A Perfect Evil (Maggie O'Dell Novels) Page 35

  “The mask, of course. He carried Christine out of the car then stuffed his disguise into the trunk.”

  “Then hurried along to chase Timmy through the woods,” Nick added. “This, of course, is after he tried to rape Christine, then attack you in the graveyard cellar. Busy guy.”

  They stared at each other. The obvious left unsaid, settling between them and stirring up the same disappointment and panic that had driven them to this point.

  “Did he try anything with you?” Nick finally asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know… Did he…”

  “No,” she said, cutting him off, rescuing him. “No, he didn’t.”

  Maggie remembered the killer fishing her gun out from inside her coat, accidentally grazing her breast. He had snapped his hand back instead of letting it linger. When he whispered into her ear, he never once touched her skin. He wasn’t interested in sex, not with men and certainly not with women. His mother was a saint, after all. She remembered the images of tortured saints on Father Keller’s bedroom wall. The priesthood and its vow of celibacy would have been an excellent escape, an excellent hiding place.

  “We need to question Keller one last time,” she said.

  “We have absolutely nothing on him, Maggie.”

  “So humor me.”

  “Ms. O’Dell?” A nurse peeked around the door. “You have a visitor.”

  “It’s about time,” Maggie said, expecting the perky, blond volunteer.

  The nurse held open the door and smiled flirtatiously at the handsome, golden-haired man in the black Armani suit. He carried a cheap overnight case, and a matching garment bag was slung over his arm.

  “Hi, Maggie,” he said, walking into the room as if he owned it, throwing a look at Nick before smiling his expensive-lawyer smile at Maggie.

  “Greg? What in the world are you doing here?”

  CHAPTER 98

  Timmy listened for the vending machine to swallow his quarters before he made his selection. He almost chose a Snickers, but his gut remembered, and he punched the Reese’s button, instead.

  He tried not to think about the stranger or the little room. He needed to stay focused on his mom and help her get better. It scared him to see her in that huge, white hospital bed, hooked up to all those machines that gurgled, wheezed and clicked. She seemed to be okay, even seemed happy to see his dad after, of course, she had yelled at him. But this time his dad didn’t yell back. He just kept saying he was sorry. When Timmy left the room, his dad was holding his mom’s hand, and she actually let him. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it?

  Timmy sat in the plastic waiting-room chair. He unwrapped his candy bar and separated out the two pieces. Grandpa Morrelli was supposed to bring him a sandwich from Subway after the two of them had inspected the cafeteria’s meat loaf. The Subway was only across the street, but Timmy hadn’t had breakfast. He popped one whole peanut butter cup into his mouth and let it melt before he started chewing.

  “I thought you were a Snickers guy.”

  Timmy spun around in the chair, startled. He hadn’t even heard footsteps.

  “Hi, Father Keller,” he mumbled over a mouthful.

  “How are you, Timmy?” The priest patted Timmy’s shoulder, his hand lingering on Timmy’s back.

  “I’m okay.” He swallowed the rest of the candy bar, clearing his mouth. “My mom had surgery this morning.”

  “I heard.” Father Keller slid a duffel bag into the seat next to Timmy’s then knelt down in front of him.

  Timmy liked that about Father Keller, how he made him feel special. He was genuinely interested. Timmy could see that in his eyes, those soft, blue eyes, that sometimes looked so sad. Father Keller really did care. Those eyes…Timmy looked again and suddenly a knot twisted in his stomach. Today, there was something different about Father Keller’s eyes. Timmy didn’t know what it was. He squirmed in his seat, and Father Keller looked concerned.

  “You okay, Timmy?”

  “Fine…I’m fine. It’s probably just all the sugar. I didn’t eat breakfast. You going someplace?” Timmy asked, swinging a thumb at the duffel bag.

  “I’m taking Father Francis to his burial place. In fact, that’s why I’m here, to make sure the body is ready.”

  “He’s here?” Timmy didn’t mean to whisper, but that’s how it came out.

  “Down in the morgue. Would you like to come with me?”

  “I don’t know. I’m waiting for my grandpa.”

