A Perfect Evil Part 22

"Why don't you eat some of your Big Mac?" the man in the dead president's mask was saying.

Timmy curled into the corner. The bedsprings squeaked each time he moved. His eyes darted around the small room lit only by a lantern on an old crate. The light created its own creepy shadows on the walls with spiderweb cracks. He was shaking, and he couldn't control it, just like last winter when he got so sick his mom had had to take him to the emergency room. And he did feel sick to his stomach, but it wasn't the same. He was shaking because he was scared, because he didn't know where he was or how he had gotten here.

The tall man in the mask had been nice so far. When he had stopped Timmy by the church to ask for directions, he had been wearing a black ski mask, the kind robbers wore in the movies. But it was cold out, and the man seemed lost and confused but not scary. Even when the man had gotten out of his car to show Timmy a map, Timmy hadn't felt scared. There was something familiar about him. That was when the man had grabbed him and shoved a white cloth against his face. Timmy couldn't remember anything else, except waking up here.

The wind howled through the rotted boards that covered the windows, but the room was warm. Timmy noticed a kerosene heater in the corner, the kind his dad had used when they had gone camping. Only that was ages ago, when his dad still cared about him.

"You really should eat. I know you haven't had anything since lunch."

Timmy stared at the man, who looked more ridiculous than scary dressed in a sweater, jeans and bright white Nikes that looked new except that one shoestring was knotted together. A pair of huge, black, dripping rubber boots sat by the door on a paper sack. It struck Timmy as odd that such new Nikes could already have a broken and knotted shoestring. If he he had new Nikes, he'd take better care of them than that. had new Nikes, he'd take better care of them than that.

There was something about the m.u.f.fled voice that Timmy recognized, but he wasn't sure what it was. He tried to think of the president's name-the one the mask resembled. It was the guy with the big nose who had to resign. Why couldn't he think of his name? They had just memorized the presidents last year.

He wished he could stop s.h.i.+vering, but it hurt to try to stop, so he let his teeth chatter.

"Are you cold? Is there anything else I can get you?" the man asked, and Timmy shook his head. "Tomorrow I'll bring you some baseball cards and comic books." The man got up, took the lantern from the crate and started to leave.

"Can I keep the lantern?" Timmy's voice surprised him. It was clear and calm, despite his body shaking beyond his control.

The man looked back at him, and Timmy could see the eyes through the mask's eyeholes. In the light of the lantern, they were sparkling as if the man were smiling.

"Sure, Timmy. I'll leave the lantern."

Timmy didn't remember telling the man his name. Did he know him?

The man set the lantern back down on the crate, pulled on his thick rubber boots and left, locking the door with several clicks and clacks from the outside. Timmy waited, listening over the thumping of his heart. He counted out two minutes, and when he was sure the man wouldn't return, he looked around the room again. The rotted slats over the window were his best bet.

He crawled off the bed and tripped over his sled on the floor. He started for the window when something caught his leg. He looked down to find a silver handcuff around his ankle with a thick metal chain padlocked to the bedpost. He yanked at the chain, but even the metal-framed bed wouldn't budge. He dropped to his knees and tore at the handcuff, pulling and tugging until his fingers were red and his ankle sore. Suddenly, he stopped struggling.

He looked around the room again, and then he knew. This was where Danny and Matthew had been taken. He crawled into his plastic sled and curled up into a tight ball.

"Oh, G.o.d," he prayed out loud, the tremble in his voice scaring him even more. "Please don't let me get dead like Danny and Matthew."

Then he tried to think of something, anything else, and he began naming the presidents out loud, starting with, "Was.h.i.+ngton, Adams, Jefferson..."

CHAPTER 55.

After making several phone calls and getting no response, Nick decided to drive over to the rectory. He couldn't go home. Eventually, that would be where his father would go. That was the one disadvantage of living in the family home-the family moved back whenever they wanted. And although the old farmhouse was certainly large enough, Nick didn't want to see or talk to his father for the rest of the evening.

