A Perfect Evil (35 page)

T
he photo Maggie had retrieved from her jacket pocket was creased and wrinkled. The corners curled as it dried. Lint from the robe’s pocket stuck to the glossy finish. She owed Timmy a replacement, though she didn’t know how she’d accomplish that. At least the photo hadn’t disappeared into the dark water like her cell phone. She seemed destined to lose things at the bottoms of rivers and lakes.

Nick was taking a long time in the kitchen. She wondered whether he had decided on a sandwich, after all. His last remark left her with an unsettled feeling, nothing she could even describe without using an annoying reference to butterflies. He was being a perfect gentleman. She had absolutely no reason to be concerned, even though she leaned against pillows scented with just a hint of his aftershave lotion. Even though she sat in front of his fireplace wearing nothing but his robe.

The entire time he dressed her wounds, she welcomed the sting of pain. It was the only thing that kept her mind from relishing his touch. When he finished by running his hand over her shoulder and down her arm, she was shocked to find herself waiting breathlessly, hoping for the caress to continue. Now, she wondered what it would feel like to have his big, steady hands caressing her neck, sliding gently over her shoulders and slowly down to her breasts.

She heard Nick come into the room and her hand flew to her face. Her skin was flushed again, but the fire would account for that. It would not, however, account for her shortness of breath. She steadied herself and avoided looking up at him as he approached.

He handed her a glass of brandy, then sat next to her. He pulled his long, bare feet up underneath himself, leaning so close he brushed her shoulder.

“So, that’s the photo you told me about?” He nodded in its direction as he grabbed a handmade quilt off the sofa. He began wrapping it around their legs. He did this as though it was natural for the two of them to be curling up next to each other. The intimacy of the act immediately sent the heat from her face down to other parts of her body.

Perhaps he recognized it. Maybe he felt it. Suddenly, he looked embarrassed as he explained, “The furnace isn’t working quite right. I need to have it checked. I just didn’t expect it to get this cold in October.”

She handed him the photo. With both hands now cupped around the globe of brandy, she swirled the liquid in the glass, breathed in its sweet, stout aroma, then took a sip. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back against the soft pillows and enjoyed the lovely sting sliding down her throat. Several more sips would release her from that unsettled feeling. It was during these initial light-headed moments that she understood her mother’s escape. Alcohol possessed the power to level tension and dissolve unwanted feelings. There was no pain if she couldn’t feel it. Grief didn’t exist if she was too numb to recognize it.

“I agree,” Nick said, interrupting her pleasant descent into numbness. “It is too much of a coincidence. But I can’t just haul Ray Howard in for questioning, can I?”

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up. “Not Howard. Father Keller.”

“What? Are you nuts? I can’t haul in a priest. You really can’t believe a Catholic priest could kill little boys.”

“He fits the profile. I need to find out more about his background, but yes, I do think a priest is capable.”

“I don’t. It’s crazy.” He avoided her eyes and gulped his brandy. “The community would hang me by my thumbs if I hauled in a priest for questioning. Especially this Father Keller. He’s like Superman with a collar. Jesus, O’Dell, you’re way off target.”

“Just listen to me for a minute. You said yourself it looked like Danny Alverez didn’t put up a fight. Keller was someone he knew and trusted. Father Francis told us it was unlikely for a layperson post-Vatican II—which would be anyone under the age of thirty-five—to know how to administer last rites, unless that person had some training.”

“But this guy is a hero with kids. How could he do something like this and not slip up?”

“People who knew Ted Bundy never suspected anything. Look, I also found a torn piece of a baseball card in Matthew’s hand. Timmy told me earlier tonight that Father Keller trades baseball cards with them.”

Nick wiped at the wet strands on his forehead, and she could smell the same shampoo she had used upstairs. He leaned back against the pillows, set his glass on his chest and watched the last bit swirl around.

“Okay,” he said finally, “you check him out. But I need something more than a photo and a piece of baseball card before I haul him in for questioning. In the meantime, I want to do some checking on Howard. You have to admit he’s a weird character. What kind of guy dresses in a shirt and tie to clean a church?”

“It’s not a crime to dress inappropriately for your job. If it were, you would have been arrested long ago.”

He shot her a look, but couldn’t hide the smile caught at the corner of his mouth.

“Look, it’s late. We’re both wiped out. How 'bout we try to get some sleep?” he said, then emptied his glass and set it aside on the floor. He stretched his legs under the quilt. He grabbed a remote from an end table, pressed a few buttons and the lights dimmed. She smiled at his handy little toy for his romantic romps in front of the fire. Why did she find herself almost disappointed that she didn’t need to worry about this being one of them?

“Maybe I should go back to the hotel.”

“Come on, O’Dell. Your clothes are still wet. All your stuff’s labeled dry-clean. I couldn’t just stick them in the dryer. Look, I’m too tired to make a pass, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He made himself comfortable against the pillows, his body close to her.