  “It’ll only take a few minutes, and I think you’ll enjoy seeing it. It looks like something out of The X-Files.”

  “Really?” Timmy remembered watching Special Agent Scully doing autopsies. He wondered if dead people really did look all stiff and gray. “You sure it’s okay if I come along? Won’t the hospital people get mad?”

  “Nah, there’s never anyone down there.”

  Father Keller stood up and grabbed the duffel bag. He waited while Timmy shoved the rest of the Reese’s into his mouth, accidentally dropping the wrapper. When he knelt to pick it up, Timmy noticed Father Keller’s Nikes, crisp and white, as usual. Only today there was…there was a knot in one of the shoestrings. A knot holding it together. The knot in Timmy’s stomach tightened.

  He stood up slowly, a bit dizzy. A sugar rush—that was all it was. He glanced up at Father Keller’s smiling face, the priest’s hand outstretched to him, waiting. One last quick glance at the shoe. Why did Father Keller have a knot in his shoestring?

  CHAPTER 99

  “How did you find out I was in the hospital?” Maggie asked when she and Greg were alone. She spread out the suits she had carefully packed days ago, pleased with their appearance despite two trips halfway across the country.

  “Actually, I didn’t know until I arrived at the sheriff’s department earlier this morning. Some bimbo in a leather skirt told me about it.”

  “She’s not a bimbo.” Maggie couldn’t believe she was defending Lucy Burton.

  “This just reiterates my point, Maggie.”

  “Your point?”

  “That this job is much too dangerous.”

  She dug through the overnight case he’d brought her, keeping her back to him and vowing to ignore the mounting anger. She concentrated on how good it felt to have her own things back. Perhaps it was ridiculous, but fingering her own underwear gave her an odd sense of control and security.

  “Why won’t you just admit it?” Greg insisted.

  “Admit what?”

  “That this job is too dangerous.”

  “For who, Greg? You? Because I don’t have a problem with it. I’ve always known there would be risks.”

  She stayed calm, glanced over her shoulder at him. He was pacing, hands on his hips as if waiting for a verdict. “When I asked you to pick up my bags from the airport, I didn’t mean for you to deliver them.” She tried a smile, but he looked determined not to let her off so easily.

  “Next year I’ll make partner. We’re on our way, Maggie.”

  “On our way to what?” She pulled out a matching bra and panties.

  “You shouldn’t have to do all this dangerous fieldwork. For God’s sake, Maggie, you’ve got eight stinking years with the Bureau. You finally have the clout to be…I don’t know, a supervisor, an instructor…something, anything else.”

  “I enjoy what I do, Greg.” She started to pull off the hideous gown, hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder. Greg threw his hands in the air and rolled his eyes.

  “What? You want me to leave?” His voice was filled with sarcasm, a hint of anger. “Yes, maybe I should leave so you can invite your cowboy back.”

  “He’s not my cowboy.” Maggie felt the anger color her cheeks.

  “Is that why you haven’t returned my calls? Is there something going on with you and Sheriff Hardbody?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Greg.” She yanked off the gown and struggled into the panties. It hurt to bend, to lift her arms. She was grateful a bandage cove
red the unsightly stitches.

  “Oh my God, Maggie.”

  She spun around to find him staring at her wounded shoulder, a grimace contorting his handsome features. She couldn’t help wondering whether it was disgust or concern. His eyes examined the rest of her body, finally resting on the scar below her breasts. Suddenly, she felt exposed and embarrassed, neither of which made sense. He was her husband, after all. Yet, she grabbed the gown and pressed it to her breasts.

  “Not all of those are from last night,” he said, the anger more prevalent than the concern. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why didn’t you notice?”

  “So this is my fault?” Again, the hands in the air. It was a gesture she recognized from when he practiced his summations. Perhaps it worked with jurors. To her, it was worthless melodrama, a simple technique to draw attention to himself. How dare he make her scars about him.

  “It has nothing to do with you.”

  “You’re my wife. Your job leaves your body carved up. Why shouldn’t I be concerned?” His fair complexion turned crimson with anger, large raspberry splotches that looked like a rash.

