Alex Kava - A Necessary Evil

"I saw you yesterday, right? You were snooping around Monsignor O'Sullivan's office."

The guy towered over him, looking down his nose, the finger still pointing, only now poking Gibson in the chest.

''Why are you still here?"

"I'm… uh, I'm waiting… "

"You're meeting someone?" The guy looked around. "Maybe you're meeting someone to make an exchange?"

"Huh?"

"Is this what you do after everyone's gone? You make a few deals?"

The finger pokes emphasized "gone" and "deals." Gibson didn't know what the guy was talking about. His heart was beating so hard he felt sure it would explode with one more poke.

"What do you have in the backpack? Are there drugs in there? Is that what you're waiting around for? To make a few deals? Open it up."

Gibson held it even tighter. He knew they could do random searches, but this guy was scary. All Gibson wanted to do was find an opportunity to run.

"Do as I say."

Gibson tried not to look him in the eyes, almost afraid they carried some sort of evil power. He should try to look at him, stare him down, make him think he wasn't afraid, but he couldn't do it He was afraid.

"Give me the bag," he said and reached for it. That's when Gibson bolted to the left and tried to run. The guy held one of the backpack's straps and he jerked Gibson with such strength it almost knocked him off his feet.

"What's going on over there?" Gibson heard Father Tony's voice, but he couldn't see beyond the black frame of his captor.

"Everything's under control," the guy said in a voice that came nowhere near the tone he had just been using. It was almost soft and reassuring. And the tugging grip on his backpack loosened a bit.

Gibson yanked completely free, twisting around the guy, missing a swipe of his clawing hand by inches. He ran down the steps. He didn't bother to answer when Father Tony called out to ask if he was okay. Like who would Father Tony believe anyway? Gibson or the Darth Vader of Our Lady of Sorrow?

Gibson ran, hitting the bottom of the stairs, pushing open the lobby doors. He kept running, past the sidewalk, past the parking lot, not looking back.

Saint Francis Center

Omaha, Nebraska

Maggie spotted Christine Hamilton, who waved at her and Pakula. Christine marched across the large room, weaving in between the long tables, each with a dozen or so volunteers on phones. When she finally reached them she gave Maggie a hug.

"Hi, Christine. It's been a long time."

"You look great," she said, and to Pakula she offered her outstretched hand. I'm Christine Hamilton. You must be Detective Pakula. Thanks for agreeing to meet here.'*

"Detective Sassco assured me this was a fact-finding mission. No hidden agenda. No media tricks."

"Believe me, Detective, I'm not the one with a hidden agenda. If anything, I'm the one trying to figure out what's going on. Pretty much like you are."

Maggie glanced at Pakula to see if he believed her, then back at Christine to see if she was being straight with them. Maggie couldn't help remembering the last time, the case in Platte City when Christine, then a rookie reporter, had used anything and everything she could to make headlines. Her son's kidnapping had straightened out her professional ethics. Of course it had. But the real question was, for how long?

"Let's see what you've got for us," Pakula said, nodding in the direction from where she had come, giving her the okay.

"I don't know if you're familiar with the center," Christine asked as she started leading them slowly through the maze of tables. She had to speak louder to be heard over the ringing of phones and the buzz from the surrounding conversations. "The Saint Francis Center started as a women and children's shelter about twenty years ago. It's grown to include this abuse hotline and also in back there's a food pantry."

Maggie surveyed the room as they cut through, noticing that many of the volunteers were simply being quiet, apparently listening to the callers. Others used soft voices barely above a whisper. She realized the nature of the calls allowed them to set up the facility with as many phones and volunteers as there was space.

"We have a room back here," Christine told them, pointing to a doorway in the far corner.

The room surprised Maggie. It looked like someone's cozy living room with a sofa and matching chairs, glass-topped coffee table and floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the back wall. A service butler in the corner was stocked with refreshments, and the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the room. When they entered, there was a woman pouring herself a cup, and a young man loaded a plate with miniature sandwiches and pieces of fruit. Both stopped and turned to be introduced.

"Wow! I guess we didn't need to have lunch," Pakula said.

Apparently it didn't faze him that Christine had invited guests, but Maggie wondered what the reporter was up to.

"Agent O'Dell, Detective Pakula, this is Brenda Donovan and her son, Mark."

There were friendly but guarded hellos all the way around with no handshakes and little eye contact. As they filled their small plates or napkins and coffee cups and settled around the glass-topped table, Maggie stayed back to observe the woman and her son, Brenda Donovan wore blue polyester slacks and a knit T-shirt with a colorful patchwork teddy bear on the front. Her white sandals were scuffed. Her hands looked scuffed too, the tint of redness possibly from handling too many chemicals or having them in water for long periods of time. Her fingernails were cut short just like her hair for easy and no-frills care. Maggie got the impression that Brenda had worked hard all her life, earning her the wrinkles around her eyes and the gray hair that had begun to take over what at one time must have been a beautiful caramel brown.

The hard ruggedness did not extend to Mark Donovan. Instead, the young man _ who Maggie guessed was perhaps not quite twenty __ looked soft and wide around the middle, the physique of a couch potato. His close-cropped hair was still damp as if they had pulled him from the shower only minutes ago. His puffy eyes suggested little sleep. But his appetite seemed healthy. He had overloaded the small plate until grapes and slices of hard salami hung over the edges. If this was some kind of confessional tell-all, which Maggie suspected, then Christine must have anticipated that food would bolster their confidence.

She caught Pakula's eye and nodded at his own full plate.

"I have a hard time saying no to free food." And he left her to take a place in one of the easy chairs across from the sofa, where the Donovans had taken refuge, side by side.

Maggie popped the top of a Diet Pepsi and gave the other refreshments one last look, not noticing that Christine had returned beside her.

"I heard you saw Nick this morning," she said in a low voice, keeping her back to the group across the room.

"I didn't realize he was back in Omaha. Has he given up on Boston?" Maggie asked, not letting it slip that she knew for a fact that up until last month he was still employed as a deputy prosecutor for Suffolk County. It was just one of the perks of being an FBI agent and having access to information she often didn't ask for.

"No, he's still in Boston," Christine said as she helped herself to one of the cans of soda, but unlike Maggie filled a glass with ice. Then suddenly she blurted out, "I don't know if you realize how badly you broke my little brother's heart."

"Excuse me?"

She stared at Christine, stunned and trying to decide if she was joking. It wasn't that long ago, a year maybe, that Maggie had called Nick's apartment. A woman had answered, offering to take a message and explaining that Nick was in the shower. Maggie still remembered the sting, but accepted that he had decided to move on and not wait for her.