Maggie O'Dell Collection, Volume 1: A Perfect Evil ; Split Second ; The Soul Catcher

by Alex Kava

  “As a matter of fact, I’ll be at the hospital this afternoon. Why don’t I meet you in the cafeteria about four-fifteen?”

  “I look forward to it. Goodbye, Maggie O’Dell.”

  She waited for him to hang up, then heard the second set of clicks. There was no mistake. Someone had been listening.

  CHAPTER 43

  Nick stormed into the sheriff’s department, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled. Everyone came to a halt in mid-sentence and midstride. They stared at him as though he had gone mad. He felt as if perhaps he had.

  “Listen up, everybody!” He yelled over the ringing in his ear. He waited for those sauntering in from the conference room with their mugs of coffee and glazed doughnuts. “If we have another breach of confidence from this department, I personally will kick the ass of whoever is responsible and see to it that that person never works in law enforcement ever again.”

  His jaw hurt like hell, especially when he clenched his teeth. The tip of his tongue found a sharp edge where a tooth had chipped. The corner of his mouth bled again, and he wiped at it with the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Lloyd, I want you to get some men together and check every abandoned shack within a ten-mile radius of Old Church Road. He’s keeping these boys somewhere. Maybe it’s not here in town. Hal, find out everything you can about a Ray Howard. He’s a janitor at the church. Not just where he’s from and details about his unpleasant childhood. I want to know this guy’s shoe size and whether or not he collects baseball cards. Eddie, get over to Sophie Krichek’s.”

  “Nick, you can’t be serious. The lady’s loony.”

  “I’m dead serious.”

  Eddie shrugged, and there was a smirk under the pencil-thin mustache that Nick wanted to knock off.

  “Do it this morning, Eddie, and treat it like your job depends on getting the details right.”

  He waited for any other grumbling, then continued, “Adam, call George Tillie and tell him Agent O’Dell will be assisting him this afternoon with Matthew’s autopsy. Then call Agent Weston and get the evidence his forensic team found. I want photos and reports on my desk by one this afternoon.

  “Lucy, find out anything you can about a summer church camp that St. Margaret’s sponsors. Get together with Max and see if you can connect Aaron Harper and Eric Paltrow to that camp.”

  “What about Bobby Wilson?” She looked up from her notes.

  He paused while he watched their faces, wondering whether he’d be able to pick out the Judas—that is if he was still a part of the department. Six years ago, someone had gone to the trouble of making it look as though Ronald Jeffreys had killed all three boys. Someone had taken Eric Paltrow’s underpants from the morgue and planted them in Jeffreys’ trunk with other incriminating evidence connecting Jeffreys to all three murders. It could easily have been someone in the sheriff’s department, someone who was still here. And if he was, why not make the bastard sweat?

  “If I read any of this in tomorrow’s paper, I swear I’ll fire the whole lot of you. Ronald Jeffreys may have only murdered Bobby Wilson. There’s a good chance that the guy who killed Danny and Matthew also killed Eric and Aaron.” He watched their faces as it sank in, especially the group that had worked with his father and had celebrated the capture of Jeffreys.

  “What are you saying, Nick?” Lloyd Benjamin had been one of them, and now his wrinkled forehead looked angry. “You saying we messed up the first time?”

  “No, Lloyd, you didn’t mess up. You caught Jeffreys. You caught a murderer. But it looks like Jeffreys may not have murdered all three boys.”

  “Is that what you think, Nick, or is it Agent O’Dell maybe influencing your way of thinking?” Eddie said, again with the smirk.

  Nick felt the anger rising and knew he had to contain it. Now was not the time to defend his relationship with Maggie. He wasn’t even sure he could without getting tangled in his own personal feelings. And he certainly didn’t want to share any details about Jeffreys, especially since he was beginning to question the loyalty of his own department.

  “I’m saying there’s a good chance. Whether it’s true or not, let’s make sure this bastard doesn’t get away with it, maybe for a second time.” He shoved past Eddie, knocking against his shoulder and dismissing the group. Lloyd caught up with him down the hall at his office door.