  “You’re not concerned. You’re angry because I didn’t tell you.”

  “Damn right I’m angry. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She threw the gown aside, giving him a good look at the scar.

  “This is from over a month ago, Greg,” she said, tracing the scar that Stucky had left. “Most husbands would have noticed. But we don’t even have sex anymore, so how could you notice? You haven’t even noticed that I don’t sleep next to you. That I spend most nights pacing. You don’t care about me, Greg.”

  “This is ridiculous. How can you say I don’t care about you? That’s exactly why I want you to leave the Bureau.”

  “If you really cared, you’d understand how important my job is to me. No, you’re more concerned about how I make you look. That’s why you don’t want me in the field. You want to be able to tell your friends and associates that I have some big FBI title, a huge office, a secretary to put you on hold. You want me to be able to wear sexy black cocktail dresses to your fancy attorney parties so you can show me off, and my hideous scars don’t fit into that scenario. Well, this is me, Greg,” she said with her hands on her hips, trying to ignore the chill on her naked body. “This is who I am. Maybe I just don’t fit into your country-club lifestyle anymore.”

  He shook his head at her, like a father impatient with his errant child. She grabbed the crumpled gown again and smashed it against her breasts, suddenly feeling vulnerable, having exposed much more than her nakedness.

  “Thank you for bringing my things,” she said quietly, calmly. “Now, I want you to leave.”

  “Fine.” He swung his arms into his trench coat. “Why don’t we get together for lunch after you’ve cooled off.”

  “No, I want you to go back home.”

  He stared at her, his gray eyes going cold, his pursed lips stifling the angry words. She waited for his next onslaught, but he turned on his expensive, leather heels and stomped out.

  Maggie collapsed onto the bed, the pain in her side only a minor contributor to her exhaustion. She barely heard the tap on the door but braced herself for the rest of Greg’s fury. Instead, Nick came in, took one look at her and spun around.

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you weren’t dressed.”

  She glanced down, only now realizing she just wore underpants and the thin gown carelessly pressed across her breasts, hardly covering anything. She looked up at him, checking to make sure his back was to her before she grabbed the bra and wrestled into it. The stabs in her side slowed her down.

  “Actually, I should be the one to apologize,” she said, adopting Greg’s sarcasm. “It seems my scarred body repulses men.”

  She snatched a blouse from the pile and thrust her arms into it, then realized it was inside out. She whipped it off and tried again.

  Nick glanced over his shoulder, but snapped back to his same position. “Jesus, Maggie, you should know by now that I’m the wrong one to say that to. I’ve been trying for days now to find one little thing about you that doesn’t turn me on.”

  She heard the smile in his voice. Her fingers stopped at the buttons, a slight tremor making it difficult to continue as the heat crawled down her body. She stared at the back of him and wondered how in the world Nick Morrelli could make her feel so sensuous, so alive without even looking at her.

  “Anyway, I didn’t mean to barge in on you,” he said, “but there’s a slight problem with bringing in Father Keller for questioning.”

  “I know, I know. We don’t have enough evidence.”

  “No, that’s not it.” Another glance to see if it was safe. Maggie had her trousers halfway up, but he turned again to the door. She smiled at his caution. After all, he had already seen her in much less. She remembered the football jersey and his soft, comfortable robe.

  “If it’s not evidence, what’s the problem?” she asked.

  “I just called the rectory and talked to the cook. Father Keller is gone and so is Ray Howard.”

  CHAPTER 100

  As soon as they got off the elevator Timmy noticed the sign that read Restricted Area—Hospital Personnel Only. Father Keller didn’t seem to notice the sign. He walked down the hallway without even hesitating, as if he had been down here many times before.

  Timmy tried to keep up, although his ankle still hurt. It almost hurt more after the doctor wrapped it in all that elastic stuff, so tight Timmy was sure it was adding more bruises.

  Father Keller glanced down at him, only now noticing the limp.

  “What happened to your leg?”

  “I guess I sprained my ankle last night in the woods.”

  Timmy didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to remember. Every time he remembered, that terrible knot returned inside his stomach. Without much prompting, he knew the shivers would start again.

