A Perfect Evil (59 page)

S
he was smart, despite all the curves. Definitely a worthy adversary. But he wondered how much Special Agent Maggie O’Dell really knew and how much was just a game. It didn’t matter. He enjoyed games. They took his mind off the throbbing.

No one noticed him as he walked down the sterile hallways. Those who did, nodded and scurried past. His presence was accepted here as easily as anywhere in the community. He fit in, though it was here—out in the open—that he wore another mask, one he couldn’t just peel off like rubber.

He took the stairs. Today even the stairwells smelled of ammonia, immaculately scrubbed. It reminded him of his mother, down on her lovely hands and knees, quietly scrubbing the kitchen floor, often at two and three in the morning, while his stepfather had slept. Her delicate hands had turned red and raw from the pressure and harsh liquid. How many times had he silently watched without her knowing? Those stifled sobs and frantic swipes had been spent as though her secret early-morning ritual would somehow clean up the mess she had made of her life.

Now, here he was, so many years later, trying to clean up his own life, scrubbing out the visions of his past with his own secret rituals. How many more killings would be enough to wipe out the image of that sniveling, helpless boy from his childhood?

The door slammed shut behind him. He had been here before and found comfort in the familiar surroundings. Somewhere above, a fan wheezed. Otherwise there was silence, appropriate silence for this temporary tomb.

He snapped on the surgical gloves. Which will it be? Drawer number one, two or three? Perhaps four or five? He chose number three, pulling and wincing at the scrape of metal, but pleased to see he had been correct.

The black body bag looked so small on the long silver bed. He unzipped it carefully, reverently, tucking and folding it to the sides of the small gray body. The coroner’s surgical wounds—precise slices and cuts—disgusted him, as did the puncture marks he, himself, had administered. Matthew’s poor, little body resembled a road map. Matthew, however, was gone—to a much better place. Someplace free of pain and humiliation. Free of loneliness and abandonment. Yes, he had seen to it that Matthew’s eternal rest would be peaceful. He could remain an innocent child forever.

He pulled on rubber gloves and unwrapped the fillet knife, setting it to the side. He needed to destroy the one piece of evidence that could link him to the murders. How careless he had been. How insanely stupid. Maybe it was even too late, but if that were true, Maggie O’Dell would now be reading him his rights.

He unzipped the body bag farther until he could examine Matthew’s small legs. Yes, there it was on the thigh, the purple teeth marks. The result of the demon’s rage inside him. Shame burned down into his stomach, liquid and hot. He moved the boy’s leg and picked up the knife.

Somewhere outside the room and down the hall a door slammed. His hands stopped. He held his breath. He listened. Rubber-soled footsteps squeak-squawked, squeak-squawked—closer and closer, until they were right outside the door. They hesitated. He waited, the fillet knife clutched tightly in his gloved hand. How would he explain this? It could be awkward. It might be possible, but awkward.

Just as he was certain his lungs would burst, the squeak-squawk began again, passing the door. He waited for the footsteps to reach the end of the hall. He waited for the slam of the door, and then he drew in air, a generous gulp laced with enough ammonia to sting his nostrils. The powder inside the gloves caked to his sweaty palms, making them itch. A trickle of sweat slid down his back. He waited for it, anxious to feel it slither down into his underpants. Then ashamed when the thrill left him.

Yes, he was getting reckless. It was becoming harder and harder to clean up after himself, to stifle that hideous demon that sometimes got in the way of his mission. Even now, as he gripped the knife, he couldn’t bring himself to cut. His hand shook. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes. But soon it would be over.

Soon, Sheriff Nick Morrelli would have his prime suspect. He had already made sure of that, laying the groundwork and planting enough evidence, just enough clues. He was getting good at it. And it was so easy, exactly as it had been with Ronald Jeffreys. All it had taken with Jeffreys was an assortment of items in Jeffreys’ trunk and an anonymous phone call to the super-sheriff, Antonio Morrelli. But he had been reckless even then, including Eric Paltrow’s underpants in Jeffreys’ treasure chest of incriminating items.

