Dark and Twisted Reads: All the Pretty GirlsA Perfect EvilBone Cold (A Taylor Jackson Novel)

by J. T. Ellison

  Something floated next to him, small and black. A trace of panic fluttered inside his gut until he realized it wasn’t alive. He grabbed the hard plastic. It flipped open and a light flashed on, startling him. It was a cellular phone. What a shame to see it go to waste. He stuffed it deep into the pocket of his pants.

  He maneuvered himself closer to the riverbank. In seconds, he found his marker. He grabbed the crooked branch that hung over the water. It creaked under his weight, but didn’t break.

  The current pushed and slapped against his body. The water possessed a strength, a power that demanded respect. He understood that, welcomed it and used it to his advantage.

  His fingers stung with cold as he clawed at the branch. Bark flaked off and threatened to send him downstream. His arms ached. Only another foot, a few more inches. His feet struck land, ice-cold, snow-covered land, but his feet were already numb. The soles, heavily callused, expert navigators. He ran through the ice-coated sea of grass. It clinked and tinkled like breaking glass as hundreds of clinging icicles shattered. He gasped for breath but didn’t slow his pace. The silvery snow floated through the pitch-black night—small angels dancing alongside him, running with him.

  He found his hiding spot. The grove of plum trees sagged with snow-covered branches, adding a cavelike effect to the already thick canopy. Just then, a sudden ringing sent him into another frenzy. Quickly, he realized it was the phone vibrating inside his pants. He dug it out, held it for two, three rings, staring at it. Finally, he flipped it open. It lit up again. The ringing stopped. Someone was yelling,

  “Hello!”

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Maggie O’Dell’s phone?” the voice demanded. The man sounded angry, and for a second he thought about hanging up.

  “Yes, it is. She dropped it.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “She’s kind of tied up right now,” he said, almost laughing out loud.

  “Well, tell her that her husband, Greg, called, and that her mother is in serious shape. She needs to call the hospital. You got that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t forget,” the man snapped at him and hung up.

  He smiled, still holding the phone to his ear and listening to the dial tone. But it was too cold to take much pleasure in his new toy. Instead, he peeled off the black sweat pants, sweatshirt and ski mask. He threw them into the plastic garbage bag without even wringing them dry. The wet hairs on his arms and legs developed ice crystals before he wiped himself down and pulled on dry jeans and a thick wool sweater.

  He sat on the running board to tie his tennis shoes. If it continued to snow, he might have to resort to wearing shoes. No, shoes would make it impossible to maneuver the river. They only acted as anchors. Besides, he hated getting them dirty.

  If only he could be crawling into the nice, warm Lexus, but someone would have noticed it missing tonight. So, he climbed up into the old pickup, instead. The engine sputtered to life, and he drove home, shivering and squinting as the one headlight cut through the black night and white snow.

  CHAPTER 35

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time. His house was less than a mile away. She had been soaked to the bone and bleeding. Now Nick wasn’t so sure he should have brought her here. As he strung up Maggie’s clothes to dry in the utility room, he fingered the soft lace of her bra, and he couldn’t help imagining what it would look like filled. It was ridiculous, especially after all that had happened in the last several hours. Yet, the soft scent of her perfume calmed him, soothed him, not to mention turned him on.

  He had left her in the master bathroom upstairs. He had taken a shower downstairs, lit a fire in the fireplace and hung her clothes to dry. From the sound of running water in the pipes above him, he knew she was still in the shower. He wondered whether he should check on her. Despite that irritating calm, she had been shaken up, even if she wouldn’t admit it. And in pain. The bastard had managed to shove her into a tangle of old splintered fence posts and rusted barbed wire.

  The water shut off above him. He grabbed a fresh shirt from the dryer and fumbled with the buttons. He felt like a high-school kid unable to control his body’s responses. It was crazy. After all, it wasn’t as though a naked woman had never been in his house before. Fact was, there had been plenty—more than plenty.

  The medicine cabinet was well stocked, remnants of his mother’s paranoia. He filled his arms with cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, gauze, washcloths, hydrogen peroxide and a tin of salve probably as old as his mother. He set up his nursing station by the fire, adding pillows and blankets. The furnace was making that thumping sound again. He should have had it checked. He stuffed huge logs on the fire, filling the fireplace and warming the room with a glowing yellow heat. Of course, it couldn’t possibly match the one already roaring inside him. For once he’d ignore his raging hormones and do the right thing. It was as simple as that.

  He turned to find her coming down the long, open staircase. She wore his old terry-cloth robe. It parted with every step, just enough to reveal well-shaped calves, sometimes a glimpse of a firm, smooth thigh. No, there would be absolutely nothing simple about this.

  Her wet hair glistened. Her cheeks were ruddy from too much hot water. Her pace was slow, almost hesitant. The water had washed away her defenses. A hidden vulnerability exposed itself in those luscious, brown eyes.

  As soon as she saw his arsenal of healing tools, she shook her head and dismissed them with a wave of her hand.

  “I think I washed everything out. None of that is necessary.”

  “It’s either this or I take you to the hospital.”

  She frowned at him.

  “Humor me, okay? That wire was full of rust. When was your last tetanus shot?”

  “I’m sure it’s up-to-date. The Bureau hauls us in every three years, whether we need it or not. Look, Morrelli, I appreciate the gesture, but I really am fine.”

  He uncapped the alcohol and peroxide, lined up cotton balls and pointed to the ottoman in front of him. “Sit.”

