Venezuela

Father Michael Keller stared at the computer screen. With only two citronella oil lanterns lit, the computer screen reminded him of a beacon in the dark room, bringing to light answers he wasn’t sure he wanted. He had been knocked off the Internet connection several times and had long ago used up his allotted time. But like an addict, he signed on again and again, impatient and frustrated with the long dial-up and many interruptions.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to make the blur go away, trying to make the emotional sting go away. Why hadn’t he thought about it before? Why had he been so stupid, so naive? Why hadn’t he suspected something? Instead, he wanted so badly to have a friend, someone he could trust, that he ignored glaring signs. After all, who in the world uses such an e-mail name as The Sin Eater? And here he had simply thought it clever, taking a term from an arcane Catholic legend. He’d never felt threatened because his friend, or rather this person who lured him in pretending to be his friend, had never given him reason to feel suspicious, let alone threatened. No reason at all. Until now.

He had read the articles about the two murdered priests over and over again. Monsignor O’Sullivan was someone he had met briefly while he himself was a pastor at Saint Margaret’s in Platte City, Nebraska. Yet he didn’t understand the connection. Why had his friend e-mailed him these articles with the warning “You may be next”? Why did he believe Keller was in danger? Did his “friend” know about the Halloween mask? Was he the one who had sent it? Was it meant to be a warning as well and not a prank he’d hoped it to be?

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?