A Perfect Evil (41 page)

F
ather Francis gathered the newspaper clippings and slid them into his leather portfolio. He stopped, held up his hands and stared at the brown spots, the bulging blue veins and the trembling that had become commonplace.

It had only been three months since Ronald Jeffreys’ execution. Three months since he had listened to the confession of the real killer. He could no longer keep silent. He could no longer preserve the sanctity of a killer’s confession. Maybe it wouldn’t make a difference, but he had convinced himself that it was the right thing to do.

He shuffled down the hall to the church. His footsteps were the only sound echoing off the majestic walls. No one waited for confession. It would be a quiet morning. Still, he entered the small confessional.

Despite his having seen no one in the church, the door in the black cubicle next to him opened within minutes. Father Francis sat up and laid his elbow on the shelf, allowing himself to lean closer to the wire-mesh window between the two small rooms.

“Bless me, Father, for I have killed again.”

Oh, dear God.
The panic came crashing against the old priest’s chest. It was difficult to breathe. Suddenly, the small, wooden box had only hot and stale air. The throbbing began in his ears. Father Francis strained to see beyond the thick wire mesh that separated them. All he could see, though, was a huddled black shadow.

“I killed Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner. For these sins, I am truly sorry and ask forgiveness.”

The voice was disguised, barely audible, as if forced through a mask. Was there anything, anything at all, that he could recognize?

“What is my penance?” the voice wanted to know.

Could he speak if he could not breathe?

“How can…” It was difficult. His chest ached. “How can I absolve you of your sins…heinous, horrible sins…if you only intend to do them again?”

“No, y-you don’t understand. I only bring them peace,” the voice sputtered. He obviously hadn’t come prepared for a confrontation, Father Francis realized with some degree of satisfaction. He had come only for absolution and to do his penance.

“I cannot absolve you of your sins if you intend to only go out and do it again.” Father Francis’ strong, unflinching voice surprised him.

“You must…you have to.”

“I absolved you once before, and you’ve made a mockery of the sacrament by committing the sin again, not once but twice.”

“I am truly sorry for my sins and ask forgiveness from God,” he tried again, mechanically saying the phrase like a child memorizing it for the first time.

“You must prove your remorse,” Father Francis said, suddenly feeling powerful. Perhaps he could influence this black shadow, make him face his demons, stop him once and for all. “You must show your repentance.”

“Yes. Yes, I will. Just tell me what my penance is.”

“Go prove your repentance and come back in a month.”

There was a pause.

“You aren’t absolving me?”

“If you can prove your worthiness by not killing, I will consider absolving you then.”

“You will not give me absolution?”

“Come back in a month.”

There was silence, but the shadow made no motion to leave. Father Francis leaned closer to the wire mesh, again straining to see into the pitch-black cube. There was a soft smack, then a hiss as a spray of saliva flew through the wire mesh, hitting him in the face.

“I’ll see you in hell, Father.” The low guttural tone sent shivers down Father Francis’ spine. He clung to the small shelf, gripping the Bible. And though the sticky saliva dripped down his chin, he couldn’t move even to wipe at it. When he heard the door open and the shadow exit, his paralyzed body made no attempt to follow or look out after him.

He sat for what seemed like hours. Thankfully, no one else came in. Perhaps the snow had kept other sinners home, he thought absently. Which meant no one had seen the shadowy figure enter or exit the confessional.

Finally, his heart resumed its normal beating. He could breathe again. He fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped his face with hands trembling more violently than usual. He held on to the walls of the small confessional as he eased himself out of the hard chair and onto wobbly knees. He gathered his leather portfolio and Bible and peered out. The church was empty and silent. Outside, he heard the laughter of children, probably crossing the parking lot to go sledding on Cutty’s Hill. At least they traveled in groups.

He shuffled to the front of the church, hanging on to the backs of pews as he made his way down the aisle. The panic and terror had exhausted him, drained him of energy. He would share this morning’s visit with Maggie O’Dell. The decision to do so made him feel stronger. Already the guilt lifted from his soul. Yes, it was the right thing to do. He started down the hallway from the church to the rectory, and even his feet seemed lighter. The ache in his chest eased to a mere annoyance.

On the way to his office he noticed that someone had left the door to the wine cellar open. He stopped in the doorway and peered down the dark steps. He could smell the musty dampness. A draft made him shiver. Was there a shadow? Down in the far corner, was someone huddled in the darkness?

He stepped onto the first step, clinging with a shaky hand to the railing. Was it his imagination, or was someone huddled between the stacked wine crates and the concrete wall?

He leaned forward on weak knees. He never saw the figure behind him. He only felt the violent shove that sent him sailing down the steps headfirst. His frail body crashed against the wall, and he tumbled the rest of the way. He was still conscious when he heard the steps creak, one by one by one. The sound of the slow descent sent terror through his aching body. He opened his mouth to scream but only a moan erupted. He couldn’t move, couldn’t run. His right leg was on fire and twisted beneath him at an abnormal angle.

The last step creaked just above him. He lifted his head in time to see a blaze of white canvas smash into his face. Then darkness.

F
ather Francis gathered the newspaper clippings and slid them into his leather portfolio. He stopped, held up his hands and stared at the brown spots, the bulging blue veins and the trembling that had become commonplace.

It had only been three months since Ronald Jeffreys’ execution. Three months since he had listened to the confession of the real killer. He could no longer keep silent. He could no longer preserve the sanctity of a killer’s confession. Maybe it wouldn’t make a difference, but he had convinced himself that it was the right thing to do.

He shuffled down the hall to the church. His footsteps were the only sound echoing off the majestic walls. No one waited for confession. It would be a quiet morning. Still, he entered the small confessional.

Despite his having seen no one in the church, the door in the black cubicle next to him opened within minutes. Father Francis sat up and laid his elbow on the shelf, allowing himself to lean closer to the wire-mesh window between the two small rooms.

“Bless me, Father, for I have killed again.”

Oh, dear God.
The panic came crashing against the old priest’s chest. It was difficult to breathe. Suddenly, the small, wooden box had only hot and stale air. The throbbing began in his ears. Father Francis strained to see beyond the thick wire mesh that separated them. All he could see, though, was a huddled black shadow.

“I killed Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner. For these sins, I am truly sorry and ask forgiveness.”

The voice was disguised, barely audible, as if forced through a mask. Was there anything, anything at all, that he could recognize?

“What is my penance?” the voice wanted to know.

Could he speak if he could not breathe?

“How can…” It was difficult. His chest ached. “How can I absolve you of your sins…heinous, horrible sins…if you only intend to do them again?”

“No, y-you don’t understand. I only bring them peace,” the voice sputtered. He obviously hadn’t come prepared for a confrontation, Father Francis realized with some degree of satisfaction. He had come only for absolution and to do his penance.

“I cannot absolve you of your sins if you intend to only go out and do it again.” Father Francis’ strong, unflinching voice surprised him.

“You must…you have to.”

“I absolved you once before, and you’ve made a mockery of the sacrament by committing the sin again, not once but twice.”

“I am truly sorry for my sins and ask forgiveness from God,” he tried again, mechanically saying the phrase like a child memorizing it for the first time.

“You must prove your remorse,” Father Francis said, suddenly feeling powerful. Perhaps he could influence this black shadow, make him face his demons, stop him once and for all. “You must show your repentance.”

“Yes. Yes, I will. Just tell me what my penance is.”

“Go prove your repentance and come back in a month.”

There was a pause.

“You aren’t absolving me?”

“If you can prove your worthiness by not killing, I will consider absolving you then.”

“You will not give me absolution?”

“Come back in a month.”

There was silence, but the shadow made no motion to leave. Father Francis leaned closer to the wire mesh, again straining to see into the pitch-black cube. There was a soft smack, then a hiss as a spray of saliva flew through the wire mesh, hitting him in the face.

“I’ll see you in hell, Father.” The low guttural tone sent shivers down Father Francis’ spine. He clung to the small shelf, gripping the Bible. And though the sticky saliva dripped down his chin, he couldn’t move even to wipe at it. When he heard the door open and the shadow exit, his paralyzed body made no attempt to follow or look out after him.

He sat for what seemed like hours. Thankfully, no one else came in. Perhaps the snow had kept other sinners home, he thought absently. Which meant no one had seen the shadowy figure enter or exit the confessional.

Finally, his heart resumed its normal beating. He could breathe again. He fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped his face with hands trembling more violently than usual. He held on to the walls of the small confessional as he eased himself out of the hard chair and onto wobbly knees. He gathered his leather portfolio and Bible and peered out. The church was empty and silent. Outside, he heard the laughter of children, probably crossing the parking lot to go sledding on Cutty’s Hill. At least they traveled in groups.

