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  Praise for ALEX KAVA and A PERFECT EVIL

  “Kava’s writing is reminiscent of Patricia Cornwell in her prime.”

  —Mystery Ink

  “Alex Kava knows the psychology of evil.”

  —John Philpin, forensic psychologist and author

  “Meet Kava’s FBI special agent Maggie O’Dell. But beware—it could be the start of a new addiction.”

  —Peterborough Evening Telegraph, U.K.

  “Alex Kava has crafted a suspenseful novel and created a winning character in Agent O’Dell.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “This debut thriller pumps out the suspense.”

  —Library Journal

  “Engaging debut…a well-crafted page-turner.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A suspense thriller with enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing until the last page.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “Alex Kava’s thriller is a roller-coaster read. Although your heart is in your throat the entire time, you enjoy every scary minute.”

  —Woman’s Own

  “Kava keeps the dialogue clipped, the action fast and the twists coming.”

  —Orlando Sentinel

  Also by ALEX KAVA

  ONE FALSE MOVE

  The Maggie O’Dell series

  AT THE STROKE OF MADNESS

  THE SOUL CATCHER

  SPLIT SECOND

  A PERFECT EVIL

  Watch for the next book in the Maggie O’Dell series from ALEX KAVA and MIRA Books

  A NECESSARY EVIL

  Coming February 2006 in hardcover

  ALEX KAVA

  A PERFECT

  EVIL

  ISBN 1-55254-391-9

  A PERFECT EVIL

  Copyright © 2000 by S. M. Kava.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

  www.MIRABooks.com

  About the Author

  Alex Kava is an international bestselling suspense writer. Her work has been widely praised by critics and fans alike, and her first three novels in the Maggie O’Dell series, A Perfect Evil, Split Second and The Soul Catcher, have spent several weeks on the New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller lists.

  Growing up in the country outside Silver Creek, Nebraska, Alex Kava fantasized about becoming a writer. Her parents, although they understood the value of education, had a tremendous work ethic. Reading was seen as frivolous unless required as schoolwork. As a teenager, Kava wrote short stories on the backs of calendars, sharing them only with her younger brother and hiding them in a shoe box under her bed.

  Kava earned an art scholarship to attend college. To pay living expenses, she worked in a nearby hospital’s central supply department collecting and sterilizing all of the basins, instruments and equipment from surgery, pathology and the morgue. In 1982 she graduated magna cum laude from College of Saint Mary in Omaha, Nebraska, with a B.A. in art and English.

  After graduating, Kava held a variety of jobs, mostly in advertising and marketing. Starting her own graphic design firm, Square One, she designed food packages and logos for national corporations, wrote brochures and newsletters, created a line of greeting cards and directed TV and radio commercials. In 1992 she returned to her alma mater as its director of public relations.

  Kava quit her public relations position in the summer of 1996, wanting to dedicate more time to writing fiction and getting published. To pay the bills, she resurrected Square One, refinanced her home, maxed out her credit cards and even took on a newspaper delivery route.

  Alex Kava is a member of the Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime. She lives in Omaha, Nebraska. Her Web site is located at www.alexkava.com

  In loving memory of

  Robert (Bob) Shoemaker

  (1922–1998)

  whose perfect good continues to inspire.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction; however, I’d like to extend my heartfelt sympathy to any parent who has ever lost a child to a senseless act of violence.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe my deepest gratitude and appreciation to all those whose support and expertise made this fantastic journey possible.

  Special thanks go to:

  Philip Spitzer, my agent, who enthusiastically offered to represent this book, then made it his personal mission to see it published. Philip, you are my hero.

  Patricia Sierra, fellow author, for generously sharing her wisdom, her wit and her friendship.

  Amy Moore-Benson, my editor, for her tenacity, her keen insights and her ability to make the editing process painless and rewarding.

  Dianne Moggy and all the professionals at MIRA Books for their efforts and resolve to make this book a success.

  Ellen Jacobs for always saying the right thing at just the right time.

  Sharon Car, my writing cohort, for all those lunches commiserating with and encouraging me.

  LaDonna Tworek, who helped me keep my perspective and encouraged me early on to hang in there.

  Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, who listened over all those free, delicious dinners they fed me.

  Bob Kava for patiently answering all my questions about firearms.

  Mac Payne, who gave me something to prove.

  My parents, Edward and Patricia Kava, especially my mom for lighting all those candles of hope.

  Writing, for the most part, is a solitary act, but it certainly wouldn’t be possible for me without the loving support of my family and friends. Thanks also must go to Patti El-Kachouti, Marlene Haney, Nicole Keller, Kenny and Connie Kava, Natalie Cummings, Sandy Rockwood and Margaret Shoemaker.

  Finally, thanks to Bob Shoemaker. This wouldn’t have been the type of book Bob would even have read, but that would not have stopped him from being proud of me and telling everyone he met about it.

