The Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska

Maggie stared at the glow-in-the-dark alarm clock—three o’clock in the morning. She pulled the covers up and turned onto her other side. She should give up. She should have known she would never be able to sleep. She was too keyed up despite the anticlimactic end to the evening. She flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Timmy was safe. Nick was happy and grateful. Christine had a Pulitzer Prizewinning story. And Father Michael Keller was free.

She had hoped that Timmy’s adding Keller’s name to the list meant the boy had remembered something new, anything that would connect Keller to his kidnapping four years ago. But what Timmy remembered were only small details. They were enough to solidify her and Christine’s belief that Keller was, indeed, Timmy’s kidnapper four years ago, but not enough to arrest Keller as a suspect then or now. And tonight even Timmy said that he may have misunderstood Keller when he told him he was working with the Omaha Police Department. Although the boy insisted Keller had shown him a police badge, it wasn’t enough for Pakula to rally for a search warrant.

So in a couple of days she would have no choice but to live up to her end of the bargain and allow Keller to leave, allow him to crawl back into the rain forest somewhere in South America. The problem was she remained convinced, now more than ever, that he was still killing little boys, and no matter what Detective Pakula said, she knew he would have killed Timmy had she not intervened.

Only now did Maggie realize how grateful she should be to Pakula, not for talking her down from blowing away Keller—she still almost wished he hadn’t intervened—but later for handling it like it wasn’t worth discussing. After they had left Timmy with Christine, Nick and Gibson, Pakula walked her back to her suite. She had expected a lecture or at least a scolding. Instead, he told her that if he believed as strongly as she did that Keller was still killing little boys, someone may have had to pull him off the bastard, too. Then he reminded her that they still didn’t have anything to go on. That even Timmy’s description about the night’s events didn’t indicate that Keller had committed any crimes. Timmy had gone with him willingly and despite whatever story Keller may have made up, he hadn’t harmed the boy.

Pakula seemed more interested in Brother Sebastian’s threats and his possible role—if any—in the computer game the boys had been playing. Maggie could understand if Pakula was thinking Brother Sebastian might be The Sin Eater. Although according to Timmy and Gibson, the master of their game—The Sin Eater—had been trying to protect them, not hurt them. Even their invitations to play the game had come after they had been surfing the Net, checking out Web sites and chatrooms that might help them if they were being abused by a priest. The invitation promised help. All they had to do was submit the name of their abuser. They believed the name was submitted to become a character in the game, a character that they could pretend to execute. They never ever dreamed that someone would actually execute the real priests.

Maggie had left several messages for Racine and Gwen. She was anxious to test out her theory and needed to know if Gwen’s patient could possibly be playing the game, too. It seemed a bit far-fetched, but Father Paul Conley’s death didn’t fit The Sin Eater’s M.O. Maggie wondered if the D.C. killer could have taken the game into his own hands. It was possible that if he was playing the game and had read about or heard about the other priests being killed, he may have decided to execute his own submitted priest. Whatever the connection, there was definitely one. Maggie didn’t believe in coincidences.

She rolled over onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow with an irritated sigh. And there was Nick Morrelli. He had hugged her when she brought back Timmy. She didn’t want to remember how good his arms felt around her. Besides, he was getting married in a month.

Her cell phone startled her, and she practically jumped out of bed. She stumbled trying to find her way in the dim light from the bathroom. When she stayed in hotels she always kept the bathroom light on and the door half closed to provide a night-light. Finally she found the phone where she had left it in her jacket pocket.

“Maggie O’Dell.”

“O’Dell, it’s Racine.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Actually Maggie was glad to have the detective finally getting back to her.

“Look, O’Dell, I’m not great at delivering bad news, so give me a break. Okay?”

“What happened? Is Gwen all right?” Racine didn’t answer. She was quiet, too quiet. It was Gwen. Maggie found the edge of the bed with her left hand, dropping down onto it, feeling the lead weight in the pit of her stomach.

“She’s not all right,” Racine finally said in a soft conciliatory voice. “One of her patients shot her last night.”

“Oh my God.”

“Then he shot himself.”

Seconds then minutes ticked by as Maggie tried to breathe and stop shaking. Suddenly she was freezing cold again.

“She’s still in surgery,” Racine said and for a moment Maggie thought she hadn’t heard her correctly.

“She’s alive?”

“She’s very lucky. Her briefcase slowed the bullet down. Otherwise it might have gone through her heart.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes, I think so. She’s lost a lot of blood, but the doctors sound pretty positive.”

Maggie wiped at her tears and took a deep breath.

“This patient,” Racine continued, “his name was James Campion. We’re pretty sure he killed that priest up in Boston. And probably the four women here in D.C. We’re checking more prints to confirm. Which means the doc was right. It was one of her patients. She just guessed wrong as to which one.”

But Maggie couldn’t listen, couldn’t concentrate on anything else other than Gwen.

“Hey, Racine,” Maggie said, relieved enough to lie back on the bed. “You’re right. You aren’t very good at delivering bad news. You scared the crap out of me.”

“I think I’ll consider us even, O’Dell, because your friend scared the fuck out of me.”