Alex Kava - A Perfect Evil

“I agree,” Nick said, interrupting her pleasant descent into numbness. “It is too much of a coincidence. But I can’t just haul Ray Howard in for questioning, can I?”

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up. “Not Howard. Father Keller.”

“What? Are you nuts? I can’t haul in a priest. You really can’t believe a Catholic priest could kill little boys.”

“He fits the profile. I need to find out more about his background, but yes, I do think a priest is capable.”

“I don’t. It’s crazy.” He avoided her eyes and gulped his brandy. “The community would hang me by my thumbs if I hauled in a priest for questioning. Especially this Father Keller. He’s like Superman with a collar. Jesus, O’Dell, you’re way off target.”

“Just listen to me for a minute. You said yourself it looked like Danny Alverez didn’t put up a fight. Keller was someone he knew and trusted. Father Francis told us it was unlikely for a layperson post-Vatican II-which would be anyone under the age of thirty-five-to know how to administer last rites, unless that person had some training.”

“But this guy is a hero with kids. How could he do something like this and not slip up?”

“People who knew Ted Bundy never suspected anything. Look, I also found a torn piece of a baseball card in Matthew’s hand. Timmy told me earlier tonight that Father Keller trades baseball cards with them.”

Nick wiped at the wet strands on his forehead, and she could smell the same shampoo she had used upstairs. He leaned back against the pillows, set his glass on his chest and watched the last bit swirl around.

“Okay,” he said finally, “you check him out. But I need something more than a photo and a piece of baseball card before I haul him in for questioning. In the meantime, I want to do some checking on Howard. You have to admit he’s a weird character. What kind of guy dresses in a shirt and tie to clean a church?”

“It’s not a crime to dress inappropriately for your job. If it were, you would have been arrested long ago.”

He shot her a look, but couldn’t bide the smile caught at the corner of his mouth.

“Look, it’s late. We’re both wiped out. How ‘bout we try to get some sleep?” he said, then emptied his glass and set it aside on the floor. He stretched his legs under the quilt. He grabbed a remote from an end table, pressed a few buttons and the lights dimmed. She smiled at his handy little toy for his romantic romps in front of the fire. Why did she find herself almost disappointed that she didn’t need to worry about this being one of them?

“Maybe I should go back to the hotel.”

“Come on, O’Dell. Your clothes are still wet. All your stuffs labeled dry-clean. I couldn’t just stick them in the dryer. Look, I’m too tired to make a pass, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He made himself comfortable against the pillows, his body close to her.

“No, it’s not that,” she said and wondered why her own body wasn’t too tired. Instead, every muscle, every nerve ending seemed attuned to the proximity of his body. Would she even resist if he did make a pass? Did she have no feelings left for Greg? What exactly was going on with her? This was beyond annoying. “I don’t usually sleep much. I might just keep you awake,” she offered in place of the real reason.

“What do you mean you don’t sleep?” He slumped down next to her, his head almost touching her arm. He closed his eyes, and she noticed how long his eyelashes were.

“I haven’t been able to sleep for over a month now. If I do, I usually have nightmares.”

He looked up at her but kept his head on the pillow. “I imagine with the stuff you see, it’s hard not to have nightmares. You probably noticed I didn’t spend a lot of time looking at Matthew’s body. Did something in particular happen?”

She looked down at him. His body curled under the quilt. Despite the dark bristle on his face, there was something boyish about him. Then he pulled himself up on one elbow, twisting open his half-buttoned shirt in the process and exposing his muscular chest and the curly wisps of dark hair. The boyish image disappeared quickly, and she imagined slipping her hand into his shirt and letting her fingers explore. She needed to stop. This was absolutely ridiculous. Suddenly, she realized he was waiting for an answer, his eyes filled with concern.

“Did something happen?” he asked again.

“Not anything I care to discuss.”

He stared at her as though trying to look deep inside her. Then, he sat up.

“Actually, I think I have a remedy for nightmares. It works with Timmy when he sleeps over.”

“Well, then, it can’t be more brandy.”

“No.” He smiled. “You hang on to someone else real tight while you fall asleep.”

Her eyes met his. “Nick, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

His face was serious again. “Maggie, this isn’t some cheap trick to get close to you. I just want to help. Will you let me do that? What do you have to lose?”

When she didn’t answer, he slid closer. Slowly, hesitantly, he put his arm around her as though waiting, giving her plenty of opportunity to protest. When she didn’t, he put his hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her into him so that her face rested hot against his chest. She heard his heart pound in her ear. Her own heart beat so noisily it was difficult to distinguish between the two. Her cheek brushed against the opening in his shirt, the coarse, wiry hair wonderfully scratchy and soft against her skin. She resisted the temptation of allowing her fingers access. He rested his chin on the top of her head. His voice vibrated against her.

“Now relax,” he said. “Imagine that nothing can get to you without going through me first. Even if you can’t sleep, just close your eyes and rest.”

How could she possibly sleep with her entire body alive, alert and on fire everywhere it touched his?

Maggie awoke groggy, her arms and legs heavy. She was cold. The fire had gone out. Nick was no longer beside her. She looked around the dark room and saw the back of his head, asleep on the sofa.

A flicker of light outside the window caught her eye. She sat up. There it was again. A dark shadow with a flashlight passed the window. Her heart began to pound. He had followed them from the river.

“Nick,” she whispered, but there was no movement. Her mind raced. Where had she left her gun? “Nick,” she tried again. No response.

The shadow disappeared. She crawled to the bottom of the staircase, watching the window. The room was lit only by the ghostly glow of the moon. She had taken off her gun when they first came in, on her way upstairs. She had laid it on a stand near the staircase. The stand was gone, moved, but where? Her eyes darted around the room. The pounding of her heart made her chest ache. It was cold without the fire, so cold her hands shook.

Then she heard the twist and click of the doorknob. She searched for a weapon, anything sharp, anything heavy. The metal clicked again and held. The door was locked. She grabbed a small lamp with a heavy metal base and ripped off the shade. She listened. Her breathing came in gasps and gulps. She tried to hold it as she listened again.

She crawled back to the sofa, clutching the lamp close to her.

“Nick,” she whispered and reached up to poke him.

“Nick, wake up.” She shoved his shoulder, and his body rolled toward her, tumbling onto the floor. Her hand was smeared with blood. She looked down at him. Oh God, oh, dear God. She stuffed her bloody hand into her mouth to prevent the scream, to stop the terror. Nick’s blue eyes stared up at her, cold and vacant. Blood covered his shirtfront. His throat was slashed, the gaping wound still bleeding.