by Alex Kava
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 surpr
ised 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 without 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.
“Mom, what does dead feel like?”
She spilled coffee all over the counter and snatched a towel to stop the puddle from running over the edge.
“Sorry,” he said, realizing it had been his question that had caused her clumsiness. Adults got so bent out of shape about stuff.
“I really don’t know, Timmy. That’s probably a good question for Father Keller.”
CHAPTER 42
The breakfast Maggie had ordered from Wanda’s sat untouched on the small table. It had come bundled in an insulated pack, served on stoneware and encased in stainless-steel covers. Steam had risen from the plate when the desk clerk had proudly unveiled it as though he had prepared it himself.
She was becoming a regular of Wanda’s cuisine without ever stepping foot in the diner. And although the golden eggs, butter-slathered toast and glistening sausage links smelled and looked delicious, she had lost her appetite. She had left it somewhere on the bathroom floor while she fought to gain control over her panic. The only thing she touched was the frothy cappuccino. One sip, and she thanked Wanda for having the good sense to invest in a cappuccino maker.
Her laptop occupied the other side of the table, close to the wall where a recently installed phone jack allowed the hotel to advertise itself to business travelers. She paced while her computer slowly connected her to Quantico’s general database. She wasn’t able to access any classified information. The FBI remained skeptical about the confidentiality of modems, and rightly so. They were constantly a target for hackers.
She had already put in several calls to Dr. Avery. The old-fashioned desktop phone confined her to the bed, so she couldn’t do her usual pacing. She stretched out on the hard mattress. After her shower, she had put on jeans and her Packers jersey. The exhaustion was overwhelming. It had taken every last bit of her strength to pull herself together, and that frightened her. How could one simple note provoke such terror? She had received notes from killers before. They were harmless. It was only a part of the sick game. It came with the territory. If she were going to dig into a killer’s psyche, she had to be prepared for the killer to dig back.
Albert Stucky’s notes had not been harmless. God, she needed to get past Stucky. He was behind bars and would be there until they executed him. She was safe. At least this note hadn’t been accompanied by a severed finger or nipple. Besides, the note was now carefully packaged and on its way Express Mail to a lab at Quantico. Maybe the idiot had sent her his own arrest warrant by leaving his fingerprints or his saliva on the envelope’s seal.
By this evening, she would be on a plane home, and this bastard wouldn’t be able to play his sick, little game. She had done her job, more than what was asked. So why did it feel as if she was running away? Because that’s exactly what she was doing. She needed to leave Platte City, Nebraska, before this killer unraveled any more of her already frazzled psyche. She could feel the vulnerable fray already, starting when she had cowered on the cold bathroom floor.
Yes, she needed to leave, and she needed to do it quickly—today—while she still felt in control. She would tie up a few loose ends and then get the hell out. Get out while she was still in one piece. Get out before she started coming apart at the seams.
She decided to make a quick phone call while she waited for her computer to connect on the other line. She found the number in the thin directory and dialed. After several rings, a deep male voice answered, “St. Margaret’s rectory.”
“Father Francis, please.”
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
She couldn’t tell whether or not the voice belonged to Howard.
“This is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell. Is this Mr. Howard?”
There was a brief pause. Instead of answering her question, he said, “One moment, please.”
It took several moments. She turned to see the computer screen. Finally, the connection was completed. Quantico’s royal-blue logo blinked across the screen.
“Maggie O’Dell, what a pleasure to talk with you again.” Father Francis’ high-pitched voice was almost singsong.
“Father Francis, I wonder if I might ask you a few more questi
ons.”
“Why, certainly.” There was a faint click-click.
“Father Francis?”
“I’m still here.”
And so was someone else. She’d ask the questions, anyway. Make the intruder sweat.
“What can you tell me about the church’s summer camp?”
“Summer camp? That’s really Father Keller’s project. You might speak to him about it.”
“Yes, of course. I will. Did he start the project, or was it something St. Margaret’s has been doing for years?”
“Father Keller started it when he first came. I believe that was the summer of 1990. It was an instant success. Of course, he had a track record. He had been running one at his previous parish.”
“Really? Where was that?”
“Up in Maine. Let’s see, I usually have a very good memory. Wood something. Wood River. Yes, Wood River, Maine. We were quite lucky to get him.”
“Yes, I’m sure you were. I look forward to talking to him. Thanks for your help, Father.”
“Agent O’Dell,” he stopped her. “Is that all you needed to ask me?”
“Yes, but you’ve been very helpful.”
“Actually, I was wondering if you found the answers to your other questions. Your inquiries about Ronald Jeffreys?”
She hesitated. She didn’t want to sound abrupt, but she didn’t want to discuss what she knew with someone listening. “Yes, I think we did find the answers. Thanks again for your help.”
“Agent O’Dell.” He sounded concerned, the lilt no longer present in his voice. If she wasn’t mistaken, he suddenly sounded distressed. “I may have some additional information, though I’m not certain of its importance.”
“Father Francis, I can’t talk right now. I’m expecting an important phone call,” she interrupted before he revealed anything more. “Could I meet you perhaps later?”
“Yes, that would be nice. I have morning confessions and then rounds at the hospital this afternoon, so I won’t be free until after four o’clock.”
