A Perfect Evil Part 3

"d.a.m.n it, Maggie. It's our anniversary. This was supposed to be our weekend together."

"No, that was last weekend, only you forgot and played in the golf tournament."

"Oh, I see," he snorted. "So this is payback."

"No, it's not payback." She maintained her calm though she was tired of these little tantrums. It was fine for him to ruin their plans with only half an apology and that charming, smug "I'll make it up to you, babe."

"If it's not payback, what do you call it?"

"Work."

"Work, right. That's convenient. Call it what you want. It's payback."

"A little boy has been murdered, and I might be able to help find the psycho who did it." The anger bubbled close to the surface, but her voice remained amazingly calm. "Sorry, I'll make it up to you." The sarcasm slipped out, but he didn't seem to notice. She took the fax and started past him to the door. He grabbed her wrist and spun her toward him.

"Tell them to send someone else, Maggie. We need this weekend together," he pleaded, his voice now soft.

She looked into his gray eyes and wondered when they had lost their color. She searched for a flicker of the intelligent, compa.s.sionate man she had married nine years ago when they were both college seniors ready to make their marks on the world. She would track down the criminals, and he would defend the helpless victims. Then he took the job in Was.h.i.+ngton at Brackman, Harvey and Lowe, and his helpless victims became billion-dollar corporations. Still, in just a moment of silence, she thought she recognized a flicker of sincerity. She was on the verge of giving in to him when his grip tightened and his teeth clenched.

"Tell them to send someone else, or we're finished."

She wrenched her wrist free. He grabbed for it again, and she slammed a fist into his chest. His eyes widened in surprise.

"Don't you ever grab me like that again. And if this one trip means we're finished, then maybe we've been finished for a long time."

She brushed past him and headed for the bedroom, hoping her knees would carry her and the sting behind her eyes would wait.

CHAPTER 8.

Sunday, October 26

And so it begins, he thought as he sipped the scalding-hot tea.

The front-page headline belonged on the National Enquirer National Enquirer and not a newspaper as respectable as the and not a newspaper as respectable as the Omaha Journal Omaha Journal. From the Grave, Serial Killer Still Grips Community with Boy's Recent Murder. It was almost as hysterical as yesterday's headline, but, of course, today's large Sunday edition would attract more readers.

The byline was Christine Hamilton again. He recognized the name from the "Living Today" section. Why would they give the story to a newcomer, a rookie?

Quickly, he turned the pages, searching for the rest of the story which continued on page ten, column one. The entire page was filled with connecting articles. There was a school photo of the boy. Beside it ran an in-depth saga of the boy's sudden disappearance during his early-morning paper route just a week ago. The article told how the FBI and the boy's mother had waited for a ransom note that never came. Then, finally, Sheriff Morrelli had found the body in a pasture along the river.

He glanced back at the paragraph. Morrelli? No, this was Nicholas Morrelli, not Antonio. How nice, he thought, for father and son to share the same experience.

The article went on to point out the similarities to the murders of three boys in the same small community over six years ago. And how the bodies, strangled and stabbed to death, had each been discovered days later in different wooded, isolated areas.

The article, however, made no mention of details, no description of the elaborate chest carving. Did the police hope to withhold that evidence again? He shook his head and continued to read.

He used the fillet knife to scoop jelly and spread it on his burnt English m.u.f.fin. The stupid toaster hadn't worked right for weeks, but it was better than going down to the kitchen and having breakfast with the others. At least here in his room he could have the solitude of breakfast and the morning paper without the burden of making polite conversation.

The room was very plain, white walls and hardwood floors. The small twin-size bed barely accommodated his six-foot frame. Some nights he found his feet dangling over the end. He had added the small Formica-topped table and two chairs, though he allowed no one to join him. The utility cart in the corner housed the secondhand toaster, a gift from one of the paris.h.i.+oners. There was also a hot plate and kettle that he used for his tea.

On the nightstand stood the most elaborate of his furnis.h.i.+ngs, an ornate lamp, the base a detailed relief of cherubs and nymphs tastefully arranged. It was one of the few things he had splurged on and purchased for himself with his meager paycheck. That and the three paintings. Of course, he could only afford framed reproductions. They hung on the wall opposite his bed so he could look at them while he drifted off to sleep, though sleep didn't come easy these days. It never did when the throbbing began, invading his otherwise quiet life, cras.h.i.+ng in with all those foul memories. Even though his room was simple and plain, it brought short periods of comfort, control and solitude to a life that was no longer his own.

He checked his watch and ran his hand over his jaw. He wouldn't need to shave today, his boyish face still smooth from yesterday's shave. He had time to finish reading, though he refused to so much as look at the ridiculous articles about Ronald Jeffreys. Jeffreys had never deserved the attention he had garnered, and here he was, still in the limelight even after death.