  “Nick, wait up.” Lloyd’s short, stubby legs jogged to keep up with Nick. He was breathing hard and loosened his tie. “I didn’t mean anything back there. I’m sure Eddie didn’t, either. This thing is just taking a toll on all of us. Just like before.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Lloyd.”

  “About checking old shacks. Nick, there’s not much out there that we didn’t check the first time. There’s an old barn about ready to fall down on Woodson’s property. Other than a deserted lean-to or grain bin, there isn’t anything else. Except for the old church, but it’s boarded up tighter than a virgin on Sunday.”

  Nick frowned at the reference.

  “Sorry,” Benjamin apologized though he didn’t look sorry. “You’re getting awfully touchy, Nick. O’Dell isn’t even here.”

  “Check the church again, Lloyd. Look for broken windows, footprints, any sign of entry in the last several days.”

  “Hell, we’re not gonna find any footprints with this snow coming down.”

  “Just check, Lloyd.”

  Nick retreated to his office, already exhausted, and the morning had just begun. Within seconds there was a knock on the door. He slumped into his chair and yelled to come in.

  Lucy peeked around the door, assessing his mood. He waved her in. She carried an ice pack and cup of coffee.

  “What in the world happened to you, Nick?”

  “Don’t even ask.”

  She put aside her initial hesitation and came around the desk. She leaned against the corner and her skirt hiked up over her thighs. She saw him notice and made no effort to pull it down. Instead, she reached for his chin, cupping it in her hand and laying the ice pack against his swollen jaw. He jerked away, using the pain as an excuse to wheel out of her reach.

  “Oh, poor Nick. I know it hurts,” she said, making baby talk sound sensual.

  This morning she wore a rose-colored sweater pulled so tight across her breasts the knitted loops hinted at a black bra underneath. She scooted across the desk toward him, and he jumped out of his chair.

  “Look, I don’t have time for ice packs. I’ll be fine. Thanks for thinking of it.”

  She looked disappointed. “I’ll leave it in your little refrigerator, in case you want it later.”

  She crossed the room to the small cube on the floor. She bent at the waist, purposely giving him a view of what he was missing, and put the ice pack in the small freezer space. She glanced back at him as if checking to see if he had changed his mind, smiled, then swayed out the door.

  “Jesus,” he muttered, plopping down into the chair again. What kind of a department had he created? Michelle Tanner’s raging ex-husband was right. No wonder he was no closer to finding the killer.

  CHAPTER 44

  Father Francis gathered the newspaper clippings and slid them into his leather portfolio. He stopped, held up his hands and stared at the brown spots, the bulging blue veins and the trembling that had become commonplace.

  It had only been three months since Ronald Jeffreys’ execution. Three months since he had listened to the confession of the real killer. He could no longer keep silent. He could no longer preserve the sanctity of a killer’s confession. Maybe it wouldn’t make a difference, but he had convinced himself that it was the right thing to do.

  He shuffled down the hall to the church. His footsteps were the only sound echoing off the majestic walls. No one waited for confession. It would be a quiet morning. Still, he entered the small confessional.

  Despite his having seen no one in the church, the door in the black cubicle next to him opened within minutes. Father Francis sat up and laid his elbow on the
shelf, allowing himself to lean closer to the wire-mesh window between the two small rooms.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have killed again.”

  Oh, dear God. The panic came crashing against the old priest’s chest. It was difficult to breathe. Suddenly, the small, wooden box had only hot and stale air. The throbbing began in his ears. Father Francis strained to see beyond the thick wire mesh that separated them. All he could see, though, was a huddled black shadow.

  “I killed Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner. For these sins, I am truly sorry and ask forgiveness.”

  The voice was disguised, barely audible, as if forced through a mask. Was there anything, anything at all, that he could recognize?

  “What is my penance?” the voice wanted to know.

  Could he speak if he could not breathe?

