Omaha, Nebraska

Maggie excused herself from Father Gallagher’s office, explaining that she had some phone calls she needed to make. Cunningham was at the top of her list. She desperately wanted to hear how Gwen was and besides, she needed a break from the testosterone battle between Pakula and Nick. She had heard enough of Father Gallagher’s clever evasiveness to know their interview would provide little new information. But she wondered why the priest didn’t realize that every time he answered one of Pakula’s questions with a question it only stretched out the process?

It seemed obvious that Father Gallagher was hiding something, but she doubted that he could be the killer. He had a solid alibi for Saturday evening. The entire parish of Our Lady of Sorrow could vouch for him. He couldn’t have officiated at the seven o’clock mass in Omaha, Nebraska, and still made it to Columbia, Missouri, to drive a knife into Father Gerald Kincaid’s chest at nine-thirty.

However, in her own mind Maggie didn’t rule him out completely. Father Tony Gallagher, in spite of his holy vows, could very well fit her profile. This killer could have convinced himself that he was doing something that needed to be done for the greater good. If it was confirmed that each of the three victims had, in fact, been accused of abusing young boys—or as in Keller’s case, their murder—then this killer would feel he was performing a service, administering justice to those who had previously escaped punishment. He might rationalize the killings in his mind as a necessary evil to prevent more evil perpetrated against other children. He could even consider himself a crusader, protecting the vulnerable and helpless victims and avenging those already hurt or murdered. Who better to justify avenging evil than a Catholic priest? After all, the Catholic Church had a long history of crusading against evil.

She decided to put off calling Cunningham for now. She’d call him after she talked to Detective Pakula. She could use his support. Instead, she tried Gwen’s office number and her cell, only to get voice-messaging services. Racine wasn’t answering her phone, either. She wished Tully was back from vacation. She needed someone to make sure Gwen was okay.

She passed the classroom with the historical artifacts that she and Pakula had noticed earlier. The class must have taken a break. The room looked empty. Maggie backtracked and stood in the doorway. Several antique daggers caught her eye. They were laid out on the counter, resting on special black cloths. The metal sparkled in the streaks of sunlight. She wandered closer, standing over them, examining without touching. Two of them were much longer than regular knives, their hilts wide and narrow. The handles had elaborate carvings, some worn down and impossible to distinguish as decorative or symbolic. All had been meticulously polished and cleaned.

“You can pick them up if you like.”

The voice startled Maggie, but she didn’t turn around. Instead, she simply glanced over her shoulder. The woman wore khakis and a white T-shirt with bright pink and aqua-colored fish and funky lettering that read Pensacola Seafood Festival.

“This one looks like a sixteenth-or seventeenth-century European stiletto,” Maggie said, pointing to the sleekest one, a thin blade about nine inches long with a hilt that curved down at the ends. Several years ago she had helped raid the basement of a serial killer who collected and used stilettos from different eras. It was a history lesson that stayed with her.

“Very good,” the woman said, rewarding her with a radiant smile. Now closer, she noticed gentle lines at the edges of the woman’s mouth, revealing that she was a bit older than Maggie’s first impression. She figured the woman was around her own age, early to middle thirties.

“The stilettos,” she continued, “were actually modeled after these.” She picked up the dagger and handed it to Maggie. “This one’s a bit earlier. I’ve been told it’s from a fourteenth-century knight. It was used as a companion piece for close-contact battle.”

“Close-contact battle?”

“Probably to slit his opponent’s throat.”

“Ah,” Maggie said, and she tried to hold it with the reverence it seemed to deserve.

“I’m Sister Kate Rosetti.”

“Maggie O’Dell.”

“Are you with the detective questioning Father Tony?”

“Yes, but I’m with the FBI.” She searched Sister Kate’s eyes to see if that made a difference. Would she be like Father Gallagher and become defensive, careful with her words, or anxious to be rid of Maggie? The nun picked up another one of the daggers, but seemed only anxious to show it to her.

“This is one of my favorites,” she said, turning it in the manner of a formal presentation, so that Maggie could see the intricate skull-like carving at the very top of the handle. “It’s called a talisman or a wizard’s knife. It has the flying serpent wrapped around the handle, but also the Celtic knot-work engraved on the blade.”

“Actually it’s very beautiful.” It didn’t seem to be the correct word to call such an item beautiful. However, it was difficult to ignore the craftsmanship, if not artistry, that went into each piece. “What inspired you to start collecting medieval…weapons?” Maggie looked around the counters and shelves. The glass cabinets on the wall contained different historical artifacts, but at first glance it occurred to her that most of them were, indeed, weapons of some sort.

