“Eddie told me to watch out for you two.”
“Eddie did?”
“What’s in the duffel bag?” Maggie interrupted the two of them.
“I don’t know. Father Keller said he wouldn’t be needing it anymore. He asked me to take it back for him.”
“You mind if we take a peek?” She pried it out of his hands. His resisting arrest justified a search. The bag was heavy. She swung it up onto a nearby chair, stopped, then leaned against a pay phone until the faintness passed.
“You sure it’s not your bag?” she said, grabbing the familiar brown cardigan and several well-pressed white shirts. Howard’s face registered surprise.
A stack of art books accounted for the bag’s weight. Maggie put them aside, more interested in the small, carved box tucked between several pairs of boxer shorts. The carved words on the lid were Latin, but she had no idea what they said. The contents didn’t surprise her: a white linen cloth, a small crucifix, two candles and a small container of oil. She glanced up at Nick and watched his eyes examine the contents, his confusion replaced with frustration. Then Maggie reached underneath the pile of newspaper clippings to the bottom of the box. She pulled out a small pair of boy’s underpants tightly wrapped around a shiny fillet knife.
Chapter 103
Maggie punched another code into the computer and waited. Her laptop’s modem was excruciatingly slow. She took another bite of her blueberry muffin, homemade, special delivery from- where else?-Wanda’s. The computer screen still read “initializing modem.” She sat down and looked around the hotel room, her foot tapping nervously, impatiently, but not making the computer work any faster.
Her bags were packed. She had showered and dressed hours ago, but her flight didn’t leave until noon. She rubbed her stiff neck and still couldn’t believe she had slept the entire night in the straight-backed chair. Even more surprised that she had slept through the night without visions of Albert Stucky dancing in her head.
Bored, she grabbed the huge Sunday edition of the Omaha Journal. The headlines only added to her frustration. However, she was glad to see Christine’s byline back on the front page. Even from her hospital bed, Christine continued to crank out articles. At least she and Timmy were safe and sound.
Maggie scanned the article once again. Christine’s writing now stuck to the facts, letting quotes from the experts draw the sensational conclusions. She found her own quote and read it for the third time.
Special Agent Maggie O ‘Dell, an FBI profiler assigned to the case, said it was “unlikely Gillick and Howard were partners. Serial killers,” Agent O ’Dell insisted, “are loners.” However, the district attorney’s office has filed murder charges against both former sheriff’s deputy Eddie Gillick, and a church janitor, Raymond Howard, for the deaths of Aaron Harper, Eric Paltrow, Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner. A separate charge has been entered for the kidnapping of Timmy Hamilton.
There was a tap at the door. Maggie tossed the paper aside and checked the computer screen again. “Redialing first number” flashed across the screen along with the low hum and a succession of beeps. It was Sunday morning. Why was it taking so long to make the connection?
On the way to the door, she checked her watch. He was early. They didn’t need to leave for the airport for another thirty to forty minutes.
As soon as she opened the door, the uninvited flutter arrived. Nick stood smiling at her, the dimples in full force. Strands of hair fell across his forehead. His blue eyes sparkled at her as if there was a special secret his eyes shared with hers. He wore a red T-shirt and blue jeans, both tight enough to outline his athletic body, teasing her eyes and making her fingers ache to touch him. Why did he have this effect on her? she wondered as they exchanged hellos, and he came into the room. She caught herself checking out his backside, shook her head and silently chastised herself.
“It must be warm out,” she heard herself say. Yes, resort to the weather. That seemed safe, considering the electrical current he had just brought into the room.
“It’s hard to believe we had snow a few days ago. Nebraska weather.” He shrugged. “Here, this is for you.” He handed her a gift-wrapped box that had escaped her notice. “Sort of a thank-you, slash, goodbye present.”
Her first inclination was to decline, to say it was inappropriate and leave it at that. But she took it and slowly unwrapped it, acutely aware of him watching her. She pulled out the red football jersey with a white number seventeen emblazoned on the back. She couldn’t help but smile.
“It’s perfect.”
“I don’t expect it to replace the Packers,” he said with just a trace of embarrassment in his voice. “But I thought you should have a Nebraska Cornhuskers, too.”
“Thanks. I love it.”
“Seventeen was my number,” he added.
Suddenly, the simple cotton jersey took on a greater significance. Her eyes met his, and without meaning it to, her smile disappeared as she combated the annoying flutter. However, he was the first to look away, and she saw a flicker of discomfort. It was times like this that he surprised her most, when the arrogant, self-assured bachelor showed just a hint of the irresistible, shy, sensitive man.
“Oh, and this is from Timmy.”
She took the videotape, and as soon as she saw the cover, her smile returned. “The X-Files.”
“He said that it has one of his favorite episodes-the one with the killer cockroaches, of course.”
With no more gifts to keep his hands preoccupied, he shoved them into his pockets.
“I’ll be sure to watch and…and I’ll let Timmy know what I think,” she said, surprised but pleased by the unfamiliar commitment to stay in touch.
They stood there staring at each other. Maggie didn’t want to move, couldn’t move. They had spent the last week together, almost around the clock, sharing pizza and brandy, exchanging opinions and views, wrestling madmen and holy men, dousing fears and expectations and grieving for small boys neither of whom they knew. She had allowed Nick Morrelli access to vulnerabilities she had shared with no one else, not even herself. Perhaps that was why she suddenly felt as if a major chunk of herself would be left behind. And, of all places, in a small Nebraska town she had never even heard of before. What had happened to the cool, aloof FBI agent who maintained her professionalism at whatever the cost?
“Maggie, I-”
“I’m sorry,” she interrupted, not prepared for what might be a revelation of feelings. “I almost forgot. I’m trying to access some information.” She escaped to the table in the corner. The computer connection had finally been made, and she punched several more keys, immediately annoyed by the unwarranted tremble in her fingers and the shortness of breath.
“You’re still looking for him,” he said without surprise or irritation, coming up behind her, too close to allow her normal breathing to resume.
“From Caracas, Father Francis’ body was shipped by truck to a small community about a hundred miles to the south. Keller’s airline ticket has him returning today. I’m trying to find out if he boarded the flight back to Miami or if he headed somewhere else.”
“It amazes me the information you can access.”
She felt him lean forward to examine the screen.
“At the airport,” he continued, “I remember thinking how nice it would be to have FBI credentials instead of my measly sheriff’s badge. I was way out of my jurisdiction.”
“I certainly hope you aren’t still worried about looking incompetent?”
“No. Actually, no, I’m not,” he said, sounding like he definitely meant it.
Finally, the passenger list for TWA flight 1692 materialized on the screen. Maggie easily found Reverend Michael Keller’s name, and it was on the list even after departure.
“Just because he’s on the list doesn’t mean he was on the plane.”
“I know that.” She scooted out from between the computer and Nick before turning to face him.
