A Perfect Evil Read online

  “What’s this?” She held up the envelope.

  “I dunno. It came in the mail slot sometime during the night. I found it on the floor with the morning mail.”

  She pretended it didn’t matter. “Is there someplace here in town I can buy a coat and boots?”

  “Not really. There’s a John Deere implement store about a mile north of town, but they just have men’s stuff.”

  “Would you mind doing me a favor?” She peeled a damp five-dollar bill from the folded emergency bills she kept stuffed in the slot behind her badge. The kid seemed more interested in the badge than the five. “Would you call the store and ask them to deliver a jacket? I don’t care what it looks like, as long as it’s warm and a size small.”

  “What about boots?” He jotted down instructions on a desk pad already filled with doodles and notes.

  “Yes, see if they have something close to a woman’s size six. Again, I don’t care about style. I just need to get around in the snow.”

  “Got it. They probably don’t open until eight or nine.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll be in my room all morning. Call me when they’re here, and I’ll take care of the bill.”

  “Anything else?” Suddenly, he seemed eager to earn his five dollars.

  “Do you have room service?”

  “No, but I can get you just about anything from Wanda’s. They deliver for free, and we can put it on your hotel tab.”

  “Great. I’d like a real breakfast—scrambled eggs, sausage, toast, orange juice. Oh, and see if they have cappuccino.”

  “You got it.” He was pleased, taking his tasks all very seriously as if she had given him an official FBI assignment.

  She started sloshing down the hall, but something made her stop. “Hey, what’s your name?”

  He looked up, surprised, a bit worried. “Calvin. Calvin Tate.”

  “Thanks, Calvin.”

  Back in her room, she kicked off the snow-caked shoes and wrestled out of her trousers. She turned up the thermostat to seventy-five, then peeled off her jacket and blouse. This morning her muscles ached from her neck to her calves. She tried rolling the wounded shoulder, stopped, waited for the streak of pain to pass, then continued.

  In the bathroom, she turned on the shower and sat on the edge of the bathtub in her underwear while she waited for hot water. She flipped through the messages recorded in two different handwritings. One was from Director Cunningham at eleven o’clock, no a.m. or p.m., no message. Why hadn’t he called her cellular? Damn, she had forgotten. She needed to report it missing and get a replacement.

  Three messages were from Darcy McManus at Channel Five. The desk clerk, obviously impressed, had recorded the exact times on all three. Each message had a new set of detailed instructions telling when and where to call McManus back. They included her work, cellular and home numbers and an e-mail address. Two messages were from Dr. Avery, her mother’s therapist, both late last night with instructions to call when possible.

  She was guessing the sealed envelope was from the persistent Ms. McManus. Steam rolled in over the shower curtain. Usually, hotel showers barely reached lukewarm. She got up to adjust the water, then stopped at her reflection in the mirror. It was quickly disappearing behind the gauze of steam. She wiped an open palm across the surface until she could examine her shoulder. The triangular punctures looked red and raw against her white skin. She yanked off Nick’s homemade bandage, revealing a two-to-three-inch gash, puckered and smeared with blood. It would leave a scar. Wonderful. It would match her others.

  She turned and twisted, lifting the lower section of her bra. Under her left breast was the beginning of another puckered red scar, recently healed. It trailed four inches down and across her abdomen—a present from Albert Stucky.

  “You’re lucky I don’t gut you,” she remembered him telling her as the knife blade sliced through her skin, carefully cutting just the top layer of skin, ensuring a scar. At the time, she hadn’t felt anything, too numb and drained. Perhaps she had already resigned herself to die.

  “You’ll still be alive,” he had promised, “when I start eating your intestines.”

  By then, nothing could shock her. She had just watched him slice and dice two women, cutting off nipples and clitorises despite the women’s horrible, ear-piercing screams. Then came the gutting, followed by the smashing of skulls. No, there was nothing more he could have done to shock her. So, instead, he left her with a constant reminder of himself.

  She hated that her body was becoming a scrapbook. It was bad enough that her mind had been stamped and tattooed with the images.