  “You’ve been through quite a lot, huh?” The priest stopped, patted Timmy on the head. “You want to talk about it?”

  “No, not really,” Timmy said without looking up. Instead, he stared at his own brand-new Nikes. Air Nikes, the cool expensive kind. Uncle Nick had given them to him this morning.

  Father Keller didn’t insist, didn’t ask more questions like the rest of the adults. Timmy was getting tired of all the questions. Everybody—Deputy Hal, the reporters, the doctor, Uncle Nick, Grandpa—everybody wanted to know about the little room, the stranger, his escape. He just didn’t want to think about it anymore.

  Father Keller pushed open a door and flipped a light switch. The huge room grew bright as the lights flickered on, one at a time.

  “Wow, this does look like on The X-Files,” Timmy said, running his fingers over the spotless counters, stainless steel just like the table in the center of the room. His eyes jumped around the assortment of odd equipment and tools neatly placed on trays. Then he noticed the drawers, lined up side by side in the opposite wall. “Is that…” He pointed. “Is that where they keep the dead people?”

  “Yes, it is,” Father Keller said, but he seemed distracted. He carefully placed the duffel bag on the metal table.

  “Is Father Francis in one of the drawers?” Timmy whispered, then felt stupid. After all, nobody could hear them.

  “Yes, unless they have already picked up his body.”

  “Picked up?”

  “The mortuary may have already picked up Father Francis and taken him to the airport.”

  “The airport?” Timmy was confused. He’d never heard of dead bodies traveling on planes.

  “Yes, remember I told you I was taking Father Francis to his burial place?”

  “Oh, okay.” Timmy scanned the countertops again, this time paying more attention. He came in for a closer look, tempted to touch but keeping his hands at his sides. Some of the tools were sharp, some long and narrow with teeth. One of them looked like a miniature chain saw. He’d never seen such odd tools before. He t
ried to imagine what each one did.

  “I heard your father is back in town,” Father Keller said, standing stiff and still next to the table.

  “Yeah, I’m hoping he’ll stay,” Timmy said with only half a glance at the priest. There were too many interesting vials, test tubes, even a microscope. Maybe he would ask for a microscope for his birthday.

  “Really? You’d like your father to stay?”

  “Yeah, I guess I would.”

  “Wasn’t he mean to you?”

  Timmy looked at Father Keller. The question surprised him, and he wondered what Father Keller meant, but the priest unzipped the duffel bag and was immediately preoccupied by its contents.

  “How do you mean?” Timmy finally asked.

  “Didn’t he hurt you?” Father Keller said without looking up. “Didn’t he do unpleasant things to you?”

  Timmy wasn’t sure what unpleasant things were. He knew he wore that scrunched look on his face that automatically happened when he was confused. He could hear his mom saying, “Don’t look at me like that, or your face will stick that way.” He tried to wipe it away before Father Keller noticed, but the priest was busy digging in the bag.

  “My dad was mostly nice to me. Sometimes I guess he yelled.”

  “What about your bruises?”

  Timmy felt his face grow warm with embarrassment. But, thankfully, Father Keller still didn’t look up. “I guess I just bruise easily. Most of ‘em are from soccer.” Soccer and Chad Calloway.

  “Then why did your mom make him go away?” Father Keller’s voice surprised Timmy. Suddenly, it was low with a hint of anger while his eyes stayed focused inside the bag.

  Timmy didn’t want to make Father Keller mad. He heard the clink of metal and wondered what kind of tools Father Keller had in the bag.

  “I don’t know for sure why my mom made him leave. I think it had something to do with a slutty, big-breasted receptionist,” Timmy said, trying to use the exact words he had overheard his mom use.

  This time Father Keller did look up at him, only the piercing blue eyes sent a shiver through Timmy. Usually, Father Keller’s eyes were kind and warm. But now…those eyes…no, it couldn’t be. Timmy’s stomach churned. He felt sick, tasted the sourness backing up into his mouth. He resisted the urge to throw up. The shivers started in his fingertips. One slid down his back. He felt dizzy.