A Perfect Evil

  “I can take your message for Nick if you want.”

  The sympathy was gone, quickly replaced by mere curiosity.

  “Thanks, but I’ll just leave it on his desk.”

  Maggie went in, but she left the lights off, using the glow from the streetlights below to guide her. She bumped her shin into a chair leg.

  “Damn it,” she muttered, reaching down to catch the pain though it already shot up her thigh. While bent over and rubbing her leg, she noticed Nick sitting on the floor in the corner. In the dark, she saw him hugging his knees to his chest, staring out the window, apparently oblivious to her presence.

  It would have been easy to pretend she hadn’t seen him. She could write the note and be on her way. Without a word, she walked over to him and quietly, slowly took a place beside him on the floor. She followed his gaze out the window. From this angle only the black sky filled the frame. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the cracked lip, bruised and swollen. Dried blood stained that perfectly chiseled jaw. He still didn’t move, still didn’t acknowledge her presence.

  “You know, Morrelli, for an ex-football player you fight like a girl.”

  She wanted to make him angry, to make him feel. She recognized that numbness, that emptiness, that could paralyze a person for a long, long time if not confronted. There was no response. She sat quietly by his side. Minutes passed. She should get up, leave. She couldn’t afford to share his pain. She couldn’t risk caring about him. Her own vulnerability was already a tremendous liability. She couldn’t take on his.

  Just as she stretched her legs to get up, he said, “My dad was wrong to say what he did about you.”

  She leaned back. “You mean I don’t have a cute little ass?”

  Finally, she caught a hint of a smile.

  “Okay, only half-wrong.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Morrelli. I’ve heard worse.” Though the sting always surprised her.

  “You know, when all this began, the only thing I cared about was how I’d look, whether people would think I was incompetent.”

  He kept his gaze out the window to avoid looking at her. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark now, and she studied him. Despite the disheveled look, he was remarkably handsome with all the classic features—strong, square jaw, dark hair against tanned skin, sensuous lips, even his earlobes were perfectly sculpted. Yet, those physical characteristics that she initially found so attractive now seemed minor. It was his smooth, steady voice she looked forward to. It was his warm, sky-blue eyes that made her weak in the knees. The way they held her, as if she was the most important person in the world. The way they searched deep inside her, as if hoping for a glimpse of her soul. Those eyes made her feel naked and alive. Now that he kept them from her, she felt robbed, removed from the intimate bond that had begun forming between them. At the same time, she knew it wasn’t right to feel this close to a man she had met less than a week ago. She kept quiet and waited, half dreading that he would share some secret that would bring them even closer. At the same time, part of her hoped he would.

  “I’m incompetent. I don’t know the first thing about heading a murder investigation. Maybe if I had admitted that in the beginning…maybe Timmy wouldn’t be missing.”

  His confession surprised her. This wasn’t the same cocky, arrogant sheriff she had met several days ago. Yet, his admission wasn’t self-pity. It wasn’t even regret. Instead, Maggie sensed it was a relief for him to finally say it out loud.

  “You’ve done everything possible, Nick. Believe me, if there was something I thought you should have done or should be doing differently, I certainly would have told you. If you haven’t noticed yet, I’m not shy in that area.”

  Another smile. He leaned back against the wall and released his knees from his chest. He stretched those long, lean legs out in front of him. For a minute she thought it was over.

  “Maggie, I am so…I keep imagining finding him. I keep seeing him…lying in the grass, that same vacant stare. I’ve never felt so…” The strong, steady voice hitched, caught on a lump in his throat. “I feel so fucking helpless.” The knees came back to his chest, brushing his chin.

  Her hand went up, then stopped in midair at the nape of his neck. She wanted to comfort him, caress him. She snapped back her hand, scooted farther away and leaned against the wall, trying to get comfortable, trying to dislodge the overpowering urge to touch him. Another glance. Moonlight crept into a corner of the window, framing his profile. What was it about Nick Morrelli that made her want to be whole again? That made her realize she wasn’t whole?

