel person brought in a tray with all the makings for his hot tea, the detective left in search of the meeting room they were to use downstairs off the lobby.
Keller stood back and admired the contents on the tray: a porcelain carafe of hot water, a delicate bone-china teacup and saucer, a matching plate with an assortment of teas in colorful packages, a small stainless-steel pitcher with milk and a small dish with miniature sugar cubes. If that wasn't enough of a treat, they had included a small basket, and he peeked under the linen napkin to find a treasure of biscuits and muffins still warm.
He rubbed his hands together, content, sitting and staring at the surprise feast. Finally, he chose a package of tea and poured a cup, relishing the aroma. Yes, this would make it all better. He could feel a warmth start to fill him even with the first sip.
He had been wrong to think he should have to do without these simple pleasures. It had been almost four years, four long years of punishment he didn't deserve. He had fried to make his time as productive as possible. But there were so many who needed him. So many who were miserable and starving, neglected and abused. At times it was overwhelming. He knew he couldn't be expected to save them all. But Arturo was different, special. Those sad, dark eyes were like a window into his own childhood, a constant reminder of what it was like to have no one who cared. He had been lucky to have his mother, though only for twelve short years. But Arturo had no one except those who knew only how to punish and abuse him. No, he could never have left without saving Arturo. It was the least he could do.
A knock at the door rudely interrupted him. He wished he could ignore it. Perhaps it was simply the hotel person, coming back for the tray. Did they come back this quickly? Or it could be someone else checking to make sure he was comfortable.
He opened the door just a crack. The detective had already returned.
"We're ready for you," he said, and suddenly all the therapeutic magic of the tea seemed to dissipate.
CHAPTER 74
Washington, D.C.
He called in sick. Two days in a row. His boss wasn't happy. Yesterday wasn't much of a problem. Today meant canceling an account meeting in Saint Louis, which meant canceling a flight, maybe not getting back the full refund on the ticket. The cheap bastard would buy wing seats if he got a good enough discount. Last week's trip to Florida he had even been on standby. Standby, for God's sake. Was that any way to run a business? He didn't care if he got fired. Right now he didn't care about anything except the banging in his chest that had rapidly moved to include the back of his head. He worried that soon his entire body would become one throbbing ache.
He had ignored the blinking e-mail icon in the corner of his computer screen, but he knew he couldn't ignore it forever. He felt it watching him, could feel it through the walls like some laser beam following him from room to room. It was ridiculous. Of course, The Sin Eater couldn't see him, certainly couldn't watch him. So how did he know?
He paced in front of the computer. Calling in sick wasn't really a lie. He did feel sick, nauseated and feverish. When he glanced at himself in the mirror this morning he hardly recognized his image. His hair looked like it had thinned overnight and there seemed to be a sickly yellow tinge to his skin. His bloodshot eyes were swollen from little sleep. How could he sleep when Mrs. Sanchez kept waking him up, staring at him from the dark corner of his bedroom?
The nightmare had been so real he had forced himself to stay awake. If only she hadn't been there at the rectory. How could he know she'd be there in the middle of the afternoon? The others were different, whores waiting to have the evil slit out of them. But Mrs. Sanchez… she shouldn't have gotten in his way. It wasn't his fault. But how did The Sin Eater know?
He stared at the computer screen from across the small room. When he was invited to play the game he had to submit a name and he did: Father Paul Conley. Terminating him in a make-believe computer game hadn't been enough. He wanted him dead. He wanted to control Father Paul Conley's last breath and he had.
He had to think about this. If The Sin Eater had heard or seen the news that the priest had really been murdered, would he automatically know it was him? The Sin Eater could go back to the original list, see who submitted Father Paul's name and then know the priest's killer. Would he feel the need to punish him? Would he turn him in to the police?
It didn't matter. He had been especially careful, very careful… except for the fucking coffee mug. Jesus! He couldn't believe he had forgotten it. Everything else he had wiped down or thrown into the garbage bags. Everything except the most obvious fucking thing. By the time he remembered, it was too late to go back. But it didn't matter. He didn't care. It was over and done, and Father Paul Conley couldn't, wouldn't, be able to hurt anyone else.
Pumped with a fresh wave of adrenaline he marched across the room to the computer and clicked on the e-mail waiting for him. He could handle whatever it was. There was only one e-mail message, and it was from The Sin Eater: