A Perfect Evil (25 page)

T
he office was simple and small with a gray metal desk and matching credenza. Shelves displayed a variety of trophies—all football championships of some sort. Several pictures hung on the wall behind the desk. Maggie sank into the soft leather chair, the only extravagance in the otherwise plain office. She picked up the phone while she got a better look at the wall of honor.

There were several photos of young men clad in red and white football jerseys. One photo was obviously a young Morrelli under the sweat and dirt. He stood proudly next to an older gentleman, who, from the scratched autograph, was a Coach Osborne.

In the corner, almost hidden behind a file cabinet, hung two framed degrees collecting dust. One was from the University of Nebraska. The other was a law degree from… Maggie almost dropped the phone. The other was a law degree from Harvard University. She stood up to examine it more closely, then sat back down, embarrassed that she even, for one fleeting moment, thought it a fake, a practical joke. It was, in fact, very real.

She looked back at the football photo. Sheriff Nicholas Morrelli was certainly full of surprises. The more she learned, the more curious she became. It didn’t help matters that they seemed to spark off each other with an unhealthy amount of electricity. It was a part of Nick Morrelli’s personality. It was not, however, a part of her own, and she found it annoying.

She and Greg had always had a comfortable relationship. Even in the beginning it wasn’t so much heat or chemistry that had brought them together, but friendship and common goals. Goals that had changed over the years. And a friendship that had turned to complacency. They didn’t even extend each other the common courtesies of friendship anymore. Lately, she wondered if they had drifted apart, or if they had ever been close.

It didn’t matter. Marriage was something a person worked at, despite the changes. She believed that. She wouldn’t have made it this far if she didn’t. Now, at least, Greg had called her, made the first move toward reconciliation. That had to be a good sign.

She dialed his office and waited patiently through four, five, six rings.

“Brackman, Harvey and Lowe. How may I help you?”

“Greg Stewart, please.”

“Mr. Stewart is in a meeting, may I take a message?”

“Could you please see if you can interrupt him. This is his wife. He’s been trying to reach me all morning.”

There was a pause while the receptionist decided how unreasonable a request it was. “One moment, please.”

One moment turned into two, then three. Finally, after five minutes, Greg’s voice said, “Maggie, thank God, I got ahold of you.” His voice sounded urgent, but not remorseful. She was immediately disappointed instead of alarmed. “Why isn’t your cellular phone turned on?” Even in his urgency he had to get in a scolding.

“I forgot to recharge it. I’ll have it by this evening.”

“Well, never mind.” He sounded irritated, as if she were the one who had brought it up. “It’s your mother.” His tone automatically changed to that sympathetic one he used with clients who had just lost their case. She dug her fingernails into the leather armrest and waited for him to continue. “She’s in the hospital.”

Maggie leaned her head back, closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “What was it this time?”

“I think she might be getting serious, Maggie. She used a razor blade this time.”

M
aggie hung up the phone and massaged her temples. A throbbing invaded her head, reaching down into her neck and shoulder blades. She had spent the last twenty minutes arguing with the doctor assigned to her mother’s case. He had graduated at the top of his class, the arrogant, little bastard had reassured her. Fresh out of medical school and he thought he knew it all. Well, he didn’t know her mother. He hadn’t even looked at her history yet. When Maggie recommended he call her mother’s therapist, he sounded relieved, even grateful when she gave him the name and phone number. She wondered how many people kept the name and phone number of their mother’s therapist in their memory bank.

They
did
agree that Maggie shouldn’t hop on the next plane to Richmond. Her mother was screaming for attention, but Maggie dropping everything and rushing to her side only seemed to reinforce the behavior. Or at least it had the last five times. Dear God, Maggie thought, one of these times her mother would succeed, if only by sheer accident. And although she agreed with Greg that razor blades were a serious advancement, the cuts—according to Dr. Boy Wonder—were horizontal, not vertical.

Maggie sank her throbbing head into the soft leather back of the chair and closed her eyes. She had been taking care of her mother since she was twelve. And what did a twelve-year-old girl, who had just lost her father, know about taking care of anyone? Sometimes she felt as though she had let her mother down, until she remembered that it was her mother who had abandoned her with her drunken stupors.

