A Perfect Evil Page 33
Where was Grandma Morrelli’s afghan? She needed something to stop the draft, to prevent the cold from swirling up around her. Timmy, turn up the furnace, please. Hot chocolate, maybe she could fix nice steaming mugs of hot chocolate for the two of them. If only she could push the furniture off her chest. And where were her arms when she needed them? She could see one of them lying next to her. Why couldn’t she make it move? Had it fallen asleep like the rest of her?
Those annoying headlights made her eyes sting. If she could just find the plug, she could shut them off. They made the branches dance, a slow-motion rumba, bumping and grinding glass. It was too hard to keep her eyes open, anyway. Perhaps she could fall back to sleep if only that rasping sound would stop. It came from somewhere inside her coat, from somewhere inside her chest. Whatever it was, it was annoying and…and painful…yes, it was annoyingly painful.
What was President Nixon doing in the headlights? He waved at her. She tried to wave back, but her arm was still asleep. He came into her living room. He moved all the furniture off her chest. Then President Nixon carried her back to sleep.
CHAPTER 89
Timmy watched his sled drift downstream. The bright orange looked fluorescent in the moonlight. He crouched in the snow, hidden by the cattails along the riverbank. All that catapulting practice on Cutty’s Hill had paid off, though his mom would kill him if she ever found out.
He was feeling pretty confident. He only now realized he had lost a shoe in the jump. His ankle hurt. It looked funny, puffed up, almost twice the size of his other one. Then he saw the black shadow, spiderwebbing its way down the ridge, clinging to roots and vines, stretching and gripping rocks and branches. It moved quickly.
Timmy glanced back at the sled, now regretting that he hadn’t stayed in it. The stranger came to the river’s edge. He was watching the sled, too. It had drifted too far away for him to see inside. But maybe the stranger believed Timmy had stayed inside. He certainly didn’t look as if he was in a rush anymore. In fact, the stranger just stood there, staring at the river. Maybe he was trying to decide whether to jump in after the sled.
Out here in the open the stranger looked smaller, and although it was too dark to see his face, Timmy could tell he wasn’t wearing the dead president’s mask anymore.
Timmy burrowed down farther into the snow. The breeze coming off the water brought a wet cold with it. His teeth started chattering and the shivers crawled over his body again. He hugged his knees to his chest and watched and waited. As soon as the stranger disappeared, Timmy decided he would follow the road. It looked all uphill, but it would be better than the woods again. Besides, it had to lead somewhere.
Finally, the stranger looked as if he was giving up. He fumbled through his pockets, found what he was looking for and lit a cigarette. Then he turned and started walking directly toward Timmy.
CHAPTER 90
Maggie clawed her way up the steps, annoyed that her knees wouldn’t hold her. Her side burned, a fire blazing deeper and deeper, igniting her stomach and lungs. It felt as if the knife metal had broken off and was shooting through her insides. God, she should be getting good at this by now. Practice makes perfect. Yet, when she struggled up into the moonlight, the sight of her own blood made her light-headed and nauseated. It covered her side and soaked into her clothes, the red turtleneck black with dirt and blood.
She pushed her hair out of her face, away from her sweaty forehead, and realized her hand was filled with blood. She eased out of her jacket, pulled and ripped at the lining until she had a piece big enough to plug up her side. She wrapped chunks of snow inside the fabric, then applied it to the wound. Suddenly, the stars in the sky multiplied. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. When she opened them, a black shadow approached, staggering between the headstones like a drunkard. She reached for her gun, her fingers lingering at the empty holster. Of course, she remembered. Her gun lay somewhere below in a dark corner.
“Maggie?” the drunkard called out, and she recognized Nick’s voice. Relief washed over her so completely she forgot about the pain for a second or two.
He was covered in mud and dirt, and when he knelt beside her, the smell of him made her gag. She leaned into him, anyway, and welcomed the feel of his arm around her.
“Jesus, Maggie. Are you okay?”