He shuffled to the front of the church, hanging on to the backs of pews as he made his way down the aisle. The panic and terror had exhausted him, drained him of energy. He would share this morning’s visit with Maggie O’Dell. The decision to do so made him feel stronger. Already the guilt lifted from his soul. Yes, it was the right thing to do. He started down the hallway from the church to the rectory, and even his feet seemed lighter. The ache in his chest eased to a mere annoyance.

On the way to his office he noticed that someone had left the door to the wine cellar open. He stopped in the doorway and peered down the dark steps. He could smell the musty dampness. A draft made him shiver. Was there a shadow? Down in the far corner, was someone huddled in the darkness?

He stepped onto the first step, clinging with a shaky hand to the railing. Was it his imagination, or was someone huddled between the stacked wine crates and the concrete wall?

He leaned forward on weak knees. He never saw the figure behind him. He only felt the violent shove that sent him sailing down the steps headfirst. His frail body crashed against the wall, and he tumbled the rest of the way. He was still conscious when he heard the steps creak, one by one by one. The sound of the slow descent sent terror through his aching body. He opened his mouth to scream but only a moan erupted. He couldn’t move, couldn’t run. His right leg was on fire and twisted beneath him at an abnormal angle.

The last step creaked just above him. He lifted his head in time to see a blaze of white canvas smash into his face. Then darkness.

C
hristine treated herself to Wanda’s homemade chicken noodle soup and buttercrust rolls. Corby had given her the morning off, but she had brought her notepad and jotted down ideas for tomorrow’s article. It was early, and the lunch crowd filtered in slowly, so she had a booth to herself in the far corner of the small diner. She sat next to the window and watched the few pedestrians shuffling through the snow.

Timmy had called and asked whether he and his friends could have lunch at the rectory with Father Keller. The priest had joined them sledding on Cutty’s Hill and, to make up for the inevitably canceled camping trip, he had invited the boys for roasted hot dogs and marshmallows by the huge fireplace in the church’s rectory.

“Great series of articles, Christine,” Angie Clark said as she refilled Christine’s cup with more steaming coffee.

Caught off guard, Christine swallowed the bite of warm bread. “Thanks.” She smiled and wiped a napkin across her mouth. “Your mom’s rolls are still the best around.”

“I keep telling her we should package and sell some of her baked goods, but she thinks if people can take home a batch, they won’t stay here for lunch or dinner.”

Christine knew that Angie was the financial mind behind her mother’s business. Not able to build on to the small diner, it was Angie’s advice to start a delivery service. After only six short months, they had added an extra cook and were keeping two vans and drivers busy, without jeopardizing their normal crowded breakfast, lunch and dinner rushes.

Sometimes Christine wondered why Angie had stayed in Platte City. She obviously had a mind for business and a body that drew plenty of attention. But after only two years at the university and a rumored affair with a married state senator, she had returned home to her widowed mother.

“How’s Nick?” Angie asked while pretending to rearrange the silverware on a nearby table.

“Right now he’s probably pissed at me again. He hasn’t appreciated my articles.” She knew that wasn’t what Angie had wanted to hear, but Christine had learned long ago to keep out of her brother’s love life.

“Next time you see him, tell him I said hi.”

Poor Angie. Nick probably hadn’t called her since any of this mess started. And though he denied it, Christine knew his mind was filled with the lovely and unavailable Maggie O’Dell. Perhaps his heart would finally get broken, and he’d get a taste of his own medicine.

She watched Angie greet two burly construction workers who came in and began peeling off their layers of jackets, hats and overalls. Why did women knock themselves out over Nick? It was something Christine had never understood as she had watched him go from one woman to another without any explanation or hesitation. He was a handsome, charming jerk, and even after days—maybe even weeks—of not calling, she knew Angie Clark would still welcome him back with open arms.

She sipped the steaming coffee and jotted down “coroner’s report.” George Tillie was an old family friend. He and her dad had been hunting buddies for years. Maybe George could supply her with some new information. As far as she could tell, the investigation was at a standstill.

Suddenly, the volume on the corner television blasted the room. She looked up just as Wanda Clark waved at her.

“Christine, listen to this.”

