Brightly colored stained-glass figures stared down from their heavenly perch. The scent of burning incense and candle wax filled Maggie’s nostrils. Why was it that being inside of a Catholic church always made her feel as if she was twelve again? Immediately, she thought of the black bra and panties she wore—too much lace, an inappropriate color. The butt of her gun stabbed into her side. She reached inside her jacket and readjusted the shoulder strap. Should she even be carrying a gun inside a church? Of course, she was being ridiculous.

She glanced over her shoulder as if expecting to see a casket being rolled up the aisle behind them. She could still hear the click-clack of rollers, the soft tap of a dozen leather shoes marching in unison along with her father’s casket. When she looked up, Morrelli was watching her, waiting for her at the altar.

“Everything okay?”

He had left her hotel room at five o’clock to go home, shower, shave and change clothes. When he arrived two hours later to pick her up, she hardly recognized him. His short hair was neatly combed back. His face was clean-shaven, and the white scar on his chin—even more pronounced—added a rugged edge to his good looks. Underneath his denim jacket he wore a white shirt and black tie with crisp blue jeans and shiny black cowboy boots. It was a stretch from the customary brown uniforms the rest of his department wore, but he still looked official. Perhaps it was simply the way he carried himself, straight and tall, self-assured with long, confident strides.

“O’Dell, are you okay?” he asked again.

She looked around the church. It seemed large for a town of Platte City’s size, with rows and rows of wooden pews. She couldn’t imagine all of them being filled.

“I’m fine,” she finally answered, then regretted taking so long because he truly did look concerned. His eyes betrayed his fresh appearance, still puffy from too little sleep. She had tried to hide her own signs of fatigue with a bit of makeup.

“It seems so big,” she said, trying to explain her distraction.

“It’s relatively new. The old church was a small country parish about five miles south of town,” he told her. “Platte City’s grown, practically doubled in the last ten years. Mostly people tired of living in the city. They still commute to work either in Omaha or Lincoln. Kind of ironic, huh? People moving out here to get away from big-city crime, thinking they’ll raise their kids someplace quiet and safe.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared off over her head.

“You folks need some help?” A man appeared from a curtain behind the altar.

“We’re looking for Father Francis,” Morrelli said without offering any more explanation.

The man eyed them suspiciously. Though he carried a broom, he was dressed in dress slacks, a crisply pressed shirt, tie and long, brown cardigan. He looked young despite his dark hair peppered with gray. When he approached them, Maggie noticed he had a slight limp and wore bright white tennis shoes.

“What do you want with Father Francis?”

Morrelli glanced at Maggie as if asking how much to reveal. Before he had a chance to say anything, the man seemed to recognize Morrelli.

“Wait a minute. I know who you are.” He said it as if it were an accusation. “Didn’t you play quarterback for the Nebraska Cornhuskers? You’re Morrelli, Nick Morrelli, 1982 to 1983.”

“You’re a Cornhuskers fan?” Morrelli grinned, obviously pleased by the recognition. Maggie noticed dimples. A quarterback—why wasn’t she surprised?

“Big-time fan. My name’s Ray…Ray Howard. I just moved back here last spring. They didn’t televise very many games back East. It was horrible, just horrible. Actually, I played a bit.” His excitement rambled on in quick bursts. “In high school. At Omaha Central. Even had Dr. Tom come check me out. Then I boogered up my knee. Our final game. Against Creighton Prep, of all the sissy teams. I twisted it up pretty good. Never played again.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Nick said.

“Yeah, the Lord moves in mysterious ways. So, is this here your wife?” He finally acknowledged Maggie. She felt his eyes slide over her body, and she resisted the urge to button her jacket.

“No, we’re not married.” Morrelli seemed embarrassed.

“Your fiancée then. That’s probably what you want to see Father Francis about, huh? He’s married hundreds.”

“No, we’re not—”

“It’s an official matter,” Maggie interrupted, relieving Morrelli. The man stared at her, waiting for an explanation. Now she crossed her arms over her chest, emphasizing her authority and stifling his wandering eyes. “Is Father Francis here?”

Howard looked at Morrelli, then back at Maggie when he realized neither was willing to say more.

“I think he’s in back changing. He said mass this morning.” He made no effort to leave.

“Would you mind getting him for us, Ray?” Morrelli asked much more politely than Maggie would have.

“Oh, sure.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “Who should I say wants to see him?” He looked at Maggie, waiting for an introduction.

Maggie sighed and shifted her weight impatiently. Morrelli shot her a look, then said, “Just tell him Nick Morrelli, okay?”

“Oh, sure.”

Howard disappeared behind the curtain. This time Maggie rolled her eyes at Morrelli, and he smiled. “A quarterback, huh?” she said.

“That was a long time ago. Actually, it seems like a lifetime ago.”

“Were you any good?”

“I had a chance to go on and play for the Dolphins, but my dad insisted on law school.”

“Do you always do everything your dad tells you to do?”

She meant it as a joke, but he bristled, and his eyes told her it was a touchy subject. Then he smiled, and said, “Apparently, I do.”

“Nicholas.” A small gray-haired priest glided onto the altar in his black, floor-length cassock. “Mr. Howard said you had official business to talk to me about.”

“Hello, Father Francis. Sorry I didn’t call before we dropped in on you.”

