by Alex Kava
ALEX KAVA
Alex Kava Bundle
CONTENTS
A Perfect Evil
Split Second
The Soul Catcher
At the Stroke of Madness
A Necessary Evil
One False Move
About the Author
Praise for ALEX KAVA and A PERFECT EVIL
“Kava’s writing is reminiscent of Patricia Cornwell in her prime.”
—Mystery Ink
“Alex Kava knows the psychology of evil.”
—John Philpin, forensic psychologist and author
“Meet Kava’s FBI special agent Maggie O’Dell. But beware—it could be the start of a new addiction.”
—Peterborough Evening Telegraph, U.K.
“Alex Kava has crafted a suspenseful novel and created a winning character in Agent O’Dell.”
—Washington Post Book World
“This debut thriller pumps out the suspense.”
—Library Journal
“Engaging debut…a well-crafted page-turner.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A suspense thriller with enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing until the last page.”
—Mystery Scene
“Alex Kava’s thriller is a roller-coaster read. Although your heart is in your throat the entire time, you enjoy every scary minute.”
—Woman’s Own
“Kava keeps the dialogue clipped, the action fast and the twists coming.”
—Orlando Sentinel
Also by ALEX KAVA
ONE FALSE MOVE
The Maggie O’Dell series
AT THE STROKE OF MADNESS
THE SOUL CATCHER
SPLIT SECOND
A PERFECT EVIL
Watch for the next book in the Maggie O’Dell series
from ALEX KAVA and MIRA Books
A NECESSARY EVIL
Coming February 2006
in hardcover
ALEX KAVA
A PERFECT
EVIL
In loving memory of
Robert (Bob) Shoemaker
(1922–1998)
whose perfect good continues to inspire.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction; however, I’d like to extend my heartfelt sympathy to any parent who has ever lost a child to a senseless act of violence.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe my deepest gratitude and appreciation to all those whose support and expertise made this fantastic journey possible.
Special thanks go to:
Philip Spitzer, my agent, who enthusiastically offered to represent this book, then made it his personal mission to see it published. Philip, you are my hero.
Patricia Sierra, fellow author, for generously sharing her wisdom, her wit and her friendship.
Amy Moore-Benson, my editor, for her tenacity, her keen insights and her ability to make the editing process painless and rewarding.
Dianne Moggy and all the professionals at MIRA Books for their efforts and resolve to make this book a success.
Ellen Jacobs for always saying the right thing at just the right time.
Sharon Car, my writing cohort, for all those lunches commiserating with and encouraging me.
LaDonna Tworek, who helped me keep my perspective and encouraged me early on to hang in there.
Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, who listened over all those free, delicious dinners they fed me.
Bob Kava for patiently answering all my questions about firearms.
Mac Payne, who gave me something to prove.
My parents, Edward and Patricia Kava, especially my mom for lighting all those candles of hope.
Writing, for the most part, is a solitary act, but it certainly wouldn’t be possible for me without the loving support of my family and friends. Thanks also must go to Patti El-Kachouti, Marlene Haney, Nicole Keller, Kenny and Connie Kava, Natalie Cummings, Sandy Rockwood and Margaret Shoemaker.
Finally, thanks to Bob Shoemaker. This wouldn’t have been the type of book Bob would even have read, but that would not have stopped him from being proud of me and telling everyone he met about it.
CONTENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Nebraska State Penitentiary
Lincoln, Nebraska
Wednesday, July 17
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” Ronald Jeffreys’ raspy monotone made the phrase a challenge rather than a confession.
Father Stephen Francis stared at Jeffreys’ hands, mesmerized by the large knuckles and stubby fingers, nails bitten to the quick. The fingers twisted—no, strangled—the corner of his blue government-issue shirt. The old priest imagined those same fingers twisting and choking the life out of little Bobby Wilson.
“Is that how we start?”
Jeffreys’ voice startled the priest. “That’s
fine,” he answered quickly.
His sweaty palms stuck to the leather Bible. His collar was suddenly too tight. The prison’s deathwatch chamber didn’t have enough air for both men. The gray concrete walls boxed them in with only one tiny window, black with night. The pungent smell of green pepper and onion nauseated the old priest. He glanced at the remnants of Jeffreys’ last supper, scattered bits of pizza crust and puddles of sticky soda. A fly buzzed over crumbs that were once cheesecake.
“What’s next?” Jeffreys asked, waiting for instructions.
Father Francis couldn’t think, not with Jeffreys’ unflinching stare. Not with the noise of the crowd outside the prison, down below in the parking lot. The chants grew louder with the approach of midnight and the full effect of alcohol. It was a raucous celebration, a morbid excuse for an outdoor frat party. “Fry, Jeffreys, fry,” over and over again, like a childhood rhyme or a pep-rally song, melodic and contagious, sick and frightening.
Jeffreys, however, appeared immune to the sound. “I’m not sure I remember how this works. What’s next?”
Yes, what came next? Father Francis’ mind was completely blank. Fifty years of hearing confessions, and his mind was blank. “Your sins,” he blurted out over the tightness in his throat. “Tell me your sins.”
