A Perfect Evil Part 15

She glanced up at him. He wasn't joking, and for a moment she realized how stupid it might be to sneak around in a woods filled with armed police. But if the killer was still here, she couldn't hesitate. And he was was here. He was watching. She could feel it. This was part of his ritual. here. He was watching. She could feel it. This was part of his ritual.

She started up the path. Her leather flats were caked with snow, making the climb even more slippery. She grabbed at branches, tree roots and vines. Within minutes she was out of breath. The adrenaline pumped through her veins, propelling her numb body.

A branch snapped off in her hands, sending her skidding. She slammed to a stop, ramming her hip into a tree. Her hands were raw with cold, but she crawled back to her feet, digging her fingers into the bark. She was almost to the perimeter. She could hear the crime-scene tape flapping in the wind. Just above her, she heard voices.

The ground finally leveled enough for her to stand without a.s.sistance. She veered off the path and headed into the thick brush. From above she could see Nick at the bottom of the tree line. Hal was just joining him. Between the trees and the river, the forensic team worked quickly, hunching over the small body and filling little plastic bags of evidence. They were bringing out special equipment from their backpacks to deal with the acc.u.mulating snow. Behind them, beyond the cattails and tall gra.s.s, she could see the black waters of the river churning with motion.

Down below something moved in the trees. Maggie froze. She listened, trying to hear over the pounding in her ears and her rapid breathing. It was hard to breathe in the cold air. Had she imagined seeing movement?

A twig snapped not more than a hundred feet below her. Then she saw him. He was pressed against a tree. In the shadows of the spotlights he looked like an extension of the bark. He blended in, tall, thin and black from head to bare feet. She had been right. He was watching, twisting and leaning to see the forensic team below. He started moving from tree to tree, a low crouched-over motion, smooth and sleek like an animal sneaking up on its prey. He slithered his way down the ridge and around the murder site. He was leaving.

Maggie crept through the thicket. In her urgency, snow and leaves crunched beneath her. Branches snapped and creaked in what seemed like explosions of sounds. But no one heard, including the shadow who was quickly and silently moving toward the riverbank.

Her heart pounded against her rib cage, and her hand shook when she pulled out her gun. It was only the cold, she convinced herself. She was in control. She could do this.

She followed, never letting him out of her sight. Twigs scratched her face and grabbed her hair. Branches stabbed at her legs. She fell and smashed her thigh against a rock. Each time he stopped, she skidded to a halt and slammed her body against a tree, hoping to be hidden in the shadows.

They were on level ground, just on the edge of the woods. The forensic team was behind them. She heard them call to each other. Their equipment whined in the wind. He was making his way to the perimeter, using the trees to camouflage himself. Suddenly, he stopped again and looked back in her direction. She scrambled behind a tree, pressing herself into the cold, rough bark. She held her breath. Had he seen her? She hoped the pounding of her heart didn't betray her. The wind whirled around her, a ghostly moan. The river was close enough for her to hear its rolling water and smell the musty decay it carried with it.

She peered out from behind the tree. She couldn't see him. He was gone. She listened but only heard voices behind her. There was only silence ahead. Silence and darkness, well beyond the spotlight's reach now.

It had only been seconds. He couldn't be gone. She slid around the tree and strained to see into the darkness. There was movement in the dark, and she aimed her gun, arms stretched out in front of her. It was only a branch, swaying in the wind. But was something, or someone, hiding behind it? Despite the cold, her palms were sweaty. She walked slowly and carefully, keeping close to the trees. The river ran close to the tree line. As she walked into the darkness, she noticed that even the cattails and gra.s.s disappeared. There was nothing separating the woods from the steep riverbank, a ridge of three to four feet that the water had carved. Below, the water was black and fast-moving, dotted with eerie shapes and shadows that rode the waves.

Suddenly, she heard a twig snap. She heard him running-legs swis.h.i.+ng through gra.s.s-before she could see him. She spun to her right where branches cracked. An explosion of sound came at her. She turned and fired a warning shot into the air just as he emerged from the thicket, a huge, black shadow, charging straight for her. She aimed, but before she had time to squeeze the trigger, he knocked into her, sending her backward, flying through the air and plunging the two of them into the river.

The cold water stung her body like thousands of snakebites. She clung to her gun and raised her arm to fire at the floating black ma.s.s only feet away from her. Pain shot through her shoulder. She twisted and tried again. This time she felt metal stabbing into her flesh. It was only then she realized she had crashed into a pile of debris. It held her from being washed away by the current. And something was ripping into her shoulder. She tried to break free, but it only stabbed deeper and tore into her flesh. Then she noticed blood dripping out the bottom of her sleeve, covering her hand and gun.

