Alex Kava - A Perfect Evil

Boston. So close, she couldn’t help thinking.

“That sounds great,” she said, already calculating the miles between Quantico and Boston.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said simply.

His words caught her off guard, just when she thought she was safe. He must have seen the panic in her eyes, because he quickly checked his watch.

“I should get you to the airport.”

“Right.” Their eyes met again. One last tug, one last chance to tell him. Or would there be plenty of chances?

She brushed past him and closed down the computer, unplugging cords, snapping the lid shut and shoving the computer into its case. He grabbed her suitcase. She grabbed her garment bag. They were at the door when the phone rang. At first, she thought about ignoring it. and leaving. Suddenly, she hurried back and grabbed the receiver.

“Maggie O’Dell.”

“O’Dell, I’m glad I caught you.”

It was Director Cunningham. She hadn’t talked to him in days. “I was just on my way out.”

“Good. Get back here as quickly as possible. I’m having Delaney and Turner meet you at the airport.”

“What’s going on?” She glanced at Nick, who came back into the room, his face filled with concern. “You make it sound like I need bodyguards,” she joked, then tensed when his silence lasted too long.

“I wanted you to know before you hear it on the news.”

“Hear what?”

“Albert Stucky has escaped. They were transferring him from Miami to a maximum-security facility in North Florida. Stucky ended up biting the ear off one guard and stabbing the other with-get this-a wooden crucifix. Then he blew both their heads off with their own service revolvers. Seems the day before, a Catholic priest visited Stucky in his cell. He had to be the one who left the crucifix. I don’t want you to worry, Maggie. We got the bastard before, we’ll get him again.”

But the only thing Maggie heard was, “Albert Stucky has escaped.”

One week later – Chiuchin, Chile

He couldn’t believe how glorious the sun felt. His bare feet maneuvered the rocky shore. The minor cuts and scrapes were a small price to pay for the feel of the warm waves lapping at his feet. The Pacific Ocean stretched forever, its water rejuvenating, its power overwhelming.

Behind him, the mountains of Chile isolated this paradise, where poor, struggling farmers were as starved for attention as they were for salvation. The tiny parish included fewer than fifty families. It was perfect. Since he’d arrived, he hardly noticed the throbbing in his head. Perhaps it was gone for good this time.

A group of brown-skinned boys, clad only in shorts, chased a ball while they raced toward him. Two of them recognized him from the morning’s mass. They waved and called out to him. He laughed at their mispronunciation of his name. When they gathered around him, he petted their black hair and smiled down at them. The one with the torn, blue shorts had such sad eyes, reminding him of himself.

“My name,” he instructed, “is Father Keller. Not Father Killer.”