by Alex Kava
She only shook her head, unable to answer.
Not knowing what else to do, he simply ignored her.
When Nick and Maggie shoved their way into the crowded living room, Christine jumped up and almost ran to her brother. She stopped herself and teetered on weak knees, hovering close to the sofa. Even in her panic, throwing her arms around her brother seemed awkward. As if sensing all this, Nick made his way across the room. He hesitated in front of her, then gently pulled her to him and wrapped his strong arms around her without saying a word. Until now, she had held it together—her father’s strong little soldier. Suddenly, the tears came in a choking rush that shook her entire body. She clung to Nick tightly, muffling her retching sobs into the stiff fabric of his jacket. Her entire body hurt, aching from her failed attempt at warding off the tremors.
Nick eased her back to the sofa, keeping an arm around her. When she finally looked up, Maggie was in front of them and handed her a glass of water. It was an effort to drink without spilling water all over herself. She looked to find her father, not surprised to see he had disappeared. Of course, he wouldn’t want to witness such a sniveling display of weakness.
“Are you sure there isn’t some place or someone you haven’t checked?” Nick asked.
“I’ve called everyone.” Her plugged nose distorted her voice. It was difficult to breathe. Maggie handed her several tissues. “They all said the same thing—that he was headed for home after sledding.”
“Could he have stopped somewhere on the way?” Maggie asked.
“I don’t know. Other than the church, there’s only houses between Cutty’s Hill and here. I tried calling the rectory, but never got an answer.” She saw them exchange a glance. “What? What is it?”
“Nothing,” Nick said, but she knew it was something. “Maggie and I were at the rectory earlier. I’m going to check what Dad has my men doing. I’ll be right back.”
Maggie took off her jacket and sat next to her. The impeccable Agent O’Dell wore a faded, stretched-out football jersey and blue jeans. Her hair was tousled and her skin flushed.
“Did I get you out of bed?” Christine asked. She was surprised to see her question embarrassed Maggie.
“No, not at all.” She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. Then she looked down, as if only now noticing her inappropriate attire. “Actually, I was on my way home…home to Virginia. My flight was delayed. I checked all my luggage.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s probably somewhere over Chicago about now.”
“You can borrow something of mine, if you like.”
Maggie hesitated. Christine was sure she would decline, when Maggie said, “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. Come on.”
Christine led Maggie to her bedroom, surprised that her body had any energy left and suddenly relieved to have something to do. She closed the bedroom door behind them, though the sounds of voices and trampling couldn’t be stifled. She opened her closet and several drawers. She was taller than Maggie, but otherwise about the same size, except for her flat chest next to Maggie’s full breasts.
“Please, help yourself.” Christine sat on the edge of the bed while Maggie very apprehensively pulled a red turtleneck sweater from one of the drawers.
“I don’t suppose you have a bra I could borrow?”
“Top, left dresser drawer, though mine may be too small. You might try one of the sports bras. They, at least, have some extra stretch.”
She sensed Maggie’s discomfort. It had been a long time since Christine had had any girlfriends close enough to share a dressing room. She thought about leaving the room, but before she stood up, Maggie peeled off the football jersey and struggled into a gray sports bra. It stretched tightly across her full breasts, and she tugged at it as though it were a straitjacket. Before Christine looked away, she noticed a scar across Maggie’s abdomen. In the mirror, Maggie caught her.
“I’m sorry,” Christine said, but didn’t look away. “Excuse me for asking, but that doesn’t look like a surgical scar.”
“No, it’s not.” It wasn’t embarrassment in her voice. Christine detected something a bit more haunting. Maggie ran her fingertips carefully over the red puckered skin. There was a red gash on her shoulder blade, too. “This was a gift,” she said quietly, almost reverently. “A reminder from a murderer I helped track down.”
“I can’t even imagine some of the horrible situations you must have experienced.”
“It comes with the job. Do you have a camisole or tank top I could use instead?”