“I think it’s just a flesh wound. Did you see him? Did you get him?”
She saw the answer in his eyes, only it wasn’t just disappointment. There was something more.
“I think there must be a maze of tunnels down there,” he said, out of breath. “And I took the wrong one.”
“We need to stop him. He’s probably at the church. Maybe that’s where he has Timmy.”
“Had.”
“What?”
“I found the room where he kept them. Timmy’s coat was left behind.”
“Then we need to find him.” She tried to get to her feet, but fell back into his arms.
“I think we’re too late, Maggie.” She heard the words struggle over a lump in his throat. “I also saw…there was a bloody pillow.”
She leaned her head against his chest. Listened to the pounding, the uneven breathing. No, the uneven breathing belonged to her.
“Jesus, Maggie. You’re bleeding awfully bad. I need to get you to the hospital. I sure as hell am not going to lose two people I love in the same night.”
He propped her up while he crawled to his feet, still a bit wobbly. She held on to him and struggled to her knees. The pain came in fiery jabs, scorching and tearing, hot glass shards slicing farther and farther inside her. As she clung to his arm, she wondered if she had heard him correctly. Did he really just say that he loved her?
“Don’t, Maggie. Let me carry you to the Jeep.”
“I saw the way you were walking, Morrelli. I’ll take my chances on my own two feet.” She pulled herself up, gritting her teeth against the constant stab.
“Just hang on to me.”
They were almost to the Jeep when she remembered the crate.
“Nick, wait. We have to go back.”
CHAPTER 91
Christine stared up at the stars. She easily found the Big Dipper. It was the only thing she could ever find in the night sky. On the soft bed of snow and under the wonderfully warm and scratchy wool blanket, she hardly noticed that she was lying on the side of the road. And if only she could breathe without choking up chunks of blood, maybe she could sleep. Reality came in short bursts of pain and memories. Eddie fondling her breast. Smashed metal against her legs, crushing her chest. And Timmy, oh, God, Timmy. She tasted tears and bit down on her lip to stop them. She tried to sit up, but her body refused to listen, couldn’t comprehend the commands. It hurt to breathe. Couldn’t she just stop breathing, at least for a few minutes?
The headlights came out of nowhere, rounding the corner and barreling down on her. She heard the brakes screech. Gravel pelted metal. Tires skidded. The light blinded her. When two stretched shadows emerged from the vehicle and came toward her, she imagined aliens with bulbous heads and bulging insect eyes. Then she realized it was the hats that made their heads look oversize.
“Christine. Oh, my good Lord, it’s Christine.”
She smiled and closed her eyes. She had never heard that kind of fear and panic in her father’s voice. How totally inappropriate for her to be pleased by it.
When her father and Lloyd Benjamin knelt beside her, the only thing she could think to say was, “Eddie knows where Timmy is.”
CHAPTER 92
Nick tried to convince Maggie to stay in the Jeep. They had stopped the bleeding for now, but there was no telling how much blood she had already lost. She could barely stand on her own, had completely lost all color in her face. Perhaps she was delusional, too.
“You don’t understand, Nick,” she continued to argue with him.
He was ready to pick her up and throw her into the Jeep. It was bad enough that she wouldn’t let him drive her to the hospital.
“Nick, wait.” She dug her fingers into his arm, wincing with pain. “It may be Timmy.”
“What?”
“Inside the crate.”
The realization struck him like a fist. He leaned against the Jeep’s hood, suddenly weak in the knees.
“Why would he do that?” he managed to say, though his throat strangled the words. He didn’t want to imagine Timmy stuffed into a crate. Timmy, dead. Yet, hadn’t he already thought that? “That’s not his style.”
“Whatever is in the crate might be for my benefit.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Remember the last note? If he knows about Stucky, he may have resorted to Stucky’s habits. Nick, it could be Timmy inside that crate. And if it is, it isn’t something you should see.”
