A Perfect Evil Part 1

A PERFECT EVIL.

by ALEX KAVA.

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 gla.s.s-sharp gla.s.s-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 G.o.d 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-rehea.r.s.ed 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 f.u.c.king him." He stopped, checking Father Francis' face, looking for shock and smiling when he found it.

"I waited until he was dead before I cut him. He didn't feel a thing. So I cut him again and again and again. Then, I f.u.c.ked him one last time." He c.o.c.ked his head to the side, suddenly distracted. Had he finally noticed the celebration outside?

Father Francis waited. Could it be the ma.s.sive pounding of his heart that Jeffreys heard? Like something out of Poe, it banged against the old priest's chest, betraying him just like his hands.

"I've already confessed once before," Jeffreys continued. "Right after it happened, but the priest... Let's just say he was a little surprised. Now I'm confessing to G.o.d, you understand? I'm confessing that I killed Bobby Wilson." The ripping continued, now in quick, jerky motions. "But I didn't kill those other two boys. Do you hear me?" His voice rose above the monotone. "I didn't kill the Harper or the Paltrow kid."

Silence, then Jeffreys' lips slowly twisted into a smirk. "But then, G.o.d already knows that. Right, Father?"

"G.o.d does know the truth," Father Francis said, trying to stare into the cold blue eyes but flinching and quickly looking away again. What if his own guilt should somehow reveal itself?

"They want to execute me because they think I'm some serial killer who murders little boys," Jeffreys spat through clenched teeth. "I killed Bobby Wilson, and I enjoyed it. Maybe I even deserve to die for that. But G.o.d knows I didn't kill those other boys. Somewhere out there, Father, there's still a monster." Another twisted smile. "And he's even more hideous than me."

Metal clanked against metal down the hall. Father Francis jerked, sending the Bible crashing to the floor. This time Jeffreys didn't laugh. The old priest held Jeffreys' stare, but neither man made an attempt to pick up the holy book. Were they coming to take Jeffreys away? It seemed too soon, although no one expected a stay of execution.

"Are you sorry for your sins?" Father Francis whispered as if back at the confessional window in St. Margaret's.

Yes, there were footsteps coming down the hall, coming toward them. It was time. Jeffreys sat paralyzed, listening to the click-clack click-clack of heels marching, getting closer and closer. of heels marching, getting closer and closer.

"Are you sorry for your sins?" Father Francis repeated, this time more insistent, almost a command. Oh, dear G.o.d, it was hard to breathe. The chants from the parking lot grew louder and louder, squeezing through the tightly sealed window.

Jeffreys stood up. Again, his eyes held Father Francis'. The locks grunted open, echoing against the concrete walls. Jeffreys flinched at the sound, caught himself, then stood straight with shoulders back. Was he frightened? Father Francis searched Jeffreys' eyes, but couldn't see beyond the steel blue.

"Are you sorry for your sins?" He tried once more, unable to offer absolution without an answer.

The door opened, sucking the remaining air from the room. Square-shouldered guards clogged the doorway.

"It's time," one of the men said.

"It's show time, Father." Jeffreys' lips curled over gritted teeth. The blue eyes were sharp and clear, but vacant. Jeffreys turned to the three uniformed men and offered his wrists.

Father Francis winced as the shackles snapped. Then he listened to the boot heels clicking, accompanied by the pathetic shuffle-clank, shuffle-clank shuffle-clank, shuffle-clank all the way down the long hall. all the way down the long hall.

A stale breeze seeped in through the open door. It cooled his wet, clammy skin and sent a shiver down his back. He gulped greedily at the air, limited to short, asthmatic gasps. Finally, the thunder in his chest eased, leaving behind a tightfisted ache.

"G.o.d help Ronald Jeffreys," Father Francis whispered to no one.

At least Jeffreys had told the truth. He had not killed all three boys. And Father Francis knew this, not because Jeffreys had said so. He knew, because three days ago the faceless monster who had murdered Aaron Harper and Eric Paltrow had confessed to him through the black, wire-mesh confessional at St. Margaret's. And because of his holy vows, he wasn't able to tell a single soul.

