A Perfect Evil (58 page)

N
ick hung up the phone and sat back in his office chair, rubbing the sting of anger from his eyes. He realized that Maggie must have seen how badly he wanted to hit something, maybe even Ray Howard. How could she remain so cool and calm?

He couldn’t stop thinking about Timmy. He felt as though a time bomb had been planted inside his ribs, the ticking getting faster and faster, drumming against his chest. The ache was unbearable. It didn’t help matters that he couldn’t erase the image of Danny Alverez. That small body lying in the grass. Those vacant eyes staring up at the stars. He had looked so peaceful. That is if you didn’t notice the red-raw slash under his chin and gouges in his small, white chest.

They were running out of time.

Aaron Harper and Eric Paltrow had been murdered less than two weeks apart. Matthew Tanner was taken exactly a week after Danny Alverez. It was only several days since Matthew, and now Timmy. The timetable grew shorter. Something was making the killer explode, sending him over the edge. And if they didn’t catch him, would he simply disappear again for six years? Or worse, would he melt into the woodwork of the community just as he had before? If it wasn’t Howard or Keller, who the hell was it?

Nick grabbed the crumpled paper from his desktop. The obscure schedule he had found in the pickup’s glove compartment had a strange grocery list scrawled on the back. He scanned the items one more time, trying to make sense of them: wool blanket, kerosene, matches, oranges, Snickers bars, SpaghettiOs, rat poison. Perhaps it was a simple camping-trip list, yet something told Nick it was more.

There was a knock on the door, and Hal came in without waiting for an invitation. The big shoulders slumped from exhaustion. His normally well-groomed hair stuck to his head from too many hours stuffed in his hat. His shirt collar was unbuttoned and his coffee-stained tie was twisted loose and at an odd angle.

“What do you have, Hal?”

He sank into the chair opposite Nick on the other side of the desk. “The empty glass vial you found in the pickup contained ether.”

“Ether? Where in the world did it come from?”

“More than likely the hospital. I checked with the director, and he said they have similar vials down in the morgue. They use it as some sort of solvent, but it could be used to knock someone out. All it takes is a couple whiffs.”

“Who would have access to the morgue?”

“Anyone, really. They don’t lock the door.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Think about it, Nick. The morgue’s hardly ever used, and when it is, who’s gonna want to mess around down there?”

“When there’s a criminal investigation, it should be locked, with only authorized personnel allowed in.” Nick grabbed a pen and started tapping out his anger. The desire to hit something still raged inside him.

Hal didn’t respond, and when Nick glanced up at him he wondered if even Hal thought he was losing it. “Were you able to get any prints off the vial?”

“Just yours.”

“What about the matchbook?”

“Well, it’s not a strip joint. Get this—the Pink Lady is a small bar and grill in downtown Omaha, about a block from the police station. Evidently a lot of police officers hang out there. Eddie says they serve the best burgers in town.”

“Eddie?”

“Yeah, Gillick was with the OPD before he moved here. I thought you knew that. 'Course, it’s been a while…six or seven years now.”

“I don’t trust him,” Nick blurted out, then regretted it as soon as he saw Hal’s face.

“Eddie? Why in the world wouldn’t you trust Eddie?”

“I don’t know. Forget I said anything.”

Hal shook his head and pushed himself out of the chair. He started for the door then turned back as if he had forgotten something.

“You know, Nick, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but there’s a lot of people in this department who feel the same way about you.”

“What way is that?” Nick sat up. The tapping stopped.

“You have to admit, the only reason you got this job is because of your dad. What experience do you have in law enforcement? Look, Nick, I’m your friend, and I’m with you every step of the way. But I have to tell you, some of the guys aren’t too sure. They think you’re letting O’Dell run the show.”

There it was—the slap he had been expecting for days. He wiped a hand across his jaw as if to erase the sting.

“I guess I figured as much, especially since my dad seems to be running his own investigation.”

“That’s another thing. Did you know he has Eddie and Lloyd tracking down this Mark Rydell guy?”

“Rydell? Who the hell’s Rydell?”

“I think he was a friend or partner of Jeffreys’.”

“Jesus. Doesn’t anybody get it? Jeffreys didn’t kill all three—” He stopped when he saw Christine standing in the doorway.

“Relax, Nick. I’m not here as a reporter.” She hesitated, then came in. Her hair was a tangled mess, her eyes red, her face tear-stained, her trench coat unevenly buttoned. She looked like hell.

“I need to do something. You have to let me help.”

“Can I get you some coffee, Christine?” Hal asked.

“Yes, thanks. That would be nice.”

Hal glanced back at Nick as if looking to be excused, then left.

“Come, sit down,” Nick said, resisting the urge to go to her and help her walk across the room. It unnerved him to see her this way. She was his big sister. He was the one always screwing up. She was the one who always held it together. Even when Bruce left. Now she reminded him of Laura Alverez—that unsettling quiet.

“Corby gave me a temporary leave of absence with pay from the newspaper. Of course, that was only after he made sure
The Journal
would have the exclusive on whatever happens.”

She struggled out of her coat, tossing it carelessly onto a chair in the corner and only staring at it when it slid to the floor. Then she paced in front of his desk, though she didn’t seem to have the energy to even stand.

“Any luck tracking down Bruce?” She avoided his eyes, but he already knew it was a touchy subject that his sister had no clue as to where her ex-husband was.

“Not yet, but maybe he’ll hear about Timmy on the news and get in touch with us.”

