Alex Kava - A Necessary Evil

"Nah. I don't think the guy knew what it was." Truth was, Gibson wasn't sure it was the real deal, and Timmy wouldn't know the difference. He pointed to the engraving again. "This part is Latin." He ran his fingertip over the top of the medallion. "It's something about courage and honor. Only a few of these were given out by Pope Urban II. I found a picture of it on a Web site that has a bunch of stuff about the Crusades. Pope Urban II's supposedly the one who came up with the First Crusade."

"Yeah, I like reading stuff about the Crusades and the Knights Templar. Or anything about medieval times. My mom thinks it's silly and violent and stuff, but I just think it's really interesting."

Just then Gibson noticed Timmy's eyes wandering over to his computer screen. He had been checking out Gibson's room since they got here. Gibson didn't mind. It wasn't like Timmy seemed freaked out by the mess or any of Gibson's collections. But his eyes kept going back to the computer screen. Gibson did a quick panic glance when he realized there might be another crazy instant message. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. Now Timmy looked embarrassed, like he had been caught at something he shouldn't be doing.

"Sorry, I wasn't trying to be nosy or anything. It's just that… that icon." Timmy pointed to the skull and crossbones that Gibson had moved to the bottom right of the rest of his icons. Even with the others and at the bottom it still stood out.

"It's just a game," Gibson said, pretending it was no big deal, not wanting to explain. One of the rules was that you didn't tell anyone about the game. You couldn't talk about it except with other invited players. He reached over and closed the lid of the laptop.

"Sorry," Timmy said again, only now he was staring at Gibson. "I didn't mean anything __ "

"It's no big deal." Gibson picked up the medallion again and put it in the box. Maybe it was time for Timmy to go.

"It's just… " The kid was still stuttering. "I play that game, too."

"What?"

"The game."

"This isn't just an ordinary game," Gibson told him, trying to figure out what Timmy meant.

"I know it's not. It's by invitation only. You got an invitation to play, right?"

Now Gibson was staring at Timmy and the kid's eyes didn't blink, didn't look away. Was it possible? Everybody who played had almost been imaginary to him, sort of like the game itself. All of a sudden it was becoming way too real.

"How'd you get an invitation?" Gibson asked, letting it sound like the test he meant it to be.

"I was surfing Web sites one day and I got an e-mail that asked me if I wanted to play a game."

"Yeah? Who was it from?"

Timmy hesitated, and Gibson thought it was because he couldn't fake his way past this question.

"It was from someone who calls himself The Sin Eater."

"Jesus," Gibson whispered. He couldn't believe it. It was true. "Did you… " He wasn't sure how to ask, but if the rules were the same for all of them… "Did you have to submit a name?"

Again, Timmy hesitated, and this time he looked away for a brief moment as if he wasn't sure he wanted to confide anything more. Finally, he said, "Yeah, I did."

"Mine got killed," Gibson blurted out as if it had been festering for too long and suddenly exploded from his mouth without warning.

"Yeah, I'm supposed to start plotting to kill mine."

"No, no," Gibson said and he could feel a sense of panic returning along with his confession. "I mean really killed. Not just playing around. Not just part of the game."

"You mean like for real? He's dead?"

"Yeah."

"Did you do it?"

Gibson didn't know how to answer that. He sort of shrugged and looked away. "I wanted him dead," he said,

"Are you sure he's dead?"

"Yeah. I saw him." This time Gibson met Timmy's stare and he could see the realization finally coming into his eyes. "I was at the airport on Friday," he explained, hoping that was enough. And it was. He could see his new friend knew exactly what he was talking about. Of course he did. It had been all over the news all weekend. Gibson remembered Timmy saying that his mom was a reporter for the Omaha World Herald.

They were both quiet for what seemed like a long time to Gibson. They stared at each other, glancing away as if to think and then looking back to each other with knowing, frantic eyes. With guilty eyes.

Finally Timmy broke the silence. "Do you think mine's dead?"

"I don't know," Gibson answered in almost a whisper. "But if he isn't, I bet he's gonna be."

Washington, D.C.

Gwen Patterson accepted the glass of water Detective Julia Racine offered. Gwen sat on Dena's leather sofa, her legs still spread apart, her body bent forward and ready to resume the position of head between her legs even though the nausea had subsided. When Racine continued to stand over her, Gwen took a sip, thinking she needed to convince all of them that she would be okay, that there would be no more vomit to mess up the crime scene.

She wasn't sure who ended up cleaning the kitchen sink. She just kept telling herself, better there than in the garbage can. Racine had handed her a damp paper towel and then the glass of water. Had Gwen remembered what Maggie had said about the detective, she would have realized that, of course, Racine wasn't waiting to make sure she was okay. It wasn't until she saw Racine's foot tapping that it dawned on Gwen that the detective wanted to know what was going on.

'Tell me again why you came here."

Without looking up, Gwen gave her the same answer, hoping that instead of sounding rehearsed it would only sound as if she was growing tired of repeating the same answers. "She didn't show up for work. I left phone messages for her and she didn't return my calls. It's not like her to just not show up. I was worried." It was all true. And yet, she had no idea how she would begin to tell the rest of the story. She had gone over it in her mind again and again, realizing how bizarre it sounded. What was worse, she had nothing _ not even a match of fingerprints to back up her story.

"And you just happen to have a key?"

"Yes," Gwen said. It was easier to just answer Racine's questions. Especially right now while the dizziness and nausea took roller-coaster turns through her body.

"So you came in," Racine said, hands on her hips, foot still tapping. Her voice kept calm even as it remained somewhat abrasive, but Gwen thought it was due to impatience rather than anger. "She wasn't here, so you went on into the kitchen and checked the trash bin?"

Gwen looked up at her and dragged her fingers through her hair, starting to feel her own frustration. "I looked around. When we got to the kitchen, Harvey went to the cabinet door and started pawing at it."

"And what about that? Do you always bring your dog with you?"

Gwen reached over and gave him a pat. He had stayed by her side the entire time, finally lying down when he realized they weren't leaving.

"He's not my dog. I'm watching him for a friend." Suddenly it occurred to her that just because she knew Julia Racine, it didn't mean Racine knew her. Gwen added, "He's Maggie's dog. Maggie O'Dell,"

"Agent Maggie O'Dell?"

"Yes, she had to leave for Nebraska this morning. Maggie often leaves Harvey with me when she's out of town."

Racine turned her attention to Harvey, and Gwen could see her softening a bit. Up until now the detective had ignored Harvey. Now she bent down to scratch behind his ears.

"I don't know why I didn't recognize you, buddy," Racine said in a tone Gwen hadn't heard her use before, a kind and gentle tone. "We spent about eight hours in my car yesterday, didn't we, kiddo? I should have recognized you."

When Racine stood, she glanced around as if to make sure none of her crew had witnessed the exchange. Her change of attitude toward Harvey, however, didn't extend to Gwen. The detective was all business again.