Not even Ronald Jeffreys.

CHAPTER 1.

Five miles outside Platte City, Nebraska Friday, October 24

Nick Morrelli wished the woman beneath him wore less makeup. He knew it was ridiculous. He listened to her soft moans-purrs really. Like a cat, she slithered against him, rubbing her silky thighs up and down the sides of his torso. She was more than ready for him. And yet, all he could think about was the blue powder smeared on her eyelids. Even with the lights out, it remained etched in his mind like fluorescent, glow-in-the-dark paint.

"Oh, baby, your body is so hard," she purred in his ear as she ran her long fingernails up his arms and over his back.

He slid off her before she discovered that not all of his body was hard. What was wrong with him? He needed to concentrate. He licked her earlobe and nuzzled her neck, then moved down to where he really wanted to be. Instinctively, his mouth found one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He ravished it with soft, wet kisses. She moaned even before his tongue flicked at her nipple. He loved those sounds a woman made-the short little gasp, then the low moan. He waited for them, then wrapped his tongue around her nipple and sucked it into his mouth. Her back arched, and she quivered. He leaned into her, absorbing the shiver, her soft, smooth flesh trembling against him. Normally, that reaction alone would immediately give him an erection. Tonight, nothing.

Jesus, was he losing his touch? No, he was too young to be having this problem. After all, he was four years away from forty.

When in the world had he started keeping track of his age by its distance from forty?

"Oooh, lover, don't stop!"

He didn't even realize he had had stopped. She groaned impatiently and began moving her hips up and down, slowly, with a sensuous rhythm. Yes, she was definitely ready for him. And he was definitely not ready. Just once he wished women would use his name instead of baby, lover, stud m.u.f.fin, whatever. Did women worry about yelling out the wrong name, too? stopped. She groaned impatiently and began moving her hips up and down, slowly, with a sensuous rhythm. Yes, she was definitely ready for him. And he was definitely not ready. Just once he wished women would use his name instead of baby, lover, stud m.u.f.fin, whatever. Did women worry about yelling out the wrong name, too?

Her fingers twisted into his short, thick hair. She yanked hard, the streak of pain surprising him. Then she pulled his face back to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. In the dim light, he noticed that the triangle of tanned skin was crooked. The point overlapped onto the underside of her breast. What was wrong with him? A beautiful blonde wanted him. Why didn't her breathless antic.i.p.ation arouse him? He needed to focus. It all felt too mechanical, too routine. Nevertheless, he would compensate again using his fingers and tongue. After all, he had a reputation to maintain.

He began the descent down her body, devouring her with kisses and nibbles. Her body squirmed beneath his touch. She was writhing and gasping for breath even before his teeth tugged at her lace panties. He kissed his way to the inside of her thighs. Suddenly, a sound stopped him. He strained to hear from under the bedcovers.

"No, please don't stop," she groaned, pulling him back into her.

There it was again. Pounding. Someone was at the front door.

"I'll be right back." Nick gently pushed her hands away and stumbled out of bed, disentangling himself from the sheets and almost tripping. He pulled on jeans as he checked the clock on the nightstand-10:36.

Even in the dark, he knew every creak in the staircase by heart. Out of habit, he found himself tiptoeing, though his parents hadn't slept in the old farmhouse for over five years.

The knock was louder and more insistent now.

"Hold on a minute," he called out impatiently, yet relieved by the interruption.

When he opened the door, Nick recognized Hank Ashford's son, though he couldn't recall his name. The boy was sixteen or seventeen, a linebacker on the football team and built like he could move two or three players at a time off the line of scrimmage. Yet, tonight, as he stood on Nick's front porch, the kid slouched with his hands stashed in his pockets, eyes wild and face pale. He shivered despite the sweaty forehead.

"Sheriff Morrelli, you have to come...on Old Church Road...please, you have to..."