  “You know all my life I’ve done everything my dad told me…suggested I do.” He kept his chin on his knees. “It wasn’t even so much that I wanted to please him. It was just easier. His expectations always seemed to be lower than my own. Being sheriff of Platte City was supposed to be writing tickets and rescuing lost dogs, and breaking up a few bar fights now and then. Maybe an occasional traffic accident. But not murder. I’m not prepared for murder.”

  “I don’t know if there’s anything to prepare you for the murder of a child, no matter how many dead bodies you’ve seen.”

  “Timmy can’t end up like Danny and Matthew. He can’t. And yet…there’s nothing I can do to stop it.” The catch in his voice was back. She glanced over at him, and he turned his face away. “There’s not a fucking thing I can do.”

  She heard the tears in his voice, though he tried his best to disguise them with anger. She reached out again, hesitated again, her hand hovering. Finally, she touched his shoulder. She expected him to bolt. Instead, he sat quietly. She stroked his shoulder blades and ran her hand over his back. When the comfort started turning too intimate for her, she pulled her hand away, but he reached up and caught it, gently trapping it in his large hand. He looked up at her and brought the palm of her hand to his face, rubbing it against his swollen jaw.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” His eyes held hers. “Maggie…I think I—”

  She snatched her hand back, suddenly uncomfortable with his attempted revelation. He was beyond flirting. She could see him testing, struggling with feelings she didn’t want to know about.

  “Whatever happens, it won’t be your fault, Nick.” She changed the subject while pretending to be on it. “You’re doing everything possible. At some point you have to let yourself off the hook.”

  He looked at her with that deep gaze, the one that made her feel as if he was searching her soul. “Your nightmares,” he said quietly. “You haven’t let yourself off the hook for something. What is it, Maggie? Is it Stucky?”

  CHAPTER 74

  “How do you know about Stucky?” Maggie sat up, trying to ward off the tension brought on by just the mention of his name.

  “That night at my house, you yelled out his name several times. I thought you’d tell me about him. When you didn’t…well, I figured maybe it wasn’t any of my business. Maybe it’s still none of my business.”

  “By now it’s a matter of public record.”

  “Public record?”

  “Albert Stucky is a serial killer I helped capture a little over a month ago. We nicknamed him The Collector. He’d kidnap two, three, sometimes four women at a time, keeping them, collecting them in some condemned building or abandoned warehouse. When he got tired of them, he killed them, slicing their bodies, bashing in their skulls, chewing off pieces of them.”

  “Jesus, I thought this guy we’re chasing was screwed up.”

  “Stucky is certainly one of a kind. It was my profile that identified him. Over the course of two years, we tracked him. Every time we got close, he moved to another part of the country. Somewhere along the line, Stucky discovered that I was the profiler. That’s when the game began.”

  The moonlight flooded the office now. She glanced at him, uncomfortable under his penetrating blue eyes that were filled with as much concern as interest. He must have bitten down on his lip. It was bleeding again. She shifted, dug in her jacket pocket and pulled out a
tissue, handing it to him. “You’re still bleeding.”

  He ignored the tissue and wiped a sleeve across his mouth. “What else is new? I fight like a girl.” Then his expression went serious again. “Tell me about the game.”

  “Stucky probed my background. Somehow he found out about my family, my father’s death, my mother’s alcoholism. He knew everything, or so it seemed. About a year ago I started receiving notes. Actually, it’s not that unusual, but Stucky’s were. He always included a piece of his victims—a finger, sometimes just a piece of skin with a birthmark or tattoo, once a nipple.”

  Nick shook his head but didn’t say anything.

  “He started a sort of scavenger hunt with me,” she continued. “He’d send clues as to where he was keeping the women. If I guessed right, he rewarded me with a new clue. If I guessed wrong, he punished me with a dead body. I was wrong a lot. Every time we found one of his victims in a Dumpster, I felt like it was my fault.”

