A Perfect Evil Part 20

"I didn't have to look very hard. This murder matches right down to the X. Circ.u.mstantial or not, Father Keller needs to be considered a suspect." She closed down the program and shut off the computer.

"I've got to meet George in about an hour," Maggie said, "then I'm meeting with Father Francis." She started taking clothes out of the closet and laying them on the bed. "I need to leave for Richmond tonight. My mother's in the hospital." She avoided looking at him while she pulled more of her things from drawers.

"Jesus, Maggie, is she okay?"

"Sort of...I guess she will be. I'll have some information for you on disk. Can you access Microsoft Word?"

"Sure...yeah, I think so." Her matter-of-fact att.i.tude fl.u.s.tered him. Was something wrong, or was she simply concerned about her mother?

"I'll leave my notes from this afternoon's autopsy with George. If I find out anything from Father Francis, I'll call you."

"You're not coming back, are you?" The realization struck him like another fist to the jaw. It also stopped her. She turned to face him, though her eyes darted from his to the blank computer screen to his to the mess on the bed. She had never had a tough time meeting his eyes before.

"Technically, I finished what I was asked to do. You have a profile and maybe even a suspect. I'm not even sure that I need to be involved with this second autopsy."

"So that's it?" He shoved his hands into his pockets. Suddenly, he felt nauseated at the thought of never seeing her again.

"I'm sure the Bureau will send someone else to help you."

"But not you?" He caught something in her eyes. Was it a flicker of regret, sadness? Whatever it was, she didn't let him see it. She started filling her suitcase. "Does this have anything to do with what happened this morning?"

"Nothing happened this morning," she snapped, and stopped shoving things into her bag. She kept her back to him. "I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression." Then she glanced over her shoulder at him. "Look, Nick, I don't mean to sound ungrateful." She kept her hands busy folding, tucking and shuffling items into her bag.

Of course, she hadn't given him the wrong impression. He had done that all on his own. But what about the heat, the electricity? He certainly hadn't imagined that.

"I'm gonna miss you." The words surprised him. He hadn't meant to say them out loud.

She stopped, straightened and turned slowly, this time meeting his eyes. Those luscious brown eyes made him weak in the knees, like a high-school kid admitting to his first girlfriend that he liked her. Jesus, what was wrong with him?

"You've been a pain in the a.s.s, O'Dell, but I'm going to miss you giving me a hard time." There. He corrected his slip.

She smiled. There was the hair-tuck behind the ears. At least she wasn't totally in control.

"Do you need a lift to the airport?"

"No, I have a rental I need to turn in."

"Well, have a good flight." It sounded cold and pathetic when what he really wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and convince her to stay. He crossed the room to leave in three long strides, hoping his knees didn't buckle.

"Nick."

He stopped at the door, his hand on the handle, and glanced back at her. She paused, and in a brief moment he saw her change her mind from whatever she was going to say.

"Good luck," she said simply.

He nodded and left, feeling lead in his shoes and an ache in his chest that made it hard to breathe.

CHAPTER 47.

Maggie watched the door close as her hands strangled and twisted a silk blouse.

Why didn't she just tell Nick about the note, about Albert Stucky? He had understood about the nightmares. Maybe he'd understand about this. Maybe he'd understand that she just couldn't allow herself to be psychologically poked and probed by another madman. Not now. Not when she felt so vulnerable, so d.a.m.n fragile, like she could shatter into a million tiny pieces, just as she had earlier on the bathroom floor. She couldn't risk it. It would cloud her judgment.

Perhaps it already had. Last night in the woods she hadn't even seen the killer coming at her until it was too late. He could easily have killed her. But like Albert Stucky, this killer wanted her alive, and oddly enough, that terrified her even more. Somehow she knew sharing all that with anyone would make her feel more vulnerable. No, it was best this way-to leave Nick and everyone else thinking her departure was only because of her mother.

She stuffed the garment bag, crus.h.i.+ng and wrinkling her dry-cleanables. Director Cunningham had been right. She needed to take some time off. Maybe she and Greg could take a trip. Someplace warm and sunny, where it didn't get dark at six in the evening.

The phone rang, and she jumped as if it were a gunshot. She had already talked to Dr. Avery. Her mother had survived the seventy-two-hour suicide watch and was doing quite well. But this was the part her mother was good at-playing the model patient and devouring all the special attention.

Maggie grabbed the phone. "Special Agent O'Dell."

"Maggie, why are you still there? I thought you were coming home."

She lowered herself to the bed, suddenly exhausted. "Hi, Greg." She waited for a real greeting, heard papers shuffling and knew she had only half his attention. "I'm catching a flight tonight."

