by Kava, Alex
CHAPTER 84
Nick stood at the edge of the woods, every nerve ending on alert. It was impossible to see with only a flashlight. Branches swayed in a fresh breeze. Night birds exchanged calls. The black figure was gone. Or hiding.
He remembered a road that snaked through the woods, not far from here. It went all the way to the river. He’d have a better chance with the Jeep. He hurried back toward the church. When he stuffed his gun into the shoulder holster, he realized the other bulge in his jacket was Christine’s cellular phone. Great, he thought, pulling it out. At least he could avoid a flood of media hounds if he didn’t use the Jeep’s CB radio.
Lucy answered on the second ring.
“Lucy, it’s Nick.”
“Nick, where in the world are you? I’ve been so worried.”
“I don’t have time to explain. I’m going to need some men and searchlights. I think I just chased the killer into the woods, behind the old church. He’s probably headed for the river again.”
“Where do you want the guys to meet you?”
“Down by the river. There’s an old gravel road that winds through the woods. It’s just off Old Church Road past the state park, not far from where we found Matthew. You know the one?”
“Isn’t that the one with Make-out Point?”
“Make-out Point?”
“Well, that’s what the kids call it. There’s a clearing overlooking the river. Kids go there to make out.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s the one. Lucy, tell Hal. Let him decide who to bring, okay?”
“Okay.”
He slapped the phone shut. What if it was only a vagrant he’d seen, who had used the church to get in out of the cold? He’d look like a fool again. The hell with what he looked like. He didn’t care, if they could just find Timmy.
He stopped at the window, kicked aside the wood and glass, then crouched to shine light into the hole. Sure enough, there was a bed, posters on the wall, a crate with food. Someone had been staying here. The light reflected off a glimpse of chain. Or someone had been imprisoned here. He saw the comic books, the scattered baseball cards and the small child’s coat. Timmy’s coat. The drumming started again, the rhythm an erratic war dance against his rib cage. He couldn’t be sure it was Timmy’s, he made a feeble attempt to convince himself. Yet, he knew this was it. This was where the boys had been kept. Maggie was right. Then he saw the bloody pillow.
CHAPTER 85
Maggie heard small creatures skitter across the ceiling above her. Dirt crumbled down into her hair, but she didn’t dare look up. She swatted at cobwebs. Something ran across her foot. She didn’t need light to tell her it was a rat. She could hear them in the corners, behind the dirt walls, escaping into their own little tunnels.
The space was small enough to take in with a few swipes of the penlight. She had counted eleven steps, carrying her deep into the ground where the damp air became heavier with each step. The hole resembled an old storm cellar, an odd comparison considering the graveyard’s residents no longer needed shelter from any storm. Other than a thick wooden shelf and a large crate in the corner, the space was empty. Even the shelves were empty, coated with cobwebs and rat feces. Disappointingly, there were no signs of Timmy and no tunnel. How could she be so wrong? Had Stucky sabotaged her instincts, too?
Still, someone had cleared the snow from the door and attempted to hide it with the tarp. Was there something here, a clue, anything to help find Timmy? She surveyed the space again, stopping this time when the light hit the crate.
On closer inspection, the old wooden crate was actually in good shape with no signs of rot or beginning decay. It certainly had not spent much time in the wet dark hole. Very few crumbs of dirt covered its surface. Even the lid was attached with shiny new nails.
Maggie holstered her revolver. She pried at the lid, but her fingers weren’t strong enough to loosen the nails. She found a broken steel rod in the corner and began using it to pry the lid. The nails screeched but held. Immediately, a rancid smell leaked out, quickly filling the small space. Maggie stopped and backed off just a few steps to examine the crate again. Was it big enough to hide a body? A child’s body? She had seen body parts stuffed into smaller spaces. Like the pieces of Emma Jean Thomas, which Stucky had crammed into take-out containers and left in a Dumpster. Who would have guessed a pair of lungs could fit into a foam container the size of a sandwich?
She tried to lift the crate, hoping to drag it up into the fresh air. She could barely lift it a foot off the ground. She would never be able to drag it up eleven steps. She pried at the lid again. This time the smell made her gag. She spat out the penlight she had anchored between her teeth and let it lie on the ground. She held her breath and tried again.
Something scraped in the dirt. Maggie spun around. In the black there was movement. Something bigger than a rat. She dropped to her knees, grabbing for the penlight. She clutched the steel rod, holding it above her head, ready to strike. Then she held her breath again and listened. All sound, all movement had come to a halt. The narrow light whipped across the opposite wall. The wooden shelf leaned forward, shoved away from the wall. Maggie now saw a hole, large enough to be an entrance to the famed tunnel.
In the black silence, something stirred behind her. She was no longer alone. Someone stood behind her, blocking the steps. She felt his presence, heard the soft wisps of his breathing as though it was suctioned through a tube. The panic Stucky had left with her unleashed itself and raced through her veins, ice-cold and rapid. And just as her fingers snuck inside her jacket, a smooth knife blade slid under her chin.
CHAPTER 86
“Agent Maggie O’Dell, what a lovely surprise.”