  She closed her eyes, allowing herself to see the faces. All of them with that same horrified stare. She could remember them all, could recite their names, addresses, personal characteristics. It sounded like a litany of saints. She opened her eyes, avoided Nick’s and continued.

  “He would quit for a while but only to move to another part of the country. We finally tracked him down in Miami. After a few clues I was almost certain I knew he was using an abandoned warehouse by the river. I dreaded being wrong. I didn’t think I could handle another dead woman on my conscience. So I didn’t tell anyone. I decided to check it out myself. That way, if I was wrong, no one ended up dead. Only, I was right, and Stucky was waiting for me. He ambushed me before I even saw it coming.”

  Her breathing was uneven. Her heart raced. Even her palms were sweaty. It was over. Why did it still have such an effect on her?

  “He tied me to a steel post, and then he made me watch. I watched while he tortured and mutilated two women. Actually, the second one was punishment because I closed my eyes while he was bashing in the skull of the first woman. He had warned me that he would just keep bringing out another if I closed my eyes. He seemed so oblivious to their pain, to their screams.”

  God, it was hard to breathe. When would she stop seeing those pleading eyes, hearing those unbearable screams? “I watched him beat and slice and rip apart two women and I felt so…so goddamn helpless.”

  She stared out at the moon and stars. “I was so close…” She rubbed her shoulders. She could still feel it. “I was so close I could feel their blood splatter me, along with pieces of their brains, chips of their bones.”

  “But you did get him?”

  “Yes. We got him. Only because an old fisherman heard the screams and called 911. We certainly didn’t get him on my account.”

  “Maggie, you’re not responsible for those women.”

  “Yes, I know that.” Of course, she knew, but it didn’t erase the guilt. She wiped at her eyes, disappointed to find her cheeks already wet. Then she stood, much too abruptly but gratefully closing the subject.

  “That reminds me,” she said, trying to resume normalcy. “I got another note.” She dug out the crumpled envelope and handed it to Nick.

  He pulled out the card, read it, and leaned back against the wall. “Jesus, Maggie. What do you suppose this means?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe he’s just having some fun.”

  Nick untangled his legs and stood without assistance of the wall or desk. “So what do we do now?”

  “How do you feel about raiding graveyards?”

  CHAPTER 75

  Timmy watched the lantern’s flame dance. It was amazing how such a small slit of fire could light up the entire room. And it gave off heat, too. Not like the kerosene heater, but it did feel warm. It reminded him again of the camping trips he and his dad had taken. It seemed like such a long time ago now.

  His dad hadn’t been an experienced camper. It had taken them almost two hours to set up the tent. The only fish they had caught were tiny throw-backs they ended up keeping when they had gotten too hungry to wait for a bigger catch. Then his dad had melted his mom’s favorite pot by leaving it in the fire too long. Still, Timmy hadn’t minded the mistakes. It was an adventure he got to share with his dad.

  He knew his mom and dad were mad at each other. But he didn’t understand why his dad was mad at him. His mom had told him his dad still loved him. That he didn’t want anybody to know where he was because he didn’t want to pay them any money. That still didn’t explain why his dad didn’t want to see him.

  Timmy stared at the flame and tried to remember what his dad looked like. His mom had put away all the pictures. She said she burned them, but Timmy had seen her looking through some of them a few weeks ago. It had been late at night, when she thought Timmy was asleep. She was up drinking wine, looking at pictures of the three of them and crying. If she missed him that bad, why didn’t she just ask him to come home? Sometimes Timmy didn’t understand grown-ups.

  He brought his hands up to the lantern’s glass to feel its glow. The chain attached to his ankle clinked against the metal bedpost. Suddenly, he stared at it, remembering the metal pot his dad had ruined on the campfire. The chain links weren’t thick. How hot did metal need to get to bend? He didn’t need to bend it that much—a quarter of an inch at the most.

