A/N- This is it. Thanks to all who kept with it. I can't tell you how good I feel about the story and I'm glad that others enjoyed it, too. For those unfamiliar with Tony Hill and are interested in getting to know him better, he is the creation of Val McDermid, and thus far, is in three books. As well, those clever Brits have taken this character and made a series of one-shot episodes about him available on PAL video and Region 1/0 DVD. For more information, check out www.valmcdermid.com.
*
"What exactly are we lookin' for?" Nick asked from the back seat of the Tahoe.
"To be honest, I don't really know, Nick," Tony answered. "But I simply couldn't sit and wait for the call to come in."
Thirty minutes ago, Grissom had been brought up to speed.
"This only makes our job that much more difficult," Grissom said. Tony and Sara nodded in agreement. "Tony, have you found anything that could point us in the direction of the killer?" He didn't need to see the profiler's expression to know the answer. "So we're still at square one."
"I'm afraid so," Tony admitted. With his hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels. "I'm going to take Nick's map and go around to the churches he isolated."
"What for?" Sara asked.
Tony shrugged. "What more can I do here but wait? I need to feel like I haven't given up."
She nodded in understanding. "Okay, I'll drive you."
"Sara…" Grissom began.
"No Grissom, really. Tony'll probably kill himself trying to drive. Besides, it's going to take Greg at least another two hours to get to my samples."
"It's not your job I'm worried about."
She smiled at his concern. "I know. But honestly, what could happen?" Before Grissom could reply, she continued, "What are the chances we'll find anything? And even if we do, I hardly fit the victim's profile."
Despite her smile, Grissom remained unconvinced, and yet he knew there was nothing he could say that would sway her. "Take Nick." At the roll of Sara's eyes, he repeated more firmly, "Take Nick with you. I mean it." He looked over to Tony for help.
"Absolutely," he answered.
"He's working a B'n'E with Warrick over at the Mirage. Swing by and pick him up. And call Brass. Let him know what you're doing and keep him informed."
That was thirty minutes ago. In that time, they had driven by seven churches and had found nothing out of the ordinary, though if pressed, none of the three could have said exactly what they were looking for.
"How much easier would things be if the bad guys glowed in the dark?" Nick mused.
Sara took her gaze away from the road momentarily to give Nick a look.
"What?" he asked, before laughing.
As they pulled up to the next church on the list, Tony's hand reached out and touched the steering wheel. "Oh, yes."
Nick and Sara followed his gaze. It was a stately building, its age adding to the effect. The two arched doorways loomed at the top of the well-worn stone steps, but it was the detailed stained glass image high above the doors that had caught Tony's eye.
"Christ and His twelve disciples," Tony whispered. His seatbelt was undone before Sara had brought the vehicle to a stop.
"Twelve. One plus two equals three," Nick said.
*
It had taken a considerable amount of explanation and persuasion to convince the priest of the severity of the situation. But in the face of two criminalists and a profiler, he made the concession. In reward, Tony found himself back in the stifling box of the confessional, except this time he was on the other side of the screen, and was wearing a black ministerial layer over his white dress shirt. He resisted tugging at the collar for the fourth time since entering the booth. When Sara had asked him if he was sure he wanted to go through with it, he assured her that he did. He wondered now if it was too late to change his mind.
Outside, Sara had called Brass to let him know what was going on. At Tony's insistence, she had asked for only Brass to come by. "No sense the entire force seeing us with egg on our faces if I've cocked this one up," Tony had said. Now, it was simply a waiting game.
Tony could hear Sara's voice inside his head. 'I hate this. I really hate this.' As he looked around his suffocating confinement, he thought the very same thing. Fifty minutes in, one hour and twenty minutes since the realization of the time difference, forty minutes to go. And nothing had happened except the embarrassing moment when he had no choice but to listen to the confession of an eighty year old woman who had poisoned her neighbour's cat and now felt remorse. 'Seventy years sooner and I would be measuring you for a serial killer's suit,' he thought wryly. He looked up and said, "Sorry, Lord." He heard the snicker of the occupant beside him. After the confession debacle, Sara had decided it would be best to sit in until the closest possible moment, in the hopes that further accidental confessions would be avoided.