  Contents

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  CHAPTER 80

  CHAPTER 81

  CHAPTER 82

  CHAPTER 83

  CHAPTER 84

  CHAPTER 85

  CHAPTER 86

  CHAPTER 87

  CHAPTER 88

  CHAPTER 89

  CHAPTER 90

  CHAPTER 91

  CHAPTER 92

  CHAPTER 93

  CHAPTER 94

  CHAPTER 95

  CHAPTER 96

  CHAPTER 97

  CHAPTER 98

  CHAPTER 99

  CHAPTER 100

  CHAPTER 101

  CHAPTER 102

  CHAPTER 103

>   EPILOGUE

  COMING NEXT MONTH

  PROLOGUE

  Nebraska State Penitentiary

  Lincoln, Nebraska

  Wednesday, July 17

  “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” Ronald Jeffreys’ raspy monotone made the phrase a challenge rather than a confession.

  Father Stephen Francis stared at Jeffreys’ hands, mesmerized by the large knuckles and stubby fingers, nails bitten to the quick. The fingers twisted—no, strangled—the corner of his blue government-issue shirt. The old priest imagined those same fingers twisting and choking the life out of little Bobby Wilson.

  “Is that how we start?”

  Jeffreys’ voice startled the priest. “That’s fine,” he answered quickly.

  His sweaty palms stuck to the leather Bible. His collar was suddenly too tight. The prison’s deathwatch chamber didn’t have enough air for both men. The gray concrete walls boxed them in with only one tiny window, black with night. The pungent smell of green pepper and onion nauseated the old priest. He glanced at the remnants of Jeffreys’ last supper, scattered bits of pizza crust and puddles of sticky soda. A fly buzzed over crumbs that were once cheesecake.

  “What’s next?” Jeffreys asked, waiting for instructions.

  Father Francis couldn’t think, not with Jeffreys’ unflinching stare. Not with the noise of the crowd outside the prison, down below in the parking lot. The chants grew louder with the approach of midnight and the full effect of alcohol. It was a raucous celebration, a morbid excuse for an outdoor frat party. “Fry, Jeffreys, fry,” over and over again, like a childhood rhyme or a pep-rally song, melodic and contagious, sick and frightening.

  Jeffreys, however, appeared immune to the sound. “I’m not sure I remember how this works. What’s next?”

  Yes, what came next? Father Francis’ mind was completely blank. Fifty years of hearing confessions, and his mind was blank. “Your sins,” he blurted out over the tightness in his throat. “Tell me your sins.”

  Now, Jeffreys hesitated. He unraveled the hem of his shirt, wrapping the thread around his index finger, pulling it so tight that the tip bulged red. The priest stole a long glance at the man slumped in the straight-backed chair. This wasn’t the same man from the grainy newspaper photos or the quick television shots. With his head and beard shaved, Jeffreys looked exposed, almost impish and younger than his twenty-six years. He had gained bulk in his six years on death row, but he still possessed a boyishness. Suddenly, it struck Father Francis as sad that this boyish face would never wear wrinkles or laugh lines. Until Jeffreys looked up at him. Cold blue eyes held his. Ice-blue like glass—sharp glass—vacant and transparent. Yes, this was what evil looked like. The priest blinked and turned his head.

  “Tell me your sins,” Father Francis repeated, this time disappointed in the tremor in his voice. He couldn’t breathe. Had Jeffreys sucked all the air out of the room on purpose? He cleared his throat, then said, “Those sins for which you are truly sorry.”

  Jeffreys stared at him. Then without warning, he barked out a laugh. Father Francis jumped, and Jeffreys laughed even louder. The priest gripped his Bible with unsteady fingers while watching Jeffreys’ hands. Why had he insisted the guard remove the handcuffs? Even God couldn’t rescue the stupid. Drops of perspiration slid down the priest’s back. He thought about fleeing, escaping before Jeffreys realized one last murder would cost him nothing more. Then he remembered the door was locked from the outside.

  The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Silence.

  “You’re just like the rest of them.” The low guttural accusation came from somewhere deep and dead. Yet, Jeffreys smiled, revealing small, sharp teeth, the incisors longer than the rest. “You’re waiting for me to confess to something I didn’t do.” His hands ripped the bottom of his shirt, thin strips, a slow grating sound.

  “I don’t understand what you mean.” Father Francis reached to loosen his collar, dismayed to find the tremor now in his hands. “I was under the impression you had asked for a priest. That you wanted to offer up your confession.”

  “Yes…yes, I do.” The monotone was back. Jeffreys hesitated but only for a moment. “I killed Bobby Wilson,” he said as calmly as if ordering takeout. “I put my hands…my fingers around his throat. At first, he made a sputtering noise, a sort of gagging, and then there was no noise.” His voice was hushed and restrained, almost clinical—a well-rehearsed speech.

  “He kicked just a little. A jerk, really. I think he knew he was going to die. He didn’t fight much. He didn’t even fight when I was fucking him.” He stopped, checking Father Francis’ face, looking for shock and smiling when he found it.