Bernard Shaw on CNN had just mentioned Platte City, Nebraska. A graphic behind him showed its location while Shaw talked about the bizarre series of murders. They flashed Christine’s Sunday headline, From the Grave, Serial Killer Still Grips Community With Boy’s Recent Murder, as Bernard described the murders and Jeffreys’ killing spree six years before.

“A source close to the investigation says the sheriff’s department still has no clues, and that the only suspect on their list is one who was executed three months ago.”

Christine cringed at Shaw’s hint of sarcasm, and for the first time she sympathized with Nick. The rest of the diner broke into applause and waved thumbs-up gestures at her. They’d simply heard that their town had made the national news. The sarcasm and befuddled-country-folk references fell on deaf ears.

The volume went down, and she went back to her notes. Soon her cellular phone began ringing, screaming at her from the bottom of her purse. She dug for it, removing wallet, hairbrush and lipstick and scattering them on the table. She looked up to find all eyes on her again. Finally, she ripped the contraption from the bag and waved it at her audience, who smiled and went back to their meals. The phone rang two more times before she found the On switch.

“Christine Hamilton.”

“Ms. Hamilton, hello. This is William Ramsey at KLTV Channel Five. I hope I’m not interrupting anything. Your office gave me this number.”

“I am having lunch, Mr. Ramsey. How can I help you?”

The last several nights the television station had depended on her newspaper articles for information on the murders. Other than a few fluff pieces interviewing relatives and neighbors, their newscasts had lacked the hype they counted on for ratings.

“I wonder if we might get together for breakfast or lunch tomorrow?”

“My schedule is very full, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Yes, of course it is. Then I guess I’ll have to get to the point.”

“That would be nice.”

“I’d like you to come work for Channel Five as a reporter and weekend coanchor.”

“Excuse me?” She almost choked on her roll.

“Your gutsy reporting on these murders is just the kind of thing we need here at Channel Five.”

“Mr. Ramsey, I’m a newspaper reporter. I don’t—”

“Your style of writing would lend itself very well to broadcast news. We’d be willing to coach you for the anchor position. And I happen to know you’re quite easy on the eyes.”

She wasn’t above flattery. Fact was, she craved it, having had so little in the past. But Corby and the
Omaha Journal
had given her a big break. No, she couldn’t even entertain the idea.

“I’m flattered, Mr. Ramsey, but I just can’t—”

“I’m prepared to offer you sixty thousand dollars a year if you start right away.”

Christine dropped her spoon. It catapulted off her bowl, splattering soup onto her lap. She made no motion to wipe it up.

“Excuse me?”

Her surprise must have sounded like another decline, because Ramsey hurriedly said, “Okay, I can go to sixty-five thousand. In fact, I’ll throw in a two-thousand-dollar bonus if you start this weekend.”

Sixty-five thousand dollars was more than twice the amount Christine made even with her meager pay increase. She could pay off her bills and not worry about hunting down Bruce for child support.

“Can I get back to you, Mr. Ramsey, after I’ve had some time to think about it?”

“Sure, of course you should think about it. Why don’t you sleep on it and give me a call in the morning.”

“Thank you. I will.” She slapped the phone shut and was still in a daze when Eddie Gillick slid into the booth next to her, shoving her up against the window. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“It was bad enough when you tricked me into giving you a quote for your newspaper article, but now your little brother is giving me chicken-shit assignments, so I figure you also told him I was your anonymous source.”

“Look, Deputy Gillick…”

“No, hey, it’s Eddie, remember?”

He helped himself to her coffee, adding a heap of sugar and gulping it without scalding himself. The smell of his aftershave lotion was overpowering.

“I didn’t exactly tell Nick. He—”

“No, that’s okay, because the way I figure it, now you owe me one.”

She felt his hand on her knee, and the look of contempt in his eyes immobilized her. His hand moved up her thigh and under her skirt before she wrestled it away. The corner of his mustache twitched into a smile as she felt the color rise into her face.

“Can I get you anything, Eddie?” Angie Clark stood over the table, obviously well aware that she was interrupting and not about to leave until she had succeeded.

“No, Angie dear,” Eddie said, still smiling at Christine. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay. I’ll just have to catch up with you later, Christine.”

He slid out of the booth, ran a hand over his slicked-down black hair and replaced his hat. Then he sauntered back down the aisle and out the door.

“You okay?”

“Of course,” Christine answered. She kept her trembling hands out of sight under the table.