by Alex Kava
“Just listen to me for a minute. You said yourself it looked like Danny Alverez didn’t put up a fight. Keller was someone he knew and trusted. Father Francis told us it was unlikely for a layperson post-Vatican II—which would be anyone under the age of thirty-five—to know how to administer last rites, unless that person had some training.”
“But this guy is a hero with kids. How could he do something like this and not slip up?”
“People who knew Ted Bundy never suspected anything. Look, I also found a torn piece of a baseball card in Matthew’s hand. Timmy told me earlier tonight that Father Keller trades baseball cards with them.”
Nick wiped at the wet strands on his forehead, and she could smell the same shampoo she had used upstairs. He leaned back against the pillows, set his glass on his chest and watched the last bit swirl around.
“Okay,” he said finally, “you check him out. But I need something more than a photo and a piece of baseball card before I haul him in for questioning. In the meantime, I want to do some checking on Howard. You have to admit he’s a weird character. What kind of guy dresses in a shirt and tie to clean a church?”
“It’s not a crime to dress inappropriately for your job. If it were, you would have been arrested long ago.”
He shot her a look, but couldn’t hide the smile caught at the corner of his mouth.
“Look, it’s late. We’re both wiped out. How 'bout we try to get some sleep?” he said, then emptied his glass and set it aside on the floor. He stretched his legs under the quilt. He grabbed a remote from an end table, pressed a few buttons and the lights dimmed. She smiled at his handy little toy for his romantic romps in front of the fire. Why did she find herself almost disappointed that she didn’t need to worry about this being one of them?
“Maybe I should go back to the hotel.”
“Come on, O’Dell. Your clothes are still wet. All your stuff’s labeled dry-clean. I couldn’t just stick them in the dryer. Look, I’m too tired to make a pass, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He made himself comfortable against the pillows, his body close to her.
“No, it’s not that,” she said and wondered why her own body wasn’t too tired. Instead, every muscle, every nerve ending seemed attuned to the proximity of his body. Would she even resist if he did make a pass? Did she have no feelings left for Greg? What exactly was going on with her? This was beyond annoying. “I don’t usually sleep much. I might just keep you awake,” she offered in place of the real reason.
“What do you mean you don’t sleep?” He slumped down next to her, his head almost touching her arm. He closed his eyes, and she noticed how long his eyelashes were.
“I haven’t been able to sleep for over a month now. If I do, I usually have nightmares.”
He looked up at her but kept his head on the pillow. “I imagine with the stuff you see, it’s hard not to have nightmares. You probably noticed I didn’t spend a lot of time looking at Matthew’s body. Did something in particular happen?”
She looked down at him. His body curled under the quilt. Despite the dark bristle on his face, there was something boyish about him. Then he pulled himself up on one elbow, twisting open his half-buttoned shirt in the process and exposing his muscular chest and the curly wisps of dark hair. The boyish image disappeared quickly, and she imagined slipping her hand into his shirt and letting her fingers explore. She needed to stop. This was absolutely ridiculous. Suddenly, she realized he was waiting for an answer, his eyes filled with concern.
“Did something happen?” he asked again.
“Not anything I care to discuss.”
He stared at her as though trying to look deep inside her. Then, he sat up.
“Actually, I think I have a remedy for nightmares. It works with Timmy when he sleeps over.”
“Well, then, it can’t be more brandy.”
“No.” He smiled. “You hang on to someone else real tight while you fall asleep.”
Her eyes met his. “Nick, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
His face was serious again. “Maggie, this isn’t some cheap trick to get close to you. I just want to help. Will you let me do that? What do you have to lose?”
When she didn’t answer, he slid closer. Slowly, hesitantly, he put his arm around her as though waiting, giving her plenty of opportunity to protest. When she didn’t, he put his hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her into him so that her face rested hot against his chest. She heard his heart pound in her ear. Her own heart beat so noisily it was difficult to distinguish between the two. Her cheek brushed against the opening in his shirt, the coarse, wiry hair wonderfully scratchy and soft against her skin. She resisted the temptation of allowing her fingers access. He rested his chin on the top of her head. His voice vibrated against her.
“Now relax,” he said. “Imagine that nothing can get to you without going through me first. Even if you can’t sleep, just close your eyes and rest.”
How could she possibly sleep with her entire body alive, alert and on fire everywhere it touched his?
