A Necessary Evil (32 page)

CHAPTER 82

The Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska

N
ick walked past the door to Maggie's suite and found himself hesitating. Ever since last night he wanted to knock. He dared himself to knock, coming close a couple of times. His hands were filled this time with junk food he had loaded up on from the hotel-lobby gift shop. So he had an excuse. "Coward," he muttered to himself then remembered for the third or fourth time how ridiculous he was being. He hated that Maggie O'Dell still managed to push his buttons. After all this time he was so certain he was over her, that the only remaining feeling was anger. And he was still angry. But everything seemed to melt away when he looked into those dark brown eyes, everything including his knees. He was embarrassed to admit it, but no woman had ever knocked him so out of whack as Maggie O'Dell. And he hated that she seemed to be able to do that even without trying.

He knocked, instead, on the door to his own suite with his elbow since he had no free hand to knock, let alone dig out his key card.

Gibson opened the door so quickly it startled Nick, and he juggled the bags of chips and candy bars before everything became an avalanche.

"Here, let me get some of that," Gibson said, reaching out to help.

As soon as he had a free hand, Nick punched the volume down a couple notches as he passed by the TV. The room-service menu was still on the bed. All the pillows had been pulled out from under the covers and were stacked for TV-viewing comfort.

"They've got a couple of cool movies on later," Gibson said, unpacking the stash and lining it up neatly on the desk.

"Where's Timmy?" Nick asked, glancing around and noticing that the bathroom door was open.

"Didn't you meet him in the lobby?"

"No, I was down in the gift shop getting all this stuff."

Gibson looked genuinely confused. "The desk clerk called just a few minutes ago. He said that you wanted Timmy to meet you in the lobby to help carry some stuff up."

"I never asked the desk clerk to __ " Suddenly Nick's stomach took a nosedive. "Did you talk to the guy or did Timmy?"

"Timmy did. He just left. I thought he was with you."

Nick could see Gibson getting worried now and he didn't want him to see the panic that was beginning to crawl up the back of his neck.

"I'm going back down to the lobby to see if I missed him, okay?"

"I'll go with you."

"No," Nick practically shouted and saw Gibson flinch. "You stay here in case he comes back. I don't want us all wandering around the hotel looking for each other."

"Okay."

"I'll be right back." He stopped himself and put a hand on Gibson's shoulder. "Hey, everything's okay. We probably just missed each other. I'll be right back."

But as soon as the door closed behind him, Nick sprinted for the elevators. He hadn't asked any desk clerk to call for him. If Brother Sebastian was into playing games like this then Nick hated to see what else he was capable of doing. What the hell did the guy want?

CHAPTER 83

The Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska

K
eller knew Timmy Hamilton didn't recognize him at all. Four years of living in the rain forest had given him a weathered disguise he didn't even expect.

Keller had made the phone call to their room all the while watching Nick Morrelli fill his arms with junk from the gift shop. When Timmy got to the lobby he greeted the boy, telling him that he was working with the Omaha Police Department. It wasn't a lie. After all, he was working with the department. However, the boy seemed to misunderstand, perhaps thinking he was a plainclothes detective, especially after Keller showed him Detective Kasab's badge. The young detective really should have been more careful earlier when he left his jacket over a chair while he used the restroom in Keller's hotel room.

Besides, it was better for Timmy if he didn't know the truth. Even though the boy had betrayed him, he would make this as painless as possible. It had become a necessity, unfortunately, to take care of such things in order to survive. But some missions were worth the collateral damage that occurred along the way.

He told Timmy that he had already talked to his uncle, Nick Morrelli, in the gift shop, and that they agreed to meet in a suite the police department had reserved. That his uncle had gone back up to their room to get Timmy and his friend.

"But he had the desk clerk already call me to come down and help him carry stuff," Timmy said, hanging back, looking a bit suspicious but clearly not wanting to upset a police detective.

Keller shrugged as if he didn't know anything about it. "That must have been before I talked to him." Then to pretend that he was just as confused, he added, "I wondered why you came down to the lobby alone."

"Couldn't we just wait for my uncle down here?" Timmy asked.

"We agreed to meet hi the suite. I don't think he's coming back down here." Again, for good measure, he added, "Do you want to call him?"

Just the offer seemed to satisfy the boy, and he shook his head.

He led him back to his suite. At one point he even let the boy go first, past a housekeeping cart, and he slipped Detective Kasab's badge between the piles of towels. All the while he kept reassuring the boy that they would talk about everything once his uncle and friend arrived.

