Friday, July 2 Eppley Airport Omaha, Nebraska
Monsignor William O'Sullivan was certain no one had
recognized him. So why was his forehead damp? He hadn't
gone through the security checkpoint yet. Instead, he had
decided to wait until it got closer to his flight time.
Just in case someone did recognize him. On this side, he
could still pretend to be picking up a colleague rather
than admit he was leaving.
He fidgeted in the plastic chair, clutching the leather
portfolio closer to his chest. So close, so tight it
seemed to crush his lungs, causing that pain again, a pain
he may have dismissed too quickly as heartburn. But of
course, it was only heartburn. He simply wasn't used to
eating such a large meal for lunch, but he knew the flight
to New York and the later one to Rome would include
cardboard renditions of food, causing much more damage to
his overly sensitive stomach than Sophia's leftover meat
loaf and mashed potatoes did.
Yes, surely the leftovers were responsible for his
discomfort, he told himself, and yet his eyes darted
around the busy airport terminal, looking for a bathroom.
He remained seated, not wanting to move until he examined
and found an acceptable path. He shoved a thumb and index
finger up under his wire-rim glasses to dig the fatigue
out of his eyes, and then he began his search again.
He'd avoid the shortest route, not wanting to pass the
exotic black woman handing out "reading material" — as she
called it — to anyone too polite to say no. She wore
colorful beads in her hair, what looked like her Sunday
best dress with splashes of purple that made her hips even
larger, but sensible shoes. Her smooth, deep voice almost
made it a song when she asked, "Can I offer you some
reading material?" And to everyone — including those who
huffed their responses and rushed by — she greeted them
with yet another melodic, polite stanza, "You have a most
pleasant day."
Monsignor O'Sullivan knew what her reading material was
without seeing it. He supposed she was a sort of present-
day missionary, in her own right. If he passed her, would
she sense their connection? Both of them ministers,
distributors of God's word. One in sensible shoes, another
with a portfolio stuffed with secrets.
Better to avoid her.
He checked the Krispy Kreme counter. A long line of
zombies waited patiently for their afternoon dose of
energy, like drug addicts getting one more shot before
their flight. To his right he watched the bookstore
entrance, quickly glancing away when a young man in a
baseball cap looked in his direction. Had the youth
recognized him, despite his street clothes? His stomach
churned while his eyes studied his shoes. His cotton-knit
polo — a gift from his sister — was now sticking to his
wet back. Over the loudspeakers came the repetitive
message, warning travelers not to leave their luggage
unattended. He clutched the portfolio, only now
discovering that his palms were also slick with sweat. How
in the world had he believed he could just leave without
being noticed? That he could just get on a plane and be
free, be absolved of all his indiscretions.
But when Monsignor O'Sullivan dared to look again, the
young man was gone. Passengers rushed by without a glance.
Even the black woman greeting and passing out her reading
material seemed totally unaware of his presence.
Paranoid. He was just being paranoid. Thirty-seven years
of dedication to the church and what did he get for it?
Accusations and finger-pointing when he deserved accolades
of respect and gratitude. When he tried to explain his
predicament to his sister, the anger had overwhelmed him,
and all he had managed to tell her in their brief
conversation was to have the title of the family's estate
changed to her name only. "I won't let those bastards take
our home."
He wished he were there now. It was nothing extravagant —
a two-story split-timber on three acres in the middle of
Connecticut, with walking trails surrounded by trees and
mountains and sky. It was the only place he felt closest
to God, and the irony made him smile. The irony that
beautiful cathedrals and huge congregations had led him
further and further away from God.
A squawk coming from near the escalator startled him back
to reality. It sounded like a tropical bird, but was
instead a toddler in full temper tantrum, his mother
pulling him along, unfazed, as if she couldn't hear the
screech. It grated on Monsignor O'Sullivan's nerves,
scratching them raw and resetting the tension so tight in
his jaw that he feared he'd start grinding his teeth. It
was enough to get him to his feet. He no longer cared
about accessible paths, and he made his way to the
restroom.
