Alex Kava - A Perfect Evil

“Remember the last note? If he knows about Stucky, he may have resorted to Stucky’s habits. Nick, it could be Timmy inside that crate. And if it is, it isn’t something you should see.”

He stared at her. Blood and dirt streaked her face. More dirt and cobwebs filled her hair. Those beautiful full lips held tight against the pain. Those soft, smooth shoulders slouched from the effort to hold herself up. And still, she wanted to protect him.

He turned on his heel and stomped back up the hill.

“Nick, wait.”

He ignored her calls. Surely she wouldn’t-couldn’t-follow without his assistance.

He hesitated at the steps Maggie had uncovered. Then forced himself back down into the earth. The entire space reeked with the stifling smell. He found a steel rod and Maggie’s revolver, which he slid into his jacket pocket. Then he tucked the rod and flashlight under his arm and hoisted the crate, lugging it slowly up the steps. His muscles screamed at him to put it down. He ignored them until he was out of the hellhole, until he could breathe fresh air again.

Maggie was there, waiting, leaning against a headstone. She was even more pale.

“Let me,” she insisted, reaching for the rod.

“I can do this, Maggie.” He shoved the rod under the lid and started pumping up and down. The nails screeched and echoed in the silent darkness. Even with the breeze and in the cold the smell of death overpowered all other senses. Once the lid snapped free, he hesitated again. Maggie came beside him, reached around him and pulled open the lid.

Both of them took a step backward, but it wasn’t because of the odor. Tucked carefully inside and wrapped in a white cloth was the small, delicate body of Matthew Tanner.

There was no place for Timmy to run. Nowhere to hide. He slipped down the riverbank, close to the water. Could he swim across, float downstream? He examined the black, churning river racing past him. It was too strong, too fast and much too cold. The stranger had stopped to finish his cigarette, but his direction hadn’t changed. In the silence, Timmy heard the stranger mumbling to himself, but he couldn’t make out the words. Every once in a while he kicked rocks and dirt into the water. The splashes were now close enough to spray Timmy.

He’d have to make a run for it, back into the woods. At least there he could hide. He’d never make it in the water. His shivers from the cold were already close to convulsions. The water would only make it worse.

Timmy peeked over the riverbank. The stranger was lighting another cigarette. Now. He needed to go now. He scrambled up the bank, kicking rocks and dirt into the water-explosive slashes giving him away. He barely made it to the road when his ankle buckled under him. He slammed down on knees and elbows. He struggled to his feet, then suddenly flew up off the ground. He kicked at air and clawed at the arm around his waist. Another arm squeezed around his neck.

“Settle down, you little shit.”

Timmy started screaming and shouting. The arm squeezed harder, cutting off his air, choking him.

When the car came squealing down the winding road, the stranger still kept his vise grip on Timmy. The car skidded to a stop in front of them, and still the stranger made no attempt to move or flee. The headlights blinded Timmy, but he recognized Deputy Hal. Why didn’t the stranger release him? Timmy’s neck hurt bad. He clawed at the arm again. Why didn’t the stranger make a run for it?

“What’s going on here?” Deputy Hal demanded. He and another deputy got out of the car and approached slowly.

Timmy didn’t understand why they didn’t draw their guns. Couldn’t they tell what was going on? Couldn’t they tell the stranger was hurting him?

“I found the kid hiding in the woods,” the stranger told them, only he sounded excited and proud. “You might say I rescued him.”

“I see that,” said Deputy Hal.

No, it was a lie. Timmy wanted to tell them it was all a lie, but he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak with the arm squeezing his neck. Why were they looking as if they believed the stranger? He was the killer. Couldn’t they see that?

“Why don’t the two of you get in with us. Come on, Timmy. You’re safe now.”

Slowly the arm released from around Timmy’s neck. His feet touched the ground. Timmy pulled free and ran to Deputy Hal, tripping on his swollen ankle.

Hal grabbed Timmy by the shoulders and gently shoved him behind him. Then Deputy Hal pulled out his gun and said to the stranger, “Come on, now. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Eddie.”

Christine awoke to a room full of flowers. Had she died, after all? Through a blur, she saw her mother sitting next to the bed, and Christine knew immediately that she was, in fact, still alive. Certainly the blue and pink jogging suit her mother wore would never be acceptable attire for heaven-or hell.

“How are you feeling, Christine?” Her mother smiled and reached for Christine’s hand.

Her mother was finally letting her hair go gray. It looked good. Christine decided to tell her later when a compliment would come in handy to combat the inquisition.

“Where am I?” It was a stupid question, but after the hours of delusions, hallucinations-whatever they were-she needed to know.

“You’re in the hospital, dear. Don’t you remember? You just got out of surgery a little while ago.”

Surgery? Only now did Christine notice all the tubes going in and out of her. In a moment of panic, she ripped off the covers.

“Christine!”

Her legs were still there. Yes, thank God. She could move them. There were bandages on one, but she didn’t care as long as the leg moved.

“You don’t need to catch pneumonia.” Her mother tucked the covers back in around her.

Christine raised both arms, flexed the fingers and watched the fluids drip into her veins. The pieces all seemed there and working. That her chest and stomach felt like chunks of beaten and sliced chopped liver didn’t matter. At least she was all in one piece.

“Your father and Bruce went for coffee. They’ll be so pleased to find you awake.”

“Oh, God, Bruce is here?” Then Christine remembered Timmy, and the panic began to suck all the air from the room.

“Give him a second chance, Christine,” her mother said, completely oblivious to the lack of air in the room. “This ordeal has really changed him.”

Ordeal? Was that the newest term they had given to the disappearance of her son?

Just then, Nick peeked into the room and relief swept over Christine. There was a new cut on Nick’s forehead, but the bruises and swelling around his jaw were hardly noticeable. He was dressed in a crisp blue shirt, navy tie, blue jeans and navy sports jacket. God, how long had she been asleep? If she didn’t know better, she’d think he looked dressed for a funeral. She remembered Timmy again. What exactly had her mother meant by ordeal? A new wave of pain and terror came crashing down, adding its weight to her chest.

“Hi, honey,” their mother said as Nick leaned down to kiss her cheek.

Christine studied the two of them, watching for signs. Did she dare ask? Would they only lie to protect her? Did they think she was too fragile?

“I want the truth, Nicky,” she blurted in a voice so shrill she hardly recognized it as her own. They both stared at her, startled, concerned. But she could see in Nick’s eyes that he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“Okay. If that’s the way you want it.” He headed back for the door, and she wanted to yell at him to stop, to stay, to talk to her.

“Nicky, please,” she said, not caring how pathetic she sounded.