A Perfect Evil (39 page)

N
o one had to tell him. Timmy just knew. Matthew was dead, just like Danny Alverez. That’s why Uncle Nick and Agent O’Dell left all of a sudden last night. Why his mom sent him to bed early. Why she stayed up almost all night writing for the newspaper on her new laptop computer.

He climbed out of bed early to listen to the school closings on the radio. There had to be at least a half foot of snow, and it was still coming down. It would be excellent tubing snow, though his mom forbade him to use anything but his boring plastic sled. It was bright orange and stuck out like some kind of emergency vehicle in the snow.

He found her asleep on the sofa, curled up in a tight ball and tangled in Grandma Morrelli’s afghan. Her hands were balled up in fists and tucked under her chin. She looked totally wiped, and he tiptoed into the kitchen, leaving her to sleep.

He tuned the radio to the news station, away from the sappy elevator music his mom listened to. She called it “soft rock.” Sometimes she acted so old. The announcer was already in the middle of the school announcements, and he turned the radio up loud enough to hear over his breakfast fumblings.

Instead of dragging a chair to the counter, he used the bottom two drawers to reach a bowl from the cupboard. He was tired of being short. He was smaller than all the boys in his class and even some of the girls. Uncle Nick told him he’d probably have a growth spurt and pass them all up, but Timmy didn’t see it coming anytime soon.

He was surprised to find an unopened box of Cap’n Crunch between the Cheerios and the Grape-Nuts. Either it had been on sale, or his mom hadn’t realized what she had bought. She never let him have the good stuff. He grabbed it and opened it before she discovered her mistake, pouring until the bowl overflowed. He munched the excess, making room for milk. As he poured, the radio announcer said, “Platte City Elementary and High School will be closed today.”

“Yes,” he whispered, containing his excitement so he didn’t spill any milk. And since tomorrow and Friday were teachers’ convention, that meant they had five days off. Wow, five whole days! Then he remembered the camping trip, and his excitement was short-lived. Would Father Keller call off the trip because of the snow? He hoped not.

“Timmy?” Wrapped in Grandma’s afghan, his mom padded into the kitchen. She looked funny with her hair all tangled and sleep crusted in the corners of her eyes. “Did they close school?”

“Yeah. Five days off.” He sat down and scooped up a spoonful of cereal before she noticed the Cap’n Crunch. “Do you think we’ll still go camping?” he asked over a mouthful, taking advantage of her being too tired to correct his manners.

She filled the coffee machine, shuffling back and forth. She almost tripped on the drawers he had left out and kicked them back in without yelling at him.

“I don’t know, Timmy. It’s only October. Tomorrow it could be forty degrees and the snow will all be gone. What are they saying about the weather on the radio?”

“So far it’s just been school closings. It’d be really cool to camp out in the snow.”

“It’d be really cold and stupid to camp out in the snow.”

“Ah, Mom, don’t you have any sense of adventure?”

“Not when it means you coming down with pneumonia. You get sick and hurt enough without any outside help.”

He wanted to remind her that he hadn’t been sick since last winter, but then she might bring up the soccer bruises again.

“Is it okay if I go sledding today with some of the guys?”

“You have to dress warm, and you can only use your sled. No inner tubes.”

The school closings were finally finished and the news came on. His mom turned up the volume just as the announcer said, “According to this morning’s
Omaha Journal,
another boy’s body was found along the Platte River last night. It has now been confirmed by the sheriff’s department that the boy is Matthew Tanner, who has been…”

His mom snapped the radio off, filling the room with silence. She stood with her back to him, pretending to be interested in something out the window. The coffee machine hummed, then started its ritual gurgling. Timmy’s spoon clicked against the bowl. The coffee smelled good, reminding him that it didn’t seem like morning until the kitchen was filled with that smell.

“Timmy.” His mom came around to the table and sat across from him. “The man on the radio is right. They did find Matthew last night.”

“I know,” he said and kept eating, though the cereal didn’t taste as good all of a sudden.

“You know? How do you know?”

“I figured that’s why Uncle Nick and Agent O’Dell left in such a hurry last night. And why you were up all night working.”

She reached across the table and brushed his hair off his forehead. “God, you’re growing up fast.”

She caressed his cheek. In public he’d have batted her hand away, but it was okay here. He actually kind of liked it.

“Where did you get Cap’n Crunch cereal?”

“You bought it. It was down with the other cereals.” He filled his bowl again though it wasn’t quite empty, just in case she took the box away.

“I must have grabbed it by mistake.”

The coffee was ready. She got up, leaving the afghan draped over the back of the chair and the box of cereal on the table.

“Mom, what does dead feel like?”

She spilled coffee all over the counter and snatched a towel to stop the puddle from running over the edge.

“Sorry,” he said, realizing it had been his question that had caused her clumsiness. Adults got so bent out of shape about stuff.

“I really don’t know, Timmy. That’s probably a good question for Father Keller.”

N
o one had to tell him. Timmy just knew. Matthew was dead, just like Danny Alverez. That’s why Uncle Nick and Agent O’Dell left all of a sudden last night. Why his mom sent him to bed early. Why she stayed up almost all night writing for the newspaper on her new laptop computer.

He climbed out of bed early to listen to the school closings on the radio. There had to be at least a half foot of snow, and it was still coming down. It would be excellent tubing snow, though his mom forbade him to use anything but his boring plastic sled. It was bright orange and stuck out like some kind of emergency vehicle in the snow.

He found her asleep on the sofa, curled up in a tight ball and tangled in Grandma Morrelli’s afghan. Her hands were balled up in fists and tucked under her chin. She looked totally wiped, and he tiptoed into the kitchen, leaving her to sleep.

He tuned the radio to the news station, away from the sappy elevator music his mom listened to. She called it “soft rock.” Sometimes she acted so old. The announcer was already in the middle of the school announcements, and he turned the radio up loud enough to hear over his breakfast fumblings.

Instead of dragging a chair to the counter, he used the bottom two drawers to reach a bowl from the cupboard. He was tired of being short. He was smaller than all the boys in his class and even some of the girls. Uncle Nick told him he’d probably have a growth spurt and pass them all up, but Timmy didn’t see it coming anytime soon.

He was surprised to find an unopened box of Cap’n Crunch between the Cheerios and the Grape-Nuts. Either it had been on sale, or his mom hadn’t realized what she had bought. She never let him have the good stuff. He grabbed it and opened it before she discovered her mistake, pouring until the bowl overflowed. He munched the excess, making room for milk. As he poured, the radio announcer said, “Platte City Elementary and High School will be closed today.”

“Yes,” he whispered, containing his excitement so he didn’t spill any milk. And since tomorrow and Friday were teachers’ convention, that meant they had five days off. Wow, five whole days! Then he remembered the camping trip, and his excitement was short-lived. Would Father Keller call off the trip because of the snow? He hoped not.

“Timmy?” Wrapped in Grandma’s afghan, his mom padded into the kitchen. She looked funny with her hair all tangled and sleep crusted in the corners of her eyes. “Did they close school?”

“Yeah. Five days off.” He sat down and scooped up a spoonful of cereal before she noticed the Cap’n Crunch. “Do you think we’ll still go camping?” he asked over a mouthful, taking advantage of her being too tired to correct his manners.

She filled the coffee machine, shuffling back and forth. She almost tripped on the drawers he had left out and kicked them back in without yelling at him.

“I don’t know, Timmy. It’s only October. Tomorrow it could be forty degrees and the snow will all be gone. What are they saying about the weather on the radio?”

“So far it’s just been school closings. It’d be really cool to camp out in the snow.”

“It’d be really cold and stupid to camp out in the snow.”

“Ah, Mom, don’t you have any sense of adventure?”

“Not when it means you coming down with pneumonia. You get sick and hurt enough without any outside help.”

He wanted to remind her that he hadn’t been sick since last winter, but then she might bring up the soccer bruises again.

“Is it okay if I go sledding today with some of the guys?”

“You have to dress warm, and you can only use your sled. No inner tubes.”

The school closings were finally finished and the news came on. His mom turned up the volume just as the announcer said, “According to this morning’s
Omaha Journal,
another boy’s body was found along the Platte River last night. It has now been confirmed by the sheriff’s department that the boy is Matthew Tanner, who has been…”

His mom snapped the radio off, filling the room with silence. She stood with her back to him, pretending to be interested in something out the window. The coffee machine hummed, then started its ritual gurgling. Timmy’s spoon clicked against the bowl. The coffee smelled good, reminding him that it didn’t seem like morning until the kitchen was filled with that smell.

“Timmy.” His mom came around to the table and sat across from him. “The man on the radio is right. They did find Matthew last night.”

“I know,” he said and kept eating, though the cereal didn’t taste as good all of a sudden.

“You know? How do you know?”

“I figured that’s why Uncle Nick and Agent O’Dell left in such a hurry last night. And why you were up all night working.”

She reached across the table and brushed his hair off his forehead. “God, you’re growing up fast.”

She caressed his cheek. In public he’d have batted her hand away, but it was okay here. He actually kind of liked it.

“Where did you get Cap’n Crunch cereal?”

“You bought it. It was down with the other cereals.” He filled his bowl again though it wasn’t quite empty, just in case she took the box away.

“I must have grabbed it by mistake.”

The coffee was ready. She got up, leaving the afghan draped over the back of the chair and the box of cereal on the table.

“Mom, what does dead feel like?”

She spilled coffee all over the counter and snatched a towel to stop the puddle from running over the edge.

“Sorry,” he said, realizing it had been his question that had caused her clumsiness. Adults got so bent out of shape about stuff.

“I really don’t know, Timmy. That’s probably a good question for Father Keller.”

