The breakfast Maggie had ordered from Wanda’s sat untouched on the small table. It had come bundled in an insulated pack, served on stoneware and encased in stainless-steel covers. Steam had risen from the plate when the desk clerk had proudly unveiled it as though he had prepared it himself.

She was becoming a regular of Wanda’s cuisine without ever stepping foot in the diner. And although the golden eggs, butter-slathered toast and glistening sausage links smelled and looked delicious, she had lost her appetite. She had left it somewhere on the bathroom floor while she fought to gain control over her panic. The only thing she touched was the frothy cappuccino. One sip, and she thanked Wanda for having the good sense to invest in a cappuccino maker.

Her laptop occupied the other side of the table, close to the wall where a recently installed phone jack allowed the hotel to advertise itself to business travelers. She paced while her computer slowly connected her to Quantico’s general database. She wasn’t able to access any classified information. The FBI remained skeptical about the confidentiality of modems, and rightly so. They were constantly a target for hackers.

She had already put in several calls to Dr. Avery. The old-fashioned desktop phone confined her to the bed, so she couldn’t do her usual pacing. She stretched out on the hard mattress. After her shower, she had put on jeans and her Packers jersey. The exhaustion was overwhelming. It had taken every last bit of her strength to pull herself together, and that frightened her. How could one simple note provoke such terror? She had received notes from killers before. They were harmless. It was only a part of the sick game. It came with the territory. If she were going to dig into a killer’s psyche, she had to be prepared for the killer to dig back.

Albert Stucky’s notes had not been harmless. God, she needed to get past Stucky. He was behind bars and would be there until they executed him. She was safe. At least this note hadn’t been accompanied by a severed finger or nipple. Besides, the note was now carefully packaged and on its way Express Mail to a lab at Quantico. Maybe the idiot had sent her his own arrest warrant by leaving his fingerprints or his saliva on the envelope’s seal.

By this evening, she would be on a plane home, and this bastard wouldn’t be able to play his sick, little game. She had done her job, more than what was asked. So why did it feel as if she was running away? Because that’s exactly what she was doing. She needed to leave Platte City, Nebraska, before this killer unraveled any more of her already frazzled psyche. She could feel the vulnerable fray already, starting when she had cowered on the cold bathroom floor.

Yes, she needed to leave, and she needed to do it quickly—today—while she still felt in control. She would tie up a few loose ends and then get the hell out. Get out while she was still in one piece. Get out before she started coming apart at the seams.

She decided to make a quick phone call while she waited for her computer to connect on the other line. She found the number in the thin directory and dialed. After several rings, a deep male voice answered, “St. Margaret’s rectory.”

“Father Francis, please.”

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

She couldn’t tell whether or not the voice belonged to Howard.

“This is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell. Is this Mr. Howard?”

There was a brief pause. Instead of answering her question, he said, “One moment, please.”

It took several moments. She turned to see the computer screen. Finally, the connection was completed. Quantico’s royal-blue logo blinked across the screen.

“Maggie O’Dell, what a pleasure to talk with you again.” Father Francis’ high-pitched voice was almost singsong.

“Father Francis, I wonder if I might ask you a few more questions.”

“Why, certainly.” There was a faint click-click.

“Father Francis?”

“I’m still here.”

And so was someone else. She’d ask the questions, anyway. Make the intruder sweat.

“What can you tell me about the church’s summer camp?”

“Summer camp? That’s really Father Keller’s project. You might speak to him about it.”

“Yes, of course. I will. Did he start the project, or was it something St. Margaret’s has been doing for years?”

“Father Keller started it when he first came. I believe that was the summer of 1990. It was an instant success. Of course, he had a track record. He had been running one at his previous parish.”

“Really? Where was that?”

“Up in Maine. Let’s see, I usually have a very good memory. Wood something. Wood River. Yes, Wood River, Maine. We were quite lucky to get him.”

“Yes, I’m sure you were. I look forward to talking to him. Thanks for your help, Father.”

“Agent O’Dell,” he stopped her. “Is that all you needed to ask me?”

“Yes, but you’ve been very helpful.”

“Actually, I was wondering if you found the answers to your other questions. Your inquiries about Ronald Jeffreys?”

She hesitated. She didn’t want to sound abrupt, but she didn’t want to discuss what she knew with someone listening. “Yes, I think we did find the answers. Thanks again for your help.”

“Agent O’Dell.” He sounded concerned, the lilt no longer present in his voice. If she wasn’t mistaken, he suddenly sounded distressed. “I may have some additional information, though I’m not certain of its importance.”

“Father Francis, I can’t talk right now. I’m expecting an important phone call,” she interrupted before he revealed anything more. “Could I meet you perhaps later?”

“Yes, that would be nice. I have morning confessions and then rounds at the hospital this afternoon, so I won’t be free until after four o’clock.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ll be at the hospital this afternoon. Why don’t I meet you in the cafeteria about four-fifteen?”

“I look forward to it. Goodbye, Maggie O’Dell.”

She waited for him to hang up, then heard the second set of clicks. There was no mistake. Someone had been listening.