Maggie didn’t recognize the muffled voice in her ear. The knife’s razor-sharp point pressed into the softness of her neck. It pushed with a steady pressure, forcing her head back until her neck lay completely exposed, completely vulnerable. She felt a trickle of blood run down inside the collar of her jacket.
“Why a surprise? I thought you’d be expecting me. You seem to know so much about me.” With every syllable she felt the knife dig deeper.
“Drop the steel rod.” He pulled her against him, wrapping his free arm around the front of her, squeezing harder than necessary to emphasize his strength.
She dropped the rod while he dug inside her jacket. He carefully grabbed the butt of the gun, his hand jerking away when he accidentally grazed her breast. He tossed the gun into a dark corner where she heard it knock against the crate. Of course, she wasn’t surprised he would be much more comfortable using the knife.
She tried to concentrate on his voice and the feel of him. He was strong and four to six inches taller than her. The rest of himself, he disguised. A brush of rubber against her ear and the muffled sound told her he wore a mask. Even his hands were camouflaged in plain black gloves. They were made of cheap department store leather, sold by the hundreds.
“I wasn’t expecting you. I thought perhaps you might have gone back home to your safe condo and your lawyer husband and your sick mother. How is your mother, by the way?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
The blade pushed up. Maggie sucked in air and resisted the urge to swallow while another trickle of blood found its way down her neck, traveling between her breasts.
“That wasn’t very nice,” he scolded.
“Sorry,” she said carefully, not moving her mouth or chin. She could do this. She could play his game. She needed to stay calm, level the playing field somehow. “The smell is getting to me. Maybe we could discuss this outside.”
“No, sorry. You see that’s a bit of a problem. I’m afraid you won’t be leaving here at all. What do you think of your new home?” He made her turn around to examine the area with her penlight while the knife scraped her flesh. “Or should I say your tomb?”
The ice shot through her veins again. Calm, she needed to remain calm. If only she could remove the image of Albert Stucky carving her abdome
n. If only she could get this madman to ease the pressure. One small jerk and she’d be tasting the knife’s metal in her mouth.
“It won’t matter…getting rid of me.” She talked slowly. “The entire sheriff’s department knows who you are. About a dozen deputies will be here in a few minutes.”
“Now, Agent O’Dell, you can’t bluff me. I know you like to be on your own. That’s what got you in trouble with Mr. Stucky, isn’t it? And all you have on me is your little psychological profile. I bet I even know what it says. My mother abused me as a child, right? She turned me into a fag, so I murder little boys now.” The attempt at laughter sounded like a manic cackle.
“Actually, I don’t think your mother abused you.” She tried frantically to remember what little family history she had found on Father Keller. Of course, his mother had been a single parent just like the victims’ mothers. But she had died when Keller was young—a fatal accident. Why couldn’t she remember the details? Why was it so hard to think? It was the smell, the pressure of the knife, the feel of her own blood.
“I think she loved you,” Maggie continued when he remained silent. “And you loved her. But you were abused.” A twitch told her she was right. “By a relative…perhaps a friend of your mother’s…no, a stepfather,” she remembered suddenly.
The knife slipped, only a quarter of an inch, but she could breathe again. He was quiet, waiting, listening. She had his attention. It was her move.
“No, you’re not homosexual, but he made you doubt yourself, didn’t he? He made you think that maybe you could be.”
The arm around her waist loosened. She felt his breathing grow rapid, a steady movement against her back as his chest moved laboriously.
“You don’t kill little boys for kicks. You try to save them because they remind you of that scared, vulnerable little boy from your past. They remind you of yourself. Do you think that by saving them, you might be able to save yourself?”
His silence continued. Had she gone too far? She tried to concentrate on his hand with the knife. If she jabbed her elbow into his chest, perhaps she could grab the knife before it cut her. She needed to keep him distracted.
She continued. “You deliver these poor boys from evil, is that it? By inflicting your own evil, you transform them into martyrs. You’re quite a hero. You might even say yours is a perfect evil.”
His arm squeezed tight and jerked her back against him. She had gone too far. The knife shot up to her throat, this time lengthwise so that the sharp blade pressed full against her skin. In one quick motion, he could slit her throat.
“That’s a bunch of psychological bullshit. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The low guttural sound came from someplace deep inside him. “Albert Stucky should have gutted you when he had a chance. Now, I guess, I’ll have to finish the job. We need more light.” He dragged her to the tunnel’s entrance and extracted a lantern. “Light it.” He shoved her to her knees, keeping the knife at her throat and throwing a matchbook into the dirt. “Light it so that you can watch.”
“I want you to watch,” she heard Albert Stucky say, as if he stood in the dark corner, waiting. “I want you to see how I do it.”
Her fingers felt as though they belonged to someone else. There was no feeling in them, but she lit the lantern on the first attempt. The yellow glow filled the small space. Her entire body felt numb. All the blood had drained from her veins. Her mind was paralyzed, preparing for the pain by disconnecting. She recognized all the familiar signs. It was Albert Stucky all over again. Her body responded to the overwhelming terror by simply shutting down.
It was hard to breathe the thick air, now filled with the smell of spoiled meat. Even her lungs refused to work. The knife blade continued to press against her throat. There was a slight tremble in his hand. Was it from anger or fear? Did it matter?