  His heart raced. He grabbed the glass, but snatched his hands back from the heat. He pulled off the pillowcase and wrapped his hands, then tried again, gently tugging the glass casing off without breaking it. The flame danced some more, reared up, then settled down. He put the pillowcase back on the pillow. Then he set the lantern on the floor in front of him and lifted his leg, grabbing a length of chain close to his ankle. He let several links swoop into the flame. He waited a few minutes, then started to pull. It wasn’t working. It just took time. He needed to be patient. He needed to think of something else. He kept the links in the flame. What was that song his mom was singing the other morning in the bathroom? It was from a movie. Oh yeah, The Little Mermaid.

  “Under the sea.” He tried his voice. It shook a bit from the anticipation. Yeah, that was it, anticipation, not fear. He wouldn’t think about being afraid. “Under the sea…Darling it’s better, down where it’s wetter.” He pulled on the chain again. Still no movement. It surprised him how many of the words he remembered. He tried out his Jamaican accent. “Under the sea.”

  It moved. The metal was giving. Or was it his imagination? He strained, pulling as hard as he could. Yes, the slit between the two links grew little by little. Just a little more, and he could slip it through.

  The footsteps outside the door sent his heart plunging. No, just a few more seconds. He pulled with all his might as the locks clanked and screeched open.

  CHAPTER 76

  Christine tried to remember the last time she had eaten. How long had Timmy been gone? Too long. Whatever it was, it was too long. She pulled herself up off the old couch where Lucy had left her, somewhere in a back office used to store files.

  The couch smelled of stale cigarettes, though it looked clean. At least, there appeared to be no hideous stains. The rough-textured fabric left an imprint on her cheek. She could feel it tattooed into her skin.

  Her eyes burned. Her hair was a tangled mess. She couldn’t remember when she had combed it. Or brushed her teeth, though she was certain she had done all those things before her morning interview. God, that felt like days ago.

  The door opened, its squeak startling her. Her father came in carrying more water. If she drank one more glass, she would vomit. She smiled and took it from him, taking only a sip.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, thanks. I don’t think I’ve eaten today. I’m sure that’s why I got so light-headed.”

  “Yep. That’ll do it.”

  Without the glass he seemed uncertain what to do with his hands and shoved them into his pockets, a trait Christine recognized in Nick.

  “Why don’t I order you up some
soup,” he said. “Maybe a sandwich.”

  “No, thanks. I really don’t think I could eat.”

  “I called your mother. She’s trying to catch a flight later this evening. Hopefully, she’ll be here by morning.”

  “Thanks. It’ll be nice to have her here,” Christine lied. Her mother panicked at the mention of a crisis. How would she ever handle this? She wondered what her father had told her mother. How much had he watered down?

  “Now, don’t get upset, pumpkin, but I also called Bruce.”

  “Bruce?”

  “He has a right to know. Timmy is his son.”

  “Yes, of course, and Nick and I have been trying to contact him. You know where he is?”

  “No, but I have a phone number for emergencies.”

  “So you’ve known all along how to contact him?”

  Her father looked stunned. How dare she direct such shrill anger toward him.

  “And you knew that I’ve been trying to find him to make him pay child support for over eight months. Here, all this time, you’ve had his phone number?”

  “For emergencies, Christine.”

  “Seeing that his son has food on the table isn’t an emergency? How could you?”

  “You’re exaggerating, Christine. Your mom and I would never let you and Timmy struggle. Besides, Bruce said he left you with plenty in savings.”

  “That’s what he said?” She laughed, and she didn’t care that it sounded on the verge of hysteria.

  “He left us with exactly 164.21 in our savings account and over five thousand dollars of credit card bills.”

  She knew her father hated confrontation. She had spent a lifetime tiptoeing around the great Tony Morrelli, letting his opinions be the only ones, his feelings more important than anyone else’s. Her mother called it respect. Now Christine saw it for what it was—foolish.

  He paced in front of her, his hands deep in his pockets, the change noisily keeping his fingers busy.