A Perfect Evil Part 6

After what seemed like a long time, Nick said quietly, calmly, "Danny Alverez was just a year older than Timmy." His eyes were focused straight ahead.

Christine looked out at Timmy bouncing down the field, weaving in between the boys that towered over him. He was fast and agile, using his smallness to his advantage. And, yes, she had noticed the resemblance. Timmy looked very much like the school photo they had used in the newspaper of Danny. They both had reddish-blond hair, blue eyes and a sprinkle of freckles. Like Timmy, Danny also was small for his age.

"I just spent the afternoon at the morgue." His voice startled her back to reality.

"Why?" she asked, pretending not to be interested. She stared at the game, but watched Nick out of the corner of her eye. She had never seen him so serious before.

"Bob Weston called in an expert to help us come up with a profile-Special Agent Maggie O'Dell from Quantico. She got in this morning and was raring to get to work." He glanced over at Christine, then did a double take when he noticed her scratching down something in her notebook. "Jesus, Christine!" he spat out so suddenly it made her jump. "Isn't anything off the record with you?"

"If you wanted it off the record, you should have said so." She watched him rub his hand across his jaw as if she had sucker punched him. "Besides, by tomorrow everyone will know about Agent O'Dell when she starts asking questions. What are you worried about, Nicky? Calling in an expert is a good thing."

"Is it? Or will it just make me look like I don't know what the h.e.l.l I'm doing?" He shot her another look. "Don't you dare print that."

"Relax. I'm not the enemy, Nicky." She noticed the boys doing their victory dance between the required handshakes. The game was over, and it was beginning to get dark. The park lights slowly turned on one by one. "You know, Dad wasn't afraid to work with the news media."

"Yeah, well, I'm not Dad." Now she had made him angry. She knew to stay away from the comparison, but she hated him treating her like an ambulance chaser. Besides, if he didn't like the comparisons, perhaps he shouldn't have followed in their father's footsteps. As usual, she simply sidestepped the subject.

"I'm just saying that Dad knew how to use the media to help."

"To help?" Nick asked incredulously, his voice rising above the cheering in front of them. He quickly looked around, realizing he was too loud. He lowered his voice again and leaned toward her. "Dad used the news media because he loved being in the limelight. There were so many leaks, it's amazing they ever caught Jeffreys."

"What leaks? What are you talking about?"

"Never mind," he said, glancing at her notebook.

Christine rolled her eyes at him, wondering if he was just baiting her now.

"But they did catch Jeffreys, and Dad solved the case," she reminded him.

"Yeah, they did catch Jeffreys, and good ole Dad took all the credit."

"Nicky, no one's asking you to fill Dad's shoes. You always take that on yourself." Okay, there it was. A slip, an innocent slip. She watched his face, waiting.

Instead, he simply shook his head. A frustrated smile caught at the corner of his mouth as if he thought she couldn't possibly understand.

"Haven't you ever wondered..." He hesitated, looking out at the field, his thoughts far away. "Didn't you ever think it happened all too quickly...too neat and convenient?"

"What are you talking about?"

This wasn't the response she expected. The night air was chilly, and Christine felt a shiver down her back. She rubbed her arms and tried to look into her brother's eyes. He was starting to scare her with his anger and his hushed manner. Normally, he joked around and never took anything too seriously, even their sibling banter. Had the mention of their father brought all this on? No, it was something else. What did he know? What was it that had her arrogant, confident little brother so spooked?

"Nicky, what do you mean?" she tried again.

"Forget it," he said, standing up and stretching, closing the subject.

"Uncle Nick, Uncle Nick! Did you see me score?" Timmy yelled as he ran up the bleachers, carefully watching his small feet the whole way up.

"You bet I did," Nick lied.

She watched as Nick's entire face changed, relaxing into a smile as he s.n.a.t.c.hed her small son up into his long arms, wrestling him in close for a hug.

Christine knew her brother was hiding something, and she was going to find out what it was.

CHAPTER 14.

He drove around the park again, this time slowly. The game was finally over. He pulled into a parking s.p.a.ce far from the other cars, alone in the corner of the lot. He turned off the headlights and sat watching, listening to the music and waiting for the jerky strings of Vivaldi to smooth out and silence the throbbing in his temples.