“Why aren’t you crying or screaming?” It was anger.
She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Even her voice had abandoned her. She thought of her father, those warm brown eyes smiling at her while he put the chain with the medallion around her neck. “Wherever you go, it’ll protect you. Don’t ever take it off, okay, Mag-pie?” But it didn’t protect you, Daddy, she wanted to tell him. And it didn’t protect Danny Alverez.
The stranger grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back to her feet, the knife a permanent fixture at her throat. More blood trickled down between her breasts.
“Say something,” he screamed at the back of her head. “Plead with me. Pray.”
“Just do it,” Maggie finally said, quietly and with much effort, having to coax her voice, her lips, her bruised and cut throat to cooperate just for those three simple words.
“What?” He sounded genuinely surprised.
“Just do it,” she managed to repeat, this time louder, more forceful.
“Maggie?” Nick’s voice sifted in from the top of the stairs.
The stranger spun around, startled and swinging Maggie along with him. As if watching from the corner, she saw her hand grab at the knife, snatching the stranger’s wrist. She twisted out from his hold just as he jerked his hand away and slashed at her, the metal disappearing into her jacket, ripping fabric and flesh on the way out. He shoved her hard, sending her into the dirt wall with a loud thump.
Nick’s stream of light came racing down the steps just as the black shadow grabbed the lantern and plunged into the hole. The wooden shelf teetered then crashed to the floor, almost hitting Nick.
“Maggie?” His light blinded her.
“In the tunnel.” She pointed while struggling to her knees. A flash of pain set her back down again. “Don’t let him get away.”
Nick disappeared into the hole, leaving her in total darkness. She didn’t need light to know she was bleeding. Her fingers easily found the sticky wound in her side. She dug deep in her pocket, pulled out the chain and medallion, rubbing her fingers over the smooth cross shape. In many ways the cool metal reminded her of the knife blade. Good and evil—was there really that fine a line between the two? Then she slipped the chain over her head and around her bleeding neck.
CHAPTER 87
Nick tried not to think. Especially now that the tunnel had started to curve and narrow, forcing him to crawl on his hands and knees. He could no longer see the masked shadow in front of him. The jerks of light from his flashlight revealed only more darkness ahead. Dirt and rock crumbled with every movement. Broken roots snaked out of the earth, sometimes dangling in front of him, sticking to his face like cobwebs. It was hard to breathe. The farther he went, the less air there was. What was left was stale and rancid, burning his lungs and adding to the ache already in his chest.
Fur brushed against his hand. He flung the flashlight, missing the rat and sending the batteries flying. The sudden darkness surprised him. Terror exploded inside him. Frantically, he groped for the flashlight, fistfuls of moldy dirt. One battery, two, finally three. Please let it work. He wasn’t sure he could even turn around in the narrow, twisted space. Couldn’t imagine backing all the way out.
He screwed the flashlight together. Nothing. He slapped it, tightened the clasp, slapped it again. Light, thank God. Only now he gasped for air. Had the darkness sucked out all the air?
He crawled faster. The tunnel narrowed even more, sending him to his stomach. He crawled using his elbows, propelling off his toes like a swimmer pushing against the current. He was an awful swimmer—a hot dog on the diving board, but lead in the water. And now he felt as if he was drowning, gulping for air and swallowing dirt from above.
How far had he come? How much farther could it possibly be? Other than the scratches of rat claws and the avalanche of dirt behind him, there was silence. Was he simply burying himself alive?
How could the shadow have disappeared so quickly? And if this was the killer, who had Nick seen disappear into the woods earlier?
This was nuts, absolutely crazy. He couldn’t make it, couldn’t breathe. Surely his lungs would explode any seco
nd. The dirt clung to him. Sandpaper scratched his eyes and throat. His mouth was dry with the taste of rot and death, gagging him. The walls narrowed still more, scraping against his body. He heard rips and tears—his clothing, sometimes his skin, catching on pieces of rock, wood, maybe even bones sticking out of the dirt walls.
How much farther? Was it a trap? Had he missed a turn somewhere back in the beginning where the tunnel seemed huge? Where he had walked crouched low, but still upright? Could he have missed another secret passage? That would explain why he couldn’t see or hear the stranger up ahead. What if this tunnel led to a dead end, a wall of dirt?
Just as he felt certain he could go no farther, the flashlight caught a sliver of glittering white up ahead. Snow—it clogged the tunnel. In one last mad rush of panic, Nick clawed, pushed, tore and dug his way to the surface. Suddenly, he saw the black, starlit sky. And despite the miles he thought he had traveled, he realized he hadn’t even left the cemetery. Instead, he rose from the ground like a corpse among the tombstones. Less than three feet away, the black angel hovered above him with a ghostly radiance that looked like a smile.
CHAPTER 88
Christine’s neck ached like it usually did when she fell asleep on the sofa. She saw branches sticking through glass. Had the storm sent branches through her living-room window? She had heard a crash. And there was a hole in the ceiling. Yes, she could even see stars, thousands of them right there, sitting on top of her house.