  He thought she would refuse again, but perhaps she was too tired to argue. She sat down, loosened the robe’s cinch, hesitated, then let the robe drop off her shoulder while she held it tightly at her breasts.

  Immediately, he found himself distracted by her smooth, creamy skin, the beginning swell of her breasts, the curve of her neck, the fresh scent of her hair and skin. He felt light-headed, and already he was hard. How could he touch her and not want to do more? It was stupid. He needed to concentrate and ignore his erection for once in his life.

  About a half-dozen bloody, triangular marks marred her beautiful skin, starting on top of her shoulder and trailing down her shoulder blade and arm. Several were deep and bleeding. In one place, the skin had ripped open, leaving a gash of torn skin.

  He dabbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the first puncture, and she jerked from the sting. However, she made no sound.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

  He tried to be gentle with dabs and soft wipes. Still, she winced and grimaced beneath his touch. He cleaned each wound, hoping the alcohol would sterilize as much as it stung. Then he applied gauze and tape to those that kept bleeding.

  Finally finished, he ran his open palm over the top of her shoulder and continued the slow caress down her arm, letting his hand make the journey he wished his mouth could. He felt her tremble, just slightly. Her back straightened, alerting her body to danger or responding to the electricity. His hand lingered, enjoying the sensation of silky skin. Then gently, reluctantly, he lifted the robe up over her shoulder, covering the beautiful and battered skin. She hesitated, as if surprised, as if expecting something more. Then she gathered the robe together and tightened the cinch.

  “Thanks,” she said without looking back at him.

  “We have several hours before morning. I thought we could rest here, by the fire. Can I get you anything…hot chocolate
, brandy?”

  “Brandy would be nice.” She left the ottoman and sat on the rug in front of the fireplace, leaning against a pile of pillows and tucking the robe in around her shapely legs.

  “Can I get you anything to eat?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You sure? I could fix some soup, maybe a sandwich.”

  She smiled up at him. “Why is it that you’re always trying to feed me, Morrelli?”

  “Probably because I’m not allowed to do the things I’d really like to do with you.”

  Her smile disappeared while he looked into her eyes and held her gaze. The color rose in her cheeks. He was bordering on totally inappropriate behavior. Yet, all he could think about was whether she felt as hot as he did. Finally, she looked away, and he retreated to the kitchen while he was still able to move.

  CHAPTER 36

  The photo Maggie had retrieved from her jacket pocket was creased and wrinkled. The corners curled as it dried. Lint from the robe’s pocket stuck to the glossy finish. She owed Timmy a replacement, though she didn’t know how she’d accomplish that. At least the photo hadn’t disappeared into the dark water like her cell phone. She seemed destined to lose things at the bottoms of rivers and lakes.

  Nick was taking a long time in the kitchen. She wondered whether he had decided on a sandwich, after all. His last remark left her with an unsettled feeling, nothing she could even describe without using an annoying reference to butterflies. He was being a perfect gentleman. She had absolutely no reason to be concerned, even though she leaned against pillows scented with just a hint of his aftershave lotion. Even though she sat in front of his fireplace wearing nothing but his robe.

  The entire time he dressed her wounds, she welcomed the sting of pain. It was the only thing that kept her mind from relishing his touch. When he finished by running his hand over her shoulder and down her arm, she was shocked to find herself waiting breathlessly, hoping for the caress to continue. Now, she wondered what it would feel like to have his big, steady hands caressing her neck, sliding gently over her shoulders and slowly down to her breasts.

  She heard Nick come into the room and her hand flew to her face. Her skin was flushed again, but the fire would account for that. It would not, however, account for her shortness of breath. She steadied herself and avoided looking up at him as he approached.

  He handed her a glass of brandy, then sat next to her. He pulled his long, bare feet up underneath himself, leaning so close he brushed her shoulder.

  “So, that’s the photo you told me about?” He nodded in its direction as he grabbed a handmade quilt off the sofa. He began wrapping it around their legs. He did this as though it was natural for the two of them to be curling up next to each other. The intimacy of the act immediately sent the heat from her face down to other parts of her body.

  Perhaps he recognized it. Maybe he felt it. Suddenly, he looked embarrassed as he explained, “The furnace isn’t working quite right. I need to have it checked. I just didn’t expect it to get this cold in October.”

  She handed him the photo. With both hands now cupped around the globe of brandy, she swirled the liquid in the glass, breathed in its sweet, stout aroma, then took a sip. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back against the soft pillows and enjoyed the lovely sting sliding down her throat. Several more sips would release her from that unsettled feeling. It was during these initial light-headed moments that she understood her mother’s escape. Alcohol possessed the power to level tension and dissolve unwanted feelings. There was no pain if she couldn’t feel it. Grief didn’t exist if she was too numb to recognize it.

  “I agree,” Nick said, interrupting her pleasant descent into numbness. “It is too much of a coincidence. But I can’t just haul Ray Howard in for questioning, can I?”

  Her eyes flew open, and she sat up. “Not Howard. Father Keller.”

  “What? Are you nuts? I can’t haul in a priest. You really can’t believe a Catholic priest could kill little boys.”

  “He fits the profile. I need to find out more about his background, but yes, I do think a priest is capable.”

  “I don’t. It’s crazy.” He avoided her eyes and gulped his brandy. “The community would hang me by my thumbs if I hauled in a priest for questioning. Especially this Father Keller. He’s like Superman with a collar. Jesus, O’Dell, you’re way off target.”

  “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.