A Perfect Evil Part 31

"Are you sure?"

"Well, no. Actually, I've never seen it. When I was a kid we thought it was just made up. You know, to scare us, to keep us from s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around the church at night. There were stories about bodies rising from the dead, digging out of their graves and crawling through the tunnel. Finding their way back to the church to redeem their condemned souls."

"Sounds like the perfect place for a killer who believes in redemption."

"You think that's where he's keeping Timmy? In a hole in the ground?" He remembered Maggie's story about the father who buried his son in the backyard. Again, he slammed on the accelerator, drawing a concerned look from Maggie.

"It's only a hunch," she said, but her tone told him she thought it was more. "At this point, I don't think we have anything to lose by checking it out. Ray Howard mentioned going there to cut wood. He knows something. Maybe he's seen something."

"I can't believe you let him go."

"He's not the killer, Nick. But I think he might know who is."

"You still think it's Keller, don't you?" He shot her a look, but in the dark he saw only that her face was turned away from him, staring again into the black night.

"Keller could have easily planted my cell phone in Howard's room. He had access to the pickup. He keeps those strange paintings of tortured martyrs, martyrs with the sign of the cross sliced into their chests."

"The guy has bad taste in art, that doesn't make him a killer. Besides, anyone could have seen Keller's paintings and gotten the idea."

"Keller also knew all three boys."

"Actually, all five boys," Nick interrupted. "Lucy and Max were able to dig up lists and applications. Eric Paltrow and Aaron Harper did attend church camp the summer before they were murdered. But that means Ray Howard knew all the boys, too."

"It's more than that, Nick. Somehow, I think this killer believes he's making these boys martyrs, saving them from something. Most serial killers murder for pleasure, for s.e.xual gratification or to fill some other egocentric need. It's like something clicks in this guy and sends him on a mission. Father Keller fits much of that profile. Who else would administer last rites to his victims but a priest? And who else would have the perfect opportunity to push Father Francis down a flight of stairs and get away with it?"

"Jesus, Maggie. You still won't let that go?"

"Looks like I may not have a choice. The archdiocese is in charge of Father Francis' remains, since there's no next of kin, and they see no reason for an autopsy."

There was silence between them. If Father Francis had been shoved down those stairs, Nick could imagine Howard being more than capable of doing it. But now he wondered what it was Father Francis wanted to share with Maggie.

"Maybe we've got this wrong," Nick said, unraveling the thought as he spoke. "Maybe Keller is involved, but maybe he's protecting someone."

"What do you mean?"

"Father Francis couldn't tell us about Jeffreys' confession. Suppose the killer confessed to Father Keller?"

Maggie sat quietly. She was obviously mulling over the idea. Perhaps it wasn't so far-fetched, Nick realized.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, Maggie said, "Did you know Ray Howard and Eddie Gillick are friends?"

CHAPTER 78.

Christine knew it was the anger that had rendered her temporarily insane. Otherwise, why would she be climbing into Eddie Gillick's rusted Chevy? Even his apology about the state of the vehicle sounded half-sincere. Yet, here she was with her feet kicking empty McDonald's containers. A spring poked into her back, and crumb-filled stuffing grew out of the cus.h.i.+on next to her. It smelled of French fries, cigarettes and that annoying aftershave lotion. Something smelled like the back of her refrigerator.

Eddie slid into the driver's seat, tossing his hat into the back and stealing a long glance of himself in the rearview mirror. He stuck the key in the ignition, and the loose tailpipe sent the car vibrating.

Christine wished she had changed clothes after the interview. Despite her long trench coat, it felt as if something was crawling on her bare legs. She opened her coat to make sure there weren't black bugs skittering up her thighs. As she ran a hand over one leg, she noticed Eddie watching, smiling. She pulled her coat closed and decided bugs were better than Eddie's eyes.

He gunned the engine, slamming her back into the seat. She reached up for the seat belt and saw it had been cut out. He sped past the turn to her street and a fresh panic sent her hand to the door handle. It broke off with a snap, and Eddie frowned at her.

"Relax, Christine. Your dad said I should get you something to eat."

"I'm really not hungry," she blurted quickly, the panic slipping out. "Really, I'm just tired." That was better. She couldn't let it sound as if she didn't trust him.

"I can grill you up a steak that'll make your mouth water. Just happen to have a couple in my fridge."

Oh, G.o.d. Not his place.

"Maybe another time, Eddie." She made her voice as sweet as possible, despite the revulsion. "I really am tired. Could you please just take me home?"