There was a soft tap on the frosted glass of the office door. Without prompting, the door eased open just enough for Morrelli to peek in.

“O’Dell, you okay in here?”

She remained paralyzed, her body scrunched down in the chair. Suddenly, legs, arms, everything seemed too heavy to move. “I’m fine,” she managed to say, but knew immediately that she didn’t sound or look very convincing.

His brow furrowed, and soft blue eyes showed concern. He hesitated, then came into the office slowly, cautiously. He set a can of Diet Pepsi in front of her. The cold condensation dripped down the side, and she wondered how long he had stood outside his own office before getting the nerve to come in.

“Thanks.” She still made no effort to move, and it obviously made Morrelli uncomfortable. He stood with arms crossed, then shoved his hands into his pockets.

“You look like hell,” he finally said.

“Thanks a lot, Morrelli.” But she smiled.

“Listen, could you do me a favor? Call me Nick. Every time you call me Morrelli or Sheriff Morrelli, I start looking around for my dad.”

“Okay, I’ll try.” Even her eyelids felt heavy. If she closed her eyes right this minute, would she finally sleep?

“Lucy is ordering lunch up from Wanda’s. What can I get for you? Blue plate special on Monday is meat loaf, but I’d recommend the chicken-fried steak sandwich.”

“I’m really not very hungry.”

“I’ve been with you since two this morning, and you haven’t eaten a thing. You need to eat, O’Dell. I’m not going to be responsible for you whittling away that cute little…” He caught himself, but it was too late. The embarrassment washed over his face. He wiped a hand across his jaw as if to erase it. “I’m ordering a ham and cheese sandwich for you.” He turned to leave.

“On rye?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Okay.”

“And with hot mustard?”

Now he smiled, and there were definitely dimples. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that, O’Dell?”

“Hey, Nick.” She stopped him again.

“What now?”

“Call me Maggie.”

M
aggie hung up the phone and massaged her temples. A throbbing invaded her head, reaching down into her neck and shoulder blades. She had spent the last twenty minutes arguing with the doctor assigned to her mother’s case. He had graduated at the top of his class, the arrogant, little bastard had reassured her. Fresh out of medical school and he thought he knew it all. Well, he didn’t know her mother. He hadn’t even looked at her history yet. When Maggie recommended he call her mother’s therapist, he sounded relieved, even grateful when she gave him the name and phone number. She wondered how many people kept the name and phone number of their mother’s therapist in their memory bank.

They
did
agree that Maggie shouldn’t hop on the next plane to Richmond. Her mother was screaming for attention, but Maggie dropping everything and rushing to her side only seemed to reinforce the behavior. Or at least it had the last five times. Dear God, Maggie thought, one of these times her mother would succeed, if only by sheer accident. And although she agreed with Greg that razor blades were a serious advancement, the cuts—according to Dr. Boy Wonder—were horizontal, not vertical.

Maggie sank her throbbing head into the soft leather back of the chair and closed her eyes. She had been taking care of her mother since she was twelve. And what did a twelve-year-old girl, who had just lost her father, know about taking care of anyone? Sometimes she felt as though she had let her mother down, until she remembered that it was her mother who had abandoned her with her drunken stupors.

There was a soft tap on the frosted glass of the office door. Without prompting, the door eased open just enough for Morrelli to peek in.

“O’Dell, you okay in here?”

She remained paralyzed, her body scrunched down in the chair. Suddenly, legs, arms, everything seemed too heavy to move. “I’m fine,” she managed to say, but knew immediately that she didn’t sound or look very convincing.

His brow furrowed, and soft blue eyes showed concern. He hesitated, then came into the office slowly, cautiously. He set a can of Diet Pepsi in front of her. The cold condensation dripped down the side, and she wondered how long he had stood outside his own office before getting the nerve to come in.

“Thanks.” She still made no effort to move, and it obviously made Morrelli uncomfortable. He stood with arms crossed, then shoved his hands into his pockets.

“You look like hell,” he finally said.

