A Perfect Evil (54 page)

M
aggie 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 Pollaivolo, 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.”

“That’s because it’s way down on the other end of the hall,” he scolded, pointing and keeping his eyes on her as though he didn’t trust her.

“Really? Thanks.” She squeezed past him and made her way down the hall, stopping in front of the correct door and glancing back at him. “Is this it?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks again.” She went in and listened at the door for a few minutes. When she peeked out again, she saw Ray Howard disappear into Father Keller’s bedroom.

M
aggie 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 Pollaivolo, 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.”

“That’s because it’s way down on the other end of the hall,” he scolded, pointing and keeping his eyes on her as though he didn’t trust her.

“Really? Thanks.” She squeezed past him and made her way down the hall, stopping in front of the correct door and glancing back at him. “Is this it?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks again.” She went in and listened at the door for a few minutes. When she peeked out again, she saw Ray Howard disappear into Father Keller’s bedroom.

T
he bed of the pickup was filled with snow, but Nick crawled up over the tailgate.

“Could you hand me the shovel, Father?”

The priest stood paralyzed, staring at the drifts that swallowed Nick’s legs. Keller’s ungloved hands were at his chest, the long fingers intertwined as though he were in prayer. The wind whipped at his dark, wavy hair. His cheeks were red and his eyes watery blue.

“Father Keller, the shovel, please,” Nick asked again, this time pointing when the priest finally looked up at him.

“Oh, sure.” He made his way to the tree where they had left it. “I can’t imagine there being anything of use to you.”

“I guess we’ll see.”

Nick had to reach down to take the shovel, since Father Keller made no effort to lift it to him. The priest’s behavior propelled Nick’s adrenaline. There was something here. He could feel it. He started digging a bit frantically at first. He needed to slow down. How could he possibly find anything in all this snow? He scooped smaller shovelfuls for fear of tossing evidence over the side. The handmade wooden stock racks creaked and whined against the wind gusts. The cold sliced through Nick’s jacket. It assaulted his eyes and pricked at his face, turning his ears into red pincushions. Yet, perspiration slid down his back. His palms were sweating inside the thick leather gloves he had found with the shovel in the storage shed.

Suddenly, the shovel struck something hard, encrusted beneath the snow. The dull sound alerted Father Keller who approached the tailgate, close enough to look down into the hole Nick had created.

Carefully, Nick dug around the object with small scoops and delicate plunges. Unable to contain his curiosity, he tossed the shovel aside and dropped to his knees. With his gloved hands he brushed and wiped and scooped at the snow, feeling the edges of the object, but still not able to determine what it was. Snow crusted around it in chunks of ice. Whatever the object was, it had been warm when it was tossed into the pile of snow.

Finally, Nick could see what looked like skin. His heart raced. His hands frantically pulled and chipped at the ice. A huge chunk broke away, and Nick jerked backward in surprise.

“Jesus,” he said, feeling his stomach lurch.

He glanced at Father Keller, who grimaced and stepped backward. Encased in the snow tomb was a dead dog, its black fur peeled away, its skin carved and shredded, and its throat slashed.

T
he bed of the pickup was filled with snow, but Nick crawled up over the tailgate.

“Could you hand me the shovel, Father?”

The priest stood paralyzed, staring at the drifts that swallowed Nick’s legs. Keller’s ungloved hands were at his chest, the long fingers intertwined as though he were in prayer. The wind whipped at his dark, wavy hair. His cheeks were red and his eyes watery blue.

“Father Keller, the shovel, please,” Nick asked again, this time pointing when the priest finally looked up at him.

“Oh, sure.” He made his way to the tree where they had left it. “I can’t imagine there being anything of use to you.”

“I guess we’ll see.”

Nick had to reach down to take the shovel, since Father Keller made no effort to lift it to him. The priest’s behavior propelled Nick’s adrenaline. There was something here. He could feel it. He started digging a bit frantically at first. He needed to slow down. How could he possibly find anything in all this snow? He scooped smaller shovelfuls for fear of tossing evidence over the side. The handmade wooden stock racks creaked and whined against the wind gusts. The cold sliced through Nick’s jacket. It assaulted his eyes and pricked at his face, turning his ears into red pincushions. Yet, perspiration slid down his back. His palms were sweating inside the thick leather gloves he had found with the shovel in the storage shed.

Suddenly, the shovel struck something hard, encrusted beneath the snow. The dull sound alerted Father Keller who approached the tailgate, close enough to look down into the hole Nick had created.

Carefully, Nick dug around the object with small scoops and delicate plunges. Unable to contain his curiosity, he tossed the shovel aside and dropped to his knees. With his gloved hands he brushed and wiped and scooped at the snow, feeling the edges of the object, but still not able to determine what it was. Snow crusted around it in chunks of ice. Whatever the object was, it had been warm when it was tossed into the pile of snow.

Finally, Nick could see what looked like skin. His heart raced. His hands frantically pulled and chipped at the ice. A huge chunk broke away, and Nick jerked backward in surprise.

“Jesus,” he said, feeling his stomach lurch.

He glanced at Father Keller, who grimaced and stepped backward. Encased in the snow tomb was a dead dog, its black fur peeled away, its skin carved and shredded, and its throat slashed.