She heard the voices above yelling to each other. The stampede of footsteps ground to a halt, and a half-dozen flashlights came over the edge, blinding her. In the new light she twisted again, despite the pain, just enough to find the floating shadow. But there was nothing on the river's surface for as far as she could see.

He was gone.

CHAPTER 34.

The frigid water paralyzed his body. His skin burned. His muscles screamed with pain. His lungs threatened to burst. He held his breath and kept his body submerged just under the surface. The river carried him in a violent rocking motion. He didn't fight its power, its rapid force. Instead, he allowed it to cradle him, to accept him as its own. To rescue him once again.

They were close. So close he could see the flitters of flashlights dance across the surface. To his right. To his left. Just above his head. Voices yelled to each other. Voices filled with panic and confusion.

No one dived in after him. No one attempted the black water. No one except for Special Agent O'Dell, who wasn't going anywhere. She had entangled herself neatly into the little present he had found for her. It served her right for thinking she could outsmart him, sneak up on him and trap him. The b.i.t.c.h had gotten what she deserved.

The flashlights found her. And soon the people on the riverbank would no longer search for him. He sneaked to the surface for air. The wet ski mask clung to his face like a spiderweb. But he didn't dare remove it.

The river carried him downstream. He watched men scramble down the riverbank, silly, slip-sliding shadows dancing in the light. He smiled, pleased with himself. Special Agent O'Dell would hate being rescued. First being incapacitated and helpless and now being rescued. Would it shock her to discover how much he knew about her? This she-devil who claimed to be his nemesis. Did she really expect to dig inside his mind and not have him return the gesture? Finally, a worthy adversary to keep him on his toes, unlike these other small-town hicks.

Something floated next to him, small and black. A trace of panic fluttered inside his gut until he realized it wasn't alive. He grabbed the hard plastic. It flipped open and a light flashed on, startling him. It was a cellular phone. What a shame to see it go to waste. He stuffed it deep into the pocket of his pants.

He maneuvered himself closer to the riverbank. In seconds, he found his marker. He grabbed the crooked branch that hung over the water. It creaked under his weight, but didn't break.

The current pushed and slapped against his body. The water possessed a strength, a power that demanded respect. He understood that, welcomed it and used it to his advantage.

His fingers stung with cold as he clawed at the branch. Bark flaked off and threatened to send him downstream. His arms ached. Only another foot, a few more inches. His feet struck land, ice-cold, snow-covered land, but his feet were already numb. The soles, heavily callused, expert navigators. He ran through the ice-coated sea of gra.s.s. It clinked and tinkled like breaking gla.s.s as hundreds of clinging icicles shattered. He gasped for breath but didn't slow his pace. The silvery snow floated through the pitch-black night-small angels dancing alongside him, running with him.

He found his hiding spot. The grove of plum trees sagged with snow-covered branches, adding a cavelike effect to the already thick canopy. Just then, a sudden ringing sent him into another frenzy. Quickly, he realized it was the phone vibrating inside his pants. He dug it out, held it for two, three rings, staring at it. Finally, he flipped it open. It lit up again. The ringing stopped. Someone was yelling, "h.e.l.lo!"

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Is this Maggie O'Dell's phone?" the voice demanded. The man sounded angry, and for a second he thought about hanging up.

"Yes, it is. She dropped it."

"Can I talk to her?"

"She's kind of tied up right now," he said, almost laughing out loud.

"Well, tell her that her husband, Greg, called, and that her mother is in serious shape. She needs to call the hospital. You got that?"

"Sure."

"Don't forget," the man snapped at him and hung up.

He smiled, still holding the phone to his ear and listening to the dial tone. But it was too cold to take much pleasure in his new toy. Instead, he peeled off the black sweat pants, sweats.h.i.+rt and ski mask. He threw them into the plastic garbage bag without even wringing them dry. The wet hairs on his arms and legs developed ice crystals before he wiped himself down and pulled on dry jeans and a thick wool sweater.

He sat on the running board to tie his tennis shoes. If it continued to snow, he might have to resort to wearing shoes. No, shoes would make it impossible to maneuver the river. They only acted as anchors. Besides, he hated getting them dirty.

If only he could be crawling into the nice, warm Lexus, but someone would have noticed it missing tonight. So, he climbed up into the old pickup, instead. The engine sputtered to life, and he drove home, s.h.i.+vering and squinting as the one headlight cut through the black night and white snow.

