Alex Kava - A Necessary Evil

All he had ever tried to do was help Timmy. All of the boys, he had only wanted to help them, save them from the abuse he believed they were suffering at home. At the time, Timmy had claimed he bruised easily, but wasn't that what they all said to cover up for their parents? Timmy looked okay now, a bit scrawny but healthy. Although from his own experience he knew the mental scars never healed. Perhaps that was true for Timmy, too.

"You can sit down if you want," he told Timmy.

"No, that's okay. I'll wait until Uncle Nick and Gibson get here."

The boy remained standing, watching the door and fidgeting, shifting from one foot to the other. Keller hated fidgeting.

That's when the phone rang as if on perfect cue.

"Hello?" he said, making it sound like he wasn't expecting the call.

"Good evening, Mr. Keller. This is the front desk calling just as you requested."

"Yes, Timmy's here with me. Where did you say you were?" He glanced at Timmy still standing by the door. He was far enough away he would never hear the desk clerk on the other end.

"The front desk, sir," the caller repeated.

"How long will that take?"

"Excuse me? How long will what take?"

Keller ignored the poor clerk's confusion. "Well, okay. We'll wait here for you."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I have no idea what _ "

He hung up on him in midsentence, finished and pleased with his side of the conversation. Then to Timmy he said, "They're going to be a few minutes late. Something your uncle has to take care of."

He needed to come up with something, anything that would relax the boy, that would stop his goddamn fidgeting. "In the meantime, why don't you help yourself to the minibar."

That got his attention. "Really? Are you sure?"

"Oh yeah, go ahead. Grab me a Coke, too."

That was it. Evidently sharing his minibar was like opening a whole new avenue of trust. Suddenly Timmy was grinning and down on his knees, opening the fridge and evaluating the treasure inside.

Yes, this would be easy. Almost too easy.

Washington, D.C.

In her mind Gwen tried to assess her escape route. Her instincts told her to make a mad dash. What was she waiting for? Why did she dare try and talk sense into him? Was that even possible? The last time she had been in a room with a madman, Eric Pratt had attempted to drive a freshly sharpened lead pencil into her throat.

This was different. There was no uniformed officer right outside the door ready to come running to her rescue. R. J. Tully wouldn't be racing in to protect her either. Not this time. She'd never make it to the door let alone the hallway or the elevator without Campion overpowering her. Her only available weapon was talk. She needed to control him with her voice and her words. She glanced around the room one more time in search of anything else. No, there wasn't anything else. At least not until she settled him down. Maybe then she had a chance of catching him off guard.

James Campion's rage came in bursts then quieted almost as quickly. He stood between Gwen and the doorway, quiet now but glaring at her with a new distrust that she was attempting to dismantle. She had to convince him she was on his side, that she wasn't the enemy.

"I'm on your side, James. Father Paul Conley abused you in a way no boy should experience. He deserved to be punished," she said, stopping herself from adding that ripping his head off and placing it on his own altar may have been a bit much. She needed to win his trust. He needed to believe she understood. "He won't be able to hurt any more boys ever again."

"That's right," he said, nodding. "Playing the game and pretending to kill him wasn't enough. It didn't stop him."

"But, James, what about the others?"

"The others? The other priests?"

"No, the young women. There were four of them, weren't there? Tell me about them. Why did you hurt them?"

"Oh, you mean the whores."

"Excuse me?"

"I met them over the Internet. We talked, got to know each other. You told me that I needed to try to have normal relationships with women. Remember? You told me." He was getting anxious again.

"Yes, that's right. I did tell you that." And she had.

It had been a major concern to him that he couldn't have an ordinary relationship with a woman. She remembered their conversations. She knew his abuse had left him with an immature attitude about sex. He always seemed anxious and concerned about it but never angry. He had talked about it all so calmly. How he wanted to take it slow and get to know and trust a woman before it turned to sex. It was the sex that seemed to worry him, to almost frighten him. Of course it did. It all made sense to her now even before he started to explain.

"We would talk on the Internet. It was comfortable, enjoyable." Campion's eyes were somewhere else as if remembering. This was good. Get his mind on something else so she would be able to catch him off guard.

"You could get to know each other," Gwen encouraged him, "without the pressure of going out on a date."

"That's right. It was nice," he said, almost like a teenage boy. "We would talk about computer games and movies and stuff in the news. But then they would want to meet me." His forehead creased with worry and his jaw became so taut she could see he was clenching his teeth. "That would have been okay, too, except that they always wanted to… go somewhere. To be alone with me. And by alone they always meant… you know," and he looked to her for help.

"They wanted to be more intimate with you?"

"They wanted sex," he hissed at her and his whole face seemed to turn a shade darker.

What was wrong with her? She was making him angry again, when she needed to keep him calm. She needed to make him believe she was on his side. That she agreed with him. He needed to consider her an ally. And yet there was one question that could not go unanswered.

"What about Dena?"

"Who?" He looked at her as though she had awakened him.

"Dena Wayne. My assistant?" Could she still pretend to be on his side if he called Dena a whore?

"I thought she'd be different. She was actually nice to me. I liked her a lot. We went out and had fun. We talked. But then, no matter how much I thought J wanted it… I kept seeing his face. Every goddamn time. I couldn't do it without seeing him and smelling him and feeling him. I wanted to rip off his head. I wanted to take my bare hands and rip his fucking head off. And I did. Each time I killed one of them I was really killing him. But then I realized… " His eyes met hers. They could go from angry and mad to calm and pathetic so quickly. "I left you her earring ahead of time. I thought you'd stop me."

"I… I didn't recognize it," Gwen said and her insides felt as if liquid ice had just been injected into her. He had meant for it to be a call to stop him and she hadn't even recognized the earring as Dena's.

Campion didn't seem to hear her and continued, "The notes and even a map _ I sent you all of it. I thought you'd help me. But you didn't. You couldn't help me."

She had backed up against her desk and her hands reached behind her, feeling, searching for anything to use as a weapon since it was becoming obvious that her words, that her voice was not enough. But she had just slid anything and everything into her leather briefcase moments before he arrived. It sat on the chair next to the desk.

"I can help you, James," she lied, not having a clue what to even offer. "We can go over everything." She reached for her briefcase as if there was something in it that could help.

"No, goddamn it!"

His voice slammed her back against her desk again as if he had struck her with his fist, and Gwen pulled the briefcase to her chest like a shield, wrapping her arms around it tightly. It was closed, damn it. The locks snapped shut, making it impossible for her to just slip a hand inside.