He had always taken each boy’s underpants for his own souvenir, but with Eric, he had forgotten. It had been easy to retrieve them from the morgue. His mistake, however, had been including Eric’s and not Aaron’s underpants among the items he had planted in Jeffreys’ trunk. Curiously, he had never known if his blunder had gone unnoticed or if the great and powerful Antonio Morrelli simply chose to ignore it. But he would not chance it this time. He would not be reckless. And soon, he would be able to put the throbbing to a stop, maybe for good. Just a few loose ends to tie up and one more lost boy to save. Then his demons could rest.

Yes, poor Timmy would finally be saved. So many bruises—he could only imagine what the boy had to endure at the hands of those who claimed to love him. And he did like the boy, but then, he had liked them all, chosen them carefully and saved each and every one of them. Delivered them from evil.

C
hristine pushed the copier button and watched Timmy’s toothy grin slide out into the tray. He’d hate that she was using last year’s school photo. The one with his collar twisted and his cowlick sticking straight up. It was one of her favorites. Suddenly, it struck her how much younger he looked in the photo. Would anyone even recognize him? He had changed so much in one short year.

She set the counter and pushed the button again, watching a succession of the toothy grins slide one over another. Behind her, the sheriff’s department rumbled and vibrated with mumbling voices, shuffling shoes and clicking machines. Despite her chore, she felt isolated, invisible. She wondered if the task simply kept her out of Nick’s way. He insisted the more photos they got out to the news media and store owners, the better chance of triggering someone’s memory. It was a far cry from the way he had treated the Danny Alverez case. But then, maybe they had all learned lessons, expensive lessons. Walking out of this morning’s interview would cost her the high-priced TV job. But she didn’t care. Right now, Christine couldn’t care about anything but Timmy.

She felt him standing behind her. It came in a disturbing chill as if he had slipped an ice cube down her back. She turned slowly just as Eddie Gillick pressed in close against her, trapping her between the copy machine and his body. Sweat beads gathered on his lip above the thin mustache. He was breathing hard as though he had just come in running. The smell of his aftershave lotion assaulted her as his eyes traveled the length of her body.

“Excuse me, Christine. I just need to make a couple of copies of these photos.” He flashed them at her. When she only glanced, he held them up to her, slowly shuffling them one after another. Glossy eight-by-tens, the brilliant color emphasized the red gashes. A close-up of skin peeled back. A throat slashed. And Matthew Tanner’s pale face, his glassy eyes staring out at her.

Christine squeezed past, scraping her shin on the copy machine’s stand in order to escape Eddie Gillick. He watched, smiling at her as she bumped into a state trooper, smashed a knee into a desk and finally made it across the room. Safe in the corner next to the watercooler, she leaned against the wall and stared out at the chaos. Were they all moving in slow motion or was it just her imagination? Even the voices sounded slow, all melting together into one low baritone. And that ringing, that constant high-pitched ringing. Was it a phone? Maybe a siren or a fire alarm? Shouldn’t they be concerned? Couldn’t someone stop the noise? Couldn’t they hear it?

“Christine?”

She heard her name being called from another dimension, far away. She pressed her body against the wall, clinging to the smooth cool texture while the room moved. A slight tip to one side. No one else seemed to notice. Then a slight tip to the other side.

“Christine, are you okay?”

Lucy Burton’s face appeared in front of her, the heart-shaped face oversize with wide eyes bulging like in one of those grocery-store mirrors. Only there were no mirrors. Lucy was saying something to her again. The brightly painted lips moved but emitted no sound. Where was the remote control? She needed to turn up Lucy Burton’s volume.

The hands came at her from nowhere, clutching at her, grabbing for her. She batted them away, but they came again. She couldn’t breathe. She needed water. The watercooler was next to her just to her left, several miles away, far in the distance. She slapped at the hands again.

“No, I can’t hear you, Lucy,” she said, and realized her words were confined to her thoughts.

She felt her body sliding down the wall. She couldn’t catch it, had lost control of her own body as it, too, moved in slow motion. So many feet, scuffed shoes, red toenails, a pair of cowboy boots. Then someone shut off the lights.

