by Alex Kava
Available together for the first time in a value box set, the first three stories in the thrilling, critically acclaimed Maggie O’Dell series from New York Times bestselling author Alex Kava.
A PERFECT EVIL
As a deranged killer stalks the terrified community of Platte City, Nebraska, all evidence points to the recently executed Ronald Jeffreys as the culprit, but FBI profiler Maggie O’Dell soon uncovers evidence that Jeffreys had been convicted and executed for crimes he did not commit, and that the real maniacal murderer is still on the loose.
SPLIT SECOND
After Albert Stucky, a brutal and clever serial killer known as “The Collector,” escapes from prison, he forces FBI profiler Maggie O’Dell, the agent who originally captured him, to play a deadly game when he targets her and everyone associated with her, pushing her to the very edge of sanity.
THE SOUL CATCHER
FBI Special Agent and criminal profiler Maggie O’Dell, along with her partner Tully, investigate two cases—the murder of a senator’s daughter in Washington, D.C., and a deadly shoot-out in Massachusetts—both of which are linked to Reverend Joseph Everett, the high-profile leader of a religious sect, who happens to be dating Maggie’s mother.
“O’Dell could be Reacher’s long-lost twin.” —Lee Child
Maggie O’Dell Collection Volume 1
A Perfect Evil
Split Second
The Soul Catcher
Alex Kava
Table of Contents
A Perfect Evil
By Alex Kava
Split Second
By Alex Kava
The Soul Catcher
By Alex Kava
“O’Dell could be Reacher’s long-lost twin.” —Lee Child
Rediscover where it all began for Maggie O’Dell in this intense thriller by New York Times bestselling author Alex Kava.
On July 17, a convicted serial killer, Ronald Jeffreys was executed for three heinous murders. He went to his grave with a terrible truth no one would listen to.
Three months later another body is found killed in the same style as Jeffreys’ victims.
Sheriff Nick Morelli knows he isn’t equipped to handle the killer who is terrorizing his small Nebraska community. He’s grateful when the FBI sends one of their best criminal profilers, special agent Maggie O’Dell. Maggie quickly recognizes this is someone who has killed before.
When another victim is found dead and a third kidnapped, Nick and Maggie realize they’re running out of time. And the terrible truth becomes clear. Ronald Jeffreys may have been convicted of crimes he didn’t commit.
Originally published in 2000
“Meet Kava’s FBI special agent Maggie O’Dell. But beware—it could be the start of a new addiction.” —Peterborough Evening Telegraph, UK
“Kava’s writing is reminiscent of Patricia Cornwell in her prime.” —Mystery Ink
“This debut thriller pumps the suspense out. Maggie is gutsy and appealing as an FBI agent facing constant danger.” —Library Journal
“Kava proves her mastery of the thriller.” —BookPage
A Perfect Evil
Alex Kava
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Epilogue
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 childhoo
d 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 glass—sharp glass—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 God 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-rehearsed 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 fucking 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 fucked him one last time.” He cocked his head to the side, suddenly distracted. Had he finally noticed the celebration outside?
Father Francis waited. Could it be the massive 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 God, 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, God already knows that. Right, Father?”
“God 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 God 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 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 God, 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 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.
“God 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
reasts. 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 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 muffin, whatever. Did women worry about yelling out the wrong name, too?
