“Here’s the thing, though. When I first came back to town, I remember driving by there and noticing a for sale sign on the property. Sure enough, it was Tom Lowes who was the agent. Then I remembered, a little less than a year ago, the sign disappeared from the property. I didn’t think much of it at the time, just figured it was sold. But when I started to think about places that a priest could take a child where no one would find them, it jumped back to my mind. I did a quick check of the public records at the station and saw that the owner hadn’t changed, and that the Catholic Diocese still owned the property. So, I tried Tom Lowes on his cell phone. Took me three tries, but I finally got him to wake up and discuss the property.
“It seems that the Diocese was selling it because St. Mary’s was short on money, and they figured that someone might want to buy the historic building. Well, the property sat for nearly two years until they pulled it from the market. I asked Tom why, and he said that the finances of St. Mary’s had been rectified, and there were some among the clergy who voiced the opinion that it was important to hang on to the property.
“What put me onto Preston’s trail was the fact that it’s no secret that Father Patrick has never had a head for money or financing and has been really vocal in the community about his desire for most of the church’s funds to go to charitable endeavors. The timeline also fit that the property was pulled off the market no more than two months after Father Preston arrived in Sycamore Hills. That, and the one time I met him, there was just something that felt off about him. It was his eyes. No matter what else was going on with the rest of his face, they always seemed expressionless. When in doubt, I trust my instincts about people.”
“So that’s where we’re going?” Maureen asked, admittedly impressed that Manny had made such a conclusion. If it were up to her, they’d be heading to Father Preston’s house instead.
“That’s where we’re going,” Manny affirmed. “We should be there in a little more than five minutes.”
Maureen grabbed her cell phone out of her pocket and checked the time. “That’s gonna be tight. It’s almost quarter to midnight. If our guess has been right on his patterns, he kills them as close to midnight as possible.”
“Yes, but there’s one more thing,” Manny said calmly.
“What?”
“Ben Naismith hasn’t been baptized yet,” he replied, turning his head slightly to meet her gaze.
“He’s had the kid for over a day and a half. You don’t think that’s enough time to baptize him?”
“From what I know of the guy, and from what your dreams seem to tell you, he’s a stickler for the traditional ways. I can’t be sure, but I’m betting he won’t baptize the boy until it is officially Sunday morning. And that’s the other reason I think he’ll be at the old church. If I remember right from a wedding I went to there in high school, there’s an old fount that he can use. No reason to think it wouldn’t still be there. Also, and I know it’s a bit of a gamble, but I’m banking on the fact that he’ll use the full rite. He wouldn’t think he needs to hurry like with some of the other ones. Which reminds me.” He reached for his radio. “I doubt the Feds are looking at this guy. I should call Agent Layton about this. We should have some backup anyway.”
Maureen’s hand shot out and pulled his away from the radio. He eyed her with sudden surprise.
“Maureen, what the hell?”
“What if you’re wrong?” she asked. She actually felt confident in his deductive abilities, but she needed a reason for him to listen to her. “You said the Feds aren’t looking at him. Maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe we’re jumping to too many conclusions. Maybe they’re going after someone else tonight that you don’t know about. Or, maybe he isn’t at this old church after all, and we’d just be wasting resources. We shouldn’t call anyone until we know for sure that we’re right.”
“We need backup,” Manny insisted.
“I’ll be your backup,” she said, pulling his service pistol out of her jeans to show him.
“Is that my backup gun?”
Maureen shrugged her shoulders.
Manny turned the pistol over to reveal the empty clip. He made a face at her.
“Father Patrick is faster than he looks,” she explained, embarrassed that it only took a few minutes for her to forget how easily the old man had disarmed her. “Besides, it doesn’t matter that it’s not loaded. Preston won’t know. Yours is. I’ll just point this one at him and hold him while you cuff him.”
“Maureen—”
“I just need to be the one to finish this.” There was no point in playing it close to the vest anymore. “I can’t explain it, but something inside me is screaming that it needs to be me who brings him down. If I do that, I’ll have used these visions and dreams for good, and maybe—just maybe—they’ll go away. Please, Manny.”
Manny’s eyebrows furrowed with skepticism, but he nodded, said nothing, and put his hand back on the steering wheel. The lights of the town were dimming behind them and in the ambient glow, she could see the river glistening ahead. Within moments, a small, sand-colored brick building loomed up out of the darkness on their right. Manny pulled the truck over on the side of the road fifty yards from the front door.
“I’m only going to give us a few minutes to get this done,” he said, reaching for the radio and holding it up to