It was happening again and so soon. He couldn't stop it, couldn't control it. And worse, he didn't want to. He was so tired. He tried to remember when he had last slept through an entire night, instead of pacing or wandering the streets. He rubbed his eyes, wiping at the exhaustion, then stopped suddenly. His fingers were trembling beyond his control.

"Dear G.o.d, make it stop," he whispered as he tore at the hair at his temples. Why wouldn't it stop? The throbbing, the pounding made his head ache.

He watched the group of boys in gra.s.s-stained uniforms. They looked so happy, fresh from their victory, arms crossing around one another, hands patting each other on the back. They touched so carelessly, so casually. Their singsong voices grew loud as they approached, drowning out Vivaldi with lyrics of gibberish.

The memory came flooding back to him, paralyzing him and pinning him to the stiff leather of the car seat. He was eleven years old and his stepfather had made him join the Little League team, bargaining with the coach to get him out of the house on Sat.u.r.day mornings. He knew it was only because his stepfather wanted to f.u.c.k his mother all morning.

He had accidentally walked in on them the Sat.u.r.day before, only because they were out of milk. The memory washed over him-powerful despite the years. So clear, so vivid he grabbed the steering wheel to brace himself.

He stood in the doorway of his mother's bedroom, paralyzed by the sight of his mother's skin, white and naked with the silver cross swinging between her big b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s wagged back and forth. She held herself up on her hands and knees while his stepfather rode her like a dog in heat.

It was his stepfather who saw him first. He yelled at him, panting and jerking, while his mother's eyes grew wide in horror. She twisted out from under his stepfather, falling and tumbling off the bed, grabbing for the sheet. It was then that he turned to run. He stumbled down the hall, tripping and falling only once before he got to his room. Just as he began to slam the door, his stepfather crashed through it.

His stepfather was still naked. It was the first time he had seen a grown man's p.e.n.i.s, and it was horrible: huge, stiff and erect, protruding through the thick black hair. His stepfather grabbed him by the neck and shoved his face to the wall.

"You interested in watching or maybe you want some of this." He could still hear the man's graveled voice, out of breath and panting in his ear.

He stood perfectly still. He couldn't breathe. His stepfather's fingers strangled his neck with one hand while he ripped his pajama pants with the other. His mother screamed and pounded her fists against his locked door. Then he felt it. The intense pressure, the pain so stifling he thought his insides would explode. He kept quiet and still, though he wanted to scream. His cheek sc.r.a.ped against the rough texture of the bedroom wall. All he could do was stare at the crucifix hanging next to his face, while he waited for his stepfather to stop slamming into his small body.

A car's horn blasted. He jumped and clutched the steering wheel even harder. His palms were sweaty, his fingers still trembling. He watched the boys getting into the cars and vans with their parents. How many of them were hiding secrets like his own? How many of them hid their bruises and scars? How many waited for some sort of relief, some sort of salvation from their misery? From their torture?

Then he saw the small boy waving to the others as he started up the sidewalk. He watched to see if anyone would join the boy tonight, or if he would walk home alone as he usually did.

It was starting to get dark. Several street lights blinked on. He listened to the gravel grind beneath the cars as they pulled out and drove off. Headlights flicked on and blinded him as they turned to leave. No one noticed him. No one took extra time to look his way. Those who recognized him smiled and waved, for there was nothing unusual about him taking in a neighborhood soccer game.

Half a block away, the boy still walked alone, tossing the soccer ball from one hand to the other. He looked thin and small in his baggy uniform, so very vulnerable. The boy practically skipped, regardless of no one showing up to watch him play. Perhaps he had grown accustomed to his loneliness.

The last car left the parking lot. He silenced Vivaldi in the middle of The Four Seasons: Autumn The Four Seasons: Autumn. Without looking, his fingers found the small, gla.s.s vial from inside the glove compartment. Expertly, he cracked the vial and let it dampen the brilliant white handkerchief. He wished the extra precautions were not necessary, but he had been reckless with Danny. He grabbed the black ski mask and got out of the car, gently closing the door. Immediately, he noticed that his hands were no longer trembling. Yes, he was finally feeling back in control. Then he followed quietly up the sidewalk.

CHAPTER 15.

Monday, October 27

Maggie poured the rest of the Scotch from the small bottle to the plastic cup. The ice cubes cracked and tinkled against each other. She took a sip, closed her eyes and welcomed the lovely sting sliding down her throat. Lately, she worried that she had acquired her mother's taste for alcohol, or worse, her addiction to the pleasant numbness promised by the sacred liquid.