"Good, so that dunce actually gave you my message last night?"

"What dunce?"

"The one I talked to last night who picked up your cellular. He said you must have dropped it and couldn't come to the phone."

Her grip tightened. Her pulse raced.

"What time was that?"

"I don't know...late. About midnight here. Why?"

"What did you tell him?"

"Oh, for cryin' out loud. That a.s.shole didn't give you the message, did he?"

"Greg, what did you tell him?" Her heart thumped against her rib cage.

"What kind of incompetent hicks are you working with, Maggie?"

"Greg." She tried to stay calm, to keep the scream from clawing its way out of her throat. "I lost my cellular phone last night when I was chasing the killer. There's a good chance he was the one you talked to."

Silence. Even the paper shuffling had come to a stop.

"For G.o.d's sake, Maggie. How was I supposed to know?" His tone was subdued.

"There's no way you could have known. I'm not blaming you, Greg. Just please, try to remember what you told him."

"Nothing really...just to call me and that your mother wasn't doing too well."

She leaned back on the bed, sinking her head into the pillows and closing her eyes.

"Maggie, when you get home we need to talk."

Yes, they would talk on a beach somewhere, sipping fruity drinks, the ones with little umbrellas stuffed in them. They'd talk about what was really important, rekindle their lost love, rediscover the mutual respect and goals that had brought them together in the first place.

"I want you to quit the Bureau," he said, and then she knew there would never be a sunny beach for them.

CHAPTER 48.

The snow exploded into flying white powder as his feet came down with heavy thuds, smas.h.i.+ng through drifts. Snow clung to his pant legs and leaked inside his shoes, turning his feet to ice. His body wasn't his own, propelling him through branches and down the side of the hill at a speed that would surely send him tumbling headfirst at any moment.

Then he heard them, squealing and giggling. He slid to a halt, cras.h.i.+ng into shrubs and snow-laced prairie gra.s.s that prevented him from rolling into the sledders' path. He lay there, pressed into the snow, the white death sucking the heat from his body. He hid, trying to control his rapid breathing, inhaling through his mouth and creating a vapor each time he exhaled.

They should have gone home while the throbbing in his head was silent. Why hadn't they gone home? It would be getting dark soon. Would there be plates set on a dinner table waiting for them or only a note and a microwave dinner? Would their parents be there to make sure they took off their wet clothing? Would anyone be there to tuck them into bed?

He couldn't stop the memories, and he no longer tried. He laid his face into the snow hoping it would stop the pounding. He could see himself at twelve, wearing a green army jacket with little lining to keep out the cold. His patched jeans allowed drafts to a.s.sault his body. He hadn't owned a pair of boots. The snowfall had been over ten inches and the entire town ground to a stop, leaving his stepfather with nowhere to go except his mother's bedroom. He had been told to leave the house, to "go play in the snow with his friends." Only he had no friends. The kids had only paid attention to him to make fun of his shabby clothes and his scrawny build.

After hours of sitting in the cold backyard watching the other kids sledding, he had gone back to the house only to find the door locked. Through the thin wood and fragile gla.s.s, he had listened to his mother's screams and moans-pain and pleasure indistinguishable. Did s.e.x have to hurt? He couldn't imagine growing to enjoy such pain. And he remembered feeling ashamed because he had been relieved. He knew as long as his stepfather slammed into his mother, he wouldn't slam into his small body.

It was while he sat in the bitter white cold that day that he had plotted, a plot so simple it required only a ball of string. The next morning when his stepfather retreated to his bas.e.m.e.nt workshop, he would come back up on a stretcher. He and his mother would never feel ashamed or scared again. How could he have known that his mother would go down to the bas.e.m.e.nt first that morning? That morning when his life had ended; when that horrible wicked, little boy had ended his mother's life.

Suddenly, he felt someone above him, breathing and sniffing. He slowly looked up to find a black dog within inches of his face. The dog bared his teeth, emitting a low growl. Without warning, his hands shot out at the dog's throat and the growl became a quiet whine, a stifled gurgle, then silence.

He watched the boys dressed in thick parkas running and jumping with stiff legs and arms. Finally, they gathered up their sledding contraptions and said their goodbyes. One boy called for the dog several times but gave up easily to catch up with his friends. They separated and headed in different directions, three one way, two another while one crossed the church's parking lot alone.