  She rubbed her hands over her face and up through her hair, watching her reflection. It startled her how small and vulnerable she looked. Yet, nothing had changed. She was still the same determined, gutsy woman she had been when she had entered the Academy eight years ago. Maybe a little battle-fatigued and scarred, but that same restless determination existed in her eyes. She could still see it behind the steam, behind the horrors she had witnessed. Albert Stucky was a temporary setback—a roadblock she needed to plow through or go around, but never retreat from.

  She unhooked her bra and let it fall to the floor. She started slipping out of her underpants when she remembered the unopened envelope on top of the other messages spread across the sink’s counter. She ripped it open and pulled out the three-by-five index card. It took only one glance at the boxy lettering, and her heart began racing. Her pulse quickened. She grabbed the countertop to steady herself, gave up and slid to the damp, tiled floor. Not again. It couldn’t happen again. She wouldn’t allow it. She hugged her knees to her chest, trying to silence the panic rising inside her.

  Then she read the card again:

  WILL YOUR MOTHER BE NEEDING HER LAST RITES SOON?

  CHAPTER 40

  It was too early for any traffic, so Nick let the Jeep slide and cut through the drifts on its own. Street lamps continued to glow as the thick mass of snow clouds kept the sun from appearing. The windshield iced up again, and he blasted it with hot air, even though he was sweating. He turned up the radio and punched several buttons before leaving it on KRAP—“News every day, all day.”

  He dreaded telling Michelle Tanner about her son. He wanted those images—no, he needed those images of Matthew and Danny out of his mind or he’d be of no use to Mrs. Tanner. So he kept his mind on Maggie. He had never felt so pleasantly uncomfortable in all his vast experiences with women. The woman had managed to turn him inside out. Something he didn’t think was possible for any one woman to do. What was worse, Maggie hadn’t intended for any of it to be sensual, making him even more hot and bothered. He couldn’t erase the image of her cheek pressed against his chest, the feel of her breath on his skin. He didn’t want to erase it, so he played it, over and over again, until he could conjure it all up on demand—the smell of her hair, the feel of her skin, the sound of her heart. It seemed ironic—criminal—that the one woman who had revived him was the one woman he couldn’t have.

  He skidded onto Michelle Tanner’s street just as the radio announcer was explaining that Mayor Rutledge was canceling Halloween because of the snow, which was expected to keep falling throughout the day.

  “Lucky bastard.” Nick smiled and shook his head.

  He pulled into the Tanner driveway, almost sliding into the back of a van. It wasn’t until he was at the front door that he noticed the KRAP News Radio sign, partially hidden by plastered snow. Panic chewed at his insides. It was awfully early for a simple “how are things going?” interview. He knocked on the screen door. When no one came, he opened it and pounded on the inside door.

  Almost immediately it opened. A small, gray-haired woman motioned for him to come into the living room. Then she scurried back into the room and took her seat beside Michelle Tanner on the sofa. A tall, balding man with a tape recorder sat across from them. In the doorway to the kitchen towered a barrel-chested man with a crew cut and thick forearms. He looked familiar, and with
a quick glance around the house, Nick realized he must be the ex-husband, Matthew’s father. There were still several framed photos with the three of them—taken in happier times.

  Nick heard voices and the banging of pots and pans coming from the kitchen. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee mixed with the scent of melting wax. A row of candles burned on the fireplace mantel next to a large photo of Matthew and a small crucifix.

  “Is it true?” Michelle Tanner looked up at Nick with red, puffy eyes. “Did you find a body last night?”

  All eyes stared at him, waiting. Jesus, it was hot in the house. He reached up and loosened his tie.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Does it fucking matter?” Matthew’s father wanted to know.

  “Douglas, please,” the old woman reprimanded him. “Mr. Melzer, here, from the radio said it was in the Omaha Journal this morning.”

  Melzer held up the paper. Second Body Found was emblazoned across the front. Nick didn’t need to see the byline. There was no time for anger. The panic backed up into his throat, leaving an acidy taste in his mouth and a lump obstructing his air. Christine had done it to him again.

