Alex Kava - A Necessary Evil

Yes, Gwen was right. Some scars took longer to heal.

The nightmare didn't come as often anymore, but when it did, it was as real and palpable as ever. She was back in that dark, damp tunnel under the cemetery. Dirt crumbled down into her hair. The smell of decay filled her nostrils. The darkness pushed against her from all sides. She could hear his steps crunch closer and closer. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck. And this time when he sliced her, he didn't stop at her side but continued to carve the sign of the cross deep into her flesh.

"Ms. O'Dell." The flight attendant startled her. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

"No, thanks, I'm fine." She smiled at the woman and waited for her to go on to the next passenger. But she wasn't fine. Her palms were slick with sweat and her stomach twisted in knots. Only this time neither was from her fear of flying. Not much consolation. Gwen had mentioned "unfinished business*' and that's exactly what Father Michael Keller was to Maggie. Anyone who could kill innocent little boys and slice a cross into their chest had not stopped just because he had escaped. He may have a change of scenery, but she knew there would not be a change of heart. That wasn't the way evil worked.

And on the subject of evil, she had a hunch that these three cases were, indeed, connected, if not by the same killer, then perhaps by the victims. Maggie slid a file folder out from underneath the others. She had put it together hastily before Gwen picked her up for the airport. Now she had an opportunity to flip through the articles she had downloaded from the Internet. From Boston to Portland, from New York City to Albuquerque there had been allegations of sexual abuse by priests all over the country. Nowhere seemed to be exempt. James Porter, Paul Shanley, John Geoghan __ the names read like a who's who of the few who had been convicted and punished. But from her brief research she had learned that there had been an estimated fifteen hundred American priests in the past fifteen years who had faced allegations of sexual abuse.

Of course, she needed more information. Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions, but these three cases didn't sound like a serial killer who happened to single out priests because he was trying to make some crazy religious statement. Instead, Maggie couldn't help wondering if someone had taken it upon himself to carry out his own brand of justice. Because a single stab wound to the chest and through the heart sounded more like an execution.

Washington, D.C.

Gwen finally conceded defeat, allowing the voice-messaging service to start answering the phone and collecting the messages. Besides, after Benny Hassert's call, telling her that he couldn't match the fingerprints from the manila envelope to those on the water glass, she didn't want to talk to anyone else. Had she been wrong about Rubin Nash? Or had he simply been more careful than she anticipated? He could have delivered the envelope without getting his fingerprints on it, but it would be tricky. She was too exhausted to think about it.

Even letting the voice-messaging service answer the calls still meant the phone had to ring. It was beginning to wear on her nerves. It didn't help matters that each ring startled Harvey from his sleep. He'd get up and pace, following her even after she commanded him to stay. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He did stay once or twice, but looked absolutely miserable doing so, as if she was asking him to do something totally contrary to his nature. At the rate she was going she'd never get any of her work done, and Harvey would never get any of his required naps. It was a good thing she didn't have appointments on Mondays.

She had called and left several messages for Dena at her apartment and on her cell phone. Gwen's first thought was that she had decided to take off with her new beau. She had been irritated, but more with herself than with Dena. After all, why did she seem to have such a knack for hiring irresponsible young women? No that wasn't fair. Their chance meeting at Mr. Lee's World Market Saturday evening had been awkward. Dena had appeared… flustered, anxious, but what young woman wouldn't, running into her boss when she was in the middle of preparing for a romantic evening? And despite Dena's occasional faux pas at work, Gwen could hardly call her irresponsible.

That's why she had started to get concerned. Was the girl hurt? Had there been a family emergency? Gwen was beginning to regret not even knowing if Dena had a roommate or any family close by. If something had happened, who would she contact?

It was a recent necessity, the vow to adopt a policy of not getting involved with her hired staff. Past assistants had milked her for advice and free diagnosis as if both should be a part of every psychologist's employee benefits plan. It wasn't doling out free advice that bothered Gwen. It was, instead, the emotional drain of being dragged into the chaos of their lives.

One assistant had gotten Gwen to act as a mediator between her and her ex-husband during their custody battle, then to evaluate the children's mental and emotional capacity to testify at the trial that followed. Another had Gwen appealing to the state's parole board on her brother's behalf. Still another pleaded with Gwen to convince her elderly mother that it was time to give up her home and independence for the security of an assisted-living facility. That was the one that broke the camel's back, when Gwen discovered her assistant and the man she was living with had moved into the mother's home, instead of selling it _ as they had agreed __ to pay for her mother's care. It was one thing to be taken advantage of, quite another thing to be taken for a fool.

Sometimes Gwen wondered if it wasn't one of the hazards of not having a family of her own, to constantly be drawn into the lives of the people around her. She had purposely never returned to Manhattan to establish a practice, lest she forever be destined to follow in her father's footsteps and live in his shadow, as well as be judged by their professional peers under a much different standard __ the standard of being John Patterson's daughter. Even at Christmas parties she was still introduced as John's little girl. She was almost fifty years old and definitely not anyone's little girl.

She saw her parents maybe a half-dozen times a year. Every Christmas she made her annual pilgrimage to New York, accepting her parents' traditions as her own. She went through the motions, never really considering if there might be an alternative. It wasn't until last Christmas when R. J. Tully had asked her to join him and his daughter for Christmas Eve that she realized she had no traditions of her own.

She missed Tully, and she didn't particularly like admitting that even to herself. She had gone for over a decade without missing anyone. She considered calling him. Just to talk. Before he and Emma left on vacation he had made sure she had his cell-phone number along with the number for their hotel and another for a friend they would be visiting. Yet he had been careful in telling her that it was no big deal if she called and no big deal if she didn't. But she had been able to read his tight smile as an indication that he really would like it if she did call. And so of course she didn't. Which was silly. That at their age they still played games like they were a couple of teenagers, not wanting to let the other know just how much they might care. When in reality they were two very independent adults, comfortable and complacent in the lives they had carved out for themselves and a bit reluctant to relinquish some of that independence. Perhaps she was also a bit reluctant to take a chance at having her heart broken again. She had gotten to a point in her life where she was happy, content with being alone. But somehow, despite how careful and calculated she had tried to be, she ended up caring for R. J. Tully. And… she missed him.