A Perfect Evil (36 page)

M
aggie awoke groggy, her arms and legs heavy. She was cold. The fire had gone out. Nick was no longer beside her. She looked around the dark room and saw the back of his head, asleep on the sofa.

A flicker of light outside the window caught her eye. She sat up. There it was again. A dark shadow with a flashlight passed the window. Her heart began to pound. He had followed them from the river.

“Nick,” she whispered, but there was no movement. Her mind raced. Where had she left her gun? “Nick,” she tried again. No response.

The shadow disappeared. She crawled to the bottom of the staircase, watching the window. The room was lit only by the ghostly glow of the moon. She had taken off her gun when they first came in, on her way upstairs. She had laid it on a stand near the staircase. The stand was gone, moved, but where? Her eyes darted around the room. The pounding of her heart made her chest ache. It was cold without the fire, so cold her hands shook.

Then she heard the twist and click of the doorknob. She searched for a weapon, anything sharp, anything heavy. The metal clicked again and held. The door was locked. She grabbed a small lamp with a heavy metal base and ripped off the shade. She listened. Her breathing came in gasps and gulps. She tried to hold it as she listened again.

She crawled back to the sofa, clutching the lamp close to her.

“Nick,” she whispered and reached up to poke him. “Nick, wake up.” She shoved his shoulder, and his body rolled toward her, tumbling onto the floor. Her hand was smeared with blood. She looked down at him. Oh God, oh, dear God. She stuffed her bloody hand into her mouth to prevent the scream, to stop the terror. Nick’s blue eyes stared up at her, cold and vacant. Blood covered his shirtfront. His throat was slashed, the gaping wound still bleeding.

Then she saw the flicker of light again. The shadow was at the window, looking in, watching her, smiling. It was a face she recognized. It was Albert Stucky.

This time she awoke with a violent flaying of arms, beating and thrashing at anything nearby. Nick grabbed her wrists, preventing her from pummeling his chest. She tried to breathe, but it only came in rapid gasps. Her body shook, wild convulsions beyond her control.

“Maggie, it’s okay.” His voice was soft and soothing but alarmed and urgent. “Maggie, you’re safe.”

She stopped suddenly, though her body still shook. She stared into Nick’s eyes. They were warm blue, filled with concern, and they were alive. Her eyes darted around the room. A fire raged, licking at the huge logs Nick had fed it earlier. The room was lit by the fire’s warm yellow glow. Outside the window, snow glittered against the glass. There was no flicker of a flashlight. No Albert Stucky.

“Maggie, are you okay?” He held her fisted hands against his chest, caressing her wrists.

She looked into his eyes again. Her own were suddenly very tired. “It didn’t work,” she whispered. “You lied to me.”

“I’m sorry. You were sleeping peacefully for a while. Maybe I wasn’t holding you tight enough.” He smiled.

She relaxed her fists against his chest while his hands continued to caress her arms, moving up over her elbows, up inside the wide sleeves of the robe. They made it all the way to her shoulders before they began their slow descent. Inch by inch, they warmed her. But the chill was deeper, crawling beneath her skin like ice in her veins.

She leaned against him. He radiated heat. Her cheek brushed against his shirt, the warm cotton fibers. It wasn’t enough. She lifted herself away, just enough to give her fingers room while she unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. She avoided his eyes, and felt his body stiffen. His own hands stopped. Perhaps his breathing had, also. She opened the shirt, resisted the urge to run her hands over the bulging muscles, her fingers through the coarse hair. Instead, she leaned her face against him, listening to the thunder of his heart and allowing his heat to warm her. She only hoped he understood.

He trembled, though she knew he wasn’t cold. Then, finally, she felt his body relax. His breathing began again, a little rapid at first, though it was clear he was trying to steady it. His arms wrapped around her waist, but he allowed them no exploration, no caresses. He simply held her body close to his, and this time, he held her tightly.

M
aggie awoke groggy, her arms and legs heavy. She was cold. The fire had gone out. Nick was no longer beside her. She looked around the dark room and saw the back of his head, asleep on the sofa.

A flicker of light outside the window caught her eye. She sat up. There it was again. A dark shadow with a flashlight passed the window. Her heart began to pound. He had followed them from the river.

“Nick,” she whispered, but there was no movement. Her mind raced. Where had she left her gun? “Nick,” she tried again. No response.

The shadow disappeared. She crawled to the bottom of the staircase, watching the window. The room was lit only by the ghostly glow of the moon. She had taken off her gun when they first came in, on her way upstairs. She had laid it on a stand near the staircase. The stand was gone, moved, but where? Her eyes darted around the room. The pounding of her heart made her chest ache. It was cold without the fire, so cold her hands shook.

Then she heard the twist and click of the doorknob. She searched for a weapon, anything sharp, anything heavy. The metal clicked again and held. The door was locked. She grabbed a small lamp with a heavy metal base and ripped off the shade. She listened. Her breathing came in gasps and gulps. She tried to hold it as she listened again.

