Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska

Maggie rubbed her shoulders, trying to get rid of the chill. The room was freezing and she couldn’t shake that old saying from her mind, “When hell freezes over…” It seemed appropriate since she never believed she would be making a deal with the devil. Technically, Assistant Director Cunningham had taken care of the details, but she was the one who had to sit across the table from Keller.

“Isn’t it awfully cold in here?” she asked Pakula, who sipped his fifth coffee of the day.

“Actually I was just thinking it feels good.”

He was no help. Maggie gave in and poured herself a cup of hot tea from the service butler in the corner. The Embassy Suites’s concierge had prepared a room for them with little notice, doing an impressive job that included an assortment of afternoon refreshments. She couldn’t help thinking Pakula would be pleased—more free food. However, the detective seemed content with only coffee. She had recognized his feeding frenzy as a nervous habit, which would mean that he wasn’t at all anxious this afternoon. How could he not be? Was she the only one who realized the significance of this meeting?

“Chief Ramsey must know someone important,” Maggie said, lifting the stainless-steel lid off a plate of fruits and cheeses and trying to calm her nerves by pretending they were here for an ordinary interview. She glanced over her shoulder at Pakula. “No doughnuts though.”

“Very funny.”

The look he shot back made her smile, and she realized she missed her partner, Special Agent R. J. Tully. Not an easy realization, since she prided herself in being a sort of lone warrior. But Tully had a way of calming her in situations like this and it usually included his corny sense of humor.

There was little time to take refuge in humor. Suddenly the meeting-room door opened and Detective Kasab came in, holding the door for Father Michael Keller as he entered, as if he deserved such a courtesy.

Maggie was stunned. She hardly recognized Keller. He looked much older. His skin was tanned but leathery, his dark hair prematurely peppered with gray. If she remembered correctly he was younger than her. His escape to South America had weathered him and converted his smooth, handsome, boyish looks to that of a haggard older man.

He carried a cardboard box gently in his hands, as though the contents would shatter with the slightest jerk or slip. And when he glanced around the room, slowly examining it, his eyes brushed her aside. Was he checking for back doors, maybe an escape? Did he expect to be tricked?

Pakula introduced himself, and like Kasab, was cordial and polite, treating Keller like some visiting dignitary. When Pakula made a motion to introduce Maggie she stepped forward, preempting him.

“No need for introductions,” she said. “Father Keller and I are old friends. Isn’t that right?” She looked Keller in the eyes, but didn’t offer her hand as Pakula had. Instead, she set her cup of tea at the end of the table and took a seat.

“I’d like to believe that we certainly are not enemies, Agent O’Dell,” he said with that same smooth, deep voice she remembered so well. “Do you mind if I call you Maggie?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, I do mind.” She sipped her tea while the three men stood silently and stared at her in the same way they’d stare at someone who stood up in the middle of a wedding ceremony and said, “I object.”

She could already feel the tension crawl into the room like fog over a cold lake. So she’d be the party pooper, the curmudgeon, the spoiler of this ever-so-cordial gentlemen’s agreement. She didn’t care. As far as she was concerned Keller was no gentleman and certainly couldn’t be trusted. She only wished the hot tea would dull the chill that had settled deep inside her. She opened a small notebook and started tapping her pen, ready to begin.

“I’ll be in the lobby if you need anything,” Kasab said to Pakula, finally breaking the silence. Pakula gave him a nod and Kasab left, closing the door behind him.

Maggie didn’t take her eyes off Keller, almost daring him to see if he could lie his way past her.

Pakula cleared his throat and shot her a look. They had known each other only a few days and she could already read his warning. He was telling her to cool it. Then he picked up his coffee mug and wandered over to the service butler for a refill.

“Can I get you some coffee, Father Keller?”

Maggie wanted to tell him to stop being so damn polite.

Keller pointed at her cup and said to Pakula, “May I have a cup of hot tea instead?”

“Oh sure. Do you take anything in it?”

“Do you have any of those little sugar cubes?”