“That’s interesting,” Sister Kate said, pausing for a moment. “You know, most people ask me where I found them or how I can afford such a collection. They seem more interested in the acquisition.” She said this while suddenly looking at Maggie, studying her as if seeing her for the first time. “They rarely ask what inspired me.” She smiled again and seemed pleased with the question, but her eyes left Maggie’s to take in the surrounding shelves as she began to explain. “My grandfather used to read me wonderful tales of knights in shining armor. My parents let me spend a summer with him on his farm in Michigan.”

Her gaze returned to Maggie. “I was eleven,” she said. “It was right after…a particularly difficult year. I guess my parents wanted me to get away. They wanted me to be safe. I’m not too sure they would have been happy had they discovered our summer reading material. But it was exactly what I needed, knights in shining armor coming to the rescue. It was quite…comforting.”

Now there was something different in her smile. Maggie thought it was softer, perhaps more genuine, but not with the radiance of before. This was a knowing smile shared with someone who had experienced a similar tragedy. What exactly was it that this woman thought they shared? Maggie had only just met her.

“How easy is it to find one of these?” Maggie asked, remembering the medical examiner’s speculation that a dagger had been used to killed Monsignor O’Sullivan.

“Very.” Sister Kate didn’t hesitate, nor did she seem surprised at the question. “I’ve bought several daggers as well as swords on the Internet and eBay. Imitations are popular right now. You have to be careful and know what you’re looking at. Whether they’re imitation or authentic they’re all considered artifacts, so they’re not treated with the same security as a regular weapon. Even when I travel with them for presentations I simply put them inside my suitcase and check it.”

“You said the imitations are popular right now. Why is that?”

“I think it’s mostly kids buying them. Many of them simply can’t afford the real thing. From what I understand, there are several Internet games that are based on knights and the Crusades, medieval stuff. They seem to be quite popular. In fact, one of my students brought in his collection today to show me. His seems to be authentic, though. He’s done a good job bartering for the items.”

She pointed to a wooden box left open on her desk. Maggie glanced inside, noticing immediately the silver crucifix that looked like a dagger. She remembered what Bonzado had said about his students playing Internet games, particularly ones that resembled Dungeons and Dragons, creating characters and playing them out on the screen, taking it as far as getting tattoos with roses and daggers. Now Sister Kate was telling her these games were popular enough that kids were buying and collecting imitation daggers. The man who discovered Monsignor O’Sullivan’s body in the airport bathroom thought he ran into the killer on his way out, a young boy with a baseball cap. Was it possible the killer was a young boy, a teenager, perhaps? If she was correct about the killer playing the role of avenger he could very well have been a victim of one of the priests.

“Are you in town for long?” Sister Kate asked, interrupting Maggie’s thoughts.

Maggie wanted to say she’d be in Omaha until the next dead priest turned up somewhere else. “I never know how long I’ll be in one city,” she said instead.

“I travel quite a bit, too, making presentations, attending workshops. I know how boring it can be having room service in your hotel or going to a restaurant to eat alone. If you get bored, let me know.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” She was surprised by the invitation and this time she found herself assessing Sister Kate’s motive. Maggie wondered if her profession made her so skeptical that she suspected everyone’s motives, including a friendly invitation to dinner. She glanced around the classroom again. But then, feeling the need to prove herself wrong, she found herself asking, “Are you free tomorrow evening?”

“Yes, certainly. Where are you staying?”

“The Embassy Suites on Tenth Street.”

“Oh, there are so many wonderful restaurants in the Market. There’s a little place a block up from you on Eleventh—M’s Pub. Why don’t I meet you there around seven?”

Sister Kate’s students started coming back into the room.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Maggie told her.

She took her time leaving, watching the students amble in aimlessly like teenagers with little ambition beyond their next task. She wondered if she and Pakula may have been looking in all the wrong places for this killer. Maybe they weren’t seeing what was right in front of them.

As a profiler she was taught to find the similarities and use them for a foundation. But from experience she’d learned never to underestimate who could kill. She noticed a couple of boys with baseball caps. One removed his and tossed it onto the desk, revealing shaggy, dirty-blond hair growing longer over his ears. He and his friend were her height, maybe a little taller, both with slight builds.

The medical examiner had reported that it would take little strength to shove a knife, a sharp dagger, up into the monsignor’s chest, piercing his heart. It was possible that a teenage boy could have done it.