Alex Kava - A Necessary Evil

By now he had grown accustomed to the heat and humidity. He had gained control over the insects, rarely sharing his home with them anymore. And although there was no end to the mosquitoes, he thought he had developed an immunity to their venom, unless… unless he had contracted malaria or West Nile Virus. Was that possible?

He felt his forehead again, wiping the dripping sweat off, then placing his palm flat against his hot brow. Definitely a fever: Perhaps he needed to fix himself another cup of tea.

It certainly had soothed him earlier and gotten him not only through the mass but the meet-and-greet afterward.

He hated the meet-and-greet, smiling and nodding, pretending he understood their crude English. He had come up with the perfect response, one they all seemed pleased with, one that sent them away smiling and nodding _ "I'll keep you in my prayers." It worked every time. Poor wretches needed to be in someone's prayers. And after all, he was here to help them, to be a part of their miserable little community.

He had grown weary of picking up in the middle of the night and moving to a new location. And for that reason, this place was supposed to be different, though it wasn't much different than any of the others. In fact, they all looked the same, the same weathered shacks and huts kept together by the grace of God. And the villagers were the same, too, apparently content with their rags for clothes and gruel for food, but so desperately needy for attention and praise, especially from God, and so of course, especially from him. He was, after all, the next best thing in their minds. And to some __ the dying old women and the innocent little children __ he was God.

Yes, he was tired of moving. He had come to that decision, even after hours of panic over the Halloween mask, that death mask from the past. He had convinced himself that it was someone's idea of a bad joke. It had to be. There was no way ayone could have tracked him here. It was impossible. Besides, he wasn't about to let anyone scare him into the night ever again.

The tea kettle began to hiss just as the rains started, again. He tried to remember how long it had been since he had seen the sun. It was beginning to take its toll. The familiar throbbing in his head was starting again, too. Maybe it was simply sinus problems, the humidity making it impossible to feel any relief. Could that be the reason for his fever? For the nausea? For the damn throbbing.

He poured the tea, inhaling its therapeutic aroma and already feeling better. It was times like this when he felt a bit vulnerable, that the tea reminded him of his mother, his dear saintly mother. Hot tea and cookies had been her one indulgence, which she hid from her husband lest he take that away from her, too. The day she shared it with him, treating him to the whole ritual __ the entire experience, including the secrecy __ he felt an eternal bond. It had been their special treat, their special time with each other. Perhaps that's why it was still such a comfort to him. It had become a way to conjure up those few good memories from his past.

He checked the time and brought his cup of tea to the wooden table with the laptop computer. The computer had been an enormous splurge, beyond a guilty pleasure, but also a godsend. It had become his connection to the outside world, to civilization, oftentimes restoring his sanity with a press of a button. And always, there was someone in the village who, no matter what cost or inconvenience or magical skills, was able to get an Internet connection for him as long as there was a phone line close by. However, the dial-up speed was slow and the time frame to access it annoyingly short.

He waited patiently for the computer to boot up and then for it to go through its tedious process of trying to locate and make the Internet connection. He sipped his tea and sat back, listening to the rain. The computer prompt asked for his password and he punched it in. Then he sat back again, expecting to wait some more. The connection came up immediately.

"YOU'VE GOT MAIL," the computerized voice told him and it brought a sense of comfort almost as strong as the tea. His friend from the States, it had to be. It was the only person he had given out his e-mail address to. Although they had exchanged very little personal information about each other, they had shared some wonderful in-depth discussions on current events and moral quandaries. It was the closest to a friend that he had had in years… actually, maybe ever.

He clicked on New Mail. Yes, it was his friend, the clever e-mail tag always making him smile: TheSinEater@aol.com.

There were never greetings, a detail he appreciated, not wanting to waste time on pleasantries that were no longer necessary. This message contained two separate links that looked like news articles. It was something they did quite frequently, drawing each other's attention to particular events and starting a whole new discussion. At the end of the message his friend simply wrote: YOU MAY BE NEXT. Probably another attempt at humor; he liked his friend's dry sense of humor, their occasional exchange of playful barbs.

He clicked on the first link and again sat back to wait for the ever-slow connection. When the page finally came up, the headline startled him enough that he jolted upright, almost spilling his tea: Omaha Monsignor Knifed To Death In Airport Restroom.

University of New Haven

New Haven, Connecticut

Maggie stood back and watched Professor Adam Bonzado turn the flesh-eaten skull around in his hands, holding it and examining it as if it were a jeweled treasure. She had never realized before how strong his hands looked. The long fingers like that of a piano player, careful and gentle yet probing the loose flesh, inquisitive without hesitating and without cringing. Gwen had given her a hard time, suggesting she had met her match with Bonzado _ finally a man just as obsessed with evil as she was.

"I know there's not much to go on with either of these " Racine said, also standing back. She had placed the metal cooler on one of his classroom lab tables and let him open it Maggie wondered if it wasn't a professional courtesy so much as Racine wasn't anxious to handle a human head with or without maggots.

'These are in much better shape than some of the ones that pass through here," Bonzado said, lifting and looking at it from all angles. "I enjoy teaching, but this is the stuff I live for. Keeps me on my toes. Besides, I get to take two attractive women out to lunch."

Maggie thought she saw Racine blush, but she looked away, pretending to be preoccupied with the contents of the room. Was it possible Racine had a crush on Bonzado? Long before Racine had hit on her, Maggie had heard rumors that Racine was bisexual. Still, it had come as a surprise. At the time, Maggie was married, obsessed with her work and naive __ or perhaps oblivious was a better term __ to anyone's advances whether they be male or female. Actually, when she thought about it, that wasn't much different than what she was like now. Except for the married part, she was still pretty oblivious.

"And Maggie, I promise lunch will be much better than vegetable soup on one of my Bunsen burners."

He glanced up at her as if to see if she remembered or perhaps to see if she would catch this one, this advance, this attempt at flirting. Case in point Could he read her mind? Maggie couldn't help smiling. Of course she remembered. The last time she had been to his classroom lab he had a pot of soup cooking alongside a boiling pot of human bones. It had sort of freaked her out when she saw him scooping up a bite. That was before she knew it was his lunch and not more human remains.

Bonzado laid the skull down carefully on the table in front of them and brought out a penlight, bending over to examine the inner orifices. The table was one of only two not filled with boxes of bones or lines of skeletons. Many of the skeletons looked like failed attempts at putting the pieces together, missing major sections.