Nick slowed his pace when he noticed the tight, pale look on Maggie’s face. Of course, she was hurting and, of course, she wouldn’t complain.

The Friday crowds had descended upon Eppley Airport. Business men and women hurried to get home. Fall vacationers and those getting away for the weekend moved more slowly, dragging too many pieces of home to really get away.

Mrs. O’Malley, St. Margaret’s cook, had told Nick that Father Keller’s flight left at two forty-five, and that he was escorting Father Francis’ body to its final resting place. When Nick had asked to speak with Ray Howard, she said Ray was gone, too.

“I haven’t seen that one since breakfast,” she had told Nick. “He’s always sneaking off somewhere, saying it’s for Father Keller, but I never know when to believe him.” Then she added in a whisper, “He’s sneaky.”

Nick had tried to ignore her extra comments. He had been in a hurry and not interested in the seventy-two year old’s paranoia. Instead, he had tried to keep her focused and on the facts.

“Where is Father Francis being buried?”

“A place somewhere in Venezuela.”

“Venezuela! Jesus.” Mrs. O’Malley must have never heard the “Jesus,” or Nick was certain she would have lectured him on using the Lord’s name in vain.

“Father Francis absolutely loved it there,” she had offered, glad to be the expert, to have and hold Nick’s attention. “It was his first assignment out of seminary. A small, poor farming parish. I don’t remember the name. Yes, Father Francis always talked about all those beautiful, brown-skinned children, and how some day he hoped to return. Too bad it couldn’t have been under different circumstances.”

“Do you remember what city it was close to?” Nick had interrupted.

“No, I can’t say that I remember. All those places down there are so hard to remember, hard to pronounce. Father Keller will be back next week. Can’t this wait until then?”

“No, I’m afraid it can’t. What about the flight number or airline?”

“Oh my, I don’t know if he said. Maybe TWA…no, United, I think. It leaves at two forty-five out of Eppley,” she added, as if that should be all that was necessary.

Now Nick glanced at his watch. It was almost two-thirty. He and Maggie split up at the ticket counters, flashing credentials and badges to shove their way through the lines and hurry the desk clerks.

The tall woman at the TWA counter refused to be rushed by a county sheriff’s badge. Nick wished he had Maggie’s FBI influence. Instead, he used his smile and a little flattery. The woman’s rigid expression slowly softened, though it was hard to see the change. Her hair was pulled back so tightly into a neat little bun that it made all her features look severe, stretched and pinned down. Perhaps that was also what made her lips so thin, barely moving when she talked.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff Morrelli. I cannot disclose our passenger list or information about any of our passengers. Please, you’re holding up the line.”

“Okay, okay. How about flights? Do you have a flight to anywhere in Venezuela, say in…” He glanced at his watch again. “In ten to fifteen minutes?”

She checked her computer screen, taking time despite the heavy sighs and shuffling coming from the line behind him.

“We have a flight to Miami that connects with an international flight to Caracas.”

“Great! What gate?”

“Gate 11, but that flight left at two-fifteen.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. The weather is excellent. All our flights are running on schedule.” She looked around him at a short, gray-haired man, anxious to hand off his ticket.

“Can you check to see if a coffin was on that flight?” Nick asked, refusing to budge despite an elbow in his back.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A coffin, as in a dead body.” He could feel the eyes around him, now staring, now interested. “It would be considered cargo. I’m sure I wouldn’t be infringing on its rights.” He tried another smile. From behind him, someone giggled.

The ticket clerk wasn’t pleased. The thin lips drew even tighter. “I still cannot divulge that information. Now, if you’ll step aside.”

“You know I can get a court order and be back later this afternoon.” No more Mr. Nice Guy. He was quickly losing his patience and time was slipping away.

“Perhaps that would be a good idea. Next, who was next, please?” she said, stepping aside when Nick wouldn’t, so she could help the elderly man behind him in line. The man shoved his way to the counter, shooting Nick a look filled with anger and impatience.

Nick moved over to stand near where Maggie talked to another ticket agent.

“Thanks, anyway,” she told the desk clerk at the United counter, then followed him to a corner out of the traffic.

She looked drained, even more pale, if that was possible. He wanted to ask if she was okay, but had already gotten three or four “I’m fine’s” on the drive to the airport.

“TWA has a flight to Miami that connects to one that goes on to Caracas,” Nick told her, watching her face.

“Let’s go. What gate?” But she didn’t move, leaning against the wall as if to catch her breath.

“It left about twenty minutes ago.”

“We missed it? Was Keller on board?”

“The desk clerk wouldn’t tell me. We may need a court order to find out. What do we do now? Is it worth going down there, trying to catch him before the connecting flight leaves? If he gets to South America we may never find him. Maggie?”

Was she even listening? It wasn’t the pain that distracted her. Her eyes were focused over his shoulder.

“Maggie?” He tried again.

“I think I just found Ray Howard.”