36.

It was only ten o’clock, but there was no point in driving home, so Kirsten checked into a Days Inn a few miles from the seminary. She called Dugan in Asheville. She was anxious to hear his voice, but it was probably for the best that he wasn’t in. She might have said too much, and she didn’t want him leaving the conference and coming back here.

Well, she’d be thrilled if he did, actually, but … She left a cheerful message and said she’d try to reach him the next day, because she was tired now and going to bed. She said she hoped he didn’t get a hernia splashing around in the hotel pool with his “team,” and hung up.

*   *   *

On Saturday morning she woke up early and had a huge, greasy, comfort-food breakfast in the hotel restaurant, then went back to her room. She was sifting through the possibilities as to who the killer might be when her cell phone rang. It was Michael. For a moment she was afraid he might try to continue the conversation from the night before. But that wasn’t it. He called to say they’d just been told by the cardinal’s man—the “vicar for priests,” Michael called him—that if they thought they’d feel safer somewhere else, for the time being they’d be allowed to live outside Villa St. George. They would have to check in by phone on a daily basis and be able to be reached easily.

“It’s funny,” Michael said, “before this, we all wanted to get out of here. But now, under these circumstances, everything’s changed.”

He told her the cardinal was promising additional twenty-four-hour security at the retreat house, with the whole seminary being put on “heightened alert.” Also, no media would be allowed anywhere on the grounds—in itself reason enough to stay. And finally, none of the priests had relatives anxious to take them in even under ordinary circumstances, and the risk that a serial killer might be a step behind was a bit too much to ask.

“So you’re all staying there?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Good, and … uh … Michael, let’s stay in touch.” She hung up.

So far, she hadn’t said anything to anyone but Sergeant Wardell—and then, last night, to Cuffs—about the killer selecting victims in an order that spelled out her name. For one thing, there was no guarantee that the pattern would continue. And she didn’t see how raising the issue with the priests would make them any safer. It might even make some of them relax their guard, while it would scare the hell out of both Michael, the only N on the list, and Anthony Ernest, the only one of the two Es who was staying at Villa St. George.

The second E, John Ettinger, was on the OUT list, and someone ought to warn him. She called the skip tracer she’d hired to find addresses for the five remaining OUTs but got a message. His office was closed for the weekend.

Next she called Cuffs to tell him what Michael had said, but he already knew. Apparently the cardinal had a real thing about him lurking around in the seminary woods, because he’d been warned that if he were found again anywhere on the premises he’d be arrested and charged with criminal trespass, and he was to inform her that she—as his employer—would be charged as well.

Cuffs said he could go back now and finish up the job he’d put on hold and make the guy who hired him stop whining. “If I pick it up again I’ll have to see it through all the way to the end. But if you want me to stay on here, I will. And the whiner and the cardinal and whoever can all go fuck themselves.” He said if he got caught near Villa St. George he’d deny he was working for her and say he’d gone back on his own. “If they charge me I’ll tell the goddamn judge I couldn’t stand to see any harm come to those poor fucking pervert priests.”

She told him to go back to his other job.

*   *   *

When she finally checked out of the hotel it was late morning, bright and sunny. She drove around in circles for a few minutes, looking behind her, then headed for the city. On the way, she had an idea. She drove to O’Hare Airport, parked the Celica in the “long term” lot, rented a dark red Chevrolet Impala, and continued on downtown.

At her office she carried her mail to her desk and sat down to sort through it. There wasn’t much. The usual catalogs, a few bills … and one postcard. Her name and address taped on the front this time were in embossed printing on what appeared to be thin white card stock. Again the postmark was Chicago, and again the message on the back was hand-printed in block letters: READY OR NOT.