though his voice appeared remarkably calm. Nick couldn’t help wondering if this, too, was something Father Keller had learned in the seminary. He pulled the warrant from his jacket pocket and began unfolding it, while he said, “Last night we noticed the old pickup you have out back.”
“Pickup?” Father Keller sounded surprised. Was it possible he didn’t know or, again, was this only a part of his schooling?
“The one in the trees. It matches the description a witness gave of a pickup she saw Danny Alverez get into the day he disappeared.” Nick waited and watched. Maggie stood silently by his side, but he knew she would memorize every twitch and shift Father Keller made.
“I don’t know if that old thing even runs. I think Ray uses it when he goes to chop wood out by the river.”
Nick handed Father Keller the warrant. The priest held it by its corner and stared at it as though it were a foreign object, secreting slime.
“Like I told you last night,” Nick said calmly, “I’m just trying to follow up on as many leads as possible. You probably know that the sheriff’s department has come under considerable fire lately. I just want to make sure no one can say we didn’t check. Do you have the keys, Father?”
“The keys?”
“To the pickup?”
“I can’t imagine that it’s locked. Let me put on a coat and some boots, and I’ll go back with you.”
“Thanks, Father. I appreciate it.” Nick watched the priest go to the side of the fireplace and slip on the pair of rubber boots he had noticed last night. So, they were Keller’s boots. Last night, he had told Nick that he hadn’t left the rectory. But then Nick reminded himself that snow-covered boots could mean that Keller had only stepped out to get more wood.
The three of them started for the door. Suddenly, Maggie grabbed on to a small table and doubled over.
“Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick again,” she mumbled.
“Maggie, are you okay?” He glanced at Father Keller and whispered, “She’s been like this all morning.” Then to Maggie, “What in the world did you drink last night?”
“Could I use your rest room?”
“Oh, sure.” Father Keller’s eyes darted across the floor, his obvious concern directed at the pearl-white carpeting. “Down the hall, second door on the right,” he said quickly, as if to hurry her along.
“Thanks. I’ll catch up with you guys.” She disappeared around the corner, holding her side.
“Will she be okay?” Father Keller seemed concerned.
“She’ll be fine. Believe me, you don’t want to be too close. Earlier she made a mess all over my boots.”
The priest grimaced and glanced at Nick’s boots, then followed him outside to the back of the rectory.
Drifts encased the pickup, forcing them to shovel a path and dig out the old metal heap. The door stuck then creaked, metal grinding against metal, as Nick jerked and pulled it open. A musty, pent-up smell hit Nick’s nostrils. The cab looked as though it had been closed up and unused for years. Disappointment stabbed at Nick. He was tired of coming up with empty leads. Still, he crawled into the cab with the flashlight and absolutely no clue as to what he was even looking for. Perhaps he should leave the search to the experts, but they were running out of time.
He lay on the cracked, vinyl seat then stretched and twisted his arm, allowing his hand to blindly search under the seats. The cramped quarters made it difficult to maneuver his body. The steering wheel cut into his side and the gearshift stabbed him in the chest. It reminded him of when he was sixteen and had used his dad’s old Chevy for making out with his dates. Only his body ached more now and certainly wasn’t as flexible as it used to be.
“I can’t imagine there being anything but rats in this old heap,” Father Keller said, standing outside the door.
“Rats?” He hated rats.
Nick snatched his hand back, hitting the raw knuckles on an exposed spring. He closed his eyes against the pain and bit down on his lower lip to contain the obscenities. He punched the glove compartment open and blasted the dark hole with the flashlight.
Carefully, he poked through the sparse contents: a yellowed owner’s manual, a rusted can of WD-40, several McDonald’s napkins, a matchbook from some place called the Pink Lady, a folded schedule with addresses and codes he didn’t recognize and a small screwdriver. He palmed the matchbook, feeling Father Keller’s eyes on him. Before he closed the compartment he ran his fingers back behind the contents in the deep groove. He felt something small, smooth and round, pinched it out of the groove and palmed it with the matchbook. He slipped both items into his coat pocket after checking to make sure he was out of Father Keller’s line of vision. As he started to close the compartment, he noticed handwritten notes scrawled on the folded schedule. Unable to read the writing, he grabbed the paper and tucked it up his sleeve. Then he slammed the compartment shut.
“Nothing here,” he said, scooting himself up and slipping the paper down into his pocket. He slid across the vinyl seat, taking one last look around. It occurred to him that, although the cab smelled musty and shut-up, everything-dash, seat, carpet- looked remarkably clean.
“Sorry you wasted your time,” Father Keller said as he turned toward the rectory and started up the path.
“Actually, I still have the bed to search.”
The priest stopped, hesitated, then turned back. The wind swirled the long cassock, snapping it violently, sounding like the crack of a whip. This time Nick noticed a hint of frustration in Father Keller’s blue eyes-frustration, impatience. If he wasn’t a priest, Nick would have said Father Keller simply looked pissed. Whatever it was, there was definitely something more. Something that made Nick anxious and apprehensive about what he might find in the pickup’s bed.
Chapter 62
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 Pollai-volo, 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.”