"Is someone hurt?" The crisp night air stung Nick's bare skin. It felt good.

"No, it's not...he's not hurt... Oh, G.o.d, Sheriff, it's awful." The boy looked back toward his car. It was only then that Nick saw the girl in the front seat. Even looking into the headlights, he could see she was crying.

"What's going on?" he demanded, sending the boy into a speechless, arm-crossing dance, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

What stupid game had they been playing this time? Last week, the night before homecoming, a group of boys had played chicken with a couple of Jake Turner's tractors. The loser had tipped over into a rain-filled ditch, pinning himself under the water. The boy was lucky he had escaped with only broken ribs and the flimsy punishment of sitting out two football games.

"What the h.e.l.l happened this time?" Nick found himself yelling at the shivering linebacker.

"We found...down off Old Church Road...in the tall gra.s.s. Oh G.o.d, we found...we found a body."

"A body?" Nick wasn't sure he believed him. "You mean a dead body?" Was the boy drunk? Was he stoned?

The boy nodded, tears filling his eyes. He sc.r.a.ped the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his face and looked from Nick to his girlfriend, then back to Nick.

"Hang on a minute."

Nick stepped back inside, letting the screen door slam behind him. They had probably imagined it. Or maybe it was an early Halloween prank. They'd been out partying. Both of them were probably stoned. He pulled on his boots, bypa.s.sing socks, then grabbed his shirt from the sofa, where it had been taken off him earlier in the evening. He was annoyed to find his fingers shaking as he b.u.t.toned the front.

"Nick, what is it?"

The voice from the top of the stairs startled him. He had forgotten about Angie. Roused from bed, her long, blond hair was ruffled and floated around her shoulders. The blue eye makeup was hardly noticeable from this distance. She wore one of his T-shirts. It was transparent in the hallway's soft light. Now, looking up at her, he couldn't imagine why he had been relieved to leave her.

"I've got to check something out."

"Is someone hurt?"

She sounded more curious than concerned. Was she only looking for a bit of gossip? Something to share with the morning coffee drinkers at Wanda's Diner?

"I don't know."

"Did someone find the Alverez boy?"

Jesus, he hadn't even thought of that. The boy had been missing since Sunday, gone, taken before he began his newspaper route.

"No, I don't think so," Nick told her. Even the FBI was certain the boy had more than likely been taken by his father, who they were still trying to locate. It was a simple custody battle. And this was simply teenage kids playing tricks on each other.

"I might be a while, but you're welcome to stay."

He grabbed the keys to his Jeep and found Ashford sitting on the front steps, his face buried in his hands.

"Let's go." Nick gently yanked a handful of sweatshirt and pulled the boy to his feet. "Why don't the two of you get in with me."

Nick wished he had taken time to put on underwear. Now, in the cramped Jeep, the stiff denim sc.r.a.ped against him every time he put the clutch in and shifted. To make matters worse, Old Church Road was filled with ruts from the rains of the week before. The gravel popped against the Jeep as he weaved from side to side, avoiding the deep gashes in the road.

"What exactly were you two doing out on this washboard?" As soon as he said it, he realized the obvious. He didn't need to be seventeen to remember all the benefits of an old deserted gravel road. "Never mind," he added before either of them had time to answer. "Just tell me where I'm going."

"It's about another mile, just past the bridge. There's a pasture road that runs along the river."

"Sure, okay."

He noticed Ashford wasn't stuttering anymore. Perhaps he was sobering up. The girl, however, who sat between Nick and the boy, hadn't said a word.

Nick slowed down as the Jeep b.u.mped across the wood-slatted bridge. He found the pasture road even before Ashford pointed it out. They bounced and slid over the dirt road that consisted of rutted tire tracks filled with muddy water.

"All the way down to the trees?" Nick glanced at Ashford, who only nodded and stared straight ahead. As they approached the shelter belt, the girl hid her face in the boy's sweatshirt.

Nick stopped, killed the engine, but left on the headlights. He reached across the two of them and pulled a flashlight from the glove compartment.