She grimaced. “I need to do something, Nick. I can’t just sit at home and wait. What are you doing with that?” She pointed at the grocery list of items, which he’d turned over so that the strange schedule with its bizarre codes faced up.

“You know what this is?”

“Sure, it’s a bundle label.”

“A what?”

“A bundle label. The carriers get one each day with their newspapers. See, it shows the route number, the carrier’s code number, how many papers there are to deliver, what inserts—if any—and the starts and stops.”

Nick jumped out of his chair and came around to her side of the desk.

“Can you tell whose it is and what day it’s for?”

“It looks like it was for Sunday, October 19. The carrier’s code is ALV0436. From the addresses listed on the starts and stops, it looks like…” The realization swept over her face. She looked up at Nick with wide eyes. “This is Danny Alverez’s route. It’s for the Sunday he disappeared. Where did you find this, Nick?”

W
hen darkness came, it came quickly. Despite Timmy’s efforts to remain calm, the inevitable prospect of the long, dark night ahead destroyed his defenses.

He had spent the day trying to come up with an escape plan or at least a way to send a distress signal. It certainly wasn’t as easy as they made it look in the movies. Still, that helped him stay focused. He thought of Batman and Luke Skywalker. And Han Solo, who was his favorite.

The stranger had brought him
Flash Gordon
and
Superman
comic books. Yet, even equipped with the knowledge and secrets of all those superheroes, Timmy still couldn’t escape. After all, he was a small, skinny ten-year-old. But on the soccer field, he had learned to use his smallness to his advantage, sneaking under and through other players. Maybe strength wasn’t what he needed.

It was too hard to think with the dark swallowing up corners of the room. He could see that the lantern had very little kerosene left, so he needed to hold off lighting it for as long as possible. But already the panic crawled over him in shivers.

He considered the kerosene heater. Perhaps he could drain kerosene from it for the lantern. Gusts of wind still knocked at the boarded window, rattling slats and sneaking through the cracks. Without the heater he might freeze before morning. No, as much as he hated to admit it, he needed the heater more than he needed the light.

He replayed scenes from
Star Wars
in his mind, repeating dialogue out loud to keep himself occupied. He squeezed the lighter, reminding himself that he did have control over the darkness. Every once in a while he flicked it on and off, on and off. But the darkness wasn’t the only enemy. The silence was almost as unsettling.

All day he forced himself to listen for voices, for barking dogs or car engines, for church bells or emergency sirens. Other than a distant train whistle and one jet overhead, he had heard nothing. Where in the world was he?

He had even tried yelling until his throat hurt, only to be answered by violent gusts of wind, scolding him. It was much too quiet. Wherever he was, he had the feeling it was far, far away from anyone who could help him.

Something skidded across the floor, a
click-click
of tiny nails on the wood. His heart pounded and the shivering took over. He flicked on the lighter, but couldn’t see anything. Finally, he gave in. Without leaving the bed, he reached over to the crate and lit the lantern. Immediately its yellow glow filled the room. He should have felt relief. Instead, he curled up again into a tight ball, pulling the covers to his chin. And for the first time since his dad had left town, Timmy allowed himself to cry.

W
hen darkness came, it came quickly. Despite Timmy’s efforts to remain calm, the inevitable prospect of the long, dark night ahead destroyed his defenses.

He had spent the day trying to come up with an escape plan or at least a way to send a distress signal. It certainly wasn’t as easy as they made it look in the movies. Still, that helped him stay focused. He thought of Batman and Luke Skywalker. And Han Solo, who was his favorite.

The stranger had brought him
Flash Gordon
and
Superman
comic books. Yet, even equipped with the knowledge and secrets of all those superheroes, Timmy still couldn’t escape. After all, he was a small, skinny ten-year-old. But on the soccer field, he had learned to use his smallness to his advantage, sneaking under and through other players. Maybe strength wasn’t what he needed.

It was too hard to think with the dark swallowing up corners of the room. He could see that the lantern had very little kerosene left, so he needed to hold off lighting it for as long as possible. But already the panic crawled over him in shivers.

He considered the kerosene heater. Perhaps he could drain kerosene from it for the lantern. Gusts of wind still knocked at the boarded window, rattling slats and sneaking through the cracks. Without the heater he might freeze before morning. No, as much as he hated to admit it, he needed the heater more than he needed the light.

He replayed scenes from
Star Wars
in his mind, repeating dialogue out loud to keep himself occupied. He squeezed the lighter, reminding himself that he did have control over the darkness. Every once in a while he flicked it on and off, on and off. But the darkness wasn’t the only enemy. The silence was almost as unsettling.

All day he forced himself to listen for voices, for barking dogs or car engines, for church bells or emergency sirens. Other than a distant train whistle and one jet overhead, he had heard nothing. Where in the world was he?

He had even tried yelling until his throat hurt, only to be answered by violent gusts of wind, scolding him. It was much too quiet. Wherever he was, he had the feeling it was far, far away from anyone who could help him.

Something skidded across the floor, a
click-click
of tiny nails on the wood. His heart pounded and the shivering took over. He flicked on the lighter, but couldn’t see anything. Finally, he gave in. Without leaving the bed, he reached over to the crate and lit the lantern. Immediately its yellow glow filled the room. He should have felt relief. Instead, he curled up again into a tight ball, pulling the covers to his chin. And for the first time since his dad had left town, Timmy allowed himself to cry.

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.