She watched his face out of the corner of her eye. His mustache twitched, then a crooked smile. Another glance at himself in the rearview mirror.

"You came on to me pretty strong that evening out by the river," he said.

Big mistake. How could she be so stupid? Yet, other reporters did that sort of thing all the time, didn't they?"

"Look, I'm sorry about that, Eddie." Be sincere. Don't let him see you're scared. "It was my first big a.s.signment. I guess I was nervous."

"It's okay, Christine. I know it's been over a year since your husband left. h.e.l.l, you don't have to play shy with me. I know women get h.o.r.n.y, too."

Oh, dear G.o.d. This was not going well. She felt sick again as she watched houses pa.s.s by. A few more blocks and they'd leave streetlights behind. They were headed out of town. Her heart raced. She was beyond playing cool and calm. She shoved her weight against the door. It didn't move. Her shoulder throbbed. Eddie scowled at her, then the scowl grew into another twisted smile, telling her it didn't matter whether or not she played along.

His eyes were coal black to match his greased-back hair. She remembered he was about her height but muscular. After all, he had knocked Nick off his feet with two lousy punches. Of course, Nick hadn't seen it coming. Something told Christine that was how Eddie operated. Attacking when his victims least expected. Like a spider.

"Eddie, please." She was not above pleading. "My son's missing. I'm really in awful shape. Please just take me home."

"I know what you need, Christine. Take your mind off things for a while. Just relax."

Her eyes darted around the car. Anything...was there anything she could use as a weapon? Then in the glow of the panel lights she saw a long-necked beer bottle roll out from under the seat, as though answering her prayer.

He was driving awfully fast. She needed to wait. Wait until they stopped, or they'd end up in a snow-filled ditch, stranded in the middle of nowhere. Could she contain the panic until then? Could she keep the scream that clawed at her throat from escaping her lips?

"It wouldn't hurt you to be nice to me, Christine," he said slowly. "If you're nice, I might just tell you where Timmy is."

CHAPTER 79.

Timmy hid his feet under the covers. He scooted into the corner while the stranger paced in front of the bed. Something was wrong. The stranger seemed upset. He hadn't said anything since he came into the room. Instead, he threw his ski jacket onto the bed and started pacing.

Timmy kept quiet and watched. Under the covers, he pulled and yanked the chain. The stranger forgot to close the door behind him, leaving it wide open. The smell of dirt and mold came in with a draft. It was black on the other side of the door.

"What happened to the lantern?" the stranger suddenly wanted to know. The gla.s.s casing still lay on the crate.

"I...I couldn't light it, so I had to take that thing off. Sorry, I forgot to put it back on."

The stranger took the gla.s.s and snapped it in place without looking at Timmy. When he bent over, Timmy saw black, curly hair sticking out from under his mask. Richard Nixon. That was the dead president the mask resembled. It had taken Timmy three attempts at naming the presidents before he remembered. But there was still something very familiar about Richard Nixon's blue eyes. Something in the way they stared at him, especially tonight. As if they were apologizing.

Suddenly, the stranger grabbed his jacket and wrestled into it.

"It's time to go."

"Where?" Timmy tried to control his excitement. Was it really possible that the stranger might take him home? Maybe he'd realized his mistake. Timmy crawled out of bed, keeping the chain behind his feet.

"Take off all your clothes, except your underpants."

Timmy's excitement shattered. "What?" he asked over the lump gathering in his throat. "It's awfully cold out."

"Don't ask questions."

"But I don't understand what-"

"Just do it, you little son of a b.i.t.c.h."

The unexpected anger felt like a slap in the face. Even Timmy's eyes stung, his vision suddenly blurred by the tears gathering. He shouldn't cry. He wasn't a baby anymore. But he was scared. So scared his fingers shook as he untied his shoes. He noticed the cracked sole on his tennis shoe as he kicked it off. It had leaked in snow when they were sledding, getting his feet cold and wet, but he couldn't imagine how cold it would be without shoes.

"I don't understand," he mumbled again. The lump obstructed his breathing now as well as his voice.

"You don't need to understand. Hurry up." The stranger paced, the huge rubber boots caked with snow and mud, a thump-squash thump-squash sound with each step. sound with each step.

"I don't mind staying here," Timmy attempted again.

"Shut the f.u.c.k up, you little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and hurry up."

Tears ran down Timmy's cheeks, and he didn't bother to wipe at them. His fingers were shaking something terrible as he undid his belt, remembered the chain on his ankle, then worked on his s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.tons, instead. The stranger would need to unchain him. Would he notice the bent links? Would he get even more angry? Already Timmy felt a cold draft swirling around him. His stomach hurt. He wanted to throw up. Even his knees were shaking, and his vision blurred from the tears.