  “Yes, it’s true,” he managed to say. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

  “You’re always just a few steps behind, aren’t you, Sheriff?”

  “Douglas,” the old woman repeated.

  “Is it him?” Michelle looked up at Nick, pleading, hoping.

  He thought it had been obvious. But she needed the words. He hated this. He shoved his hands into his jean pockets and forced himself to look into her eyes.

  “Yes. It’s Matthew.”

  He expected the wail and yet wasn’t prepared for it. Michelle fell into the old woman’s arms, and they rocked back and forth. Two women appeared from the kitchen. When they saw Michelle, they broke down into tears and hugged each other. Melzer watched, glanced at Nick, then gathered up his equipment and quietly left. Nick wanted to follow him out. He wasn’t sure what to do. Douglas Tanner stared at him, leaning against the wall, his anger red on his face and clenched in his fists.

  Then suddenly, in three steps, the man came at him. Nick didn’t see the left hook until it slammed into his jaw, knocking him backward into a bookcase. Books flew from the shelves, crashing into him and onto the floor. Before he regained his balance, Douglas Tanner came at him again, pounding a fist into his stomach. Nick gasped for breath and stumbled, slipping to his knees. The old woman was yelling at Douglas. The commotion silenced the painful cries, while the women watched, wide-eyed.

  Nick shook his head and started to crawl back to his feet when he saw the blur of another fist coming at him. He grabbed Tanner’s arm, but instead of swinging back, Nick simply shoved the man away. He probably deserved this beating.

  Then he caught a glimpse of the shiny metal. In one quick burst, Tanner came at him again, and this time stabbed at his side. Nick jumped out of the way, grabbing for his gun and ripping it from its holster. Tanner froze, a hunting knife gripped expertly in his left hand, and a look in his eyes that said he had every intention of using it.

  The old woman got up from the sofa and quietly walked over to Douglas Tanner. She pulled the knife out of his fist. Then she surprised all of them and slapped him across the face.

  “Damn it, Mom. What the fuck?” But Tanner now stood perfectly still, red-faced and hands silent at his side.

  “I’m sick and tired of you beating on people. I’ve sat back and watched for too long. You just can’t treat people like this—not your family or strangers. Now, apologize to Sheriff Morrelli, Douglas.”

  “No fucking way. If he had done his job maybe Matthew would still be alive.”

  Nick rubbed his eyes, but the blur stayed. He realized his lip was bleeding, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. He put his gun away but leaned against the bookcase, hoping the ringing in his head would stop.

  “Douglas, apologize. Do you want to get arrested for assaulting a law officer?”

  “He doesn’t need to apologize,” Nick interrupted. He waited for the room to stop spinning and for his feet to hold him up. “Mrs. Tanner,” he said, leaving the safety of the bookcase and finding Michelle’s eyes, grateful for finding only one pair in the blur. “I’m very sorry for your loss. And I apologize for waiting until this morning to tell you. I really didn’t mean any disrespect. I just thought it would be better to tell you when you were surrounded by family and friends than pounding on your door in the middle of the night. I promise you, we’ll find the man who did this to Matthew.”

  “I’m sure you will, Sheriff,” Douglas Tanner said from behind him. “But how many more boys will he murder before you get a clue?”

  CHAPTER 41

  No one had to tell him. Timmy just knew. Matthew was dead, just like Danny Alverez. That’s why Uncle Nick and Agent O’Dell left all of a sudden last night. Why his mom sent him to bed early. Why she stayed up almost all night writing for the newspaper on her new laptop computer.

  He climbed out of bed early to listen to the school closings on the radio. There had to be at least a half foot of snow, and it was still coming down. It would be excellent tubing snow, though his mom forbade him to use anything but his boring plastic sled. It was bright orange and stuck out like some kind of emergency vehicle in the snow.

