A Perfect Evil (63 page)

T
immy watched the lantern’s flame dance. It was amazing how such a small slit of fire could light up the entire room. And it gave off heat, too. Not like the kerosene heater, but it did feel warm. It reminded him again of the camping trips he and his dad had taken. It seemed like such a long time ago now.

His dad hadn’t been an experienced camper. It had taken them almost two hours to set up the tent. The only fish they had caught were tiny throw-backs they ended up keeping when they had gotten too hungry to wait for a bigger catch. Then his dad had melted his mom’s favorite pot by leaving it in the fire too long. Still, Timmy hadn’t minded the mistakes. It was an adventure he got to share with his dad.

He knew his mom and dad were mad at each other. But he didn’t understand why his dad was mad at him. His mom had told him his dad still loved him. That he didn’t want anybody to know where he was because he didn’t want to pay them any money. That still didn’t explain why his dad didn’t want to see him.

Timmy stared at the flame and tried to remember what his dad looked like. His mom had put away all the pictures. She said she burned them, but Timmy had seen her looking through some of them a few weeks ago. It had been late at night, when she thought Timmy was asleep. She was up drinking wine, looking at pictures of the three of them and crying. If she missed him that bad, why didn’t she just ask him to come home? Sometimes Timmy didn’t understand grown-ups.

He brought his hands up to the lantern’s glass to feel its glow. The chain attached to his ankle clinked against the metal bedpost. Suddenly, he stared at it, remembering the metal pot his dad had ruined on the campfire. The chain links weren’t thick. How hot did metal need to get to bend? He didn’t need to bend it that much—a quarter of an inch at the most.

His heart raced. He grabbed the glass, but snatched his hands back from the heat. He pulled off the pillowcase and wrapped his hands, then tried again, gently tugging the glass casing off without breaking it. The flame danced some more, reared up, then settled down. He put the pillowcase back on the pillow. Then he set the lantern on the floor in front of him and lifted his leg, grabbing a length of chain close to his ankle. He let several links swoop into the flame. He waited a few minutes, then started to pull. It wasn’t working. It just took time. He needed to be patient. He needed to think of something else. He kept the links in the flame. What was that song his mom was singing the other morning in the bathroom? It was from a movie. Oh yeah,
The Little Mermaid.

“Under the sea.” He tried his voice. It shook a bit from the anticipation. Yeah, that was it, anticipation, not fear. He wouldn’t think about being afraid. “Under the sea…Darling it’s better, down where it’s wetter.” He pulled on the chain again. Still no movement. It surprised him how many of the words he remembered. He tried out his Jamaican accent. “Under the sea.”

It moved. The metal was giving. Or was it his imagination? He strained, pulling as hard as he could. Yes, the slit between the two links grew little by little. Just a little more, and he could slip it through.

The footsteps outside the door sent his heart plunging. No, just a few more seconds. He pulled with all his might as the locks clanked and screeched open.

C
hristine tried to remember the last time she had eaten. How long had Timmy been gone? Too long. Whatever it was, it was too long. She pulled herself up off the old couch where Lucy had left her, somewhere in a back office used to store files.

The couch smelled of stale cigarettes, though it looked clean. At least, there appeared to be no hideous stains. The rough-textured fabric left an imprint on her cheek. She could feel it tattooed into her skin.

Her eyes burned. Her hair was a tangled mess. She couldn’t remember when she had combed it. Or brushed her teeth, though she was certain she had done all those things before her morning interview. God, that felt like days ago.

The door opened, its squeak startling her. Her father came in carrying more water. If she drank one more glass, she would vomit. She smiled and took it from him, taking only a sip.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, thanks. I don’t think I’ve eaten today. I’m sure that’s why I got so light-headed.”

“Yep. That’ll do it.”

Without the glass he seemed uncertain what to do with his hands and shoved them into his pockets, a trait Christine recognized in Nick.

“Why don’t I order you up some soup,” he said. “Maybe a sandwich.”

“No, thanks. I really don’t think I could eat.”