She rubbed her eyes and glanced at the cheap clock radio across the room on the nightstand. It was after two in the morning, and she couldn't sleep. The dim table lamp gave her a headache. It was probably the Scotch, but she made a note to ask the hotel clerk for a brighter light.

The small tabletop was covered with the Polaroid photos she had taken earlier. She attempted to put them in chronological order-hands tied, neck strangled then slashed, puncture wounds. This madman was methodical. He took his time. He cut, sliced and peeled back skin with frightening precision. Even the jagged X followed a specific diagonal from shoulder blade to belly b.u.t.ton.

She scattered two file folders full of police reports and newspaper clippings. There were enough gory details to provide nightmares for a lifetime. Except it was impossible to have nightmares if you couldn't sleep.

She pulled her bare legs up, tucking her feet underneath her in an attempt to make herself comfortable in the hard chair. Her Green Bay Packers jersey had stretched and become misshapen from too many washes. It barely covered her thighs, yet it was still the softest nightshirt she owned. It had become a sort of security blanket that made her feel at home no matter how many miles away. She refused to get rid of it despite Greg's constant complaints.

She looked at the clock again. She should have called Greg when she had gotten back to the hotel. Now it was too late. Perhaps it was just as well. They both needed some cooling-down time.

She sifted through the scattered papers and examined her notes, several pages of details, small observations, some that would probably seem insignificant to anyone else. Eventually, she would pull them all together and create a profile of the killer. She had done it many times before. Sometimes she could describe the killer right down to height, hair color and, in one case, even his aftershave lotion. This time, though, it was more difficult. Partly because the obvious suspect had already been executed. And partly because it was always difficult to crawl inside the sick, disgusting mind of a child killer.

She picked up the silver medallion and chain from the corner of the desk. It resembled the one Danny Alverez had worn. Though this one had been given to Maggie by her father for her first Holy Communion.

"As long as you wear this, G.o.d will protect you from any harm," her father had told her. Though his own, identical medallion had not saved him. She wondered if he had gone into the burning building that night believing it would.

Until a month ago she had worn the medallion faithfully, perhaps out of routine and remembrance of her father rather than out of any sense of spirituality. She had stopped praying the day she watched her father's casket lowered into the cold, hard earth. At twelve, none of her catechism teachings could explain why G.o.d had needed to take her father away.

In fact, she had put aside Catholicism until she joined the forensic lab at Quantico eight years ago. Suddenly, those crude drawings in her Baltimore Catechism of demons with horns and glowing red eyes had made sense. Evil did exist. She had seen it in the eyes of killers. She had seen it in the eyes of Albert Stucky. Ironically, it was that evil that had brought her closer to believing in G.o.d again. But it was Albert Stucky who made her wonder whether G.o.d simply didn't care anymore. The night she watched Stucky slaughter two women, Maggie had gone home and removed the medallion from around her neck. And although she couldn't bring herself to wear it anymore, she still carried it with her.

She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the medal and wondered what Danny Alverez must have felt. What must he have thought when the madman ripped away what the small boy may have seen as his last protection? Like her father, had Danny Alverez put his final breath of faith in a silly metal object?

She clutched the medallion tightly in her fist, pulled back her arm and was ready to fling the worthless charm across the room when a soft tap on the door stopped her. The knock was barely audible. Instinctively, Maggie got to her feet and slipped out her Smith & Wesson .38 revolver from its holster. She padded quietly to the door in bare feet, feeling vulnerable in only the nightshirt and underpants. She gripped the revolver, waiting for its power to remove her sense of vulnerability. Through the peephole she could see Sheriff Morrelli, and the tension slid away from her shoulders. She opened the door, but just enough to look out at him.

"What's going on, Sheriff?"

"Sorry. I tried to call, but the night desk clerk has been on the phone for over an hour."

He looked exhausted, his blue eyes swollen and red, his short hair sticking up out of place and his face still unshaved. His shirt was untucked, the tails hanging out over his jeans and peeking out from under his denim jacket. She noticed that several of the top b.u.t.tons were missing, and his twisted collar was open, exposing wisps of dark curly hair. Immediately, she looked away, annoyed with herself for noticing this last detail.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Another boy's missing," he said, swallowing hard as if it was difficult to get the words out.