Suddenly, the stranger's pacing stopped. He stood perfectly still in the middle of the room, c.o.c.king his head to one side. At first Timmy thought the stranger was staring at him, but instead, he was listening. Timmy strained to hear over his thumping heart. He sniffed back tears and dragged a sleeve across his face. Then he heard it-a car engine in the distance, getting closer and slowing down.

"f.u.c.k!" the stranger spat, grabbing the lantern and heading for the door.

"No, please don't take the light."

"Shut the f.u.c.k up, you little crybaby."

He wheeled back around, smas.h.i.+ng the back of his hand across Timmy's face. Timmy scrambled into the bed, escaping into the corner. He hugged the pillow, but jerked away at the sight of the red blotch.

"You better be ready when I get back," the stranger hissed. "And stop bleeding all over the place."

The stranger ran out the door, slamming it and the locks back into place, leaving Timmy in a hole of solid black. He hurried out in such a rush that he didn't even notice Timmy's chain, broken and dangling over the edge of the bed.

CHAPTER 80.

Christine didn't need to ask what Eddie was planning. She recognized the winding dirt road that climbed then plunged. It snaked through the towering maples and walnut trees that lined the riverbank. It was where all the kids went to make out, just off Old Church Road. It looked out over the river. It was deserted and quiet and black. This was where Jason Ashford and Amy Stykes were probably headed the night they were sidetracked. The night they stumbled over Danny Alverez's body.

Was it possible that Eddie knew where Timmy was? Christine remembered that a church janitor had been brought in for questioning. Could Eddie have overheard something? Yet, if Nick knew something, anything anything, wouldn't he have told her? No, of course not. He'd want to keep her out of the way, give her some menial task like photocopying pictures of her son.

Eddie disgusted her, but more importantly, he frightened her. He was reckless, a bit over the edge. She imagined him to be one of those cops who pulled you over for driving thirty-six in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone just because he could. But if he knew where Timmy was... Oh, G.o.d, if she could just have Timmy back, safe and sound. What price would she be willing to pay? What price would any mother-Laura Alverez, Mich.e.l.le Tanner-what price would they pay to have their sons back? Christine had been willing to sell her soul for a lousy paycheck. What was she willing to do to save her son?

Nevertheless, when the car pulled off the road and slid into the clearing overlooking the river, the panic crawled through her, sending a s.h.i.+ver down her back. Her empty stomach churned. She felt light-headed again. No, she couldn't pa.s.s out. Something told her that if an unwilling woman couldn't stop Eddie, neither could an unconscious one.

Eddie cut the engine and extinguished the headlights. The dark engulfed them as though they hovered in it, looking down on black ruffled treetops, the glittering river below. Only the sliver of moon added a pathetic rea.s.surance that the darkness couldn't swallow everything.

"Well, here we are," Eddie said, turning toward her expectantly, but staying behind the wheel.

Her foot found the beer bottle, and she kept it from sliding under the seat. Without the car's inside panel lights, it was too dark to see his face. She heard a wrapper crackle, followed by a slap. Then a match sizzled, the smell of sulfur attacking her nostrils as he lit a cigarette.

"Mind if I have one of those?"

In the light of his cigarette, she saw the twisted smile. He handed her one, lit another match and waited for her. The match burned down close to his fingers. By the time he lit hers, he ended up scorching his fingertips.

"d.a.m.n," he muttered and shook his hand. "I hate matches. Lost my lighter someplace."

"I didn't know you smoked." She inhaled, waiting, hoping the nicotine could calm her.

"I'm trying to quit."

"Me, too." She smiled at him. See, they did have something in common. She could do this, couldn't she? By now her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she could see him. She wondered if it would have been easier if she hadn't been able to see him. He looked so cool and calm, his arm stretched out over the cracked seat. She needed to stay cool and calm, too. Maybe she could, at least, keep the situation from getting violent. "Do you really know where Timmy is?"

"Maybe," he answered in a puff of smoke. "What are you willing to do to find out?" He moved his arm across the seat until his stubby fingers brushed her hair, then wandered across her cheek, swooping down to her neck.

"How do I know this isn't just some trick?"

"You don't."

His fingers slid under her coat collar, unb.u.t.toning and pulling the coat open until he could see her blouse and skirt. Her skin crawled under his touch. It was difficult not to grimace. Even the nicotine couldn't help.