“Bottom left. How do you keep it from affecting you?”
“I never said it didn’t affect me.” Maggie squirmed out of the sports bra and pulled on a cream-colored camisole. Satisfied with the fit, she tucked it into the waistband of her jeans. “I try not to think about it.”
The red turtleneck sweater was also tight, but the camisole helped smooth out the results. She left it untucked.
“Thanks,” she said, turning back to Christine.
“Danny’s and Matthew’s bodies were cut badly, weren’t they?”
Before, Christine had probed for all the grisly details to enhance her articles. Now she needed to know for herself.
The straightforward Maggie O’Dell looked uncomfortable, even a bit flustered. “We’ll find Timmy. In fact, Nick has already called Judge Murphy. We’re getting a search warrant, and we have a suspect.”
The reporter in her should have been asking questions. Who was the suspect? What was the warrant for? But the mother in her couldn’t shake the image of her small, fragile little boy cringing in a dark corner somewhere all alone. Could they really find him before his soft, white skin puckered with red gashes?
“He bruises so easily.”
Christine felt the tears welling up in her eyes again, the intense panic gnawing at her insides. Maggie watched from the other side of the room, respecting the distance, for which Christine was grateful. She wouldn’t break down, not now, not in front of this woman who had endured a madman slicing up her body. This woman who apparently had drained all emotion from her life and replaced it with strength. Yes, that’s what Christine needed to do. Crying certainly wouldn’t help Timmy.
She swiped at the few tears that escaped down her cheek and stood up feeling a new energy, despite the violent gnawing in her gut.
“Tell me what I can do to help,” she said to Maggie, ignoring the tremor in her voice.
CHAPTER 59
Thursday, October 30
Sunlight streaked in through the rotted slats, waking Timmy up. At first, he didn’t remember where he was, then he smelled the kerosene and the musty walls. The metal chain clanked as he sat up. His body ached from being curled up into the plastic sled. Panic filled his empty stomach. He needed to stop it this time, before it started the convulsions again.
“Think of good things,” he said out loud.
In the sunlight he noticed the posters that covered the cracked and peeling walls. They looked like ones he had in his room back home. There were several Nebraska Cornhuskers, a Batman and two different Star Wars. He listened for sounds of traffic and heard none. Only the wind whistled in through the cracks, rattling the broken glass.
If he could just reach the window, he was sure he could pull the boards off. The window was small, but he could fit through and maybe call for help. He tried to shove the bed, but the heavy metal frame wouldn’t budge. And he was weak and light-headed from not eating.
He stuffed a few of the French fries into his mouth. They were cold, but salty. Under the crate he found two Snickers bars, a bag of Cheetos and an orange. His stomach felt a little sick, but he devoured the orange and candy bars and started on the Cheetos while he examined the chain that connected him to the bedpost. The links were metal with a paper-thin slit in each, but it was impossible to pull any of them apart, not even to slip just one through the slit. It was useless. He wasn’t strong enough and, again, he hated how small and helpless he was.
The man came in slowly. He was bundled in a thick ski jacket, the black rubber boots and a stocking cap over the rubber mask that covered his entire head.
“Good morning,” he mumbled. He set down a brown paper sack, but this time didn’t remove his coat or boots to stay. “I brought you some things.” His voice was soft and friendly.
Timmy came to the edge of the bed, showing his interest and pretending not to be frightened.
The man handed him several comic books, old ones, but in good condition. In fact, Timmy thought they were brand-new until he saw the twelve-cent and fifteen-cent prices. He also handed him a stack of baseball cards, secured with a rubber band. Then he started unpacking some groceries and filling the crate where Timmy had found the candy bars. He watched as the man pulled out Cap’n Crunch cereal, more Snickers bars, corn chips and several cans of SpaghettiOs.
“I tried to get some of your favorite food,” he said, looking back at Timmy, obviously wanting to please him.