The rectory was actually a ranch-style house connected to the church by an enclosed brick walkway. The church's stained gla.s.s hinted at just a flicker of candlelight, but the rectory was lit up inside and outside as if for a party. Yet, Nick waited a long time before anyone answered his knock.

Father Keller opened the door, dressed in a long black robe.

"Sheriff Morrelli, sorry for the delay. I was taking a shower," he said without surprise, as if he had been expecting him.

"I did try calling first."

"Really? I've been here all evening, except I'm afraid I can't hear the phone from my bathroom. Come in."

A freshly fed fire roared in the huge fireplace that was the room's center of attraction. A colorful Oriental rug and several easy chairs sat in front. Books were piled up next to one of the chairs, and at a glance Nick noticed they were art books-Degas, Monet, Renaissance painting. He felt silly expecting them to be on religious and philosophical topics. After all, priests were people. Of course, they had other interests, hobbies, pa.s.sions, addictions.

"Please sit down." Father Keller pointed to one of the chairs.

Though he knew Father Keller only from the few times he'd attended Sunday ma.s.s, it was hard not to like the guy. Besides being tall, athletic and handsome, with boyish good looks, Father Keller possessed an ease, a calm that immediately made Nick feel comfortable. He glanced at the young priest's hands. The long fingers were clean and smooth with fingernails well manicured-not a cuticle in sight. They certainly didn't look like the hands of a man who strangled children. Maggie was way off base. There was no way this guy killed little boys. Nick should be questioning Ray Howard, instead.

"Can I get you some coffee?" Father Keller asked, sounding as if he genuinely wanted to please his guest.

"No, thanks. This won't take long." Nick unzipped his jacket and pulled out a notepad and pen. His hand ached. The knuckles bled through his homemade bandage. He tucked it up into the sleeve of his jacket to avoid attention.

"I'm afraid there's not much I can tell you, Sheriff. I think he simply had a heart attack."

"Excuse me?"

"Father Francis. That is why you're here, isn't it?"

"What about Father Francis?"

"Oh dear, G.o.d. I'm sorry. I thought that was why you were here. We think he had a heart attack and fell down the bas.e.m.e.nt steps sometime this morning."

"Is he okay?"

"I'm afraid he's dead, G.o.d rest his soul." Father Keller picked at a thread on his robe and avoided Nick's eyes.

"Jesus, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"I'm sure it's a shock. It certainly was for all of us. You served ma.s.s for Father Francis, didn't you? At the old St. Margaret's?"

"Seems like ages ago." Nick stared into the fire, remembering how fragile the old priest had looked when he and Maggie questioned him.

"Excuse me, Sheriff, but if you're not here about Father Francis, what is it I can help you with?"

For a moment the reason escaped him. Then Nick remembered Maggie's profile. Father Keller matched the physical characteristics. His bare feet even looked about a size twelve. But like his hands, his feet looked too clean, too smooth to have been out in the cold, trampling through rocks and branches.

"Sheriff Morrelli? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Actually, I just had a few questions for you about...about the summer church camp you sponsor."

"The church camp?" Was the look one of confusion or alarm? Nick couldn't be sure.

"Both Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner were in your church camp this past summer."

"Really?"

"You didn't know?"

"We had over two hundred boys last summer. I wish I could get to know them all, but there just isn't time."

"Do you have pictures taken with all of them?"

"Excuse me?"

"My nephew, Timmy Hamilton, has a photo of about fifteen to twenty boys with you and Mr. Howard."

"Oh, yes." Father Keller raked his fingers through his thick hair, and only then did Nick realize it wasn't wet. "The canoe photos. Not all the boys qualified for the races, but, yes, we did take pictures with the ones who qualified. Mr. Howard is a volunteer counselor. I've tried to include Ray in as many church activities as possible ever since he left the seminary last year and came to work for us."

Howard had been in a seminary. Nick waited for more.

"So Timmy Hamilton is your nephew? He's a great kid."

"Yes, yes, he is." Did he dare ask more questions about Howard or was the distraction exactly what Father Keller wanted? There was no need to have mentioned Howard leaving the seminary.