  He found her asleep on the sofa, curled up in a tight ball and tangled in Grandma Morrelli’s afghan. Her hands were balled up in fists and tucked under her chin. She looked totally wiped, and he tiptoed into the kitchen, leaving her to sleep.

  He tuned the radio to the news station, away from the sappy elevator music his mom listened to. She called it “soft rock.” Sometimes she acted so old. The announcer was already in the middle of the school announcements, and he turned the radio up loud enough to hear over his breakfast fumblings.

  Instead of dragging a chair to the counter, he used the bottom two drawers to reach a bowl from the cupboard. He was tired of being short. He was smaller than all the boys in his class and even some of the girls. Uncle Nick told him he’d probably have a growth spurt and pass them all up, but Timmy didn’t see it coming anytime soon.

  He was surprised to find an unopened box of Cap’n Crunch between the Cheerios and the Grape-Nuts. Either it had been on sale, or his mom hadn’t realized what she had bought. She never let him have the good stuff. He grabbed it and opened it before she discovered her mistake, pouring until the bowl overflowed. He munched the excess, making room for milk. As he poured, the radio announcer said, “Platte City Elementary and High School will be closed today.”

  “Yes,” he whispered, containing his excitement so he didn’t spill any milk. And since tomorrow and Friday were teachers’ convention, that meant they had five days off. Wow, five whole days! Then he remembered the camping trip, and his excitement was short-lived. Would Father Keller call off the trip because of the snow? He hoped not.

  “Timmy?” Wrapped in Grandma’s afghan, his mom padded into the kitchen. She looked funny with her hair all tangled and sleep crusted in the corners of her eyes. “Did they close school?”

  “Yeah. Five days off.” He sat down and scooped up a spoonful of cereal before she noticed the Cap’n Crunch. “Do you think we’ll still go camping?” he asked over a mouthful, taking advantage of her being too tired to correct his manners.

  She filled the coffee machine, shuffling back and forth. She almost tripped on the drawers he had left out and kicked them back in without yelling at him.

  “I don’t know, Timmy. It’s only October. Tomorrow it could be forty degrees and the snow will all be gone. What are they saying about the weather on the radio?”

  “So far it’s just been school closings. It’d be really cool to camp out in the snow.”

  “It’d be really cold and stupid to camp out in the snow.”

  “Ah, Mom, don’t you have any sense of adventure?”

  “Not when it means you coming down with pneumonia. You get sick and hurt enough withou
t any outside help.”

  He wanted to remind her that he hadn’t been sick since last winter, but then she might bring up the soccer bruises again.

  “Is it okay if I go sledding today with some of the guys?”

  “You have to dress warm, and you can only use your sled. No inner tubes.”

  The school closings were finally finished and the news came on. His mom turned up the volume just as the announcer said, “According to this morning’s Omaha Journal, another boy’s body was found along the Platte River last night. It has now been confirmed by the sheriff’s department that the boy is Matthew Tanner, who has been…”

  His mom snapped the radio off, filling the room with silence. She stood with her back to him, pretending to be interested in something out the window. The coffee machine hummed, then started its ritual gurgling. Timmy’s spoon clicked against the bowl. The coffee smelled good, reminding him that it didn’t seem like morning until the kitchen was filled with that smell.

  “Timmy.” His mom came around to the table and sat across from him. “The man on the radio is right. They did find Matthew last night.”

  “I know,” he said and kept eating, though the cereal didn’t taste as good all of a sudden.

  “You know? How do you know?”

  “I figured that’s why Uncle Nick and Agent O’Dell left in such a hurry last night. And why you were up all night working.”

  She reached across the table and brushed his hair off his forehead. “God, you’re growing up fast.”

  She caressed his cheek. In public he’d have batted her hand away, but it was okay here. He actually kind of liked it.

  “Where did you get Cap’n Crunch cereal?”

  “You bought it. It was down with the other cereals.” He filled his bowl again though it wasn’t quite empty, just in case she took the box away.

  “I must have grabbed it by mistake.”

  The coffee was ready. She got up, leaving the afghan draped over the back of the chair and the box of cereal on the table.