Alex Kava - A Perfect Evil

The tarp was down the hill, close to the tree line. Only a few headstones existed on this side. Here, she could no longer see the Jeep or the road, only a piece of the church roof in the distance.

The tarp looked new, no cracks or worn patches. Rocks and snow anchored the corners, but one corner flapped free, its rock set aside. Set aside, not blown aside, not by tonight’s slight breeze.

She realized her hands were sweating, despite the cold. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, too fast, too hard. She should wait for Nick, head back to the Jeep and wait. Instead, she pulled the loose corner and whipped the tarp aside. She didn’t need extra light to see. Underneath was a door, narrow and long, thick wood rotting around the hinges and caving in slightly in the middle.

Again, she stopped and glanced up the hill. She should wait. Remember Stucky, she scolded herself. Then, suddenly, she remembered the note, “I know about Stucky.” Was this another trap? No, the killer couldn’t possibly know she’d come here.

She paced, staring at the door. Another quick glance. Her heart pounded too loudly for her to think. She needed to calm herself. She could do this.

She grabbed the edge of the door. There was no handle. She pulled and yanked until it gave way, but it was heavy, straining her muscles, splinters threatening her fingers. She dropped the door, got a better grip and tried again. This time she swung it open. The musty odor slapped her in the face. It was filled with decay, wet earth and mold.

She searched the black hole but couldn’t see beyond the third step with her penlight. It would be ridiculous to go down with such poor lighting. The pounding of her heart continued. She pulled out her revolver and was annoyed by the tremor in her hand. She glanced back up the hill one more time. Silence. No sign of Nick. She descended slowly into the narrow, black hole.

Timmy skidded down into a prickly bush. He had heard the stranger close behind, felt the flash of light on his back. He didn’t dare stop or look back. He kept a hold of the sled, no matter how awkward. His breathing came in spastic gasps. Branches grabbed at him. Twigs slapped him in the face. He stumbled, did a little dance and kept from falling. He tried to keep quiet, but the snaps and cracks were explosions he couldn’t prevent. He couldn’t see his feet in the black. Even the sky had disappeared.

He stopped to catch his breath, leaned against a tree and realized in his rush he hadn’t put on his coat. He couldn’t breathe. His teeth chattered. His heart exploded against his chest. He wiped at his face and discovered more blood, as well as tears.

“Stop crying,” he scolded himself. Han Solo never cried.

Then he heard it. In the black silence he heard branches snapping, snow crunching. The sounds came from behind him, close and getting closer. Could he hide, hope the stranger would pass right by? No, the stranger would surely hear the massive pounding of his heart.

He ran recklessly, tripping over stumps and smashing through the thicket. A twig swiped at his cheek and ripped at his ear. The sting brought fresh tears. Then suddenly he felt the ground slip out from under him. A steep decline forced him to grab on to a branch, a rock, anything to keep from sliding down. Below, he saw the glitter of water. He’d never make it. The woods were too thick, the ridge too steep. The cracking of branches was even closer now.

He noticed a clearing to his right. He climbed over the rocks that blocked his path, hanging on to tree roots with one hand while clutching his sled with the other.

It wasn’t much of a clearing. Instead, it looked like an old horse trail, a path worn into the woods but now overgrown with spindly branches, alien arms with long, thin fingers waving to him. As far as Timmy could see, the path went all the way down to the river, with a few sharp turns. It looked like something from one of his video games, narrow and dangerous and clogged with heaps of snow. The snow made it impossible to climb without sliding. It was perfect. Of course, it was also reckless and crazy. His mom would have a fit.

A crack close behind made him jump. He crouched in the snow and grass. Even in the dark he saw the shadow crawling down, clinging to the ridge, his back to Timmy. He looked like a giant insect, tentacles outstretched gripping roots and jutted rocks.

Timmy laid his orange sled in the snow. He crawled in carefully, its angle steep-really steep. He allowed himself one more frantic glance over his shoulder. The shadow edged closer. Soon, the stranger would be at the rocks. Timmy pointed the sled into the horse trail and scooted his body down until he was almost lying. There was no other choice. This was it. He jerked, one quick shove, and the sled plunged downward.

Nick stood at the edge of the woods, every nerve ending on alert. It was impossible to see with only a flashlight. Branches swayed in a fresh breeze. Night birds exchanged calls. The black figure was gone. Or hiding.

He remembered a road that snaked through the woods, not far from here. It went all the way to the river. He’d have a better chance with the Jeep. He hurried back toward the church. When he stuffed his gun into the shoulder holster, he realized the other bulge in his jacket was Christine’s cellular phone. Great, he thought, pulling it out. At least he could avoid a flood of media hounds if he didn’t use the Jeep’s CB radio.

Lucy answered on the second ring.

“Lucy, it’s Nick.”

“Nick, where in the world are you? I’ve been so worried.”

“I don’t have time to explain. I’m going to need some men and searchlights. I think I just chased the killer into the woods, behind the old church. He’s probably headed for the river again.”

“Where do you want the guys to meet you?”

“Down by the river. There’s an old gravel road that winds through the woods. It’s just off Old Church Road past the state park, not far from where we found Matthew. You know the one?”

“Isn’t that the one with Make-out Point?”

“Make-out Point?”

“Well, that’s what the kids call it. There’s a clearing overlooking the river. Kids go there to make out.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s the one. Lucy, tell Hal. Let him decide who to bring, okay?”

“Okay.”

He slapped the phone shut. What if it was only a vagrant he’d seen, who had used the church to get in out of the cold? He’d look like a fool again. The hell with what he looked like. He didn’t care, if they could just find Timmy.

He stopped at the window, kicked aside the wood and glass, then crouched to shine light into the hole. Sure enough, there was a bed, posters on the wall, a crate with food. Someone had been staying here. The light reflected off a glimpse of chain. Or someone had been imprisoned here. He saw the comic books, the scattered baseball cards and the small child’s coat. Timmy’s coat. The drumming started again, the rhythm an erratic war dance against his rib cage. He couldn’t be sure it was Timmy’s, he made a feeble attempt to convince himself. Yet, he knew this was it. This was where the boys had been kept. Maggie was right. Then he saw the bloody pillow.

Maggie heard small creatures skitter across the ceiling above her. Dirt crumbled down into her hair, but she didn’t dare look up. She swatted at cobwebs. Something ran across her foot. She didn’t need light to tell her it was a rat. She could hear them in the corners, behind the dirt walls, escaping into their own little tunnels.

The space was small enough to take in with a few swipes of the penlight. She had counted eleven steps, carrying her deep into the ground where the damp air became heavier with each step. The hole resembled an old storm cellar, an odd comparison considering the graveyard’s residents no longer needed shelter from any storm. Other than a thick wooden shelf and a large crate in the corner, the space was empty. Even the shelves were empty, coated with cobwebs and rat feces. Disappointingly, there were no signs of Timmy and no tunnel. How could she be so wrong? Had Stucky sabotaged her instincts, too?