He finished his breakfast and meticulously cleaned the table, no crumb escaping his quick swipes with the damp rag. From his small, brown-stained bathroom sink he removed the pair of Nikes, now scrubbed clean, not a hint of mud left. Still, he wished he had taken them off sooner. He patted them dry and set them aside to wash the one plate he called his own, a fragile, hand-painted Noritake he had borrowed long ago from the community china cabinet. His matching teacup and saucer, also borrowed, he filled to the brim with more scalding-hot water. Delicately, he dunked the once-used tea bag, waiting for the water to turn the appropriate amber color, then quickly removed and strangled the tea bag as if making it surrender every last drop.

His morning ritual complete, he got down on his hands and knees and pulled a wooden box from under the bed. He laid the box on the small table and ran his fingers over the lid's intricate carving. Carefully, he cut out the newspaper articles, bypa.s.sing those on Ronald Jeffreys. He opened the box and put the folded articles inside on top of the other newspaper clippings, some of which were just beginning to yellow. He checked the other contents: a bright white linen cloth, two candles and a small container of oil. Then he licked the remnants of jelly off the fillet knife and returned it to the box, laying it gently on the soft cotton of a pair of boy's underpants.

CHAPTER 9.

Timmy Hamilton pushed his mom's fingers away from his face as the two of them hesitated on the steps of St. Margaret's. It was bad enough that he was late. He didn't need his mom fussing over him in front of his friends.

"Come on, Mom. Everybody can see."

"Is this a new bruise?" She held his chin and gently tilted his head.

"I ran into Chad at soccer practice. It's no big deal." He put his hand on his hip as if to conceal the even bigger bruise hidden there.

"You need to be more careful, Timmy. You bruise so easily. I must have been out of my mind when I agreed to let you play."

She opened her handbag and began digging.

"I'm gonna be late. Church starts in fifteen minutes."

"I thought I had your registration form and check for the camp out."

"Mom, I'm late already."

"Okay, okay." She snapped the bag shut. "Just tell Father Keller I'll put it in the mail tomorrow."

"Can I go now?"

"Yes."

"You sure you don't want to check the tags on my underwear or something?"

"Smart-a.s.s." She laughed and swatted him on the b.u.t.t.

He liked it when she laughed, something she didn't do much of since his dad had left. When she laughed, the lines in her face softened, denting her cheeks with dimples. She became the most beautiful woman he knew, especially now with her new silky, blond hair. She was almost prettier than Miss Roberts, his fourth-grade teacher. But Miss Roberts was last year. This year was Mr. Stedman and, though it was only October, Timmy hated the fifth grade. He lived for soccer practice-soccer practice and serving ma.s.s with Father Keller.

In July, when his mom had interrupted his summer and sent him to church camp, he had been furious with her. But Father Keller had made camp fun. It ended up being a great summer, and he'd hardly missed his dad. Then, to top it off, Father Keller had asked him to be one of his altar boys. Though he and his mom had been members of St. Margaret's since spring, Timmy knew Father Keller's altar boys were an elite group, handpicked and given special rewards. Rewards like the upcoming camping trip.

Timmy knocked on the ornate door to the church vestibule. When no one answered, he opened it slowly and peeked in before entering. He found a ca.s.sock in his size among those hanging in the closet, and he ripped it from the hanger, trying to make up for lost time. He threw his jacket to a chair across the room, then jumped, startled by the priest kneeling quietly next to the chair. His rod-straight back was to Timmy, but he recognized Father Keller's dark hair curling over his collar. His thin frame towered over the chair, though he was on his knees. Despite Timmy's jacket almost hitting him, the priest remained still and quiet.

Timmy stared, holding his breath, waiting for the priest to flinch, to move, to breathe. Finally, his elbow lifted to make the sign of the cross. He stood without effort and turned to Timmy, taking the jacket and draping it carefully over the chair's arm.

"Does your mom know you throw around your Sunday clothes?" He smiled with white, even teeth and bright blue eyes.

"Sorry, Father. I didn't see you when I came in. I was afraid I was late."

"No problem. We have plenty of time." He tousled Timmy's hair, his hand lingering on his head. It was something Timmy's dad used to do.

At first, Timmy had been uncomfortable when Father Keller touched him. Now, instead of tensing up, he found himself feeling safe. Though he couldn't admit it out loud, he liked Father Keller way better than he liked his dad. Father Keller never yelled; instead, his voice was soft and soothing, low and powerful. His large hands patted and caressed-never hit. When Father Keller talked to him, Timmy felt as if he was the most important person in Father Keller's life. He made Timmy feel special, and in return, Timmy wanted to please him, though he still messed up some of the ma.s.s stuff. Last Sunday, Timmy brought the water to the altar but forgot the wine. Father Keller had just smiled, whispered to him and waited patiently. No one else even suspected his mistake.

