A Perfect Evil (43 page)

T
he door flung open just in time for Nick to see Maggie race back across the room.

“Come on in,” she yelled to him as she poked at the keyboard of her laptop computer. Then, she stood back and watched the screen. “I’m accessing some information from Quantico’s database. It’s proving to be very interesting.”

He came into the small hotel room slowly, passing the bathroom, and was immediately accosted by the scent of her shampoo and perfume. She wore jeans and the same sexy Packers jersey from the other night. Its color was faded. The neckline was stretched and misshapen so that it draped down and exposed a bare shoulder. Knowing she had nothing underneath made him hot, and he tried to divert his attention to something, anything else.

She glanced up at him, then did a double take. “What happened to your face?”

“Christine didn’t wait. There was an article in this morning’s paper.”

“And Michelle Tanner saw it before you got there?”

“Sort of. Someone told her about it.”

“She hit you?”

“No,” he snapped, then realized there was no need to be so defensive. “Her ex-husband, Matthew’s dad, sort of let me have it.”

“Jesus, Morrelli, don’t you know how to duck?”

The anger must have still been in his eyes, because she quickly added, “Sorry. You should put some ice on it.”

Unlike Lucy, Maggie went back to the computer screen, offering no nursing services.

“How’s the shoulder?”

She looked up again. Her eyes met his. For a brief moment they softened, remembering. Then she quickly looked away. “It’s okay.” She rolled it as if to check. “It’s still pretty sore.”

The Packers jersey slipped further down her shoulder, revealing creamy, soft skin. It easily distracted him. God, he wanted to touch her so bad it hurt. It didn’t help matters that her rumpled bed was just feet away.

“So, you’re a Packers fan.” He filled the silence while she clicked through information on the computer screen.

“Actually, my dad grew up in Green Bay,” she said without looking up. The computer screen changed quickly as she scanned its contents. “My husband keeps trying to get me to throw this old thing away. But it’s one of the few things I have that reminds me of my dad. It was his. He used to wear it when we watched the games together.”

“Used to?”

There was a pause, and he knew it had nothing to do with the information on the screen. He watched her tuck her hair behind her ears and recognized it as a nervous habit.

“He was killed when I was twelve.”

“I’m sorry. Was he an FBI agent, too?”

She stopped and stood up straight, pretending to stretch, only he knew it was to buy time. It was easy to see the subject of her father brought back memories.

“No, a firefighter. He died a hero. I guess you and I have that in common.” She smiled up at him. “Except your father managed to stay alive.”

“Just remember, my father had a lot of help.”

She searched his eyes, and this time he quickly looked away before she saw something he wasn’t ready to reveal.

“You don’t think he had something to do with Jeffreys being framed, do you?”

He felt her watching him. He purposely came up beside her to view the computer screen, making it impossible for her to examine his eyes.

“He gained the most from Jeffreys’ capture. I don’t know what I believe.”

“Here it is,” she said, watching the screen fill with what looked like newspaper articles.

“What is this?” He leaned forward. “The
Wood River Gazette,
November 1989. Where is Wood River?”

“Maine.” She poked at the scroll button, scanning the headlines. Then she stopped and pointed to one.

“’Boy’s Mutilated Body Found Near River.’ This sounds familiar.” He started reading the article that stretched over three columns of the front page.

“Guess who was a junior pastor at Wood River’s St. Mary’s Catholic Church?”

He stopped, looked back at her and rubbed his jaw. “You still don’t have any evidence. It’s all circumstantial. Why didn’t this case come up during Jeffreys’ trial?”

“There was no need. From what I’ve been able to find, a transient working at St. Mary’s Church took the blame.”

“Or maybe he did it.” He hated where this was leading. “How did you find out about it?”

“Just a hunch. When I talked to Father Francis this morning, he told me Father Keller had started a similar summer camp at his previous parish in Wood River, Maine.”

“So you looked for murdered boys in the area at the time he was there.”

“I didn’t have to look very hard. This murder matches right down to the X. Circumstantial or not, Father Keller needs to be considered a suspect.” She closed down the program and shut off the computer.

“I’ve got to meet George in about an hour,” Maggie said, “then I’m meeting with Father Francis.” She started taking clothes out of the closet and laying them on the bed. “I need to leave for Richmond tonight. My mother’s in the hospital.” She avoided looking at him while she pulled more of her things from drawers.