“Thanks a lot, Morrelli.” But she smiled.

“Listen, could you do me a favor? Call me Nick. Every time you call me Morrelli or Sheriff Morrelli, I start looking around for my dad.”

“Okay, I’ll try.” Even her eyelids felt heavy. If she closed her eyes right this minute, would she finally sleep?

“Lucy is ordering lunch up from Wanda’s. What can I get for you? Blue plate special on Monday is meat loaf, but I’d recommend the chicken-fried steak sandwich.”

“I’m really not very hungry.”

“I’ve been with you since two this morning, and you haven’t eaten a thing. You need to eat, O’Dell. I’m not going to be responsible for you whittling away that cute little…” He caught himself, but it was too late. The embarrassment washed over his face. He wiped a hand across his jaw as if to erase it. “I’m ordering a ham and cheese sandwich for you.” He turned to leave.

“On rye?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Okay.”

“And with hot mustard?”

Now he smiled, and there were definitely dimples. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that, O’Dell?”

“Hey, Nick.” She stopped him again.

“What now?”

“Call me Maggie.”

“D
o you like the baseball cards?” The mask muffled his voice. He sounded as though he were underwater. With all the dripping perspiration, he felt like it, too.

Matthew stared at him from the small bed in the corner. He sat on top of tangled bedcovers and hugged a pillow to his chest. His eyes were red and puffy. His hair stuck up in places. His soccer uniform was wrinkled. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes to sleep last night.

Light filtered in through cracks in the boarded-up window. Pieces of broken glass rattled as the wind crept in through the rotted slats. It whistled and howled, creating a ghostly moan and licking at the corners of the posters hiding the cracked walls. It was the only sound in the room. The boy hadn’t said a word all morning.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked.

When he approached, the boy skittered into the corner, smashing his small body against the crumbling plaster. The chain that connected his ankle to the steel bedpost clanked. There was enough length for the boy to reach the middle of the room. Yet, the cheeseburger and fries he had left last night sat untouched on the metal tray table. Even the triple-chocolate shake was still filled to the brim.

“Didn’t you like your dinner, or do you prefer hot dogs? Maybe even chili dogs? You can have anything you want.”

“I wanna go home,” Matthew whispered, squeezing the pillow, one hand twisted so he could bite his fingernails. Several were chewed down to the quick and had bled during the night. Dried blood spotted the white cotton pillowcase. It would be hell to wash out.

“Maybe you’d enjoy comic books more than baseball cards. I have some old Flash Gordons I bet you’d like. I’ll bring them with me next time.”

He finished unpacking the contents of the grocery sack: three oranges, a bag of Cheetos, two Snickers bars, a six-pack of Hires root beer, two cans of SpaghettiOs and a snack pack of Jell-O chocolate pudding. He laid each item on the old wine crate he had found in what must have been a supply room. He had gone to great lengths to get all of Matthew’s favorites.

“It may get chilly tonight,” he said as he unrolled the thick wool blanket and draped it over the bed. “I’m sorry I can’t leave a light. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“I wanna go home,” the boy whispered again.

“Your mom doesn’t have the time to take care of you, Matthew.”

“I want my mom.”

“She’s never home. And I bet she brings strange men home at night, doesn’t she? Ever since she threw your dad out.” He kept his voice calm and soothing.

“Please let me go home.”

“She leaves you alone all the time. She works late. She even works on weekends.”

“I just wanna go home.” The boy began to cry, quiet sniffles he muffled with the pillow.

“And you can’t stay with your dad.” Calm and cool. He must remain calm, though already he could feel the anger starting in his gut. “Your dad beats you, doesn’t he, Matthew?”

“I just wanna go home,” the boy whined, no longer keeping quiet.

“I’m going to help you, Matthew. I’m going to save you. But you must be patient. Look, I brought all your favorite things.”

But still, the boy cried, a high-pitched whine that made him grimace. He felt the explosion racing up from his stomach. He must control it. Calm, why couldn’t he just remain calm? Yes, cool and calm.

“I wanna go home.” The wail grated.

“Goddamn it! Shut up, you fucking crybaby.”