Maggie checked the window again. Nick and Father Keller were still at the pickup. She continued her search down the long hall, stopping in front of each closed door, listening and carefully peeking into every unlocked room. Several were offices, one a supply room. Finally, she came across a bedroom.

The room was plain and small with wooden floors and white walls. A simple crucifix hung above the twin bed. In the corner sat a small table with two chairs. Another stand sat in the opposite corner with an old toaster and teapot. An ornate lamp sat on the nightstand, looking out of place. Other than the lamp, there was nothing to draw attention. No clutter, no drawers or boxes.

She turned to leave, and immediately, three framed prints on the wall next to the door caught her eye. They hung side by side and were prints of Renaissance paintings. Though Maggie didn’t recognize any of them, she recognized the style—the perfectly rendered bodies, the motion and color. Each one depicted the bloody torture of a man. Upon closer inspection she read the small print beneath each.

The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, 1475, Antonio Del Pollaivolo, showed a bound Saint Sebastian tied to a pedestal with arrows being shot into his body. The Martyrdom of Saint Erasmus, 1629, Nicolas Poussin, included winged cherubs hovering above a crowd of men who had one man stretched out and chained down while they pulled out his entrails.

Maggie wondered why anyone would want such artwork on their bedroom walls. She glanced at the last print. The Martyrdom of Saint Hermione, 1512, Matthias Anatello, showed a man tied to a tree while his accusers slashed at his body with knives and machetes. She started out the door when something made her look at the last print again. On the tortured man’s chest were several bloody slashes, two perfect diagonals intersecting to create a jagged cross, or from Maggie’s angle, a skewed X. Yes, of course. Now it made sense. The carving on each boy’s chest wasn’t an X at all. It was a cross. And the cross was part of his ritual, a mark, a symbol. Did he think he was making martyrs of the boys?

She heard footsteps. They were close and getting closer. She hurried into the hall just as Ray Howard turned the corner. She startled him, but he still noticed her hand on the doorknob.

“You’re that FBI agent,” he said in his accusatory tone.

“Yes, I’m here with Sheriff Morrelli.”

“What were you doing in Father Keller’s room?”

“Oh, is this Father Keller’s room? Actually, I need to use the bathroom, and I can’t seem to find it.”

“That’s because it’s way down on the other end of the hall,” he scolded, pointing and keeping his eyes on her as though he didn’t trust her.

“Really? Thanks.” She squeezed past him and made her way down the hall, stopping in front of the correct door and glancing back at him. “Is this it?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks again.” She went in and listened at the door for a few minutes. When she peeked out again, she saw Ray Howard disappear into Father Keller’s bedroom.