He stared at her. Blood and dirt streaked her face. More dirt and cobwebs filled her hair. Those beautiful full lips held tight against the pain. Those soft, smooth shoulders slouched from the effort to hold herself up. And still, she wanted to protect him.
He turned on his heel and stomped back up the hill.
“Nick, wait.”
He ignored her calls. Surely she wouldn’t—couldn’t—follow without his assistance.
He hesitated at the steps Maggie had uncovered. Then forced himself back down into the earth. The entire space reeked with the stifling smell. He found a steel rod and Maggie’s revolver, which he slid into his jacket pocket. Then he tucked the rod and flashlight under his arm and hoisted the crate, lugging it slowly up the steps. His muscles screamed at him to put it down. He ignored them until he was out of the hellhole, until he could breathe fresh air again.
Maggie was there, waiting, leaning against a headstone. She was even more pale.
“Let me,” she insisted, reaching for the rod.
“I can do this, Maggie.” He shoved the rod under the lid and started pumping up and down. The nails screeched and echoed in the silent darkness. Even with the breeze and in the cold the smell of death overpowered all other senses. Once the lid snapped free, he hesitated again. Maggie came beside him, reached around him and pulled open the lid.
Both of them took a step backward, but it wasn’t because of the odor. Tucked carefully inside and wrapped in a white cloth was the small, delicate body of Matthew Tanner.
CHAPTER 93
There was no place for Timmy to run. Nowhere to hide. He slipped down the riverbank, close to the water. Could he swim across, float downstream? He examined the black, churning river racing past him. It was too strong, too fast and much too cold.
The stranger had stopped to finish his cigarette, but his direction hadn’t changed. In the silence, Timmy heard the stranger mumbling to himself, but he couldn’t make out the words. Every once in a while he kicked rocks and dirt into the water. The splashes were now close enough to spray Timmy.
He’d have to make a run for it, back into the woods. At least there he could hide. He’d never make it in the water. His shivers from the cold were already close to convulsions. The water would only make it worse.
Timmy peeked over the riverbank. The stranger was lighting another cigarette. Now. He needed to go now. He scrambled up the bank, kicking rocks and dirt into the water—explosive splashes giving him away. He barely made it to the road when his ankle buckled under him. He slammed down on knees and elbows. He struggled to his feet, then suddenly flew up off the ground. He kicked at air and clawed at the arm around his waist. Another arm squeezed around his neck.
“Settle down, you little shit.”
Timmy started screaming and shouting. The arm squeezed harder, cutting off his air, choking him.
When the car came squealing down the winding road, the stranger still kept his vise grip on Timmy. The car skidded to a stop in front of them, and still the stranger made no attempt to move or flee. The headlights blinded Timmy, but he recognized Deputy Hal. Why didn’t the stranger release him? Timmy’s neck hurt bad. He clawed at the arm again. Why didn’t the stranger make a run for it?
“What’s going on here?” Deputy Hal demanded. He and another deputy got out of the car and approached slowly.
Timmy didn’t understand why they didn’t draw their guns. Couldn’t they tell what was going on? Couldn’t they tell the stranger was hurting him?
“I found the kid hiding in the woods,” the stranger told them, only he sounded excited and proud. “You might say I rescued him.”
“I see that,” said Deputy Hal.
No, it was a lie. Timmy wanted to tell them it was all a lie, but he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak with the arm squeezing his neck. Why were they looking as if they believed the stranger? He was the killer. Couldn’t they see that?
“Why don’t the two of you get in with us. Come on, Timmy. You’re safe now.”
Slowly the arm released from around Timmy’s neck. His feet touched the ground. Timmy pulled free and ran to Deputy Hal, tripping on his swollen ankle.
Hal grabbed Timmy by the shoulders and gently shoved him behind him. Then Deputy Hal pulled out his gun and said to the stranger, “Come on, now. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Eddie.”