C
hristine pushed the copier button and watched Timmy’s toothy grin slide out into the tray. He’d hate that she was using last year’s school photo. The one with his collar twisted and his cowlick sticking straight up. It was one of her favorites. Suddenly, it struck her how much younger he looked in the photo. Would anyone even recognize him? He had changed so much in one short year.

She set the counter and pushed the button again, watching a succession of the toothy grins slide one over another. Behind her, the sheriff’s department rumbled and vibrated with mumbling voices, shuffling shoes and clicking machines. Despite her chore, she felt isolated, invisible. She wondered if the task simply kept her out of Nick’s way. He insisted the more photos they got out to the news media and store owners, the better chance of triggering someone’s memory. It was a far cry from the way he had treated the Danny Alverez case. But then, maybe they had all learned lessons, expensive lessons. Walking out of this morning’s interview would cost her the high-priced TV job. But she didn’t care. Right now, Christine couldn’t care about anything but Timmy.

She felt him standing behind her. It came in a disturbing chill as if he had slipped an ice cube down her back. She turned slowly just as Eddie Gillick pressed in close against her, trapping her between the copy machine and his body. Sweat beads gathered on his lip above the thin mustache. He was breathing hard as though he had just come in running. The smell of his aftershave lotion assaulted her as his eyes traveled the length of her body.

“Excuse me, Christine. I just need to make a couple of copies of these photos.” He flashed them at her. When she only glanced, he held them up to her, slowly shuffling them one after another. Glossy eight-by-tens, the brilliant color emphasized the red gashes. A close-up of skin peeled back. A throat slashed. And Matthew Tanner’s pale face, his glassy eyes staring out at her.

Christine squeezed past, scraping her shin on the copy machine’s stand in order to escape Eddie Gillick. He watched, smiling at her as she bumped into a state trooper, smashed a knee into a desk and finally made it across the room. Safe in the corner next to the watercooler, she leaned against the wall and stared out at the chaos. Were they all moving in slow motion or was it just her imagination? Even the voices sounded slow, all melting together into one low baritone. And that ringing, that constant high-pitched ringing. Was it a phone? Maybe a siren or a fire alarm? Shouldn’t they be concerned? Couldn’t someone stop the noise? Couldn’t they hear it?

“Christine?”

She heard her name being called from another dimension, far away. She pressed her body against the wall, clinging to the smooth cool texture while the room moved. A slight tip to one side. No one else seemed to notice. Then a slight tip to the other side.

“Christine, are you okay?”

Lucy Burton’s face appeared in front of her, the heart-shaped face oversize with wide eyes bulging like in one of those grocery-store mirrors. Only there were no mirrors. Lucy was saying something to her again. The brightly painted lips moved but emitted no sound. Where was the remote control? She needed to turn up Lucy Burton’s volume.

The hands came at her from nowhere, clutching at her, grabbing for her. She batted them away, but they came again. She couldn’t breathe. She needed water. The watercooler was next to her just to her left, several miles away, far in the distance. She slapped at the hands again.

“No, I can’t hear you, Lucy,” she said, and realized her words were confined to her thoughts.

She felt her body sliding down the wall. She couldn’t catch it, had lost control of her own body as it, too, moved in slow motion. So many feet, scuffed shoes, red toenails, a pair of cowboy boots. Then someone shut off the lights.

N
ick came out of his office just in time to see a crowd gathered around the watercooler. He saw Christine slumped on the floor. Lucy fanned her with a file folder, while Hal held her up against his shoulder. Nick’s father looked on with the rest, his hands deep in his pockets. Nick heard the irritation in his father’s jingling pocket change. He recognized the taut jaw and rigid stance. Nick knew what he was thinking. How dare Christine show such weakness in front of his colleagues.

“What happened?” Nick asked Eddie Gillick at the copy machine.

“Don’t know. Didn’t see it happen,” Eddie said as he pressed the copier’s buttons, his back turned to the commotion.