“Thanks,” Timmy found himself saying out of habit. The man nodded, the eyes sparkling again as though he was smiling. “How did you know I love Cap’n Crunch?”
“I just remember things,” he said softly. “I can’t stay. Is there anything else I can get you?”
Timmy watched him extinguish the kerosene lamp and felt a twinge of panic.
“Will you be back before dark? I hate being in the dark.”
“I’ll try to come back.” He started for the door then glanced back at Timmy. He sighed and then dug in his pockets, finally pulling out something shiny.
“I’ll leave my lighter, just case I don’t get back. But be careful, Timmy. You don’t want to start a fire.” He tossed the shiny metal lighter next to Timmy on the bed. Then he left.
The panic stirred again in Timmy’s stomach. Maybe it was all the junk food he had eaten. He hated being trapped, but at least if the man didn’t come back he couldn’t hurt him. He had the entire day to plan his escape. He picked up the lighter and ran his fingers over the smooth finish. Timmy noticed the logo stamped on the side of it. He recognized the dark brown crest. He had seen it many times on the jackets and uniforms his grandfather and Uncle Nick wore. It was the symbol for the sheriff’s department.
CHAPTER 60
The smell of coffee nauseated Maggie, though it seemed to be the only thing to combat the effects of the Scotch. She picked at the scrambled eggs and toast while she watched the door of the diner. Nick said it would take only ten to fifteen minutes. That was an hour ago. The small diner was beginning to fill with its breakfast rush, farmers in feed caps next to business men and women in suits.
Maggie had hated leaving Christine this morning, though she knew she wasn’t much of a comfort. She had never been good at offering words of reassurance or doing the hand-holding routine. After all, her only experience had been as a twelve-year-old, a small, gangly child struggling with and dragging a drunken mother up a flight of stairs to their run-down apartment. No words or courtesies had been necessary when dealing with someone who was half-conscious. Even as an FBI agent, etiquette skills were unnecessary. Most of the people she dealt with were corpses or psychos. Questioning the victims’ families didn’t require anything more than polite condolences, or so she had convinced herself long ago.
Last night she’d simply felt paralyzed. She hardly knew Christine. One dinner surely didn’t enforce any obligation of friendship. Yet, Timmy’s small, freckled face remained etched in her mind. In her eight years of tracking killers, no one she had known personally had ever been a victim. However, every corpse stayed with her, their ghosts a permanent part of her mental scrapbook. She couldn’t imagine—didn’t want to imagine—adding Timmy to that portfolio of tortured images.
Finally, Nick came into the diner. He spotted her immediately and waved, making his way to the booth but stopping several times to talk to customers. He was dressed in his usual uniform of jeans and cowboy boots, only this time under his unzipped jacket he wore a red Nebraska Cornhuskers sweatshirt. The swelling was gone from around his jaw, leaving a bruise. He looked exhausted. He hadn’t bothered to comb his hair or shave after showering. He looked even more handsome than she remembered.
He slid into the booth opposite her and grabbed a menu from behind the napkin dispenser. “Judge Murphy is stalling on the search warrant for the rectory,” he said quietly as he looked at the menu. “He didn’t have a problem with the pickup, but he thinks—”
“Hi, Nick. What can I get for you?”
“Oh, hi, Angie.”
Maggie watched the exchange between Nick and the pretty blond waitress and knew immediately the woman wasn’t used to just taking his diner orders.
“How have you been?” she asked, trying to make it sound like casual conversation, though Maggie noticed she hadn’t taken her eyes off Nick.
“Things have been pretty crazy. Could I just get some coffee and toast?” He avoided her eyes. His discomfort speeded up his speech.
“Wheat toast, right? And lots of cream with the coffee?”
“Yeah, thanks.” He looked anxious for her to leave.
She smiled and left the table without even noticing Maggie, though before Nick’s arrival she had been interested enough to fill Maggie’s coffee cup three times.
“An old friend?” Maggie asked, knowing she had no right to, but enjoying his fidgeting.