CHAPTER 94
Friday, October 31
Christine awoke to a room full of flowers. Had she died, after all? Through a blur, she saw her mother sitting next to the bed, and Christine knew immediately that she was, in fact, still alive. Certainly the blue and pink jogging suit her mother wore would never be acceptable attire for heaven—or hell.
“How are you feeling, Christine?” Her mother smiled and reached for Christine’s hand.
Her mother was finally letting her hair go gray. It looked good. Christine decided to tell her later when a compliment would come in handy to combat the inquisition.
“Where am I?” It was a stupid question, but after the hours of delusions, hallucinations—whatever they were—she needed to know.
“You’re in the hospital, dear. Don’t you remember? You just got out of surgery a little while ago.”
Surgery? Only now did Christine notice all the tubes going in and out of her. In a moment of panic, she ripped off the covers.
“Christine!”
Her legs were still there. Yes, thank God. She could move them. There were bandages on one, but she didn’t care as long as the leg moved.
“You don’t need to catch pneumonia.” Her mother tucked the covers back in around her.
Christine raised both arms, flexed the fingers and watched the fluids drip into her veins. The pieces all seemed there and working. That her chest and stomach felt like chunks of beaten and sliced chopped liver didn’t matter. At least she was all in one piece.
“Your father and Bruce went for coffee. They’ll be so pleased to find you awake.”
“Oh, God, Bruce is here?” Then Christine remembered Timmy, and the panic began to suck all the air from the room.
“Give him a second chance, Christine,” her mother said, completely oblivious to the lack of air in the room. “This ordeal has really changed him.”
Ordeal? Was that the newest term they had given to the disappearance of her son?
Just then, Nick peeked into the room and relief swept over Christine. There was a new cut on Nick’s forehead, but the bruises and swelling around his jaw were hardly noticeable. He was dressed in a crisp blue shirt, navy tie, blue jeans and navy sports jacket. God, how long had she been asleep? If she didn’t know better, she’d think he looked dressed for a funeral. She remembered Timmy again. What exactly had her mother meant by ordeal? A new wave of pain and terror came crashing down, adding its weight to her chest.
“Hi, honey,” their mother said as Nick leaned down to kiss her cheek.
Christine studied the two of them, watching for signs. Did she dare ask? Would they only lie to protect her? Did they think she was too fragile?
“I want the truth, Nicky,” she blurted in a voice so shrill s
he hardly recognized it as her own. They both stared at her, startled, concerned. But she could see in Nick’s eyes that he knew exactly what she was talking about.
“Okay. If that’s the way you want it.” He headed back for the door, and she wanted to yell at him to stop, to stay, to talk to her.
“Nicky, please,” she said, not caring how pathetic she sounded.
He opened the door, and Timmy stood there like an apparition. Christine rubbed her eyes. Was she hallucinating again? Timmy hobbled toward her, and she could see the scratches and bruises, a cut on one cheek and a purple swollen lip. However, his face and hair were scrubbed clean, his clothes crisp and fresh. He even wore new tennis shoes. Had it all been a horrible, horrible nightmare?
“Hi, Mom,” he said as though it were any other morning. He crawled into the chair his grandmother held out for him, kneeling and making himself tall enough to look over the bed. She allowed the tears, had no choice, really. Was he real? She touched his shoulder, smoothed down his cowlick and caressed his cheek.
“Aw, Mom. Everybody’s watching,” he said, and she knew he was real.
CHAPTER 95
Nick escaped before it got mushy, before his own eyes got blurry. It was all still a little hard to believe. He turned the corner and almost ran into his father, who stepped back, as though worried the coffee he carried would spill.
“Careful there, son. You’re gonna miss quite a bit being in such a hurry.”
Nick checked his father’s eyes and immediately saw the sarcastic criticism. He was in too good of a mood to let his father spoil it. So he smiled and started to walk around him.
“It’s not Eddie, you know,” his father called after him.
“Yeah?” Nick stopped and turned. “Well, this time that’ll be up to a court of law to decide and not Antonio Morrelli.”