T
he breakfast Maggie had ordered from Wanda’s sat untouched on the small table. It had come bundled in an insulated pack, served on stoneware and encased in stainless-steel covers. Steam had risen from the plate when the desk clerk had proudly unveiled it as though he had prepared it himself.

She was becoming a regular of Wanda’s cuisine without ever stepping foot in the diner. And although the golden eggs, butter-slathered toast and glistening sausage links smelled and looked delicious, she had lost her appetite. She had left it somewhere on the bathroom floor while she fought to gain control over her panic. The only thing she touched was the frothy cappuccino. One sip, and she thanked Wanda for having the good sense to invest in a cappuccino maker.

Her laptop occupied the other side of the table, close to the wall where a recently installed phone jack allowed the hotel to advertise itself to business travelers. She paced while her computer slowly connected her to Quantico’s general database. She wasn’t able to access any classified information. The FBI remained skeptical about the confidentiality of modems, and rightly so. They were constantly a target for hackers.

She had already put in several calls to Dr. Avery. The old-fashioned desktop phone confined her to the bed, so she couldn’t do her usual pacing. She stretched out on the hard mattress. After her shower, she had put on jeans and her Packers jersey. The exhaustion was overwhelming. It had taken every last bit of her strength to pull herself together, and that frightened her. How could one simple note provoke such terror? She had received notes from killers before. They were harmless. It was only a part of the sick game. It came with the territory. If she were going to dig into a killer’s psyche, she had to be prepared for the killer to dig back.

Albert Stucky’s notes had not been harmless. God, she needed to get past Stucky. He was behind bars and would be there until they executed him. She was safe. At least this note hadn’t been accompanied by a severed finger or nipple. Besides, the note was now carefully packaged and on its way Express Mail to a lab at Quantico. Maybe the idiot had sent her his own arrest warrant by leaving his fingerprints or his saliva on the envelope’s seal.

By this evening, she would be on a plane home, and this bastard wouldn’t be able to play his sick, little game. She had done her job, more than what was asked. So why did it feel as if she was running away? Because that’s exactly what she was doing. She needed to leave Platte City, Nebraska, before this killer unraveled any more of her already frazzled psyche. She could feel the vulnerable fray already, starting when she had cowered on the cold bathroom floor.

Yes, she needed to leave, and she needed to do it quickly—today—while she still felt in control. She would tie up a few loose ends and then get the hell out. Get out while she was still in one piece. Get out before she started coming apart at the seams.

She decided to make a quick phone call while she waited for her computer to connect on the other line. She found the number in the thin directory and dialed. After several rings, a deep male voice answered, “St. Margaret’s rectory.”

“Father Francis, please.”

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

She couldn’t tell whether or not the voice belonged to Howard.

“This is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell. Is this Mr. Howard?”

There was a brief pause. Instead of answering her question, he said, “One moment, please.”

It took several moments. She turned to see the computer screen. Finally, the connection was completed. Quantico’s royal-blue logo blinked across the screen.

“Maggie O’Dell, what a pleasure to talk with you again.” Father Francis’ high-pitched voice was almost singsong.

“Father Francis, I wonder if I might ask you a few more questions.”

“Why, certainly.” There was a faint
click-click.

“Father Francis?”

“I’m still here.”

And so was someone else. She’d ask the questions, anyway. Make the intruder sweat.

“What can you tell me about the church’s summer camp?”

“Summer camp? That’s really Father Keller’s project. You might speak to him about it.”

“Yes, of course. I will. Did he start the project, or was it something St. Margaret’s has been doing for years?”

“Father Keller started it when he first came. I believe that was the summer of 1990. It was an instant success. Of course, he had a track record. He had been running one at his previous parish.”

“Really? Where was that?”

“Up in Maine. Let’s see, I usually have a very good memory. Wood something. Wood River. Yes, Wood River, Maine. We were quite lucky to get him.”

“Yes, I’m sure you were. I look forward to talking to him. Thanks for your help, Father.”

“Agent O’Dell,” he stopped her. “Is that all you needed to ask me?”

“Yes, but you’ve been very helpful.”

“Actually, I was wondering if you found the answers to your other questions. Your inquiries about Ronald Jeffreys?”

She hesitated. She didn’t want to sound abrupt, but she didn’t want to discuss what she knew with someone listening. “Yes, I think we did find the answers. Thanks again for your help.”

“Agent O’Dell.” He sounded concerned, the lilt no longer present in his voice. If she wasn’t mistaken, he suddenly sounded distressed. “I may have some additional information, though I’m not certain of its importance.”

“Father Francis, I can’t talk right now. I’m expecting an important phone call,” she interrupted before he revealed anything more. “Could I meet you perhaps later?”

“Yes, that would be nice. I have morning confessions and then rounds at the hospital this afternoon, so I won’t be free until after four o’clock.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ll be at the hospital this afternoon. Why don’t I meet you in the cafeteria about four-fifteen?”

“I look forward to it. Goodbye, Maggie O’Dell.”

She waited for him to hang up, then heard the second set of clicks. There was no mistake. Someone had been listening.