"That's impossible," she said, but knew, in fact, that it wasn't. Albert Stucky had taken his fourth victim less than an hour after his third victim was discovered. The beautiful, blond coed had been sliced in pieces, some of which were stuffed in takeout boxes and discarded in the Dumpster behind a restaurant Stucky had eaten at earlier that evening.

"I've got men going door-to-door in the neighborhood and searching alleys, parks, fields." He rubbed his hand over his exhausted face and scratched his bristled jaw. His eyes were a watery blue. "The kid was walking home from a soccer game. He only had five blocks to walk." His eyes darted down the hall, avoiding Maggie's gaze while pretending to make sure no one else was in the deserted hallway.

"Maybe you should come in."

Maggie held the door open for him. He hesitated, then walked in slowly, staying in the entrance as he glanced around the room. He turned back to Maggie, and his eyes dropped to her legs. She had forgotten about the short nightshirt. He looked up quickly, met her eyes and looked away. He was embarra.s.sed. The charming, flirtatious Morrelli was embarra.s.sed.

"Sorry. Did I wake you?" Another glance, and this time when his eyes found hers, she felt her face grow hot. As nonchalantly as possible, she squeezed past him and went to the dresser.

"No, I was still up."

She slid her gun back into its holster, opened one of the dresser drawers and started digging for a pair of jeans. Finally, she found a pair and pulled them on while she watched Morrelli pace the small s.p.a.ce between the bed and table.

"Did I mention that I tried to call first?"

She looked up in the mirror and caught him watching her. Their eyes met again, this time in the mirror.

"Yes, you did. It's okay," she said, struggling with the zipper. "Actually, I was going over my notes."

"I was at that game," he said softly, quietly.

"What game?"

"The soccer game. The one the boy was walking home from. My nephew played. Jesus, Timmy probably knows this kid." He continued to pace the room, making the s.p.a.ce seem even smaller with his long strides.

"Are you sure the boy didn't go home with a friend?"

"We called other parents. His friends remember seeing him start walking up the sidewalk toward home. And we found his soccer ball. It's autographed by some famous soccer player. His mom says it's one of his most prized possessions. She insists he wouldn't have just left it."

He sc.r.a.ped a sleeve across his face. Maggie recognized the panic in his eyes. He wasn't prepared to handle a situation like this. She wondered what experience he had in crisis management. She sighed and raked her fingers through her tangled hair. Already she regretted that it would be up to her to keep him focused.

"Sheriff, maybe you should sit down."

"Bob Weston suggested I compile a list of pedophiles and known s.e.x offenders. Do I start hauling them in for questioning? Can you give me any idea who I should be looking for?" He glanced over the papers spread out on the table in one of his pa.s.ses.

"Sheriff Morrelli, why don't you sit down?"

"No, I'm fine."

"No, I insist." She reached up and grabbed him by the shoulders, gently shoving him into a chair behind the table. He looked as though he'd stand up again, thought better of it, then stretched out his long legs.

"Did you have any suspects at all when the Alverez boy was taken?" Maggie asked.

"Just one. His father. His parents are divorced. The father was refused custody and visitation because of his drinking and abusiveness. We were never able to track him down. h.e.l.l, the air force can't even find him. He was a major at the base, but went AWOL two months ago. He ran off with a sixteen-year-old girl he met over the Internet."

She found herself pacing as she listened. Perhaps it had been a mistake to make him sit. Now that he gave her his full attention it dismantled her thought process. She rubbed her eyes, realizing how exhausted she was. How long could a person function without sufficient sleep?

"Have you made any progress in tracking him down?"

"We stopped."

"What do you mean you stopped?"

"After we found Danny's body, Weston said it couldn't be the father. That a father wouldn't be able to do that to his own son."

"I've seen what fathers can do to their sons. I remember a case three, no, four years ago where a father buried his six-year-old son in a box. He dug a hole in the backyard and left just a small air hole with a piece of rubber hose. It was punishment for something stupid. I can't even remember now what the kid had done. After several days of rain, he couldn't find the air hole. Instead of digging up his entire backyard, he tried to make it look like a kidnapping. The wife went along with his crazy scheme. She probably didn't want to end up in a box of her own. Maybe you should continue searching for Mr. Alverez. Didn't you say he was abusive?"