Thankfully, it was empty, yet he glanced under every stall
to make certain. He set the portfolio at his feet, leaning
it against his left leg, as if needing to maintain some
contact. He removed his glasses and placed them on the
corner of the sink. Then, avoiding his own blurred
reflection, he waved his hands under the faucet, his
frustration fueled by the lack of response. He swiped his
hands back and forth, finally eliciting a short burst of
water, barely wetting his fingertips. He swiped again.
Another short burst. This time he closed his eyes and
splashed as much as he could on his face, the cool
dampness beginning to calm his nausea, beginning to quiet
the sudden throbbing in his temples.
His hands groped for the paper-towel dispenser, ripping
off more than he needed and gently dabbing, disgusted by
the smell and harsh feel of the recycled paper. He hadn't
even heard the bathroom door open. When he glanced in the
mirror, Monsignor O'Sullivan was startled to see a blurred
figure standing behind him.
"I'm almost finished," he said, thinking he might be in
the way, though there were other sinks. Why did he need to
use this one? He noticed a faint metallic odor. Perhaps it
was a member of the cleaning crew. An impatient one at
that. He reached for his glasses, accidentally knocking
them to the floor. Before he could bend down to retrieve
them, an arm came around his waist. All he saw was a glint
of silver. Then he felt the burn, the streak of pain,
shooting up through his chest.
At the same time there was a whisper in his right ear —
soft and gentle. "You're already finished, Monsignor
O'Sullivan."
Washington, D.C.
There was no easy way to pick up a human head.
At least that's what Special Agent Maggie O'Dell had
decided. She watched the scene below and sympathized with
the young crime lab technician. Maggie wondered if that
was exactly what he was thinking as he squatted in the
mud, looking at it from yet another angle. Even Detective
Julia Racine remained quiet, standing over him, but unable
to offer any of her regular advice. It was the quietest
Maggie had ever seen the detective.
Stan Wenhoff, chief medical examiner for the District,
yelled down an instruction or two, but stayed beside
Maggie on top of the embankment, not making any attempt to
find a way down. Actually Maggie was surprised to see Stan
on a Friday afternoon, especially at the beginning of a
holiday weekend. Normally he would have sent one of his
deputies, except that he wouldn't want to miss out on
making headlines. And this case would certainly start
making headlines now.
Maggie looked beyond the riverbank, out at the water and
the city on the other side. Despite the usual terror
alerts, the District was preparing for the weekend
festivities, expecting sunny skies and cooler-than-average
temperatures. Not that she had any big plans beyond
lounging in the backyard with Harvey. She'd throw a couple
of steaks on the grill, read the latest Jeffery Deaver.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear though the
breeze immediately tugged another one free. Yes, it was an
absolutely beautiful summer day, except for the
decapitated head someone had discarded on the muddy
riverbank. What level of evil did it take to slice another
person's head completely off and leave it like a piece of
trash? Her friend, Gwen Patterson, accused her of having
an obsession with evil. Maggie didn't look at it so much
as an obsession as an age-old quest. She had decided long
ago that it was part of her job to root out evil and
destroy it.
"Finish going through the surrounding surface," Stan
called down. "Then just scoop it up into a bag."
Maggie glanced at Stan. Scoop it up? Easy for him to say
from up here where his polished shoes were safe and the
waft of death hadn't yet arrived. But even from above,
Maggie could see it was a daunting task. The riverbank was
littered with cans and discarded take-out containers and
wrappers. She knew the area — this stretch under the
overpass — well enough to know there were also cigarette
butts, condoms and a needle or two. The killer had taken a
risk, discarding the head in such a well-trafficked area.
Ordinarily Maggie would find herself assessing that risk
as the killer's apparent disorganization. Taking risks
could amount to simple panic. But since this was the third
head to show up in the District in three weeks, Maggie
knew this had little to do with panic and everything to do
with the killer's twisted strategy.