It occurred to Nick that Eddie was the only one on this side of the room. He glanced down at the copies spitting out into the tray and watched pieces of Matthew Tanner cover Timmy’s smiling face. Maybe asking Christine to make copies of her missing son’s face was too much.

“You have the autopsy photos,” he said, keeping his eyes on Christine.

“Yeah, just picked them up from the hospital morgue. I knew you’d be wanting copies.”

“Great. Put the originals on my desk when you’re finished.”

At least Christine looked conscious now. Adam Preston handed her a paper cup, and she gulped water as if they had pulled her out of the desert. Nick watched from across the room, paralyzed, helpless. The ticking in his chest drummed harder than ever. He glanced at Eddie. Could he hear the ticking?

“Okay, everybody,” his father announced. “Show’s over. Let’s get back to work.”

Without hesitation they followed his orders. When he saw Nick, he waved him over. Nick stood firm, a last-ditch effort to gain back a shred of authority. His father signed something for Lloyd, then wandered over, completely oblivious to Nick’s defiance.

“Lloyd’s found Rydell. We’re bringing him in for questioning.”

“You have no authority to do that.” Nick concentrated. He needed to sound calm, cool, in-charge.

His bushy eyebrows raised as he stared at Nick. “Excuse me?”

His father had heard perfectly well. It was part of his intimidation. It had always worked…in the past.

“You no longer have the authority to bring anyone in for questioning.” He met his father’s narrowed eyes.

“I’m trying to help you, boy, so you don’t look like a fucking idiot to the whole goddamn community.”

“Mark Rydell had nothing to do with any of this.”

“Right. You’re placing your money on some gimpy church janitor.”

“I have evidence that implicates Ray Howard. What do you have on Rydell?”

By now the office had come to a standstill again. Only this time no one dared gather around them. Instead, they quietly watched from doorways and behind desks, pretending to go about their work.

“Rydell’s a known fag. Has a rap sheet as long as my arm for beating up other fags. He was Jeffreys’ fag for a while. I was never convinced that he wasn’t in on the whole thing with Jeffreys. I’d bet the farm that he’s your copycat killer. Only you can’t see it 'cause you can’t see beyond Agent Maggie’s cute little ass.”

The heat crawled up Nick’s neck. His father turned away from him, finished, dismissing him in his usual manner. Nick glanced around at the eyes pretending to work. Then he saw Maggie in the doorway to the conference room. His eyes met hers. In an instant, he knew she had heard.

“This isn’t a copycat killer,” he said to his father’s back.

“What the fuck are you talking about now?”

He only glanced at Nick over his shoulder. He took the set of autopsy photos from Eddie, who willingly handed over the originals without even looking in Nick’s direction.

“Jeffreys was only responsible for Bobby Wilson’s death.” His father didn’t look up from the photos. “He didn’t kill all three boys. But then, you already knew that.” Nick waited for the implication to sink in, for it to register as the accusation he meant it to be.

Finally, his father looked at him with the scowl usually powerful enough to transform him into a sniveling teenager. Nick stood straight, keeping his hands from hiding in his pockets. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest. He was ready.

“What the fuck are you implying?”

“I’ve read Jeffreys’ arrest file. I’ve seen all the autopsy reports. There’s no way in hell Jeffrey committed all three murders. Even Jeffreys told you that, over and over again.”

“Oh, so now you believe a goddamn murdering fag over your own father?”

“Your own reports prove Jeffreys didn’t kill the other two boys. Only you were too blind. No, you wanted to be a hero. So you ignored the truth and let a killer get away. Or maybe you even helped plant the evidence. Now your own grandson’s going to pay the price for your mistakes and your fucking pride.”

The fist took Nick completely off guard. It slammed into his jaw and knocked him back into the copy machine. He caught his balance, but his vision was still blurred when the second fist slammed into his face. He looked up to see his father in the same place, same stance, photos still in his hands, a look of surprise on his face. Nick didn’t even realize it wasn’t his father’s fists that had hit him until he saw Hal restraining Eddie Gillick.