“I called your mother. She’s trying to catch a flight later this evening. Hopefully, she’ll be here by morning.”

“Thanks. It’ll be nice to have her here,” Christine lied. Her mother panicked at the mention of a crisis. How would she ever handle this? She wondered what her father had told her mother. How much had he watered down?

“Now, don’t get upset, pumpkin, but I also called Bruce.”

“Bruce?”

“He has a right to know. Timmy is his son.”

“Yes, of course, and Nick and I have been trying to contact him. You know where he is?”

“No, but I have a phone number for emergencies.”

“So you’ve known all along how to contact him?”

Her father looked stunned. How dare she direct such shrill anger toward him.

“And you knew that I’ve been trying to find him to make him pay child support for over eight months. Here, all this time, you’ve had his phone number?”

“For emergencies, Christine.”

“Seeing that his son has food on the table isn’t an emergency? How could you?”

“You’re exaggerating, Christine. Your mom and I would never let you and Timmy struggle. Besides, Bruce said he left you with plenty in savings.”

“That’s what he said?” She laughed, and she didn’t care that it sounded on the verge of hysteria.

“He left us with exactly 164.21 in our savings account and over five thousand dollars of credit card bills.”

She knew her father hated confrontation. She had spent a lifetime tiptoeing around the great Tony Morrelli, letting his opinions be the only ones, his feelings more important than anyone else’s. Her mother called it respect. Now Christine saw it for what it was—foolish.

He paced in front of her, his hands deep in his pockets, the change noisily keeping his fingers busy.

“That son of a bitch. That’s not what he told me,” he finally said. “But you threw the man out of his own house, Christine.”

“He was fucking his receptionist.”

His face grew scarlet with disapproval. A lady never used such language.

“Sometimes a man strays, Christine. A minor indiscretion. I’m not saying it’s right, but it’s not a reason to throw him out of his own house.”

So there it was. She had suspected his disapproval, but until now neither of her parents had spoken it. Her father’s world was fraught with double standards. She had always known that, had accepted it, kept quiet about it. But this was her life.

“I wonder, would you be this forgiving if I had been the one who had the affair?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No. I want to know. Would you have called it a minor indiscretion if I had fucked the UPS man?”

He winced again, and she wondered if it was her language or the image that disgusted him. After all, Tony Morrelli’s little girl didn’t fuck.

“Look, you’re upset, Christine. Why don’t I have one of the guys drive you home?”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer over the rage boiling inside. She only nodded, and he escaped.

After a few short minutes the door opened again, and Eddie Gillick came in.

“Your dad asked me to drive you home.”

C
hristine tried to remember the last time she had eaten. How long had Timmy been gone? Too long. Whatever it was, it was too long. She pulled herself up off the old couch where Lucy had left her, somewhere in a back office used to store files.

The couch smelled of stale cigarettes, though it looked clean. At least, there appeared to be no hideous stains. The rough-textured fabric left an imprint on her cheek. She could feel it tattooed into her skin.

Her eyes burned. Her hair was a tangled mess. She couldn’t remember when she had combed it. Or brushed her teeth, though she was certain she had done all those things before her morning interview. God, that felt like days ago.

The door opened, its squeak startling her. Her father came in carrying more water. If she drank one more glass, she would vomit. She smiled and took it from him, taking only a sip.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, thanks. I don’t think I’ve eaten today. I’m sure that’s why I got so light-headed.”

“Yep. That’ll do it.”

Without the glass he seemed uncertain what to do with his hands and shoved them into his pockets, a trait Christine recognized in Nick.

“Why don’t I order you up some soup,” he said. “Maybe a sandwich.”

“No, thanks. I really don’t think I could eat.”

“I called your mother. She’s trying to catch a flight later this evening. Hopefully, she’ll be here by morning.”

“Thanks. It’ll be nice to have her here,” Christine lied. Her mother panicked at the mention of a crisis. How would she ever handle this? She wondered what her father had told her mother. How much had he watered down?

