Alex Kava - A Perfect Evil

Timmy watched his sled drift downstream. The bright orange looked fluorescent in the moonlight. He crouched in the snow, hidden by the cattails along the river bank. All that catapulting practice on Cutty’s Hill had paid off, though his mom would kill him if she ever found out.

He was feeling pretty confident. He only now realized he had lost a shoe in the jump. His ankle hurt. It looked funny, puffed up, almost twice the size of his other one. Then he saw the black shadow, spiderwebbing its way down the ridge, clinging to roots and vines, stretching and gripping rocks and branches. It moved quickly.

Timmy glanced back at the sled, now regretting that he hadn’t stayed in it. The stranger came to the river’s edge. He was watching the sled, too. It had drifted too far away for him to see inside. But maybe the stranger believed Timmy had stayed inside. He certainly didn’t look as if he was in a rush anymore. In fact, the stranger just stood there, staring at the river. Maybe he was trying to decide whether to jump in after the sled.

Out here in the open the stranger looked smaller, and although it was too dark to see his face, Timmy could tell he wasn’t wearing the dead president’s mask anymore.

Timmy burrowed down farther into the snow. The breeze coming off the water brought a wet cold with it. His teeth started chattering and the shivers crawled over his body again. He hugged his knees to his chest and watched and waited. As soon as the stranger disappeared, Timmy decided he would follow the road. It looked all uphill, but it would be better than the woods again. Besides, it had to lead somewhere.

Finally, the stranger looked as if he was giving up. He rumbled through his pockets, found what he was looking for and lit a cigarette. Then he turned and started walking directly toward Timmy.

Maggie clawed her way up the steps, annoyed that her knees wouldn’t hold her. Her side burned, a fire blazing deeper and deeper, igniting her stomach and lungs. It felt as if the knife metal had broken off and was shooting through her insides. God, she should be getting good at this by now. Practice makes perfect Yet, when she struggled up into the moonlight, the sight of her own blood made her light-headed and nauseated. It covered her side and soaked into her clothes, the red turtleneck black with dirt and blood.

She pushed her hair out of her face, away from her sweaty forehead, and realized her hand was filled with blood. She eased out of her jacket, pulled and ripped at the lining until she had a piece big enough to plug up her side. She wrapped chunks of snow inside the fabric, then applied it to the wound. Suddenly, the stars in the sky multiplied. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. When she opened them, a black shadow approached, staggering between the headstones like a drunkard. She reached for her gun, her fingers lingering at the empty holster. Of course, she remembered. Her gun lay somewhere below in a dark corner.

“Maggie?” the drunkard called out, and she recognized Nick’s voice. Relief washed over her so completely she forgot about the pain for a second or two.

He was covered in mud and dirt, and when he knelt beside her, the smell of him made her gag. She leaned into him, anyway, and welcomed the feel of his arm around her.

“Jesus, Maggie. Are you okay?”

“I think it’s just a flesh wound. Did you see him? Did you get him?”

She saw the answer in his eyes, only it wasn’t just disappointment. There was something more.

“I think there must be a maze of tunnels down there,” he said, out of breath. “And I took the wrong one.”

“We need to stop him. He’s probably at the church. Maybe that’s where he has Timmy.”

“Had.”

“What?”

“I found the room where he kept them. Timmy’s coat was left behind.”

“Then we need to find him.” She tried to get to her feet, but fell back into his arms.

“I think we’re too late, Maggie.” She heard the words struggle over a lump in his throat. “I also saw…there was a bloody pillow.”

She leaned her head against his chest. Listened to the pounding, the uneven breathing. No, the uneven breathing belonged to her.

“Jesus, Maggie. You’re bleeding awfully bad. I need to get you to the hospital. I sure as hell am not going to lose two people I love in the same night.”

He propped her up while he crawled to his feet, still a bit wobbly. She held on to him and struggled to her knees. The pain came in fiery jabs, scorching and tearing, hot glass shards slicing farther and farther inside her. As she clung to his arm, she wondered if she had heard him correctly. Did he really just say that he loved her?

“Don’t, Maggie. Let me carry you to the Jeep.”

“I saw the way you were walking, Morrelli. I’ll take my chances on my own two feet.” She pulled herself up, gritting her teeth against the constant stab. “Just hang on to me.”

They were almost to the Jeep when she remembered the crate. “Nick, wait. We have to go back.”

Christine stared up at the stars. She easily found the Big Dipper. It was the only thing she could ever find in the night sky. On the soft bed of snow and under the wonderfully warm and scratchy wool blanket, she hardly noticed that she was lying on the side of the road. And if only she could breathe without choking up chunks of blood, maybe she could sleep. Reality came in short bursts of pain and memories. Eddie fondling her breast. Smashed metal against her legs, crushing her chest. And Timmy, oh, God, Timmy. She tasted tears and bit down on her lip to stop them. She tried to sit up, but her body refused to listen, couldn’t comprehend the commands. It hurt to breathe. Couldn’t she just stop breathing, at least for a few minutes?

The headlights came out of nowhere, rounding the corner and barreling down on her. She heard the brakes screech. Gravel pelted metal. Tires skidded. The light blinded her. When two stretched shadows emerged from the vehicle and came toward her, she imagined aliens with bulbous heads and bulging insect eyes. Then she realized it was the hats that made their heads look oversize.

“Christine. Oh, my good Lord, it’s Christine.”

She smiled and closed her eyes. She had never heard that kind of fear and panic in her father’s voice. How totally inappropriate for her to be pleased by it.

When her father and Lloyd Benjamin knelt beside her, the only thing she could think to say was, “Eddie knows where Timmy is.”

Nick tried to convince Maggie to stay in the Jeep. They had stopped the bleeding for now, but there was no telling how much blood she had already lost. She could barely stand on her own, had completely lost all color in her face. Perhaps she was delusional, too.

“You don’t understand, Nick,” she continued to argue with him.

He was ready to pick her up and throw her into the Jeep. It was bad enough that she wouldn’t let him drive her to the hospital.

“I’ll go check what’s in the stupid crate,” he said finally. “You wait here.”

“Nick, wait.” She dug her ringers into his arm, wincing with pain. “It may be Timmy.”

“What?”

“Inside the crate.”

The realization struck him like a fist. He leaned against the Jeep’s hood, suddenly weak in the knees.

“Why would he do that?” he managed to say, though his throat strangled the words. He didn’t want to imagine Timmy stuffed into a crate. Timmy, dead. Yet, hadn’t he already thought that? “That’s not his style.”

“Whatever is in the crate might be for my benefit.”

“I don’t understand.”