Pakula poked around the service butler, lifting lids. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“Plain is fine, then.”

Maggie wanted to yell this wasn’t a frickin’ tea party. Jesus!

Finally the three of them settled around the long table—Maggie at the head so she purposely didn’t have to sit across from Keller—Pakula to her right and Keller to her left with his box and his cup of hot tea.

It had been Keller’s request that he meet only with Maggie. At least Ramsey and Cunningham had the good sense to insist Detective Pakula be here at the meeting. Though Maggie couldn’t help wondering if Cunningham had insisted on it because he was concerned for her safety or if it was Keller’s safety he had considered.

Maggie watched Keller taking in everything about him. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks a bit sunken. She was pleased to see beads of sweat on his upper lip. He wore khaki pants and a plain white cotton shirt, a sleeveless white T-shirt visible underneath. Other than wet circles forming under his arms, his clothes looked crisp and clean and freshly pressed. Although on closer inspection she could see that the shirt’s collar had become a bit threadbare.

She paid particular attention to his hands. Despite his haggard appearance his hands had been well taken care of—smooth and without a single callus or unsightly cuticle, short but clean and neatly trimmed fingernails, straight long fingers. He seemed to use them with careful deliberation, almost with a reverence, everything they did was ceremonial. Even the way he picked up the teacup, slowly and delicately, bringing it to his lips as if it were a chalice. It reminded her how he had used those hands to consecrate the butchering of little boys and even try to turn that into a gruesome ritual.

He sat straight-backed and calm except that his eyes betrayed him as they continued to dart around the room. Again, she wondered if Keller was worried about them tricking him. Why shouldn’t he worry? Surely he didn’t think she wouldn’t at least try to trap him, now that she finally had him right where she wanted him—sitting in a room with a police detective alongside her? After all, that was exactly what she had in mind.

“What’s in the box?” she asked. Not able to resist an opening taunt, she added, “A fillet knife? Maybe some boy’s underpants?”

He was good. Not even a flinch as he met her eyes and said, “The person you’re looking for has been e-mailing me and sending me things. I’ve brought as many of the items as possible in the hopes that you might be able to get his fingerprints.”

“If he’s been sending stuff,” Pakula said, “how have you been getting it? Postal service? Special delivery?”

“Postal service. All but one of them. No return addresses even on the postal service ones.”

“He’s been sending you things?” Maggie said. “How did he find you?”

Keller shrugged. “Probably through the church.”

“Actually, the church officials told me they had no record of your whereabouts,” Maggie challenged. “In fact, they said you hadn’t been issued a reassignment.”

“The church is very protective of her priests. Perhaps you’ve noticed that with this case.” When he answered this time he looked to Pakula.

“Are you saying they’ve had your address the entire time?”

“They’ve known how to get in touch with me.”

Maggie couldn’t determine whether it was a lie or not. After what she had learned about the Catholic Church this week, she almost found herself believing him.

“How about the other one?” Pakula asked.

“I’m sorry, the other one?”

“You said the postal service brought all but one. How did you get the other?”

“One of the village boys—Arturo delivered it. He said an old man had given it to him.” He reached for the teacup again.

“Any chance the kid got into it before he handed it off to you?” Pakula asked.

“No, absolutely not,” he said, setting the cup down, and immediately Maggie saw why. There was a slight tremor to his fingers now. “Arturo was one of my best altar boys. He was a good boy. He would never have done something like that.”

Maggie’s stomach did a sudden flip. Keller had referred to the boy in the past tense. “Was? What do you mean, was?”

Keller’s eyes met hers then darted off to the left. In that brief moment she thought she could see him backpedal, shifting gears. Had she caught him or was it the effect of the poison? He looked past her and to Pakula when he answered, “He used to be an altar boy for me. He’s not anymore.”

Pakula seemed to ignore the entire exchange.

“I highly doubt we’re gonna get this guy’s fingerprints no matter how much crap you’ve got in that box,” he told Keller.