“No, it’s not that,” she said and wondered why her own body wasn’t too tired. Instead, every muscle, every nerve ending seemed attuned to the proximity of his body. Would she even resist if he did make a pass? Did she have no feelings left for Greg? What exactly was going on with her? This was beyond annoying. “I don’t usually sleep much. I might just keep you awake,” she offered in place of the real reason.

“What do you mean you don’t sleep?” He slumped down next to her, his head almost touching her arm. He closed his eyes, and she noticed how long his eyelashes were.

“I haven’t been able to sleep for over a month now. If I do, I usually have nightmares.”

He looked up at her but kept his head on the pillow. “I imagine with the stuff you see, it’s hard not to have nightmares. You probably noticed I didn’t spend a lot of time looking at Matthew’s body. Did something in particular happen?”

She looked down at him. His body curled under the quilt. Despite the dark bristle on his face, there was something boyish about him. Then he pulled himself up on one elbow, twisting open his half-buttoned shirt in the process and exposing his muscular chest and the curly wisps of dark hair. The boyish image disappeared quickly, and she imagined slipping her hand into his shirt and letting her fingers explore. She needed to stop. This was absolutely ridiculous. Suddenly, she realized he was waiting for an answer, his eyes filled with concern.

“Did something happen?” he asked again.

“Not anything I care to discuss.”

He stared at her as though trying to look deep inside her. Then, he sat up.

“Actually, I think I have a remedy for nightmares. It works with Timmy when he sleeps over.”

“Well, then, it can’t be more brandy.”

“No.” He smiled. “You hang on to someone else real tight while you fall asleep.”

Her eyes met his. “Nick, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

His face was serious again. “Maggie, this isn’t some cheap trick to get close to you. I just want to help. Will you let me do that? What do you have to lose?”

When she didn’t answer, he slid closer. Slowly, hesitantly, he put his arm around her as though waiting, giving her plenty of opportunity to protest. When she didn’t, he put his hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her into him so that her face rested hot against his chest. She heard his heart pound in her ear. Her own heart beat so noisily it was difficult to distinguish between the two. Her cheek brushed against the opening in his shirt, the coarse, wiry hair wonderfully scratchy and soft against her skin. She resisted the temptation of allowing her fingers access. He rested his chin on the top of her head. His voice vibrated against her.

“Now relax,” he said. “Imagine that nothing can get to you without going through me first. Even if you can’t sleep, just close your eyes and rest.”

How could she possibly sleep with her entire body alive, alert and on fire everywhere it touched his?

T
he photo Maggie had retrieved from her jacket pocket was creased and wrinkled. The corners curled as it dried. Lint from the robe’s pocket stuck to the glossy finish. She owed Timmy a replacement, though she didn’t know how she’d accomplish that. At least the photo hadn’t disappeared into the dark water like her cell phone. She seemed destined to lose things at the bottoms of rivers and lakes.

Nick was taking a long time in the kitchen. She wondered whether he had decided on a sandwich, after all. His last remark left her with an unsettled feeling, nothing she could even describe without using an annoying reference to butterflies. He was being a perfect gentleman. She had absolutely no reason to be concerned, even though she leaned against pillows scented with just a hint of his aftershave lotion. Even though she sat in front of his fireplace wearing nothing but his robe.

The entire time he dressed her wounds, she welcomed the sting of pain. It was the only thing that kept her mind from relishing his touch. When he finished by running his hand over her shoulder and down her arm, she was shocked to find herself waiting breathlessly, hoping for the caress to continue. Now, she wondered what it would feel like to have his big, steady hands caressing her neck, sliding gently over her shoulders and slowly down to her breasts.

She heard Nick come into the room and her hand flew to her face. Her skin was flushed again, but the fire would account for that. It would not, however, account for her shortness of breath. She steadied herself and avoided looking up at him as he approached.

He handed her a glass of brandy, then sat next to her. He pulled his long, bare feet up underneath himself, leaning so close he brushed her shoulder.

“So, that’s the photo you told me about?” He nodded in its direction as he grabbed a handmade quilt off the sofa. He began wrapping it around their legs. He did this as though it was natural for the two of them to be curling up next to each other. The intimacy of the act immediately sent the heat from her face down to other parts of her body.

Perhaps he recognized it. Maybe he felt it. Suddenly, he looked embarrassed as he explained, “The furnace isn’t working quite right. I need to have it checked. I just didn’t expect it to get this cold in October.”

She handed him the photo. With both hands now cupped around the globe of brandy, she swirled the liquid in the glass, breathed in its sweet, stout aroma, then took a sip. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back against the soft pillows and enjoyed the lovely sting sliding down her throat. Several more sips would release her from that unsettled feeling. It was during these initial light-headed moments that she understood her mother’s escape. Alcohol possessed the power to level tension and dissolve unwanted feelings. There was no pain if she couldn’t feel it. Grief didn’t exist if she was too numb to recognize it.