She crawled back to the sofa, clutching the lamp close to her.

“Nick,” she whispered and reached up to poke him. “Nick, wake up.” She shoved his shoulder, and his body rolled toward her, tumbling onto the floor. Her hand was smeared with blood. She looked down at him. Oh God, oh, dear God. She stuffed her bloody hand into her mouth to prevent the scream, to stop the terror. Nick’s blue eyes stared up at her, cold and vacant. Blood covered his shirtfront. His throat was slashed, the gaping wound still bleeding.

Then she saw the flicker of light again. The shadow was at the window, looking in, watching her, smiling. It was a face she recognized. It was Albert Stucky.

This time she awoke with a violent flaying of arms, beating and thrashing at anything nearby. Nick grabbed her wrists, preventing her from pummeling his chest. She tried to breathe, but it only came in rapid gasps. Her body shook, wild convulsions beyond her control.

“Maggie, it’s okay.” His voice was soft and soothing but alarmed and urgent. “Maggie, you’re safe.”

She stopped suddenly, though her body still shook. She stared into Nick’s eyes. They were warm blue, filled with concern, and they were alive. Her eyes darted around the room. A fire raged, licking at the huge logs Nick had fed it earlier. The room was lit by the fire’s warm yellow glow. Outside the window, snow glittered against the glass. There was no flicker of a flashlight. No Albert Stucky.

“Maggie, are you okay?” He held her fisted hands against his chest, caressing her wrists.

She looked into his eyes again. Her own were suddenly very tired. “It didn’t work,” she whispered. “You lied to me.”

“I’m sorry. You were sleeping peacefully for a while. Maybe I wasn’t holding you tight enough.” He smiled.

She relaxed her fists against his chest while his hands continued to caress her arms, moving up over her elbows, up inside the wide sleeves of the robe. They made it all the way to her shoulders before they began their slow descent. Inch by inch, they warmed her. But the chill was deeper, crawling beneath her skin like ice in her veins.

She leaned against him. He radiated heat. Her cheek brushed against his shirt, the warm cotton fibers. It wasn’t enough. She lifted herself away, just enough to give her fingers room while she unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. She avoided his eyes, and felt his body stiffen. His own hands stopped. Perhaps his breathing had, also. She opened the shirt, resisted the urge to run her hands over the bulging muscles, her fingers through the coarse hair. Instead, she leaned her face against him, listening to the thunder of his heart and allowing his heat to warm her. She only hoped he understood.

He trembled, though she knew he wasn’t cold. Then, finally, she felt his body relax. His breathing began again, a little rapid at first, though it was clear he was trying to steady it. His arms wrapped around her waist, but he allowed them no exploration, no caresses. He simply held her body close to his, and this time, he held her tightly.

C
hristine held her breath and double-clicked on Send. In minutes her article would spit out from the newsroom’s printer, then roll on the presses—presses that were actually stopped and waiting. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined being in this position.

Despite her exhaustion, the adrenaline had kept her mind racing and her fingers flying over the keyboard. Her palms were still sweaty. She wiped them on her jeans before she shut off the laptop computer, folded it shut and unplugged it from the phone jack. Modern technology—she didn’t understand how it worked, but she was grateful. It had allowed her son to sleep soundly down the hall while she pounded out her fifth consecutive front-page article. She wondered what the record was at the
Omaha Journal.

She glanced at her watch. The newspaper would be an hour late hitting the streets, but Corby seemed content. She gulped down the last of her coffee, avoiding the glob of cream and sugar congealed at the bottom. She couldn’t believe she had gotten through it without a cigarette.

She slid the laptop off the desk, knocking a pile of envelopes to the floor. Picking them up put an immediate end to her elation. Several were late notices for bills she couldn’t pay. One, from the State Department of Nebraska, remained unopened. It contained more forms in triplicate with old-fashioned blue carbon paper between each copy. How could she trust and believe in a state that still used carbon paper? This was the system that was going to track down her ex-husband and make him pay child support? It was bad enough that Bruce had screwed her. But how could he screw his son? She hated that Timmy couldn’t see his own father, that she didn’t even have a way to contact Bruce. And all because he didn’t want to pay her any child support.

She stuffed the pile of envelopes behind a lamp on the desk, hidden for the time being. Her newfound success had only brought a small raise in pay, and it would be weeks, months, before it made a difference.

She could sell the house. She plopped onto the sofa and looked around the room she had spent hours wallpapering. She had pulled up musty carpeting and sanded the wood floor herself until she saw her reflection in its varnished surface. Outside the window—now black with night—she knew every inch of her backyard. She had replaced scraggly bushes with beautiful pink roses. A brick walkway—bricks she had laid herself—had transformed her garden into a retreat. How could she be asked to give this up? Outside of Timmy, this house was all she had.