"What was that for?" she whispered.
"I was just thinking- I wonder how many Hail Marys one would have to do after giving absolution to a confessor while under the guise of being a priest?"
"A hundred should cover it, I would think," she replied. She could faintly make out his profile through the intricate partition between them. "How are you? You okay in there?"
He took a deep breath and tried not to think of his surroundings. "Yes. Why do you ask?"
"Well, let's see, what have I learned about the esteemed Dr. Tony Hill since I've met him? Likes tea," she felt his smile, "is incredibly smart, has acute insomnia, doesn't like giving speeches in front of a group of people, and is claustrophobic."
"Now you've left me with nothing to confess," he complained good-naturedly.
"I won't even touch that one," she said. "Besides, you're on the wrong side of the screen."
"Ah, that would mean you're in the confessor's seat. So, Miss Sidle, anything you'd like to confess to?"
"Hoo-boy," she sighed. "Where to begin? Well, I'm in love with my boss despite the fact that those feelings might not be returned." Smirking, she looked at her watch. "And that's all the time we have for today. We've got about twenty minutes left. I should leave."
"Wherever you go, under no circumstances should you allow him to see you," Tony warned.
"I got it," she answered. "Nick's across the street in the Tahoe. I talked to Brass when he pulled up. I have no idea where he is, which is probably a good thing."
"Where will you be?"
"I'm heading out to join Nick. But I'll try to keep prospective confessors at bay for as long as I can."
He joined her quiet laughter. "Thank you."
"No problem." There was a short silence on her end until she lightly knocked on the partition between them. He very quietly slid it open and looked into her eyes.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I want you to be careful," she replied.
"I will."
"I mean it. Here." She handed him her gun.
"What's this?"
"It's a gun," she smirked. Quickly becoming serious, she added, "I want you to take it." When she saw the surprise shake of his head, she repeated, "I want you to take it. Please."
He dutifully held out one hand and covered hers with the other. "Thank you, Sara."
"When we catch this bastard, I'm going to find you that English pub." She winked and silently slipped out of the booth.
*
He was halfway through the recollection of the New Testament chapters when he heard the door to the other side gently squeak open. A body shuffled until it got comfortable in the seat. There was a small cough, then a voice.
"Forgive me, Father. It's been twenty one days since my last confession."
Rather than fear, Tony now felt a blanket of calm descend upon him. He absently tapped the grip of the gun resting on his thigh. Doing his best to disguise his accent, he said, "What is it, my son?"
"I… I've done some terrible things."
"What have you done?"
"I… I can't tell you."
"I'm not here to judge you. Only God can judge you."
"Why does He let me do the things I do? Why does He let Man do the things he does?"
Tony closed his eyes. "He gave us all the ability to choose. Men do the things they do because God has given them the choice. You do the things you do because He has given you the choice."
"What about the people who suffer because of my choices? What about the innocents?" The voice began to sob.
"Tell me what you have done."
"No, no, I can't!"
Tony heard the door slam open and saw the dark outline of the killer leaving the booth. Bolting out of his seat, Tony was ready to pursue, when, coming face to face with the killer outside the booth, he realized his mistake.
"So that's how you lured them out," he whispered. "You played upon their empathy and charity and lured them out to follow you."
The killer looked startled, as if confused that the scene wasn't playing out the way all the others had. "Who are you?"
"It doesn't matter," Tony answered. "I'm not number nine."
In the time it took for the killer to press the tip of the ornate knife against Tony's stomach, Tony had pressed the muzzle of Sara's gun against the killer.
The killer's eyes opened wide. "They weren't innocent, you know? None of them were."
"None of us are."
Tony flinched as the tip pierced the cloth of the coat and his shirt and drew blood. But his stance never wavered. It was that moment that Brass chose to enter the scene, his own gun drawn.
"Drop it!" he warned.
The killer's head whipped around, confused and frantic.
"Now it's all gone to hell in a hand basket, hasn't it," Tony said. When the killer looked back to him, Tony asked, "What's your name?"