At the door to the suite when Timmy seemed to hesitate, Keller told him that he could wait in the hall if he wanted. But as he opened the door he added that they needed to be careful because earlier he had seen someone following them. It was enough to draw Timmy into the room and looking over his shoulder instead of looking or expecting any danger from inside. It was as if Timmy had finally accepted him as an ally.

All he had ever tried to do was help Timmy. All of the boys, he had only wanted to help them, save them from the abuse he believed they were suffering at home. At the time, Timmy had claimed he bruised easily, but wasn't that what they all said to cover up for their parents? Timmy looked okay now, a bit scrawny but healthy. Although from his own experience he knew the mental scars never healed. Perhaps that was true for Timmy, too.

"You can sit down if you want," he told Timmy.

"No, that's okay. I'll wait until Uncle Nick and Gibson get here."

The boy remained standing, watching the door and fidgeting, shifting from one foot to the other. Keller hated fidgeting.

That's when the phone rang as if on perfect cue.

"Hello?" he said, making it sound like he wasn't expecting the call.

"Good evening, Mr. Keller. This is the front desk calling just as you requested."

"Yes, Timmy's here with me. Where did you say you were?" He glanced at Timmy still standing by the door. He was far enough away he would never hear the desk clerk on the other end.

"The front desk, sir," the caller repeated.

"How long will that take?"

"Excuse me? How long will what take?"

Keller ignored the poor clerk's confusion. "Well, okay. We'll wait here for you."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I have no idea what __ "

He hung up on him in midsentence, finished and pleased with his side of the conversation. Then to Timmy he said, "They're going to be a few minutes late. Something your uncle has to take care of."

He needed to come up with something, anything that would relax the boy, that would stop his goddamn fidgeting. "In the meantime, why don't you help yourself to the minibar."

That got his attention. "Really? Are you sure?"

"Oh yeah, go ahead. Grab me a Coke, too."

That was it. Evidently sharing his minibar was like opening a whole new avenue of trust. Suddenly Timmy was grinning and down on his knees, opening the fridge and evaluating the treasure inside.

Yes, this would be easy. Almost too easy.

CHAPTER 84

Washington, D.C.

I
n her mind Gwen tried to assess her escape route. Her instincts told her to make a mad dash. What was she waiting for? Why did she dare try and talk sense into him? Was that even possible? The last time she had been in a room with a madman, Eric Pratt had attempted to drive a freshly sharpened lead pencil into her throat.

This was different. There was no uniformed officer right outside the door ready to come running to her rescue. R. J. Tully wouldn't be racing in to protect her either. Not this time. She'd never make it to the door let alone the hallway or the elevator without Campion overpowering her. Her only available weapon was talk. She needed to control him with her voice and her words. She glanced around the room one more time in search of anything else. No, there wasn't anything else. At least not until she settled him down. Maybe then she had a chance of catching him off guard.

James Campion's rage came in bursts then quieted almost as quickly. He stood between Gwen and the doorway, quiet now but glaring at her with a new distrust that she was attempting to dismantle. She had to convince him she was on his side, that she wasn't the enemy.

"I'm on your side, James. Father Paul Conley abused you in a way no boy should experience. He deserved to be punished," she said, stopping herself from adding that ripping his head off and placing it on his own altar may have been a bit much. She needed to win his trust. He needed to believe she understood. "He won't be able to hurt any more boys ever again."

"That's right," he said, nodding. "Playing the game and pretending to kill him wasn't enough. It didn't stop him."

"But, James, what about the others?"

"The others? The other priests?"

"No, the young women. There were four of them, weren't there? Tell me about them. Why did you hurt them?"

"Oh, you mean the whores."

"Excuse me?"

"I met them over the Internet. We talked, got to know each other. You told me that I needed to try to have normal relationships with women. Remember? You told me." He was getting anxious again.

"Yes, that's right. I did tell you that." And she had.

It had been a major concern to him that he couldn't have an ordinary relationship with a woman. She remembered their conversations. She knew his abuse had left him with an immature attitude about sex. He always seemed anxious and concerned about it but never angry. He had talked about it all so calmly. How he wanted to take it slow and get to know and trust a woman before it turned to sex. It was the sex that seemed to worry him, to almost frighten him. Of course it did. It all made sense to her now even before he started to explain.

"We would talk on the Internet. It was comfortable, enjoyable." Campion's eyes were somewhere else as if remembering. This was good. Get his mind on something else so she would be able to catch him off guard.

"You could get to know each other," Gwen encouraged him, "without the pressure of going out on a date."