Nick didn’t understand,
couldn’t
understand. Her journalistic success wasn’t about hurting him. It was about saving herself. For once, she was doing something all on her own—not as Tony Morrelli’s daughter or Bruce Hamilton’s wife or Timmy’s mom, but as Christine Hamilton. It felt good.

She regretted all those years she had put on a show for her family and friends. She had played the role of supportive wife and good mother. All those years she had obsessed in making Bruce happy. For over a year she had known about the affair. It was hard to miss the credit card bills for hotels she had never stepped foot into and flowers she had never received. It had only made her more obsessed. If her husband was having an affair, it had to be her fault—something she lacked, something she wasn’t able to give him.

Now, it embarrassed her to remember the expensive Victoria’s Secret teddies she had bought to lure him back to her. Their lovemaking, which had never been fantastic, had become quick, sultry one-act plays. He had slammed into her as if punishing her for his own sins, then rolled over and slept. Too many nights she had snuck out of bed after waiting for his snores. She’d peeled off the sometimes torn and soiled teddies, and then cried in the shower. Even the pulsating, scalding water couldn’t make her whole again. And that the love had disappeared from their marriage was surely her fault, as well.

Christine curled up on the sofa and pulled an afghan over her shivering body. She was no longer that weak, obsessive wife. She was a successful journalist. She closed her eyes. That’s what she would concentrate on—success. Finally, after so many failures.

C
hristine held her breath and double-clicked on Send. In minutes her article would spit out from the newsroom’s printer, then roll on the presses—presses that were actually stopped and waiting. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined being in this position.

Despite her exhaustion, the adrenaline had kept her mind racing and her fingers flying over the keyboard. Her palms were still sweaty. She wiped them on her jeans before she shut off the laptop computer, folded it shut and unplugged it from the phone jack. Modern technology—she didn’t understand how it worked, but she was grateful. It had allowed her son to sleep soundly down the hall while she pounded out her fifth consecutive front-page article. She wondered what the record was at the
Omaha Journal.

She glanced at her watch. The newspaper would be an hour late hitting the streets, but Corby seemed content. She gulped down the last of her coffee, avoiding the glob of cream and sugar congealed at the bottom. She couldn’t believe she had gotten through it without a cigarette.

She slid the laptop off the desk, knocking a pile of envelopes to the floor. Picking them up put an immediate end to her elation. Several were late notices for bills she couldn’t pay. One, from the State Department of Nebraska, remained unopened. It contained more forms in triplicate with old-fashioned blue carbon paper between each copy. How could she trust and believe in a state that still used carbon paper? This was the system that was going to track down her ex-husband and make him pay child support? It was bad enough that Bruce had screwed her. But how could he screw his son? She hated that Timmy couldn’t see his own father, that she didn’t even have a way to contact Bruce. And all because he didn’t want to pay her any child support.

She stuffed the pile of envelopes behind a lamp on the desk, hidden for the time being. Her newfound success had only brought a small raise in pay, and it would be weeks, months, before it made a difference.

She could sell the house. She plopped onto the sofa and looked around the room she had spent hours wallpapering. She had pulled up musty carpeting and sanded the wood floor herself until she saw her reflection in its varnished surface. Outside the window—now black with night—she knew every inch of her backyard. She had replaced scraggly bushes with beautiful pink roses. A brick walkway—bricks she had laid herself—had transformed her garden into a retreat. How could she be asked to give this up? Outside of Timmy, this house was all she had.

Nick didn’t understand,
couldn’t
understand. Her journalistic success wasn’t about hurting him. It was about saving herself. For once, she was doing something all on her own—not as Tony Morrelli’s daughter or Bruce Hamilton’s wife or Timmy’s mom, but as Christine Hamilton. It felt good.

She regretted all those years she had put on a show for her family and friends. She had played the role of supportive wife and good mother. All those years she had obsessed in making Bruce happy. For over a year she had known about the affair. It was hard to miss the credit card bills for hotels she had never stepped foot into and flowers she had never received. It had only made her more obsessed. If her husband was having an affair, it had to be her fault—something she lacked, something she wasn’t able to give him.

Now, it embarrassed her to remember the expensive Victoria’s Secret teddies she had bought to lure him back to her. Their lovemaking, which had never been fantastic, had become quick, sultry one-act plays. He had slammed into her as if punishing her for his own sins, then rolled over and slept. Too many nights she had snuck out of bed after waiting for his snores. She’d peeled off the sometimes torn and soiled teddies, and then cried in the shower. Even the pulsating, scalding water couldn’t make her whole again. And that the love had disappeared from their marriage was surely her fault, as well.

Christine curled up on the sofa and pulled an afghan over her shivering body. She was no longer that weak, obsessive wife. She was a successful journalist. She closed her eyes. That’s what she would concentrate on—success. Finally, after so many failures.