“I agree,” Nick said, interrupting her pleasant descent into numbness. “It is too much of a coincidence. But I can’t just haul Ray Howard in for questioning, can I?”

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up. “Not Howard. Father Keller.”

“What? Are you nuts? I can’t haul in a priest. You really can’t believe a Catholic priest could kill little boys.”

“He fits the profile. I need to find out more about his background, but yes, I do think a priest is capable.”

“I don’t. It’s crazy.” He avoided her eyes and gulped his brandy. “The community would hang me by my thumbs if I hauled in a priest for questioning. Especially this Father Keller. He’s like Superman with a collar. Jesus, O’Dell, you’re way off target.”

“Just listen to me for a minute. You said yourself it looked like Danny Alverez didn’t put up a fight. Keller was someone he knew and trusted. Father Francis told us it was unlikely for a layperson post-Vatican II—which would be anyone under the age of thirty-five—to know how to administer last rites, unless that person had some training.”

“But this guy is a hero with kids. How could he do something like this and not slip up?”

“People who knew Ted Bundy never suspected anything. Look, I also found a torn piece of a baseball card in Matthew’s hand. Timmy told me earlier tonight that Father Keller trades baseball cards with them.”

Nick wiped at the wet strands on his forehead, and she could smell the same shampoo she had used upstairs. He leaned back against the pillows, set his glass on his chest and watched the last bit swirl around.

“Okay,” he said finally, “you check him out. But I need something more than a photo and a piece of baseball card before I haul him in for questioning. In the meantime, I want to do some checking on Howard. You have to admit he’s a weird character. What kind of guy dresses in a shirt and tie to clean a church?”

“It’s not a crime to dress inappropriately for your job. If it were, you would have been arrested long ago.”

He shot her a look, but couldn’t hide the smile caught at the corner of his mouth.

“Look, it’s late. We’re both wiped out. How 'bout we try to get some sleep?” he said, then emptied his glass and set it aside on the floor. He stretched his legs under the quilt. He grabbed a remote from an end table, pressed a few buttons and the lights dimmed. She smiled at his handy little toy for his romantic romps in front of the fire. Why did she find herself almost disappointed that she didn’t need to worry about this being one of them?

“Maybe I should go back to the hotel.”

“Come on, O’Dell. Your clothes are still wet. All your stuff’s labeled dry-clean. I couldn’t just stick them in the dryer. Look, I’m too tired to make a pass, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He made himself comfortable against the pillows, his body close to her.

“No, it’s not that,” she said and wondered why her own body wasn’t too tired. Instead, every muscle, every nerve ending seemed attuned to the proximity of his body. Would she even resist if he did make a pass? Did she have no feelings left for Greg? What exactly was going on with her? This was beyond annoying. “I don’t usually sleep much. I might just keep you awake,” she offered in place of the real reason.

“What do you mean you don’t sleep?” He slumped down next to her, his head almost touching her arm. He closed his eyes, and she noticed how long his eyelashes were.

“I haven’t been able to sleep for over a month now. If I do, I usually have nightmares.”

He looked up at her but kept his head on the pillow. “I imagine with the stuff you see, it’s hard not to have nightmares. You probably noticed I didn’t spend a lot of time looking at Matthew’s body. Did something in particular happen?”

She looked down at him. His body curled under the quilt. Despite the dark bristle on his face, there was something boyish about him. Then he pulled himself up on one elbow, twisting open his half-buttoned shirt in the process and exposing his muscular chest and the curly wisps of dark hair. The boyish image disappeared quickly, and she imagined slipping her hand into his shirt and letting her fingers explore. She needed to stop. This was absolutely ridiculous. Suddenly, she realized he was waiting for an answer, his eyes filled with concern.

“Did something happen?” he asked again.

“Not anything I care to discuss.”

He stared at her as though trying to look deep inside her. Then, he sat up.

“Actually, I think I have a remedy for nightmares. It works with Timmy when he sleeps over.”

“Well, then, it can’t be more brandy.”

“No.” He smiled. “You hang on to someone else real tight while you fall asleep.”

Her eyes met his. “Nick, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

His face was serious again. “Maggie, this isn’t some cheap trick to get close to you. I just want to help. Will you let me do that? What do you have to lose?”

When she didn’t answer, he slid closer. Slowly, hesitantly, he put his arm around her as though waiting, giving her plenty of opportunity to protest. When she didn’t, he put his hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her into him so that her face rested hot against his chest. She heard his heart pound in her ear. Her own heart beat so noisily it was difficult to distinguish between the two. Her cheek brushed against the opening in his shirt, the coarse, wiry hair wonderfully scratchy and soft against her skin. She resisted the temptation of allowing her fingers access. He rested his chin on the top of her head. His voice vibrated against her.

“Now relax,” he said. “Imagine that nothing can get to you without going through me first. Even if you can’t sleep, just close your eyes and rest.”

How could she possibly sleep with her entire body alive, alert and on fire everywhere it touched his?