“I agree with Detective Pakula,” Maggie said. “I doubt there’s anything you have that will help us.”

Keller pulled the box to him, suddenly protective of it, keeping it on the table but now wrapping both arms around it. “I don’t think he was careful, because I don’t think he believed I’d live long enough to hand this over to the authorities. And if you aren’t able to match his prints, there’s always the trail of e-mails. I have the list.”

“Why do you suppose you’re on the list, Father Keller?” Maggie asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Really? No idea at all?”

She waited, giving him a second chance. He shifted ever so slightly in his chair and leaned his elbows on the table. There were a few blinks of his eyes but nothing excessive. Maggie had known killers who had convinced themselves that they had done nothing wrong, so effectively, so completely, that it became difficult to detect the lies even with a polygraph test. She believed Keller had done the same. Four years ago she had come to the conclusion that he had been on a mission. He had appointed himself a sort of savior of abused boys. Unlike The Sin Eater who Maggie suspected avenged, and thus rescued boys by executing their abuser, Father Keller simply rescued boys by murdering them, ending their alleged abuse and getting them out of their misery.

Keller must have realized they wouldn’t go on until he answered. He finally said, “I have no idea why I’m on the list.”

“Now, you see, that’s curious to me,” Maggie started to explain, keeping a calm, even tone though, she’d admit, a bit sarcastic. Surely sarcasm could be forgiven when what she really wanted to do was reach across the table, grab him by the collar and tell him he knew damn well why he was on the list. She continued, “We already know that the other priests have been accused of hurting little boys in one way or another. In fact, we believe the accusers may have somehow submitted the priests’ names to be on the list. What about you, Father Keller? Who might have submitted your name? Who would want you eliminated?”

She tried to stare him down, but he didn’t blink when he repeated, “I’m sure my name was submitted by mistake.”

“A mistake?” She couldn’t believe it. Did he really believe they would buy this crap? She looked to Pakula, hoping to see similar disbelief and frustration. Nothing. He was definitely the better poker player.

“What e-mail name does this guy use?” Pakula took over without missing a beat.

“The Sin Eater.”

“Does that mean anything to you?” Pakula wanted to know.

“Not personally. I’ve done some research. The sin eater was a prominent figure in medieval times. Villagers would leave food items, usually bread, on the chest of their deceased loved one. After everyone was gone the sin eater would come in, eat the bread and ritualistically take the sins of the dead person into his own soul, thereby absolving the dead person of his or her sins.”

“Bread?” Pakula shook his head and glanced over at Maggie. “We found goddamn bread crumbs on Monsignor O’Sullivan, and in Columbia they found some in Kincaid’s shirt pocket. This is freaky crap.”

“But wait a minute,” Maggie said. “This killer is eliminating abusers. Why would he want to absolve the abusers of their sins?”

“I believe,” Keller said, taking a quick swipe at his sweaty upper lip, “this person may feel he’s absolving the sins of the person he’s killing for, instead of the priest he’s killed.” He said it with almost an admiration for The Sin Eater, the same person who was attempting to kill him. He looked at Maggie and added, “Does that fit your profile, Agent O’Dell?”

She held his gaze without flinching. That actually made sense. The Sin Eater believed he was not only killing for the boys, but taking on their sins of submitting and wanting their abusers dead.

“Yes, actually it does fit my profile,” Maggie told him. “I think you’re right.” Keller blinked hard at her as if he didn’t hear correctly. Even Pakula did a double take. “Maybe he is rescuing abused boys from their tormentors by killing their tormentors.” She paused. “Unlike you, Father Keller, who thinks he’s rescuing abused little boys by killing the boys.”

Both men stared at her, silenced for a second time by her bravado. Keller plucked at a piece of packing tape on his box. The room had gone so silent she could hear the scraping, pinching and pulling of his long nervous fingers.

“Is that what you did with Arturo, Father Keller?” she asked. “Did you rescue him before you left Venezuela?”