CHAPTER 35.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. His house was less than a mile away. She had been soaked to the bone and bleeding. Now Nick wasn't so sure he should have brought her here. As he strung up Maggie's clothes to dry in the utility room, he fingered the soft lace of her bra, and he couldn't help imagining what it would look like filled. It was ridiculous, especially after all that had happened in the last several hours. Yet, the soft scent of her perfume calmed him, soothed him, not to mention turned him on.

He had left her in the master bathroom upstairs. He had taken a shower downstairs, lit a fire in the fireplace and hung her clothes to dry. From the sound of running water in the pipes above him, he knew she was still in the shower. He wondered whether he should check on her. Despite that irritating calm, she had been shaken up, even if she wouldn't admit it. And in pain. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had managed to shove her into a tangle of old splintered fence posts and rusted barbed wire.

The water shut off above him. He grabbed a fresh s.h.i.+rt from the dryer and fumbled with the b.u.t.tons. He felt like a high-school kid unable to control his body's responses. It was crazy. After all, it wasn't as though a naked woman had never been in his house before. Fact was, there had been plenty-more than plenty.

The medicine cabinet was well stocked, remnants of his mother's paranoia. He filled his arms with cotton b.a.l.l.s, rubbing alcohol, gauze, washcloths, hydrogen peroxide and a tin of salve probably as old as his mother. He set up his nursing station by the fire, adding pillows and blankets. The furnace was making that thumping sound again. He should have had it checked. He stuffed huge logs on the fire, filling the fireplace and warming the room with a glowing yellow heat. Of course, it couldn't possibly match the one already roaring inside him. For once he'd ignore his raging hormones and do the right thing. It was as simple as that.

He turned to find her coming down the long, open staircase. She wore his old terry-cloth robe. It parted with every step, just enough to reveal well-shaped calves, sometimes a glimpse of a firm, smooth thigh. No, there would be absolutely nothing simple about this.

Her wet hair glistened. Her cheeks were ruddy from too much hot water. Her pace was slow, almost hesitant. The water had washed away her defenses. A hidden vulnerability exposed itself in those luscious, brown eyes.

As soon as she saw his a.r.s.enal of healing tools, she shook her head and dismissed them with a wave of her hand.

"I think I washed everything out. None of that is necessary."

"It's either this or I take you to the hospital."

She frowned at him.

"Humor me, okay? That wire was full of rust. When was your last teta.n.u.s shot?"

"I'm sure it's up-to-date. The Bureau hauls us in every three years, whether we need it or not. Look, Morrelli, I appreciate the gesture, but I really am fine."

He uncapped the alcohol and peroxide, lined up cotton b.a.l.l.s and pointed to the ottoman in front of him. "Sit."

He thought she would refuse again, but perhaps she was too tired to argue. She sat down, loosened the robe's cinch, hesitated, then let the robe drop off her shoulder while she held it tightly at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Immediately, he found himself distracted by her smooth, creamy skin, the beginning swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the curve of her neck, the fresh scent of her hair and skin. He felt light-headed, and already he was hard. How could he touch her and not want to do more? It was stupid. He needed to concentrate and ignore his erection for once in his life.

About a half-dozen b.l.o.o.d.y, triangular marks marred her beautiful skin, starting on top of her shoulder and trailing down her shoulder blade and arm. Several were deep and bleeding. In one place, the skin had ripped open, leaving a gash of torn skin.

He dabbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the first puncture, and she jerked from the sting. However, she made no sound.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine. Let's just get this over with."

He tried to be gentle with dabs and soft wipes. Still, she winced and grimaced beneath his touch. He cleaned each wound, hoping the alcohol would sterilize as much as it stung. Then he applied gauze and tape to those that kept bleeding.

Finally finished, he ran his open palm over the top of her shoulder and continued the slow caress down her arm, letting his hand make the journey he wished his mouth could. He felt her tremble, just slightly. Her back straightened, alerting her body to danger or responding to the electricity. His hand lingered, enjoying the sensation of silky skin. Then gently, reluctantly, he lifted the robe up over her shoulder, covering the beautiful and battered skin. She hesitated, as if surprised, as if expecting something more. Then she gathered the robe together and tightened the cinch.

"Thanks," she said without looking back at him.

"We have several hours before morning. I thought we could rest here, by the fire. Can I get you anything...hot chocolate, brandy?"

"Brandy would be nice." She left the ottoman and sat on the rug in front of the fireplace, leaning against a pile of pillows and tucking the robe in around her shapely legs.

"Can I get you anything to eat?"