“Jesus, Maggie, is she okay?”

“Sort of…I guess she will be. I’ll have some information for you on disk. Can you access Microsoft Word?”

“Sure…yeah, I think so.” Her matter-of-fact attitude flustered him. Was something wrong, or was she simply concerned about her mother?

“I’ll leave my notes from this afternoon’s autopsy with George. If I find out anything from Father Francis, I’ll call you.”

“You’re not coming back, are you?” The realization struck him like another fist to the jaw. It also stopped her. She turned to face him, though her eyes darted from his to the blank computer screen to his to the mess on the bed. She had never had a tough time meeting his eyes before.

“Technically, I finished what I was asked to do. You have a profile and maybe even a suspect. I’m not even sure that I need to be involved with this second autopsy.”

“So that’s it?” He shoved his hands into his pockets. Suddenly, he felt nauseated at the thought of never seeing her again.

“I’m sure the Bureau will send someone else to help you.”

“But not you?” He caught something in her eyes. Was it a flicker of regret, sadness? Whatever it was, she didn’t let him see it. She started filling her suitcase. “Does this have anything to do with what happened this morning?”

“Nothing happened this morning,” she snapped, and stopped shoving things into her bag. She kept her back to him. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.” Then she glanced over her shoulder at him. “Look, Nick, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.” She kept her hands busy folding, tucking and shuffling items into her bag.

Of course, she hadn’t given him the wrong impression. He had done that all on his own. But what about the heat, the electricity? He certainly hadn’t imagined that.

“I’m gonna miss you.” The words surprised him. He hadn’t meant to say them out loud.

She stopped, straightened and turned slowly, this time meeting his eyes. Those luscious brown eyes made him weak in the knees, like a high-school kid admitting to his first girlfriend that he liked her. Jesus, what was wrong with him?

“You’ve been a pain in the ass, O’Dell, but I’m going to miss you giving me a hard time.” There. He corrected his slip.

She smiled. There was the hair-tuck behind the ears. At least she wasn’t totally in control.

“Do you need a lift to the airport?”

“No, I have a rental I need to turn in.”

“Well, have a good flight.” It sounded cold and pathetic when what he really wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and convince her to stay. He crossed the room to leave in three long strides, hoping his knees didn’t buckle.

“Nick.”

He stopped at the door, his hand on the handle, and glanced back at her. She paused, and in a brief moment he saw her change her mind from whatever she was going to say.

“Good luck,” she said simply.

He nodded and left, feeling lead in his shoes and an ache in his chest that made it hard to breathe.

M
aggie watched the door close as her hands strangled and twisted a silk blouse.

Why didn’t she just tell Nick about the note, about Albert Stucky? He had understood about the nightmares. Maybe he’d understand about this. Maybe he’d understand that she just couldn’t allow herself to be psychologically poked and probed by another madman. Not now. Not when she felt so vulnerable, so damn fragile, like she could shatter into a million tiny pieces, just as she had earlier on the bathroom floor. She couldn’t risk it. It would cloud her judgment.

Perhaps it already had. Last night in the woods she hadn’t even seen the killer coming at her until it was too late. He could easily have killed her. But like Albert Stucky, this killer wanted her alive, and oddly enough, that terrified her even more. Somehow she knew sharing all that with anyone would make her feel more vulnerable. No, it was best this way—to leave Nick and everyone else thinking her departure was only because of her mother.

She stuffed the garment bag, crushing and wrinkling her dry-cleanables. Director Cunningham had been right. She needed to take some time off. Maybe she and Greg could take a trip. Someplace warm and sunny, where it didn’t get dark at six in the evening.

The phone rang, and she jumped as if it were a gunshot. She had already talked to Dr. Avery. Her mother had survived the seventy-two-hour suicide watch and was doing quite well. But this was the part her mother was good at—playing the model patient and devouring all the special attention.

Maggie grabbed the phone. “Special Agent O’Dell.”

“Maggie, why are you still there? I thought you were coming home.”

She lowered herself to the bed, suddenly exhausted. “Hi, Greg.” She waited for a real greeting, heard papers shuffling and knew she had only half his attention. “I’m catching a flight tonight.”

“Good, so that dunce actually gave you my message last night?”

“What dunce?”