“Agent O’Dell,” Pakula said, his warning calm but she could hear the impatience. “I think it’s best we remember why we’re here today. We’re trying to stop a killer.”

“Exactly,” Maggie said and she looked at Keller. That’s exactly what she was trying to do, stop a killer who should have been stopped four years ago. But she sat back, instead, and laced her fingers together in front of her on the table, preventing them from balling up into fists and slamming them into Keller’s smug, sweaty face.

“Why don’t you tell us what you have for us, Father Keller,” Pakula told the priest, but now Maggie could feel him watching her out of the corner of his eyes.

“I’ve included copies of our e-mails,” Keller continued, but now kept looking at Maggie, as if expecting her to interrupt. “I know there’s a way you can trace Internet e-mail.”

“Possibly,” Pakula told him. “It would be better if we had your computer.”

“Oh, I’ve brought my laptop. It’s in my hotel room.”

“I would guess,” Pakula said, “that he’s used some standard measures to prevent anyone from finding him. I doubt we’ll be able to track his e-mail.”

“But the FBI has all sorts of things they can do now since 9/11, right?” Father Keller asked. Now Maggie thought she could hear a tinge of frustration in his voice.

“What else do you have?” Pakula pressed on, glancing at Maggie. Finally he was showing some doubt and dissatisfaction. She sat quietly.

“I have a copy of the list,” Keller said and gave the top of the box a tap. “Father Paul Conley was on it.”

“What about Father Rudolph Lawrence?” Pakula asked.

“Lawrence? No, I didn’t see that name.”

“Are you sure?”

“When you discover your own name on a list of people to be eliminated you tend to know who else is on the list.”

“How many are on the list?” Pakula wanted to know.

“Including myself, five.”

Pakula let out a long breath. His eyes met Maggie’s before he reached up to swipe his hand over his shaved head.

“The deal was to turn over everything that I believe might help you capture this person. It’s to my benefit that he be caught. However, before I do that,” Keller said, but by now there was a definite, although subtle, quiver to his strong deep voice, “there’s something else I need.”

Of course there was, Maggie thought. What good timing. She wanted to tell him to forget it. They weren’t even sure any of his information would help. But she could see Pakula sit forward and shift in his chair. She knew he wanted to see what was in the box and if there were actually any fingerprints.

“What else?” Pakula asked, glancing at Maggie but not waiting for her okay.

“As I mentioned to Agent O’Dell, I believe I’ve been poisoned. I have reason to believe it’s something called monkshood.”

Maggie wanted to laugh at the irony but instead muttered, “How appropriate.”

Both men ignored her.

“I believe The Sin Eater sent me tea laced with monkshood. That’s how he thought he would eliminate me.”

“But you found out?” Pakula said. “How?”

“He told me. He seemed rather proud of his cleverness.” Keller wiped at beads of sweat now on his forehead despite the room’s still being freezing cold. Maggie thought his pupils were dilated and one of his hands had dropped to his lap where it fisted up as if he might be in pain.

“What do you want from us?” Pakula asked.

“I think it’s called digitalis. It’s used in heart medication. It’s supposed to be an antidote to treat monkshood poisoning. I need it. You bring it to my hotel room and I’ll hand over the box and my laptop.”

He pushed back strands of hair sticking to his forehead and now he stood. She saw him wince; perhaps that simple movement was painful. Maggie tried to remember what the symptoms were for monkshood poisoning but couldn’t be sure of anything other than it had been used mostly during the Middle Ages. It certainly wasn’t a modern-day poison of choice.

Pakula stood, too, but looked at Maggie, waiting for her response, letting her finalize what had initially been her deal.

She remained seated. “Why in the world do you think you can trust us,” she asked Keller, “when I’ve made it quite obvious that I think you’re a cold-blooded killer?”

Although he appeared to be in some discomfort—she could see him using his left hand against the table to steady himself—his voice didn’t waver when he met her eyes and said, “Because you gave me your word, Agent O’Dell. And I happen to know that means something to you.”