"No, thanks."

"You sure? I could fix some soup, maybe a sandwich."

She smiled up at him. "Why is it that you're always trying to feed me, Morrelli?"

"Probably because I'm not allowed to do the things I'd really like to do with you."

Her smile disappeared while he looked into her eyes and held her gaze. The color rose in her cheeks. He was bordering on totally inappropriate behavior. Yet, all he could think about was whether she felt as hot as he did. Finally, she looked away, and he retreated to the kitchen while he was still able to move.

CHAPTER 36.

The photo Maggie had retrieved from her jacket pocket was creased and wrinkled. The corners curled as it dried. Lint from the robe's pocket stuck to the glossy finish. She owed Timmy a replacement, though she didn't know how she'd accomplish that. At least the photo hadn't disappeared into the dark water like her cell phone. She seemed destined to lose things at the bottoms of rivers and lakes.

Nick was taking a long time in the kitchen. She wondered whether he had decided on a sandwich, after all. His last remark left her with an unsettled feeling, nothing she could even describe without using an annoying reference to b.u.t.terflies. He was being a perfect gentleman. She had absolutely no reason to be concerned, even though she leaned against pillows scented with just a hint of his aftershave lotion. Even though she sat in front of his fireplace wearing nothing but his robe.

The entire time he dressed her wounds, she welcomed the sting of pain. It was the only thing that kept her mind from relis.h.i.+ng his touch. When he finished by running his hand over her shoulder and down her arm, she was shocked to find herself waiting breathlessly, hoping for the caress to continue. Now, she wondered what it would feel like to have his big, steady hands caressing her neck, sliding gently over her shoulders and slowly down to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

She heard Nick come into the room and her hand flew to her face. Her skin was flushed again, but the fire would account for that. It would not, however, account for her shortness of breath. She steadied herself and avoided looking up at him as he approached.

He handed her a gla.s.s of brandy, then sat next to her. He pulled his long, bare feet up underneath himself, leaning so close he brushed her shoulder.

"So, that's the photo you told me about?" He nodded in its direction as he grabbed a handmade quilt off the sofa. He began wrapping it around their legs. He did this as though it was natural for the two of them to be curling up next to each other. The intimacy of the act immediately sent the heat from her face down to other parts of her body.

Perhaps he recognized it. Maybe he felt it. Suddenly, he looked embarra.s.sed as he explained, "The furnace isn't working quite right. I need to have it checked. I just didn't expect it to get this cold in October."

She handed him the photo. With both hands now cupped around the globe of brandy, she swirled the liquid in the gla.s.s, breathed in its sweet, stout aroma, then took a sip. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back against the soft pillows and enjoyed the lovely sting sliding down her throat. Several more sips would release her from that unsettled feeling. It was during these initial light-headed moments that she understood her mother's escape. Alcohol possessed the power to level tension and dissolve unwanted feelings. There was no pain if she couldn't feel it. Grief didn't exist if she was too numb to recognize it.

"I agree," Nick said, interrupting her pleasant descent into numbness. "It is too much of a coincidence. But I can't just haul Ray Howard in for questioning, can I?"

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up. "Not Howard. Father Keller."

"What? Are you nuts? I can't haul in a priest. You really can't believe a Catholic priest could kill little boys."

"He fits the profile. I need to find out more about his background, but yes, I do think a priest is capable."

"I don't. It's crazy." He avoided her eyes and gulped his brandy. "The community would hang me by my thumbs if I hauled in a priest for questioning. Especially this Father Keller. He's like Superman with a collar. Jesus, O'Dell, you're way off target."

"Just listen to me for a minute. You said yourself it looked like Danny Alverez didn't put up a fight. Keller was someone he knew and trusted. Father Francis told us it was unlikely for a layperson post-Vatican II-which would be anyone under the age of thirty-five-to know how to administer last rites, unless that person had some training."

"But this guy is a hero with kids. How could he do something like this and not slip up?"

"People who knew Ted Bundy never suspected anything. Look, I also found a torn piece of a baseball card in Matthew's hand. Timmy told me earlier tonight that Father Keller trades baseball cards with them."

Nick wiped at the wet strands on his forehead, and she could smell the same shampoo she had used upstairs. He leaned back against the pillows, set his gla.s.s on his chest and watched the last bit swirl around.

"Okay," he said finally, "you check him out. But I need something more than a photo and a piece of baseball card before I haul him in for questioning. In the meantime, I want to do some checking on Howard. You have to admit he's a weird character. What kind of guy dresses in a s.h.i.+rt and tie to clean a church?"