M’s Pub
Omaha, Nebraska

Maggie had never believed that confession was good for the soul. As far as she was concerned, nothing much came from it, other than wasted time that could be better spent elsewhere. There was no such thing as closure. Everyone had past baggage they carried around, some just a little heavier than others. She had never talked about her mother’s drunken binges with anyone other than Gwen. What good did it do to relive those miserable times? Without effort she could easily conjure up the hot, sour smell of whiskey breath from her mother’s boyfriends trying to slam her small, twelve-year-old frame into the corner for a kiss or a “quick rub,” as one had put it.

Instead of sharing the gruesome details, she simply told Sister Kate, “Let’s just say my mother’s suitors were not always the most polite of gentlemen.”

Sister Kate nodded as if she understood the entire situation from that brief statement. “How old were you?”

“Twelve, thirteen. By the time I was fourteen she finally made them get hotel rooms. Of course, that wasn’t until one of her men friends suggested a threesome.”

“Ah, I see,” Sister Kate said, but without alarm or surprise. “Which left you all alone?”

“It felt like a blessing at the time,” Maggie confided. She didn’t need all her years of studying psychology to self-diagnose that being alone as a child and associating it with freedom from harm had certainly overlapped into her adult life.

“Did you ever think,” Sister Kate said, “that might be one of the reasons you joined the FBI?”

“What exactly do you mean?” Maggie had no intention of this turning into a shrink session.

“Maybe it’s a way for you to be that knight in shining armor who comes to the rescue—the one who never came to your rescue as a child.”

Maggie took a sip of her wine when she really wanted a gulp. She was beginning to realize this conversation would take more than one glass of wine unless she could turn it around soon.

“So what about you?” she asked. “You said your grandfather had rescued you from what I believe you said was a particularly difficult situation?”

“I suppose it wasn’t all that different from your situation. It was the year I turned eleven. He was a friend who my parents trusted and respected—revered, actually, is a better word. They’d invite him one Sunday every month for dinner.” As she told Maggie her eyes began to wander across the street again. “My mother always fixed pot roast, with potatoes and those little carrots, because it was his favorite. And after dinner he’d volunteer to take me upstairs to my room, read me a bedtime story and tuck me in even though I told all of them that I was too old for such things. And so once a month for three months he raped me in my own bed.”

She looked back at Maggie, checking to see if she still had her attention. Maggie simply stared at her, unable to speak.

“My parents didn’t believe me at first,” Sister Kate continued. “But there’re some things…details, proof that an eleven-year-old girl can’t make up.” She reached for her wineglass and took a sip. “To this day I still can’t look at a pot roast,” she said, smiling.

“That’s one thing that always amazes me,” Maggie said. “The different ways in which each of us deals with the evil we’ve experienced. Most serial killers have been abused at some point during their childhood. They end up butchering innocent people, usually at random, sometimes using their abuse as an excuse or a justification. But you turned around and gave your life to the church.”

“And you the FBI,” Sister Kate followed up. “I guess we both wanted to be knights in shining armor.”