"That's right. It was nice," he said, almost like a teenage boy. "We would talk about computer games and movies and stuff in the news. But then they would want to meet me." His forehead creased with worry and his jaw became so taut she could see he was clenching his teeth. "That would have been okay, too, except that they always wanted to... go somewhere. To be alone with me. And by alone they always meant... you know," and he looked to her for help.

"They wanted to be more intimate with you?"

"They wanted sex," he hissed at her and his whole face seemed to turn a shade darker.

What was wrong with her? She was making him angry again, when she needed to keep him calm. She needed to make him believe she was on his side. That she agreed with him. He needed to consider her an ally. And yet there was one question that could not go unanswered.

"What about Dena?"

"Who?" He looked at her as though she had awakened him.

"Dena Wayne. My assistant?" Could she still pretend to be on his side if he called Dena a whore?

"I thought she'd be different. She was actually nice to me. I liked her a lot. We went out and had fun. We talked. But then, no matter how much I thought J wanted it... I kept seeing
his
face. Every goddamn time. I couldn't do it without seeing him and smelling him and feeling him. I wanted to rip off his head. I wanted to take my bare hands and rip his fucking head off. And I did. Each time I killed one of them I was really killing him. But then I realized... " His eyes met hers. They could go from angry and mad to calm and pathetic so quickly. "I left you her earring ahead of time. I thought you'd stop me."

"I... I didn't recognize it," Gwen said and her insides felt as if liquid ice had just been injected into her. He had meant for it to be a call to stop him and she hadn't even recognized the earring as Dena's.

Campion didn't seem to hear her and continued, "The notes and even a map __ I sent you all of it. I thought you'd help me. But you didn't. You couldn't help me."

She had backed up against her desk and her hands reached behind her, feeling, searching for anything to use as a weapon since it was becoming obvious that her words, that her voice was not enough. But she had just slid anything and everything into her leather briefcase moments before he arrived. It sat on the chair next to the desk.

"I can help you, James," she lied, not having a clue what to even offer. "We can go over everything." She reached for her briefcase as if there was something in it that could help.

"No, goddamn it!"

His voice slammed her back against her desk again as if he had struck her with his fist, and Gwen pulled the briefcase to her chest like a shield, wrapping her arms around it tightly. It was closed, damn it. The locks snapped shut, making it impossible for her to just slip a hand inside.

"No, you can't," he said. "But I can." He pulled out a small revolver from his pocket. He held it out and pointed it directly at her.

Her heart hammered at her rib cage. Almost instantly, her breathing came in labored gasps. And her palms were slick with sweat.

"James, where did you get a gun?" It hadn't been more than a whisper and still it had been an effort. It was too late to worry about showing fear. But how could he have a gun? None of his victims had been shot. Racine had said strangled. But then how would they know for sure? All the torsos were missing. "James, put the gun down." If she said please would it matter? If she screamed would anyone hear her?

"This feels good," Campion said, waving it around. "This... this can help. I bought it a few days ago. I wanted to use this with Father Paul, but I couldn't figure out a way to get it on the plane." He was smiling now. And calm. Way too calm. His hand didn't shake in the least as he held it stretched out in front of him. "It feels so good. Better than any of our sessions. Makes me feel strong. Yes, I wanted to see the fear in his eyes. But I got something better. I got to hear his last breath. His very last breath as I strangled the life out of that bastard."

Then he stopped and looked as if he was listening for something. Gwen listened, too, hoping it had been the elevator. Maybe it was someone in the hall. She couldn't hear a thing over the pounding of her heart in her ears.

He tilted his head, still listening, and then he smiled again. "The banging. It's gone."

Of course it was gone she wanted to tell him. It was inside her now.

"You shouldn't have made me dredge up all those memories, Dr. Patterson," he said, shaking his head.

She couldn't believe it. He was really going to do this. She couldn't swallow and it hurt to breathe. Her knees threatened to go out from under her. If she fell would he shoot her where she lay? Even his eyes __ though they stayed on hers __ they had gone somewhere far away. Should she make a run for it? What did she have to lose? Getting shot in the back or between the eyes, what did it matter?

"You didn't fix it," Campion said and Gwen couldn't help thinking how much he sounded like an executioner,
her
executioner. "I gave you all those chances and you couldn't help."

"James, you don't want to do this," she said, but, again, he didn't seem to hear her.

"I forgive you," he told her and then he pulled the trigger.

The pain seemed to blossom, spreading throughout her body. She didn't even remember falling, but from the floor she saw James Campion put the gun in his mouth and fire one more shot. That was the last thing Gwen Patterson saw before everything went black.