Alex Kava - A Perfect Evil

Oh, God. 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 assignment. I guess I was nervous.”

“It’s okay, Christine. I know it’s been over a year since your husband left. Hell, you don’t have to play shy with me. I know women get horny, too.”

Oh, dear God. This was not going well. She felt sick again as she watched houses pass 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.”

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 glass 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 glass 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 bitch.”

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 sound with each step.

“I don’t mind staying here,” Timmy attempted again.

“Shut the fuck up, you little bastard, 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 shirt buttons, 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, cocking 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.

“Fuck!” the stranger spat, grabbing the lantern and heading for the door.

“No, please don’t take the light.”

“Shut the fuck up, you little crybaby.”

He wheeled back around, smashing 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.

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, 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, God, 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, Michelle 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?