No, Father Keller was nothing like his dad, who had spent most of his time at work, even when the three of them had been a family. Father Keller seemed like a best friend instead of a priest. Sometimes on Sat.u.r.days, he played football with the boys down at the park, allowing himself to be tackled and getting just as muddy as the rest of them. At camp, he told gory ghost stories-the kind parents forbid. Sometimes after ma.s.s, Father Keller traded baseball cards. He had some of the best ones, really old ones like Jackie Robinson and Joe DiMaggio. No, Father Keller was too cool to be like his dad.

Timmy finished and waited for Father Keller to put on the last of his garments. The priest checked his image in the floor-length mirror, then turned to Timmy.

"Ready?"

"Yes, Father," he said and followed the priest through the small hallway to the altar.

Timmy couldn't help smiling at the bright white Nikes peeking out from under the priest's long, black ca.s.sock.

CHAPTER 10.

Platte City reminded Maggie of the fictional Mayberry R.F.D. She'd never understood the appeal of small towns. Quaint and friendly usually meant boring and nosy. a.s.signments in small towns made her cranky and edgy. She hated the presumed intimacy that found its way into "how are you?" and "good morning." Immediately, she missed the irritating but familiar sounds of honking taxis and six-lane traffic. Worse yet was settling for Chinese takeout from places called Big Fred's and watered-down cappuccino from convenience-store vending machines.

She had to admit, though, the drive from Omaha had been a scenic one. The foliage along the Platte River put on a show of spectacular colors: bright oranges and flaming reds mixed with green and gold. The overpowering scent of evergreens and impending rain filled the air with an annoyingly pleasant aroma. She kept the car window cracked, despite the chill.

A jet thundered overhead, and Maggie skidded to a stop at the intersection. The sudden burst of sound shook the car and left an echo rumbling through the quiet streets. She remembered that Strategic Air Command was only ten, maybe fifteen miles away. Okay, so perhaps Platte City possessed some familiar sounds, after all.

She purposely took a wrong turn away from downtown. The detour would only take a few minutes and would hopefully give her some insight into the community. A Pizza Hut took up one corner. Across the street was the obligatory convenience store and a s.h.i.+ny new McDonald's. Its golden arches stood taller than anything else for miles, competing only with a grain elevator and a church steeple.

The church's spiky iron cross stabbed at the thick clouds that had begun rolling in only moments ago. Its parking lot was beginning to empty with a line of snail-crawling churchgoers, putting Maggie in the middle of the traffic jam. She sat patiently watching as each car allowed the one in front to back out and get in line. No, it was much too organized. They even ruined a good traffic jam.

Maggie waited for room in front, then flipped the rented Ford around in one quick squeal of tires. Heads turned, the line of snails stopped and watched as she spun out in the opposite direction. She checked the rearview mirror. No flas.h.i.+ng lights followed, though she wouldn't have been surprised if they had.

The information she had accessed from the Nebraska Tourism Web site described Platte City (population 3,500) as a growing bedroom community for many who worked in Omaha (twenty miles to the northeast) and Lincoln (thirty miles to the southwest). That explained the beautiful, well-manicured homes and neighborhoods-many recently built-despite the nonexistence of any nearby industry.

Small shops lined the downtown square: a post office, Wanda's Diner, a movie theater, something called Paintin' Place, a small grocery store and, yes, even a drugstore/soda fountain. Bright red awnings hung over some of the shops. Others had window boxes with geraniums still in bloom. In the center of the square, the red brick courthouse towered over the other buildings. Built during an era when pride overrode expense, its facade included a detailed relief of Nebraska's past-covered wagons and plow horses separated by the scales of justice.

The entire block was ornately fenced in with freshly painted, black wrought iron. The courthouse took up only half the s.p.a.ce. Cobblestone walkways, bronze statues, a marble fountain, benches and old-fas.h.i.+oned lampposts made the rest of the area a quiet garden-like retreat. What impressed Maggie most as she made her way over the twists of cobblestone was the absence of trash. Not one single hamburger wrapper or foam cup dared to litter the hallowed ground. Instead, huge maple and sycamore leaves decorated the path with gold and red.

Inside the lobby of the courthouse, Maggie's heels clicked on the marble floor, sending an echo all the way to the vaulted cathedral ceiling. There was no security guard, not even a desk clerk. She scanned the wall directory. The county sheriff's department, along with several courtrooms and the county jail, resided on the third floor.

She bypa.s.sed the elevator and took the stairs, an open spiral that allowed a bird's-eye view of the atrium. Lavish white and gray marble lined the stairwells and the floor. Solid oak and s.h.i.+ny bra.s.s trimmed the banisters and doorways. She found herself tiptoeing.