"Sean."
"Okay, Sean. We're going to talk about this very calmly. You are a very sick bastard and if you make a move, that man over there will shoot you. And if you make a move and that man happens not to shoot you, I will."
"Don't judge me!!"
The echo of his accusation reverberated throughout the huge church, almost masking the sound of a gun being cocked back. However, Brass didn't miss it.
"Dr. Hill, just remain calm, okay?" he appealed, worried that the situation was going from bad to worse faster than he could keep up.
"I've killed someone, you know," Sean warned.
Tony could feel reason slipping away and he fought to maintain control. "So have I," he answered simply. "Did it make the second one easier? I've always wondered."
There was something in the profiler's eyes that was fearfully unreadable. Sean took two panicked steps backwards and dropped the knife. "Keep away from me!"
In a heartbeat, Brass was all over the killer, pressing him into the floor and yanking his arms back behind him. The click of the handcuffs was the quietest sound since it all began, but to Tony, it was the most satisfying. He slowly lowered the gun and slumped to the floor on his knees. The soft feel of Sara's arm around him caused him to look up slowly.
"I didn't see you come in," was all he said.
"We came in right behind Brass," she answered. Seeing a dark stain on the black fabric, she asked, "Are you okay?"
"What? Oh," he looked down at the stain. "He must have pierced the skin. Nothing major."
"Come on, let's get you up." She put her arm under his and helped him to his feet. "Tony?" She waited for his attention to turn to her. When she saw the vacancy in his eyes, she cupped his face. "Tony? You're going to be fine, okay?"
He nodded as the life slowly returned. The warmth of her brown eyes seeped into his soul and he smiled weakly. "Okay."
"Good," she said, giving him a smile of her own. "Now, can I have my gun back?"
He looked down at the weapon still ready to fire in his hand. With great care, he returned the hammer back to its place and flicked on the safety. Letting it go, he held it by the trigger guard, harmless as it hung on his finger.
"Have you ever fired it?" he asked.
"You mean, besides at the shooting range? No."
"Good," he said. "Good."
*
"… with the assistance of the best forensics lab in the country along with the diligence of the Las Vegas Police Department, this man will never kill again. Our prayers go out to the family of Father Raymond Douglas. I hope the knowledge that justice will be served swiftly and to its fullest gives some small measure of comfort to his family. Thank you."
Grissom gave a derisive snort. "First of all, we're the second best lab in the country."
"Diligence of the Las Vegas Police Department my ass," Nick joined in.
"He was wearing a lovely tie, though," Tony commented.
"Put the football game on, Jerry," Warrick called to the bartender.
"Somehow the name Jerry doesn't bring England immediately to mind," Tony noted.
Sara laughed. "Sorry. It's the best I could do on such short notice."
Catherine raised her glass. "To people far from home."
"To friends, English and otherwise," Tony added.
They all joined in the toast and took a drink.
"So what's next for you, Tony?" Grissom asked.
He sighed. "Oh, back home to sleepy Bradfield, I suppose. I posted a notice around the local pubs to let the serial killers know I'd be away, so…"
They all laughed.
"It's too bad Vegas gets first crack at McNally," Nick remarked. "It seems a shame that he won't be prosecuted in the country where he inflicted the most pain."
Tony shrugged. "It's not really my place to seek justice. I only seek the truth. Although I'm sure the families of the other victims would have preferred to see him rot in an English prison, perhaps they'll take some comfort in knowing that at least he's been caught."
"And that there's the death penalty in Nevada," Warrick added.
The bar cheered as someone scored on the big screen T.V.
"You do know that's not real football, right?" Tony quipped. "I mean, all that padding and those helmets. And with the exception of one player on the team, they don't even touch the ball with their foot. It's just not right."
They all laughed again, and turned their attention to the game. Tony leaned into Sara's shoulder and whispered, "Do you think you could give me a ride to the airport tomorrow afternoon?"
She nodded, "Sure, no problem."
He fought against a smile. "In return, I'll tell you all about Grissom."
*
End.