  “How can…” It was difficult. His chest ached. “How can I absolve you of your sins…heinous, horrible sins…if you only intend to do them again?”

  “No, y-you don’t understand. I only bring them peace,” the voice sputtered. He obviously hadn’t come prepared for a confrontation, Father Francis realized with some degree of satisfaction. He had come only for absolution and to do his penance.

  “I cannot absolve you of your sins if you intend to only go out and do it again.” Father Francis’ strong, unflinching voice surprised him.

  “You must…you have to.”

  “I absolved you once before, and you’ve made a mockery of the sacrament by committing the sin again, not once but twice.”

  “I am truly sorry for my sins and ask forgiveness from God,” he tried again, mechanically saying the phrase like a child memorizing it for the first time.

  “You must prove your remorse,” Father Francis said, suddenly feeling powerful. Perhaps he could influence this black shadow, make him face his demons, stop him once and for all. “You must show your repentance.”

  “Yes. Yes, I will. Just tell me what my penance is.”

  “Go prove your repentance and come back in a month.”

  There was a pause.

  “You aren’t absolving me?”

  “If you can prove your worthiness by not killing, I will consider absolving you then.”

  “You will not give me absolution?”

  “Come back in a month.”

  There was silence, but the shadow made no motion to leave. Father Francis leaned closer to the wire mesh, again straining to see into the pitch-black cube. There was a soft smack, then a hiss as a spray of saliva flew through the wire mesh, hitting him in the face.

  “I’ll see you in hell, Father.” The low guttural tone sent shivers down Father Francis’ spine. He clung to the small shelf, gripping the Bible. And though the sticky saliva dripped down his chin, he couldn’t move even to wipe at it. When he heard the door open and the shadow exit, his paralyzed body made no attempt to follow or look out after him.

  He sat for what seemed like hours. Thankfully, no one else came in. Perhaps the snow had kept other sinners home, he thought absently. Which meant no one had seen the shadowy figure enter or exit the confessional.

  Finally, his heart resumed its normal beating. He could breathe again. He fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped his face with hands trembling more violently than usual. He held on to the walls of the small confessional as he eased himself out of the hard chair and onto wobbly knees. He gathered his leather portfolio and Bible and peered out. The church was empty and silent. Outside, he heard the laughter of children, probably crossing the parking lot to go sledding on Cutty’s Hill. At least they traveled in groups.

  He shuffled to the front of the church, hanging on to the backs of pews as he made his way down the aisle. The panic and terror had exhausted him, drained him of energy. He would share this morning’s visit with Maggie O’Dell. The decision to do so made him feel stronger. Already the guilt lifted from his soul. Yes, it was the right thing to do. He started down the hallway from the church to the rectory, and even his feet seemed lighter. The ache in his chest eased to a mere annoyance.

  On the way to his office he noticed that someone had left the door to the wine cellar open. He stopped in the doorway and peered down the dark steps. He could smell the musty dampness. A draft made him shiver. Was there a shadow? Down in the far corner, was someone huddled in the darkness?

  He stepped onto the first step, clinging with a shaky hand to the railing. Was it his imagination, or was someone huddled between the stacked wine crates and the concrete wall?

  He leaned forward on weak knees. He never saw the figure behind him. He only felt the violent shove that sent him sailing down the steps headfirst. His frail body crashed against the wall, and he tumbled the rest of the way. He was still conscious when he heard the steps creak, one by one by one. The sound of the slow descent sent terror through his aching body. He opened his mouth to scream but only a moan erupted. He couldn’t move, couldn’t run. His right leg was on fire and twisted beneath him at an abnormal angle.

  The last step creaked just above him. He lifted his head in time to see a blaze of white canvas smash into his face. Then darkness.

  CHAPTER 45

  Christine treated herself to Wanda’s homemade chicken noodle soup and buttercrust rolls. Corby had given her the morning off, but she had brought her notepad and jotted down ideas for tomorrow’s article. It was early, and the lunch crowd filtered in slowly, so she had a booth to herself in the far corner of the small diner. She sat next to the window and watched the few pedestrians shuffling through the snow.

