"I never turn off the power on my cell phone," Stevens commented.

"Neither do I. Most people don't. That's another reason to believe that Laura Wilcox was forced to make that phone call. She has her own phone registered to her name. Why wouldn't she use that, and why isn't it on now?"

He then laid out his suggested course of action. "I want to get rap sheets on all the graduates who attended the reunion," he said, "both men and women. A lot of them haven't been back here in twenty years. Maybe we'll come up with something from someone's past, find someone who has a history of violence or has been institutionalized. I want the relatives of the five dead women from the lunch table to be contacted to see if there was anything suspicious about their deaths. We're also trying to contact Laura's parents. They're on a cruise."

"Five from one lunch table and a sixth one missing," Stevens said incredulously. "If there isn't something suspicious, it's because it wasn't noticed. If I were you, I'd start with the last one. It's so recent that if the cops in L.A. know about the other women, they may take a hard look at labeling Alison Kendall's death a drowning accident. We'll send for all of the police reports in all of those cases."

"The office at Stonecroft is sending over a list of the graduates who attended the reunion, as well as a list of the other people who were at the dinner," Sam said. "They have addresses and phone numbers of all the graduates and at least some of the townspeople who attended. Of course, some people bought a table and didn't provide names of guests, so it will take extra time to find out who they are." Exhausted, Sam could not conceal a yawn.

It was an acknowledgment of the sense of urgency he had communicated to the district attorney that Rich Stevens did not suggest his veteran investigator catch some sleep. Instead he said, "Get some of the other guys started on doing the follow-up, Sam. Where are you going now?"

Sam's smile was rueful. "I have an appointment with a priest," he said, "and I'm hoping he'll be the one to do the confessing."

43

The discovery of the body of Helen Whelan became a major story for the media. The disappearance of the popular teacher forty-eight hours earlier had already been given heavy coverage, but now the confirmation of her murder was a prime interest story because it had also triggered alarm throughout the small towns of the Hudson Valley.

The fact that her dog had been savagely attacked and his leash was still wrapped around the victim's wrist when her body was found gave added spice to the possibility that a random or serial killer was on the loose in this area that was normally drenched in history and tradition.

The Owl had dozed intermittently throughout Sunday night. After his first visit to Laura at ten-thirty, he'd managed to catch a few hours of rest. Then his dawn visit had given him the satisfaction of reducing her to trembling pleas for mercy-mercy she had denied him in their school years together, he had reminded her. After that second visit he had showered for a long time, hoping that the hot water would help relieve the terrible throbbing in his arm. The wound from the dog bite was festering. He had stopped at the old drugstore in town, where he used to shop as a kid, but then he'd walked out immediately. He had been about to pick up peroxide and antibiotic salves and bandages. Then it had occurred to him that the cops weren't necessarily stupid. They might have put a notice out to local pharmacies to watch for someone buying those kinds of medical supplies.

Instead he went to one of the big chains and bought shaving supplies, toothpaste, vitamins, crackers and pretzels and sodas, and then, in a moment of inspiration, he'd added cosmetics, cold cream, moisturizing lotion, and deodorant. Only then had he thrown into the mix the supplies he needed, the peroxide, bandages, salves.

He hoped he wasn't getting a fever. His body felt warm, and he knew his face was flushed. With all the useless camouflage items he had tossed into the basket at the drugstore, he had managed to forget to include aspirin. But that he could safely buy anywhere. Most of the time, most of the world has a headache, he thought, smiling to himself at the mental image conjured up by that reasoning.

He turned up the volume on the television. They were showing pictures of the crime scene. He observed intently how muddy it seemed. He hadn't remembered the area as being that swampy. That meant the tires of his rental car were probably embedded with dirt from that area. It would be wise to leave the car in the garage of the house where so far he was allowing Laura to continue to live. He'd rent another mid-priced, mid-sized, unobtrusive black sedan. That way, if for any reason anyone started to nose around and check the cars of the reunion group, his would be passed over.

As The Owl was selecting a jacket from the closet, a breaking story came across the screen: "Young reporter from Stonecroft Academy in Cornwall-on-Hudson reveals the disappearance of actress Laura Wilcox may be linked to a fiend he calls 'The Lunch Table Serial Killer.' "

44

"Monsignor, I cannot emphasize sufficiently the urgency of our request," Sam Deegan told Monsignor Robert Dillon, pastor of the Church of St. Thomas of Canterbury. They were in the rectory office. The monsignor, a thin man with prematurely white hair and rimless glasses that illuminated intelligent gray eyes, was behind his desk. The faxes Jean had received were spread out in front of him. In a chair directly across from the desk, Sam was putting Lily's hairbrush back in a plastic bag.

"As you can see, the latest communication suggests that Dr. Jean Sheridan's daughter is in grave danger. We intend to try to trace her original birth certificate, but we are not even sure if it was registered here or in Chicago where the baby was born," Sam continued.

Even as he spoke, he felt the hopelessness of trying to make a quick breakthrough. Monsignor Dillon couldn't be more than in his early forties. Clearly he had not been around twenty years ago when Lily might have been baptized in this church, and, of course, her adoptive parents would have registered her under their surname and her new first name.

"I do understand the urgency, and I'm sure you understand that I must be cautious," Monsignor Dillon said slowly. "But, Sam, the biggest problem is that people don't necessarily baptize babies within a few weeks or even months anymore. It used to be that an infant was baptized within six weeks of its birth. Now we see them toddling in to receive the sacrament. We don't approve of that trend, but it does exist and did exist even twenty years ago. This is a fairly large and busy parish, and not only our own parishioners but frequently the grandchildren of parishioners are baptized here."

"I understand, but perhaps if you could start with the three months after Lily's birth, we could at least try to track those baby girls. Most people aren't secretive about adoptions, are they?"

"No, as a rule, they're proud of the fact they're adoptive parents."

"Then unless the adoptive parents themselves are behind these faxes to Dr. Sheridan, I think they would want to know of a possible threat to their daughter."

"Yes, they would. I'll have my secretary compile the list, but you do understand that before I give it to you, I will have to contact all the people listed personally and explain only that a girl adopted at that time may be in danger."

"Monsignor, that could take time, and that's just what we may not have," Sam protested.

"Father Arella can work with me. I'll have my secretary make the calls, and while I'm speaking with one party, she'll alert the next to stand by to hear from me. It shouldn't take that long."