The sky changed from light gray to slate. Streetlights blinked on one at a time. A jet thundered overhead, the sound amplified by the white, silent town. There wasn't a single vehicle or pedestrian when he climbed into his own car. He pulled the ski mask back on despite the perspiration gathering on his forehead and upper lip. On the seat next to him, he laid out a fresh handkerchief, carefully and meticulously as though it were already a part of the ceremony. He brought a vial out of his coat pocket, cracked it and anointed the white linen. Then he kept the headlights off and the engine soft as he slowly followed the boy who dragged his bright orange plastic sled behind him.

CHAPTER 49.

The sheriff's department could afford only five fully equipped squad cars, and four were parked outside the courthouse when Nick returned. Immediately, the fury burned in his stomach. What would it take to get these people to listen to him, to take his orders seriously? Yet, he knew it was his own fault.

He had treated his position as sheriff with the same reckless disregard that had ruled the rest of his life-to simply kick back and take nothing too seriously. That was before. Before he had fallen into Danny Alverez's blood. Now he couldn't help wondering whether a real sheriff could have saved Matthew Tanner. But Platte City had a skirt-chasing college quarterback with a law degree, absolutely no experience and only his father's name and reputation to win him the right to call himself sheriff and to carry a badge and a gun. A gun, by the way, that he hadn't fired since target practice to get the job nearly two years ago.

Mich.e.l.le Tanner's ex-husband had knocked more than just his jaw out of whack. Too bad it had taken a fist to knock some sense of responsibility into him. And now that Maggie was leaving, it was up to him to take control. He just wished he knew how the h.e.l.l to do that.

He entered the courthouse and immediately wanted to flee in the other direction. The huge marble lobby echoed with the chatter of reporters. Cords and cables snaked over the floor. Bright lights blinded him and a dozen microphones were shoved into his face while reporters a.s.saulted him with questions.

Darcy McMa.n.u.s-an ex-beauty queen turned TV anchor-barricaded the staircase with her tall, lean body. It was hard to ignore the long legs she showed off in the short skirts she pretended were part of a suit. She offered him a spot beside her in front of Channel Five's camera. He shoved his way to the staircase but purposely kept his distance. In the past, he would have flirted with her and taken advantage of the attention. Maybe he would have even gotten her phone number. Now he just wanted to get past her and escape to his office.

"Sheriff, do you have any suspects yet?" She looked older than she did on TV. Up close he saw the caked makeup concealing the lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes.

"I have no comment at this time."

"Is it true Matthew Tanner's body was decapitated?" a man in an expensive double-breasted suit wanted to know.

"Jesus. Where the h.e.l.l did you hear that?"

"Then it's true?"

"No. Absolutely not."

Others joined in, pressing against Nick. He tried to elbow his way through.

"Sheriff, what about the rumor that you've ordered the exhumation of Ronald Jeffreys' grave? Do you believe Jeffreys wasn't the one executed?"

"Was the boy s.e.xually a.s.saulted?"

"Have you found the blue pickup yet?"

"Sheriff Morrelli, can you at least tell us whether this boy was murdered in the same manner? Are we dealing with a serial killer?"

"What shape was Matthew's body in?"

"Stop! Hold it," Nick yelled, raising his hands to ward off any more questions. The shuffle halted. The shoving came to a standstill, and there was silence as the vultures waited. The sudden quiet disarmed him. He glanced around and backed his way to the first step of the open staircase. A trickle of sweat rolled down his back. He raked his fingers through his hair and noticed his fingers trembling. He was used to being confronted with accolades, not criticism and skepticism.

What the h.e.l.l was he supposed to tell them? Last time, Maggie had bailed him out. Now, in her absence, he felt exposed and vulnerable, and he hated it. He grabbed the handrail to steady himself and pulled himself up beside McMa.n.u.s. She looked pleased and began smoothing her hair and clothing, preparing for the camera. He ignored her and looked out over the crowd, eyes staring back at him, pens, cameras and recording devices ready. His gut told him to turn around and leave them in silence. He could take the stairs three at a time and be in his office before they could follow. After all, he didn't owe them an explanation. None of this would help him catch the murderer. Or would it?

"You all know I can't reveal specific details about the victims' bodies. But for G.o.d's sake, for Mrs. Tanner's sake, Matthew's body was not-I repeat-not decapitated. That's not to say that this guy isn't one sick son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Is this a serial killing, Sheriff? The people deserve to know if they should lock up their children."

"Early indications do show that Matthew was killed by the same person who killed Danny Alverez."

"Any suspects?"

"Is it true you have absolutely no leads?"

Nick backed up another step. He had nothing to satisfy them. The crowd and bright lights made him hot and nauseated. He pulled at his jacket's zipper and tugged at his tie, loosening its strangling hold.