CHAPTER 37
Maggie awoke groggy, her arms and legs heavy. She was cold. The fire had gone out. Nick was no longer beside her. She looked around the dark room and saw the back of his head, asleep on the sofa.
A flicker of light outside the window caught her eye. She sat up. There it was again. A dark shadow with a flashlight passed the window. Her heart began to pound. He had followed them from the river.
“Nick,” she whispered, but there was no movement. Her mind raced. Where had she left her gun? “Nick,” she tried again. No response.
The shadow disappeared. She crawled to the bottom of the staircase, watching the window. The room was lit only by the ghostly glow of the moon. She had taken off her gun when they first came in, on her way upstairs. She had laid it on a stand near the staircase. The stand was gone, moved, but where? Her eyes darted around the room. The pounding of her heart made her chest ache. It was cold without the fire, so cold her hands shook.
Then she heard the twist and click of the doorknob. She searched for a weapon, anything sharp, anything heavy. The metal clicked again and held. The door was locked. She grabbed a small lamp with a heavy metal base and ripped off the shade. She listened. Her breathing came in gasps and gulps. She tried to hold it as she listened again.
She crawled back to the sofa, clutching the lamp close to her.
“Nick,” she whispered and reached up to poke him. “Nick, wake up.” She shoved his shoulder, and his body rolled toward her, tumbling onto the floor. Her hand was smeared with blood. She looked down at him. Oh God, oh, dear God. She stuffed her bloody hand into her mouth to prevent the scream, to stop the terror. Nick’s blue eyes stared up at her, cold and vacant. Blood covered his shirtfront. His throat was slashed, the gaping wound still bleeding.
Then she saw the flicker of light again. The shadow was at the window, looking in, watching her, smiling. It was a face she recognized. It was Albert Stucky.
This time she awoke with a violent flaying of arms, beating and thrashing at anything nearby. Nick grabbed her wrists, preventing her from pummeling his chest. She tried to breathe, but it only came in rapid gasps. Her body shook, wild convulsions beyond her control.
“Maggie, it’s okay.” His voice was soft and soothing but alarmed and urgent. “Maggie, you’re safe.”
She stopped suddenly, though her body still shook. She stared into Nick’s eyes. They were warm blue, filled with concern, and they were alive. Her eyes darted around the room. A fire raged, licking at the huge logs Nick had fed it earlier. The room was lit by the fire’s warm yellow glow. Outside the window, snow glittered against the glass. There was no flicker of a flashlight. No Albert Stucky.
“Maggie, are you okay?” He held her fisted hands against his chest, caressing her wrists.
She looked into his eyes again. Her own were suddenly very tired. “It didn’t work,” she whispered. “You lied to me.”
“I’m sorry.
You were sleeping peacefully for a while. Maybe I wasn’t holding you tight enough.” He smiled.
She relaxed her fists against his chest while his hands continued to caress her arms, moving up over her elbows, up inside the wide sleeves of the robe. They made it all the way to her shoulders before they began their slow descent. Inch by inch, they warmed her. But the chill was deeper, crawling beneath her skin like ice in her veins.
She leaned against him. He radiated heat. Her cheek brushed against his shirt, the warm cotton fibers. It wasn’t enough. She lifted herself away, just enough to give her fingers room while she unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. She avoided his eyes, and felt his body stiffen. His own hands stopped. Perhaps his breathing had, also. She opened the shirt, resisted the urge to run her hands over the bulging muscles, her fingers through the coarse hair. Instead, she leaned her face against him, listening to the thunder of his heart and allowing his heat to warm her. She only hoped he understood.
He trembled, though she knew he wasn’t cold. Then, finally, she felt his body relax. His breathing began again, a little rapid at first, though it was clear he was trying to steady it. His arms wrapped around her waist, but he allowed them no exploration, no caresses. He simply held her body close to his, and this time, he held her tightly.
CHAPTER 38
Christine held her breath and double-clicked on Send. In minutes her article would spit out from the newsroom’s printer, then roll on the presses—presses that were actually stopped and waiting. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined being in this position.
Despite her exhaustion, the adrenaline had kept her mind racing and her fingers flying over the keyboard. Her palms were still sweaty. She wiped them on her jeans before she shut off the laptop computer, folded it shut and unplugged it from the phone jack. Modern technology—she didn’t understand how it worked, but she was grateful. It had allowed her son to sleep soundly down the hall while she pounded out her fifth consecutive front-page article. She wondered what the record was at the Omaha Journal.
