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

by J. T. Ellison

  “Maggie, why don’t you come in and calm down?”

  “I don’t want to calm down. I want some answers. I want to know what the hell’s going on here.”

  “There was an accident this morning,” Nick explained, since she wouldn’t allow Father Keller to speak. “Father Francis fell down some basement steps. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  She was quiet, her entire body suddenly still. “An accident?” Then she looked up at Father Keller. “Nick, are you sure it was an accident?”

  “Maggie.”

  “How can you be sure he wasn’t pushed? Has anyone examined the body? I’ll do the autopsy myself if necessary.”

  “An autopsy?” Father Keller repeated.

  “Maggie, he was old and frail.”

  “Exactly. So why would he be going down basement steps?”

  “Actually, it’s our wine cellar,” Father Keller tried to explain.

  Maggie stared at him, and Nick noticed her hands clenched into fists. It wouldn’t have surprised him if she took a swing at the priest. Nick couldn’t figure out her angle. If she was playing bad cop, good cop, he wished she’d let him know.

  “What exactly are you implying, Father Keller?” she finally asked.

  “Implying? I’m not implying anything.”

  “Maggie, maybe we should go,” Nick said, taking her gently by the arm. Immediately, she wrenched it from his hold and shot him a look that made him take a step backward. She stared at Father Keller again, then suddenly pushed past both of them and headed for the door.

  Nick glanced at the priest, who looked as embarrassed and confused as Nick felt. Without saying a word, he followed Maggie out the front door. He caught up with her on the sidewalk. He reached for her arm to slow her down, but thought better of it and simply increased his pace to stay alongside her.

  “What the hell was that about?” he demanded.

  “He’s lying. I doubt that it was an accident.”

  “Father Francis was an old man, Maggie.”

  “He had something important to tell me. When we talked on the phone this morning, I could tell someone else was listening in. I’m guessing it was Keller. Don’t you see, Nick?” She came to a halt and turned to look at him. “Whoever was listening decided to stop Father Francis before he had a chance to tell me whatever was so important. An autopsy may show whether or not he was pushed. I’ll do it myself if—”

  “Maggie, stop. There’s not going to be an autopsy. Keller didn’t push anybody, and I don’t think he had anything to do with the murders. This is nuts. We need to start looking at some real suspects. We need to…”

  She looked as though she would be sick. Her face went white, her shoulders slumped, and her eyes were watery.

  “Maggie?”

  She turned and hurried off the sidewalk into the snow, back behind the rectory and out of the bright streetlights. Shielded from the wind and clinging to a tree, she bent over and began retching. Nick grimaced and kept his distance. Now he understood the belligerence, the loud accusation, the uncharacteristic anger. Maggie O’Dell was drunk.

  He waited until she finished, standing guard in the shadows, keeping his back to her in case she was now sober enough to be embarrassed.

  “Nick.”

  When he turned, she was walking away from him, behind the rectory toward a grove of trees that separated the church property from Cutty’s Hill.

  “Nick, look.” She stopped and pointed, and he wondered if she was delusional. Then he saw it, and immediately he, too, felt sick to his stomach. Tucked back in the trees was an old blue pickup with wooden side racks.

  CHAPTER 57

  “I’ll get Judge Murphy to issue a search warrant first thing in the morning.” Nick was still explaining when they got back to Maggie’s hotel room. She wished that he would just shut up. Her head ached and her stomach hurt. Why in the world did she drink all that Scotch on an empty stomach?

  She threw her laptop and jacket onto the bed and lay down next to them. She was lucky to get her room back with there being so many stranded motorists.

  Nick stood in the doorway, looking uncomfortable, but making no effort to leave.

  “I couldn’t believe the way you were going at Keller. Jesus, I thought you were going to punch him.”

  She looked up at him without moving from her resting place. “I know you don’t believe me, but Keller has something to do with all this. Either come in or leave, but don’t stand in the open doorway. I have a reputation, after all.”

  He smiled and came in, closing the door. Once inside, he paced until he noticed her frowning at him. He pulled a chair to the edge of the bed where she could see him and not have to move.

  “So what did you do, decide to have a little going-away party?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Aren’t you going to miss your flight?”

  “I probably already have.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “I’ll call in the morning.”

  “So you came all the way back just for a piece of Keller?”

  She pulled herself up on one elbow and dug through her jacket pockets. She handed him the small envelope and lay back down.

  “What is it?”

  “I was in the airport lounge when the bartender gave me that—said a guy at the bar asked him to deliver it to me. Only the guy was gone by the time I got it.”

  She watched him read it. There was confusion, and she remembered she hadn’t told him about the first note.

  “It’s from the killer.”

  “How does he know where you live and your husband’s name?”

  “He’s probing me, investigating me, digging into my background just like I’m doing to him.”

  “Jesus, Maggie.”

  “It comes with the territory. It’s not that unusual.” She closed her eyes and massaged the throbbing in her temples. “No one answered the phone at the rectory for hours. Plenty of time to make a trip to the airport and back.”