N
ick and Father Keller stomped their way up the steps just as Maggie came out the front door of the rectory. Immediately, Nick checked her eyes, anxious to see if she had found anything. Her quick glance and a smile for Father Keller left him without a clue.

“Are you feeling any better?” Father Keller sounded genuinely concerned.

“Much. Thank you.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t come with us,” Nick said, still feeling sick to his stomach. Who could do something like that to a defenseless dog? Then he felt ridiculous. It was obvious who had done it.

“Why? What did you find?” Maggie wanted to know.

“I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Would the two of you like some tea now?” Father Keller offered.

“No, thanks. We need—”

“Yes, actually,” Maggie interrupted Nick. “Perhaps that might settle my stomach. That is, if it’s not an inconvenience?”

“Of course not. Come in. I’ll see if we have some sweet rolls or perhaps doughnuts.”

They followed the priest in, and again Nick tried to catch a glimpse of Maggie’s face, unsure of her sudden enthusiasm to spend more time with the priest she despised.

“Nice to see you supporting the local merchants.” Father Keller smiled as he took her jacket.

She smiled back without an explanation and went into the living room. Nick brushed off his boots, staying on the welcome mat in the foyer. He glanced up to find Father Keller checking out Maggie’s tight jeans. Keller’s wasn’t a simple glance, but a long, self-indulgent look. Suddenly, the priest looked back at Nick, and Nick bent over his jacket’s zipper, pretending to struggle with it. Before the suspicion and anger crept into his mind, Nick reminded himself that even Father Keller was a man. And Maggie did look awfully good in jeans and that tight red sweater. Any man would have to be brain-dead not to notice.

Father Keller disappeared around the corner, and Nick joined Maggie in front of the fireplace.

“What’s going on?” he whispered.

“Do you have Christine’s cellular?”

“I think it’s still in my jacket pocket.”

“Could you please get it?”

He stared at her, waiting for some explanation, but instead she squatted in front of the fire to warm her hands. When he came back with the phone, she was poking through the ashes with an iron poker. He stood with his back to her, as though standing guard.

“What are you doing?” It was difficult to whisper through clenched teeth.

“I could smell something earlier. It smelled like burnt rubber.”

“He’ll be back any second.”

“Whatever it was, it’s ashes now.”

“Cream, lemon, sugar?” Father Keller came around the corner with a full tray. By the time he set it on the bench in front of the window, Maggie was standing by Nick’s side.

“Lemon, please,” Maggie answered casually.

“Cream and sugar for me,” Nick said, only now noticing that his foot was tapping nervously.

“If you two will excuse me, I need to make a phone call,” Maggie said suddenly.

“There’s a phone in the office down the hall.” Father Keller pointed.

“Oh, no thanks. I’ll just use Nick’s cellular. May I?”

Nick handed her the phone, still looking for some sign as to what she was up to. She went back toward the foyer for privacy while Father Keller handed Nick a steaming cup of tea.

“Would you like a roll?” The priest offered a plate of assorted pastry.

“No, thanks.” Nick tried to keep an eye on Maggie, but she was gone.

A phone began ringing, muffled but insistent. Father Keller looked puzzled, then headed quickly for the hallway.

“What on earth are you doing, Agent O’Dell?”

Nick slammed down his cup, spilling hot liquid on his hand and the polished table. He scrambled around the corner to see Maggie with the cellular phone to her ear as she walked down the hall, stopping and listening at each door. Father Keller followed close behind, questioning her and receiving no answers.

“What exactly are you doing, Agent O’Dell?” He tried to get in front of her, but she squeezed past.

Nick jogged down the hall, his nerves raw, the adrenaline pounding again.

“What’s going on, Maggie?”

The muffled ringing of a phone continued, the sound getting closer and closer. Finally, Maggie pushed open the last door on the left, and the sound became crisp and clear.

“Whose room is this?” Maggie asked as she stood in the doorway.

Again, Father Keller seemed paralyzed. He looked confused, but also indignant.

“Father Keller, would you please get the phone,” she asked politely, leaning against the doorjamb, careful not to enter. “It sounds as if it’s in one of those drawers.”

The priest still didn’t move, staring into the room. The ringing grated on Nick’s nerves. Then Nick realized that Maggie had called the number. He saw Christine’s cellular phone in Maggie’s hand, the buttons lit up and blinking with each ring of the hidden phone.

“Father Keller, please get the phone,” she instructed again.

“This is Ray’s room. I don’t believe it’s proper for me to go through his things.”

“Just get the phone, please. It’s a small, black flip-style.”

He stared at her, then finally went into the room, slowly and hesitantly. Within seconds the ringing stopped. He came back out and handed her the small black cellular phone. She tossed it to Nick.

“Where is Mr. Howard, Father Keller? He needs to come down to the sheriff’s department with us to answer some questions.”

“He’s probably cleaning the church. I’ll go get him.”

Nick waited until Father Keller was out of sight.

“What’s going on, Maggie? Why are you suddenly convinced we need to question Howard? And what’s with calling his cell phone? How the hell did you even know his number?”

“I didn’t dial his number, Nick. I dialed
my
cellular phone number. That’s not his phone. It’s mine. It’s the one I lost in the river.”