“Now, don’t get upset, pumpkin, but I also called Bruce.”

“Bruce?”

“He has a right to know. Timmy is his son.”

“Yes, of course, and Nick and I have been trying to contact him. You know where he is?”

“No, but I have a phone number for emergencies.”

“So you’ve known all along how to contact him?”

Her father looked stunned. How dare she direct such shrill anger toward him.

“And you knew that I’ve been trying to find him to make him pay child support for over eight months. Here, all this time, you’ve had his phone number?”

“For emergencies, Christine.”

“Seeing that his son has food on the table isn’t an emergency? How could you?”

“You’re exaggerating, Christine. Your mom and I would never let you and Timmy struggle. Besides, Bruce said he left you with plenty in savings.”

“That’s what he said?” She laughed, and she didn’t care that it sounded on the verge of hysteria.

“He left us with exactly 164.21 in our savings account and over five thousand dollars of credit card bills.”

She knew her father hated confrontation. She had spent a lifetime tiptoeing around the great Tony Morrelli, letting his opinions be the only ones, his feelings more important than anyone else’s. Her mother called it respect. Now Christine saw it for what it was—foolish.

He paced in front of her, his hands deep in his pockets, the change noisily keeping his fingers busy.

“That son of a bitch. That’s not what he told me,” he finally said. “But you threw the man out of his own house, Christine.”

“He was fucking his receptionist.”

His face grew scarlet with disapproval. A lady never used such language.

“Sometimes a man strays, Christine. A minor indiscretion. I’m not saying it’s right, but it’s not a reason to throw him out of his own house.”

So there it was. She had suspected his disapproval, but until now neither of her parents had spoken it. Her father’s world was fraught with double standards. She had always known that, had accepted it, kept quiet about it. But this was her life.

“I wonder, would you be this forgiving if I had been the one who had the affair?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No. I want to know. Would you have called it a minor indiscretion if I had fucked the UPS man?”

He winced again, and she wondered if it was her language or the image that disgusted him. After all, Tony Morrelli’s little girl didn’t fuck.

“Look, you’re upset, Christine. Why don’t I have one of the guys drive you home?”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer over the rage boiling inside. She only nodded, and he escaped.

After a few short minutes the door opened again, and Eddie Gillick came in.

“Your dad asked me to drive you home.”

W
hat an idiot he was, Nick thought as he rammed the Jeep into gear, picking up speed and leaving Platte City behind. He glanced at Maggie sitting quietly next to him. He should have never allowed her to see the weakness, the absolute terror that had taken control of his insides. Despite her revelation about Stucky, she remained in control and composed, staring out at the dark countryside. How did she do it? How did she keep Albert Stucky and all the other horrors carefully tucked away? How did she keep herself from slamming a fist through a wall and shattering glass doors?

He couldn’t think, could barely concentrate on the dark road. The drumming continued in his chest, a persistent pounding, a time bomb ticking off the seconds, each second maybe Timmy’s last.

And through the panic, and maybe because of it, he had almost gone way over the line and told Maggie that he loved her. What an idiot—what a complete idiot he was. Maybe it wasn’t just his virility and charm he was losing. Hell, maybe he was losing his mind, too.

Now sitting here in the quiet dark with Maggie beside him, he felt a sudden strength. He had to be strong for Timmy’s sake, and maybe, just maybe, he could do that as long as he didn’t have to do it alone. Jesus, that was a first—Nick Morrelli might actually need someone?

He could ignore the sick feeling in his gut. He would put the vision of Danny Alverez’s vacant eyes out of his mind. Timmy had to be okay. It couldn’t be too late. He stepped on the accelerator, zigzagging the Jeep over the black highway. Wisps of snow scampered across in spots, but the wind had died down considerably.

“Maybe you should fill me in,” he said, managing to keep the panic from his voice. “Why are we going to a graveyard in the middle of the night?”

“I know your men checked the old church, but what about the tunnel?”

“The tunnel? I think that caved in years ago.”

“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 screwing 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 sexual 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?”