“Who, Angie? Yeah, I guess you could say that.” He dug Christine’s cellular phone from his jacket pocket, set it on the table, then twisted out of the jacket. “I hate these things,” he said, referring to the phone and desperately trying to change the subject.
“She seems very nice.” Maggie wasn’t ready to let him off the hook.
This time his eyes met hers, their intense blue looking deep inside her and reminding her once more of last night.
“She is nice, but she doesn’t make my palms sweaty and my knees weak like you do,” he said quietly, seriously, and managing to set that damn flutter going again in her stomach.
She looked away and concentrated on putting butter on her cold toast as though suddenly hungry.
“Look Nick, about last night…”
“I hope you don’t think I was trying to take advantage of you. I mean, you did have a lot to drink.”
She glanced at him. He leaned forward, his entire face serious. He was genuinely concerned. Had last night meant more to him than his ordinary trysts with women? Something made her want it to mean more, but she said, “I think it’s best if we just forget last night ever happened.”
He looked wounded, a slight grimace, then that same intensity.
“What if I don’t want to forget? Maggie, I haven’t felt like that in a long time. I can’t—”
“Please, Nick, I’m not some naive waitress. You don’t have to feed me some line or pretend—”
“It’s not a line. Yesterday when I thought you were leaving and I’d never see you again, I felt as if someone had punched me in the gut. And then last night. Jesus, Maggie, you turn me inside out. I get all weak-kneed and tongue-tied. Believe me, that doesn’t usually happen with me and women.”
“We’ve been spending a lot of time together. We were both exhausted.”
“I wasn’t that exhausted. And neither were you.”
She stared at him. Had it been that obvious how much she had wanted him? Or was it simply his ego?
“What did you expect to happen, Nick? Are you disappointed you’re not able to add one more name to your list of conquests?” She glanced around them. No one seemed to notice her angry whispers.
“You know that’s not what this is.”
“Then maybe it’s simply the thrill of being forbidden. I am married, Nick. It may not be the best marriage in the world, but it still means something. Please, let’s just forget about last night.” She stared at her coffee, feelin
g his eyes on her.
“Here’s your toast and coffee,” Angie interrupted, and Maggie found no relief in ending the subject. Maybe she didn’t want to forget it, either.
Angie set the plate and cup in front of Nick, forcing him to sit back, though his eyes stayed on Maggie. She wondered if the pretty waitress could feel the tension.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked only Nick.
“Maggie, do you need anything?” He purposely drew attention to Maggie, and Angie immediately looked embarrassed.
“No, thanks.”
“Okay,” Angie said, now anxious to make an exit.
There was an awkward moment of silence.
“You said Judge Murphy is hedging on the rectory warrant. Why?” Maggie tried to focus, still avoiding his eyes and pouring more sugar into her coffee. She waited out his silence, then finally she heard a sigh of resignation.
“Murphy and my dad come from a generation that believe you just don’t mess with Catholic priests,” he said, slathering his toast with quick, jerky swipes of butter.
“So is a warrant even possible?”
“I tried to convince him that it’s Ray Howard we’re after.”
“You still think it is Howard.”
“I don’t know.” He pushed the toast aside without taking a bite and scratched at his bristled jaw. She noticed the bandage again.
“What did you do to your hand?”
He stared at it for a moment as though he couldn’t remember.
“It’s no big deal. Look,” he said, leaning toward her again, and she could smell the faint hint of his aftershave lotion though he obviously hadn’t shaved. Behind the exhaustion in his eyes, Maggie could see the beginning panic he was so desperately trying to hide. Suddenly, she realized he was waiting for her attention.
“Sorry,” she said, putting down the spoon, folding her arms and giving him her attention.
“Father Keller told me last night that Ray Howard left the seminary last year. While I was waiting on Murphy I did some checking. Howard was at a seminary in Silver Lake, New Hampshire. It’s just across the border to Maine and less than five hundred miles from Wood River.”