“That’s perfectly all right. You’re always welcome here.”

“Father, this is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell. She’s with the FBI and is here to help me on the Alverez case.”

Maggie offered her hand. The old priest took it in both of his and held it tightly. Thick blue veins protruded from the thin, brown-spotted skin. A slight tremor jiggled her hand. He looked deep into her eyes, and suddenly she felt exposed, as though he could see clear into her soul. A slight shiver slid down her back as she held his gaze.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” When he let go, he grasped the nearby podium, depending on it for strength. “Christine’s son, Timmy, reminds me of you, Nicholas. He’s one of Father Keller’s altar boys.” Then to Maggie, he said, “Nicholas was an altar boy for me years ago at the old St. Margaret’s.”

“Really?” Maggie glanced at Morrelli, anxious to witness his discomfort. Something behind him caught her eye. The altar curtain moved. There was no breeze, no draft. Then she saw the toes of two white tennis shoes poking out from underneath. Instead of drawing attention to the intruder, she smiled at Morrelli, who now seemed flustered by the priest’s attention.

“Father Francis.” He was anxious to change the subject. “We wondered if you could answer a few questions.”

“Certainly. What can I do to help?” He looked at Maggie.

“I understand you heard Ronald Jeffreys’ last confession,” Nick continued.

“Yes, but I cannot share any of that with you. I hope you understand.” His voice was suddenly frail, as though the subject drained the energy from him.

Maggie wondered whether he was sick, something terminal that would explain the gray pallor to his skin. Even his breathing came in thick, short gasps when he talked. When he was silent, a soft wheeze lifted his bony shoulders in an odd rhythm.

“Of course, we understand,” she lied. The fact was, she didn’t understand, but she prevented the impatience from creeping into her tone. “However, if there is anything that would shed light on the Alverez case, I would hope you’d share it with us.”

“O’Dell, that’s Irish Catholic, yes?”

Maggie was startled and annoyed by his distraction. “Yes, it is.” Now she allowed a bit of the impatience to slip out. He didn’t seem to notice.

“And Maggie, named for our very own St. Margaret.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Father Francis, you do understand that if Ronald Jeffreys confessed anything that would lead us to Danny Alverez’s murderer, you must tell us?”

“The sanctity of confession is to be preserved even for condemned murderers, Agent O’Dell.”

Maggie sighed and glanced back at Morrelli, who also looked as though he was becoming impatient with the old priest.

“Father,” Morrelli said. “There’s something else you might be able to help us with. Who, other than a priest, can or is allowed to administer last rites?”

Father Francis looked confused by the change of subject. “The sacrament of extreme unction should be administered by a priest, but in extreme circumstances, it’s not necessary.”

“Who else would know how?”

“Before Vatican II, it was taught in the Baltimore Catechism. The two of you may be too young to remember. Today, I believe, it is taught only in the seminary, although it may still be a part of some deacon training.”

“And what are the requirements for becoming a deacon?” Maggie asked, frustrated that this might add to their list of suspects.

“There are rigorous standards. Of course, one must be in good standing with the church. And unfortunately, only men can be deacons. I’m not sure I understand what any of this has to do with Ronald Jeffreys.”

“I’m afraid we can’t share that with you, Father.” Morrelli smiled. “No disrespect intended.” Morrelli glanced at Maggie, waiting to see if she had anything more. Then he said, “Thanks for your help, Father Francis.”

He motioned to her for them to leave, but she stared at Father Francis, hoping to see something in the hooded eyes that held hers. It was almost as though they were waiting for her to see what they revealed. Yet, the priest only nodded at her and smiled.

Morrelli touched her shoulder. She turned on her heels and marched out alongside him. Outside on the church steps she stopped suddenly. Morrelli was down on the sidewalk before he realized she wasn’t beside him. He looked up at her and shrugged.

“What’s wrong?”

“He knows something. There’s something about Jeffreys that he’s not telling us.”

“That he can’t tell us.”

She spun around and ran back up the steps.

“O’Dell, what are you doing?”

She heard Morrelli behind her as she threw open the heavy front door and walked quickly up the aisle. Father Francis was just leaving the altar, disappearing behind the thick curtains.

“Father Francis,” Maggie yelled to him. The echo instantly made her feel as though she had broken some rule, committed some sin. It did, however, stop Father Francis. He came back to the middle of the altar where he watched her hurry up the aisle. Morrelli was close behind.

“If you know something…If Jeffreys told you something that could prevent another murder…Father, isn’t saving the life of an innocent little boy worth breaking the confidence of a confessed serial killer?”

She didn’t realize until now that she was breathless. She waited, staring into those eyes that knew so much more than they were willing or able to reveal.

“What I can tell you is that Ronald Jeffreys told nothing but the truth.”

“Excuse me?” Her impatience was rapidly changing to anger.

“From the day he confessed to the crime to the day he was executed, Ronald Jeffreys told only the truth.” His eyes lingered on Maggie’s. But if there was something more they were saying, she couldn’t see it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Morrelli was at her side. They stood quietly, watching the priest disappear behind the flowing fabric of the curtains.

“Jesus,” Morrelli finally whispered. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means we need to take a look at Jeffreys’ original confession,” she said, pretending to know what she was talking about. Then she turned and walked out, this time carefully keeping her heels from clicking noisily on the marble floor.