"You started a similar church camp for boys at your previous parish, didn't you, Father Keller? In Maine." Nick pretended to look at his notepad, though it was blank. "Wood River, I believe it was." He watched for a reaction, but there was none.

"That's right."

"Why did you leave Wood River?"

"I was offered an a.s.sociate pastor position here. You might say it was a promotion."

"Were you aware of a murder of a little boy in the Wood River area just before you left?"

"Vaguely. I'm not sure I understand your line of questioning, Sheriff. Are you accusing me of having some knowledge about these murders?"

Still, there was no alarm in his voice, no defensiveness, only concern.

"I'm just checking as many leads as possible." Suddenly, Nick felt ridiculous. How could Maggie ever have led him to believe that a Catholic priest was capable of murder? Then it hit him. "Father Keller, how did you know I served ma.s.s for Father Francis at the old St. Margaret's?"

"I'm not sure. Father Francis must have mentioned it to me." Again the priest avoided Nick's eyes. A sudden knock at the door interrupted them, and Father Keller quickly got up, almost too quickly, as if anxious to escape. "I'm certainly not dressed for company." He smiled at Nick as he tucked in the lapels of his robe and tightened its cinch.

Nick took the opportunity to escape the fire's heat. He got up and paced the large room. Huge built-in bookcases made up one wall, on the opposite were a bay window and window bench used for green plants. There were few decorations-a highly-polished, dark wooden crucifix with an unusual pointed end. It almost looked like a dagger. There were also several original paintings by an obscure artist. Quite nice, though Nick knew little about art. The swishes of bright color were hypnotic, swirling yellows and reds in a field of vibrant purple.

Then Nick saw them. Tucked away around the side of the brick fireplace that jutted out into the room was a pair of black rubber boots, still plastered with snow and sitting on an old welcome mat. Had Father Keller lied about being out this evening? Or perhaps the boots belonged to Ray Howard.

From the foyer Nick heard voices raised, a hint of frustration in Father Keller's and accusations from a woman's voice. Nick hurried to the entrance, where he saw Father Keller trying to remain calm and cool while Maggie O'Dell a.s.saulted him with questions.

CHAPTER 56.

At first Nick didn't recognize Maggie's voice. It was loud, shrill and belligerent-this from a woman who appeared to be the essence of control.

"I want to see Father Francis now," she said and pushed past Father Keller before he could explain. She almost ran into Nick. She backed away, startled. Her eyes met his. There was something wild and dark in hers-something a bit out of control to match her voice.

"Nick, what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing. Don't you have a flight to catch?"

She looked small in the oversize green jacket and blue jeans. Without makeup and with her windblown hair, she could have pa.s.sed for a college coed.

"Flights are delayed."

"Excuse me," Father Keller interrupted.

"Maggie, you haven't met Father Michael Keller. Father Keller, this is Special Agent Maggie O'Dell."

"So you're Keller?" There was accusation in her voice. "What have you done with Father Francis?"

Again, the belligerence. Nick couldn't figure out this new approach. What happened to the cool, calm woman who usually made him look like the hothead?

"I tried to explain..." Father Keller tried again.

"Yes, you do have some explaining to do. Father Francis was supposed to meet me at the hospital this afternoon. He never showed up." She looked to Nick. "I've been calling here all afternoon and evening."

"Maggie, why don't you come in and calm down?"

"I don't want to calm down. I want some answers. I want to know what the h.e.l.l's going on here."

"There was an accident this morning," Nick explained, since she wouldn't allow Father Keller to speak. "Father Francis fell down some bas.e.m.e.nt steps. I'm afraid he's dead."

She was quiet, her entire body suddenly still. "An accident?" Then she looked up at Father Keller. "Nick, are you sure it was an accident?"

"Maggie."

"How can you be sure he wasn't pushed? Has anyone examined the body? I'll do the autopsy myself if necessary."

"An autopsy?" Father Keller repeated.

"Maggie, he was old and frail."

"Exactly. So why would he be going down bas.e.m.e.nt steps?"