  Timmy had called and asked whether he and his friends could have lunch at the rectory with Father Keller. The priest had joined them sledding on Cutty’s Hill and, to make up for the inevitably canceled camping trip, he had invited the boys for roasted hot dogs and marshmallows by the huge fireplace in the church’s rectory.

  “Great series of articles, Christine,” Angie Clark said as she refilled Christine’s cup with more steaming coffee.

  Caught off guard, Christine swallowed the bite of warm bread. “Thanks.” She smiled and wiped a napkin across her mouth. “Your mom’s rolls are still the best around.”

  “I keep telling her we should package and sell some of her baked goods, but she thinks if people can take home a batch, they won’t stay here for lunch or dinner.”

  Christine knew that Angie was the financial mind behind her mother’s business. Not able to build on to the small diner, it was Angie’s advice to start a delivery service. After only six short months, they had added an extra cook and were keeping two vans and drivers busy, without jeopardizing their normal crowded breakfast, lunch and dinner rushes.

  Sometimes Christine wondered why Angie had stayed in Platte City. She obviously had a mind for business and a body that drew plenty of attention. But after only two years at the university and a rumored affair with a married state senator, she had returned home to her widowed mother.

  “How’s Nick?” Angie asked while pretending to rearrange the silverware on a nearby table.

  “Right now he’s probably pissed at me again. He hasn’t appreciated my articles.” She knew that wasn’t what Angie had wanted to hear, but Christine had learned long ago to keep out of her brother’s love life.

  “Next time you see him, tell him I said hi.”

  Poor Angie. Nick probably hadn’t called her since any of this mess started. And though he denied it, Christine knew his mind was filled with the lovely and unavailable Maggie O’Dell. Perhaps his heart would finally get broken, and he’d get a taste of his own medicine.

  She watched Angie greet two burly construction workers who came in and began peeling off their layers of jackets, hats and overalls. Why did women knock themselves out over Nick? It was something Christine had never understood as she had watched him go from one woman to another without any explanation or hesitation. He was a handsome, charming jerk, and even after days—maybe even weeks—of not calling, she knew Angie Clark would still welcome him back with open arms.

  She sipped
the steaming coffee and jotted down “coroner’s report.” George Tillie was an old family friend. He and her dad had been hunting buddies for years. Maybe George could supply her with some new information. As far as she could tell, the investigation was at a standstill.

  Suddenly, the volume on the corner television blasted the room. She looked up just as Wanda Clark waved at her.

  “Christine, listen to this.”

  Bernard Shaw on CNN had just mentioned Platte City, Nebraska. A graphic behind him showed its location while Shaw talked about the bizarre series of murders. They flashed Christine’s Sunday headline, From the Grave, Serial Killer Still Grips Community With Boy’s Recent Murder, as Bernard described the murders and Jeffreys’ killing spree six years before.

  “A source close to the investigation says the sheriff’s department still has no clues, and that the only suspect on their list is one who was executed three months ago.”

  Christine cringed at Shaw’s hint of sarcasm, and for the first time she sympathized with Nick. The rest of the diner broke into applause and waved thumbs-up gestures at her. They’d simply heard that their town had made the national news. The sarcasm and befuddled-country-folk references fell on deaf ears.

  The volume went down, and she went back to her notes. Soon her cellular phone began ringing, screaming at her from the bottom of her purse. She dug for it, removing wallet, hairbrush and lipstick and scattering them on the table. She looked up to find all eyes on her again. Finally, she ripped the contraption from the bag and waved it at her audience, who smiled and went back to their meals. The phone rang two more times before she found the On switch.

  “Christine Hamilton.”

  “Ms. Hamilton, hello. This is William Ramsey at KLTV Channel Five. I hope I’m not interrupting anything. Your office gave me this number.”

  “I am having lunch, Mr. Ramsey. How can I help you?”