Now, Jeffreys hesitated. He unraveled the hem of his shirt, wrapping the thread around his index finger, pulling it so tight that the tip bulged red. The priest stole a long glance at the man slumped in the straight-backed chair. This wasn’t the same man from the grainy newspaper photos or the quick television shots. With his head and beard shaved, Jeffreys looked exposed, almost impish and younger than his twenty-six years. He had gained bulk in his six years on death row, but he still possessed a boyishness. Suddenly, it struck Father Francis as sad that this boyish face would never wear wrinkles or laugh lines. Until Jeffreys looked up at him. Cold blue eyes held his. Ice-blue like glass—sharp glass—vacant and transparent. Yes, this was what evil looked like. The priest blinked and turned his head.
“Tell me your sins,” Father Francis repeated, this time disappointed in the tremor in his voice. He couldn’t breathe. Had Jeffreys sucked all the air out of the room on purpose? He cleared his throat, then said, “Those sins for which you are truly sorry.”
Jeffreys stared at him. Then without warning, he barked out a laugh. Father Francis jumped, and Jeffreys laughed even louder. The priest gripped his Bible with unsteady fingers while watching Jeffreys’ hands. Why had he insisted the guard remove the handcuffs? Even God couldn’t rescue the stupid. Drops of perspiration slid down the priest’s back. He thought about fleeing, escaping before Jeffreys realized one last murder would cost him nothing more. Then he remembered the door was locked from the outside.
The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Silence.
“You’re just like the rest of them.” The low guttural accusation came from somewhere deep and dead. Yet, Jeffreys smiled, revealing small, sharp teeth, the incisors longer than the rest. “You’re waiting for me to confess to something I didn’t do.” His hands ripped the bottom of his shirt, thin strips, a slow grating sound.
“I don’t understand what you mean.” Father Francis reached to loosen his collar, dismayed to find the tremor now in his hands. “I was under the impression you had asked for a priest. That you wanted to offer up your confession.”
“Yes…yes, I do.” The monotone was back. Jeffreys hesitated but only for a moment. “I killed Bobby Wilson,” he said as calmly as if ordering takeout. “I put my hands…my fingers around his throat. At first, he made a sputtering noise, a sort of gagging, and then there was no noise.” His voice was hushed and restrained, almost clinical—a well-rehearsed speech.
“He kicked just a little. A jerk, really. I think he knew he was going to die. He didn’t fight much. He didn’t even fight when I was fucking him.” He stopped, checking Father Francis’ face, looking for shock and smiling when he found it.
“I waited until he was dead before I cut him. He didn’t feel a thing. So I cut him again and again and again. Then, I fucked him one last time.” He cocked his head to the side, suddenly distracted. Had he finally noticed the celebration outside?
Father Francis waited. Could it be the massive pounding of his heart that Jeffreys heard? Like something out of Poe, it banged against the old priest’s chest, betraying him just like his hands.
“I’ve already confessed once before,” Jeffreys continued. “Right after it happened, but the priest… Let’s just say he was a little surprised. Now I’m confessing to God, you understand? I’m confessing that I killed Bobby Wilson.” The ripping continued, now in quick, jerky motions. “But I didn’t kill those other two boys. Do you hear me?” His voice rose above the monotone. “I didn’t kill the Harper or the Paltrow kid.”
Silence, then Jeffreys’ lips slowly twisted into a smirk. “But then, God already knows that. Right, Father?”
“God does know the truth,” Father Francis said, trying to stare into the cold blue eyes but flinching and quickly looking away again. What if his own guilt should somehow reveal itself?
“They want to execute me because they think I’m some serial killer who murders little boys,” Jeffreys spat through clenched teeth. “I killed Bobby Wilson, and I enjoyed it. Maybe I even deserve to die for that. But God knows I didn’t kill those other boys. Somewhere out there, Father, there’s still a monster.” Another twisted smile. “And he’s even more hideous than me.”
Metal clanked against metal down the hall. Father Francis jerked, sending the Bible crashing to the floor. This time Jeffreys didn’t laugh. The old priest held Jeffreys’ stare, but neither man made an attempt to pick up the holy book. Were they coming to take Jeffreys away? It seemed too soon, although no one expected a stay of execution.
“Are you sorry for your sins?” Father Francis whispered as if back at the confessional window in St. Margaret’s.
Yes, there were footsteps coming down the hall, coming toward them. It was time. Jeffreys sat paralyzed, listening to the click-clack of heels marching, getting closer and closer.
“Are you sorry for your sins?” Father Francis repeated, this time more insistent, almost a command. Oh, dear God, it was hard to breathe. The chants from the parking lot grew louder and louder, squeezing through the tightly sealed window.
Jeffreys stood up. Again, his eyes held Father Francis’. The locks grunted open, echoing against the concrete walls. Jeffreys flinched at the sound, caught himself, then stood straight with shoulders back. Was he frightened? Father Francis searched Jeffreys’ eyes, but couldn’t see beyond the steel blue.