She glanced at her watch. The newspaper would be an hour late hitting the streets, but Corby seemed content. She gulped down the last of her coffee, avoiding the glob of cream and sugar congealed at the bottom. She couldn’t believe she had gotten through it without a cigarette.
She slid the laptop off the desk, knocking a pile of envelopes to the floor. Picking them up put an immediate end to her elation. Several were late notices for bills she couldn’t pay. One, from the State Department of Nebraska, remained unopened. It contained more forms in triplicate with old-fashioned blue carbon paper between each copy. How could she trust and believe in a state that still used carbon paper? This was the system that was going to track down her ex-husband and make him pay child support? It was bad enough that Bruce had screwed her. But how could he screw his son? She hated that Timmy couldn’t see his own father, that she didn’t even have a way to contact Bruce. And all because he didn’t want to pay her any child support.
She stuffed the pile of envelopes behind a lamp on the desk, hidden for the time being. Her newfound success had only brought a small raise in pay, and it would be weeks, months, before it made a difference.
She could sell the house. She plopped onto the sofa and looked around the room she had spent hours wallpapering. She had pulled up musty carpeting and sanded the wood floor herself until she saw her reflection in its varnished surface. Outside the window—now black with night—she knew every inch of her backyard. She had replaced scraggly bushes with beautiful pink roses. A brick walkway—bricks she had laid herself—had transformed her garden into a retreat. How could she be asked to give this up? Outside of Timmy, this house was all she had.
Nick didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Her journalistic success wasn’t about hurting him. It was about saving herself. For once, she was doing something all on her own—not as Tony Morrelli’s daughter or Bruce Hamilton’s wife or Timmy’s mom, but as Christine Hamilton. It felt good.
She regretted all those years she had put on a show for her family and friends. She had played the role of supportive wife and good mother. All those years she had obsessed in making Bruce happy. For over a year she had known about the affair. It was hard to miss the credit card bills for hotels she had never stepped foot into and flowers she had never received. It had only made her more obsessed. If her husband was having an affair, it had to be her fault—something she lacked, something she wasn’t able to give him.
Now, it embarrassed her to remember the expensive Victoria’s Secret teddies she had bought to lure him back to her. Their lovemaking, which had never been fantastic, had become quick, sultry one-act plays. He had slammed into her as if punishing her for his own sins, then rolled over and slept. Too many nights she had snuck out of bed after waiting for his snores. She’d peeled off the sometimes torn and soiled teddies, and then cried in the shower. Even the pulsating, scalding water couldn’t make her whole again. And that the love had disappeared from their marriage was surely her fault, as well.
Christine curled up on the sofa and pulled an afghan over her shivering body. She was no longer that weak, obsessive wife. She was a successful journalist. She closed her eyes. That’s what she would concentrate on—success. Finally, after so many failures.
CHAPTER 39
Wednesday, October 29
Maggie had offered to go to Michelle Tanner’s with Nick, but he insisted on going alone. Instead, he dropped her off at the hotel. Despite their intimacy—or perhaps because of it—she found herself relieved to be away from him. It had been a mistake getting so close. She was angry and disappointed in herself, and this morning during the drive into town, she punished Nick with her silence.
She had to maintain her focus, and in order to do that, she needed to maintain her distance. As an agent, it was stupid to get personally involved, not just with one individual, but with a community. An agent could quickly lose his or her edge and objectivity. She had seen it happen to other agents. And, as a woman, it was dangerous to get involved with Nick Morrelli, a man who rigged his house with romantic booby traps for his one-night stands. Besides, she was married—degrees of happiness didn’t count. She told herself all this to justify her sudden aloofness and to absolve herself of her guilt.
Her damp clothes still reeked of muddy river and dried blood. The ripped sleeves of her jacket and blouse exposed her wounded shoulder. As she entered the hotel, the pimple-faced desk clerk looked up, and his expression immediately changed from a “good morning” nod to an “oh, my God” stare.
“Wow, Agent O’Dell, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Do I have any messages?”
He turned with the gawkiness of a teenager—all arms and legs—almost spilling his cappuccino. The sweet aroma drifted in the steam, and despite being a fast-food imitation of the real thing, it smelled wonderful.
The snow—almost six inches and still falling—clung to her pant legs and dripped inside her shoes. She was cold and tired and sore.
He handed her a half-dozen pink message slips and a small sealed envelope with SPECIAL AGENT O’DELL carefully printed in blue ink.
“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.
&nbs
p; “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.