The sheriff's department appeared empty, though the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the hum of a copy machine seeped in from one of the back rooms. The wall clock showed eleven-thirty. Maggie checked her watch. She was still on eastern time. She reset it as she walked to the windows facing south. The thick, gray clouds now blocked any hint of sun or blue sky. Below, the streets remained quiet. A few customers, dressed in their Sunday best, left Wanda's Diner. Behind the theater a small, gray-haired man heaved trash into a huge Dumpster.

It wasn't noon, and she was already exhausted. She was drained from her battle with Greg and another sleepless night avoiding visions of Albert Stucky. Then, this morning, the turbulent flight had jerked and jolted her thousands of feet above control. She hated flying, and it never got any easier.

It was the control, her mother reminded her whenever possible.

"You need to let it go, Mag-pie. You can't expect to be in control twenty-four hours a day."

This from a woman who, after twenty years of therapy, still struggled with the meaning of self-control. A woman who buried her grief for her dead husband by drinking herself into a stupor every Friday night and bringing home whatever stranger had supplied her with the drinks. It wasn't until one of her men friends suggested a threesome-daughter, mother and himself-that she stopped bringing the men home and insisted on motel rooms. Her mother hadn't seemed disgusted by the idea of sharing her twelve-year-old daughter, as much as intimidated by it.

Maggie rubbed the back of her neck, the muscles tight with tension-tension easily brought on by thoughts of her mother. She wished she had checked into a hotel first and eaten some lunch instead of coming directly here. But she was ready to dig in, having spent the hours in the air preoccupying herself with details of Ronald Jeffreys. The recent murder resembled Jeffreys' style, right down to the jagged X carved into the boy's chest. Copycats were often meticulous, duplicating every last detail to amplify the thrill. Sometimes that made them even more dangerous than the original killer. It removed the pa.s.sion and thus the tendency to make mistakes.

"Can I help you?"

The voice startled Maggie, and she spun around. The young woman who appeared out of nowhere was far from what Maggie had expected of someone working in a sheriff's office. Her long hair was too tall and stiff, her knit skirt too short and tight. She looked more like a teenager ready for a date.

"I'm here to see Sheriff Nicholas Morrelli."

The woman eyed Maggie suspiciously, keeping her post in the doorway as though guarding the back offices. Maggie knew her navy blazer and trousers made her look official, hiding the slender figure that sometimes betrayed her authority. Early in her career she had developed an abrupt and sometimes abrasive manner that demanded attention and compensated for her slight stature. At five foot five and a hundred and fifteen pounds, she had barely met the physical requirements of the agency.

"Nick's not here right now," the woman said in a voice that told Maggie she wasn't about to reveal any additional information. "Was he expecting you?" The woman crossed her arms and stood up straight in an attempt to emphasize her authority.

Maggie looked around the office again, ignoring the question and showing the woman she wasn't impressed. "Can he be reached?" She pretended to be interested in the bulletin board that contained a wanted poster from the early eighties, a flyer announcing a Halloween dance and a notice advertising a 1990 Ford pickup for sale.

"Look, lady. I don't mean to be rude," the young woman said, suddenly a bit unsure of herself. "What exactly is it that you need to talk to Nick...to Sheriff Morrelli about?"

Maggie glanced back at the woman, who looked older now, the lines evident around her mouth and eyes. She teetered on the two-inch spiked heels and was biting her lower lip.

Maggie reached into her jacket pocket, ready to flip out her badge when two men came noisily in the front door. The older man wore a brown deputy's uniform, the pants impeccably pressed, the tie cinched tight at his neck. His black hair was slicked back, tucked behind his ears and curled over his collar, not a strand out of place. In contrast, the younger man was wearing a gray T-s.h.i.+rt drenched in sweat, shorts and running shoes. His dark brown hair, though short, was tousled, strands wet against his forehead. Despite his disheveled look, he was handsome and definitely in good shape, with long muscular legs, slender waist and broad shoulders. Immediately, Maggie was annoyed with herself for noticing these details.

Both men stopped talking as soon as they saw Maggie. There was silence as they looked from Maggie to the frazzled young woman still at her post in the doorway.

"Hi, Lucy. Is everything okay?" the younger man said as his eyes scanned the length of Maggie's body. When his eyes finally met hers, he smiled as if she had met his approval.

"I was just trying to find out what this lady-"

"I'm here to see Sheriff Morrelli," Maggie interrupted. She was getting impatient with being treated like a tax auditor.

"What did you need to see him about?" It was the deputy's turn to interrogate her, his forehead creased with concern, his stance straightening as though on alert.

Maggie ran her fingers through her hair, waiting for the impatience to settle before it turned to anger. She brought out her badge and flipped it open to them. "I'm with the FBI."