“The one I talked to last night who picked up your cellular. He said you must have dropped it and couldn’t come to the phone.”

Her grip tightened. Her pulse raced.

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know…late. About midnight here. Why?”

“What did you tell him?”

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud. That asshole didn’t give you the message, did he?”

“Greg, what did you tell him?” Her heart thumped against her rib cage.

“What kind of incompetent hicks are you working with, Maggie?”

“Greg.” She tried to stay calm, to keep the scream from clawing its way out of her throat. “I lost my cellular phone last night when I was chasing the killer. There’s a good chance he was the one you talked to.”

Silence. Even the paper shuffling had come to a stop.

“For God’s sake, Maggie. How was I supposed to know?” His tone was subdued.

“There’s no way you could have known. I’m not blaming you, Greg. Just please, try to remember what you told him.”

“Nothing really…just to call me and that your mother wasn’t doing too well.”

She leaned back on the bed, sinking her head into the pillows and closing her eyes.

“Maggie, when you get home we need to talk.”

Yes, they would talk on a beach somewhere, sipping fruity drinks, the ones with little umbrellas stuffed in them. They’d talk about what was really important, rekindle their lost love, rediscover the mutual respect and goals that had brought them together in the first place.

“I want you to quit the Bureau,” he said, and then she knew there would never be a sunny beach for them.

M
aggie watched the door close as her hands strangled and twisted a silk blouse.

Why didn’t she just tell Nick about the note, about Albert Stucky? He had understood about the nightmares. Maybe he’d understand about this. Maybe he’d understand that she just couldn’t allow herself to be psychologically poked and probed by another madman. Not now. Not when she felt so vulnerable, so damn fragile, like she could shatter into a million tiny pieces, just as she had earlier on the bathroom floor. She couldn’t risk it. It would cloud her judgment.

Perhaps it already had. Last night in the woods she hadn’t even seen the killer coming at her until it was too late. He could easily have killed her. But like Albert Stucky, this killer wanted her alive, and oddly enough, that terrified her even more. Somehow she knew sharing all that with anyone would make her feel more vulnerable. No, it was best this way—to leave Nick and everyone else thinking her departure was only because of her mother.

She stuffed the garment bag, crushing and wrinkling her dry-cleanables. Director Cunningham had been right. She needed to take some time off. Maybe she and Greg could take a trip. Someplace warm and sunny, where it didn’t get dark at six in the evening.

The phone rang, and she jumped as if it were a gunshot. She had already talked to Dr. Avery. Her mother had survived the seventy-two-hour suicide watch and was doing quite well. But this was the part her mother was good at—playing the model patient and devouring all the special attention.

Maggie grabbed the phone. “Special Agent O’Dell.”

“Maggie, why are you still there? I thought you were coming home.”

She lowered herself to the bed, suddenly exhausted. “Hi, Greg.” She waited for a real greeting, heard papers shuffling and knew she had only half his attention. “I’m catching a flight tonight.”

“Good, so that dunce actually gave you my message last night?”

“What dunce?”

“The one I talked to last night who picked up your cellular. He said you must have dropped it and couldn’t come to the phone.”

Her grip tightened. Her pulse raced.

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know…late. About midnight here. Why?”

“What did you tell him?”

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud. That asshole didn’t give you the message, did he?”

“Greg, what did you tell him?” Her heart thumped against her rib cage.

“What kind of incompetent hicks are you working with, Maggie?”

“Greg.” She tried to stay calm, to keep the scream from clawing its way out of her throat. “I lost my cellular phone last night when I was chasing the killer. There’s a good chance he was the one you talked to.”

Silence. Even the paper shuffling had come to a stop.

“For God’s sake, Maggie. How was I supposed to know?” His tone was subdued.

“There’s no way you could have known. I’m not blaming you, Greg. Just please, try to remember what you told him.”

“Nothing really…just to call me and that your mother wasn’t doing too well.”

She leaned back on the bed, sinking her head into the pillows and closing her eyes.

“Maggie, when you get home we need to talk.”

Yes, they would talk on a beach somewhere, sipping fruity drinks, the ones with little umbrellas stuffed in them. They’d talk about what was really important, rekindle their lost love, rediscover the mutual respect and goals that had brought them together in the first place.

“I want you to quit the Bureau,” he said, and then she knew there would never be a sunny beach for them.