  When she opened her eyes, Nick was studying her. She sat up, suddenly feeling exposed under his concerned gaze. His chair was close to the bed. Their knees almost touched. The room started spinning, tipping to the right, setting everything off balance. She almost expected the furniture to start sliding.

  “Maggie, are you okay?”

  She looked into his blue eyes and felt the electrical current even before his fingers touched her face and his palm caressed her cheek. She leaned into it, closing her eyes again and allowing her body to absorb the spinning and the electricity. Suddenly, she vaulted from his touch, scrambling from the bed and from him. Her breathing was uneven, and she steadied herself with both hands, leaning against the dresser. She looked up and saw him in the mirror, behind her. Their eyes met in the reflection, and she held his gaze even though what she saw in his eyes made her stomach flutter. This time it wasn’t because of the alcohol.

  She watched as he came up behind her, so close she felt his breath on her neck even before he leaned down to kiss it. The Packers jersey had slipped off her shoulder, and she watched in the mirror as his soft, wet lips moved slowly, deliberately from her neck to her shoulder to her back. By the time they moved up her neck again, she had trouble breathing.

  “Nick, what are you doing?” she gasped, surprised by her reaction and no longer able to control it.

  “I’ve wanted to touch you for days.”

  His tongue flicked at her earlobe, and her knees went weak. She leaned back against him, afraid she’d fall.

  “This isn’t a good idea.” It came out as a whisper, not the least bit convincing. And it certainly didn’t stop his big, steady hands from coming around her waist, one palm flat against her stomach, sending a shiver down her back and the flutter from her stomach down between her legs.

  “Nick.” It was useless. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe, and his gentle, urgent mouth was devouring her in soft, wet explorations while his hands made their way up her body
. She noticed one had a bandage wrapped around the knuckles. She wanted to ask what had happened, but she couldn’t concentrate on anything except her breathing.

  She watched in the mirror as his hands moved over her breasts, swallowing them and beginning their circular caress, rendering her completely helpless. It was too much. It was sensory overload. She was already wet between her legs before one of his hands strayed and began to caress her there, the fingers gentle and expert. She was close to the edge when finally she found enough strength to twist herself around to face him, to push him away. But when her hands came up to his chest, they betrayed her, beginning their own exploration and unbuttoning his shirt, desperate to gain access to his skin.

  He actually trembled when his mouth finally found hers. She hesitated, surprised by her own moans, her own urgency. His mouth urged her on with delicate but persistent nibbles until she couldn’t stand it any longer and kissed him back with the same urgency. Again, her body seemed powerless, and she leaned against the dresser attempting to find relief from the magnetic force of his hot body. She was gasping for air when his mouth left hers and made its way to her neck and then down to her breasts, sucking at her nipples through the cotton of the jersey and sending a jolt so powerful she clung to the dresser top.

  “Oh, God, Nick,” she gasped. She needed to stop, couldn’t stop. The room was spinning again. Her ears ringing. Her heart banging against her rib cage and her blood rushing from her head. That constant ringing. No, it wasn’t her ears. It was the phone. The phone—reality—pulled her back from the edge.

  “Nick…the phone,” she managed.

  He was kneeling in front of her. He stopped and looked up, his hands on her waist, his eyes filled with desire. How did she ever let it get this far? It was the Scotch. It was that damn fuzziness in her head. It was that delicious mouth and those strong hands. Damn it, she needed to gain control.

  She pulled away from him and stumbled to the nightstand, knocking the phone and grabbing the receiver as the base crashed to the floor. She kept her back to Nick, avoiding his eyes, or she’d never be able to stop the trembling her body was experiencing.

  “Yes,” she said, trying her voice and disappointed that her breathing still came in gasps. “This is Maggie O’Dell.”

  “Maggie, oh, thank God, I got ahold of you. This is Christine Hamilton. I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry I’m calling so late. I tried to get ahold of Nicky, but no one knows where he is.”

  “Calm down, Christine.” She glanced back at Nick.

  The mention of his sister’s name brought him to attention. She watched his fingers fumble with his shirt buttons as though Christine had walked into the room and caught them. Maggie crossed her arms in an attempt to stop her breasts from tingling, the memory of his mouth on them still fresh, the front of her jersey still damp. She turned her back to Nick again, avoiding the distraction, and pushed her hair out of her face, tucking wild strands behind her ears.

  “Christine, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Timmy. He wasn’t here when I got home. I thought he just went home with one of his friends. But I’ve called. No one has seen him since this afternoon. They all went sledding on Cutty’s Hill. The other kids said they saw him walking home, but he’s not here. Oh, God, Maggie, he’s not here. That was over five hours ago. I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do.”

  Maggie cupped the mouthpiece and sat on the edge of the bed before her knees could give out.

  “Timmy is missing,” she said calmly, but felt the panic in the pit of her empty stomach. She watched Nick’s eyes fill with his own panic.

  “Jesus, no,” he said, and they stared at each other, the electricity quickly replaced by the terrifying realization.

  CHAPTER 58

  Christine bit her nails, an old childhood habit absently resurrected as she watched her father pace her living room. At first, when she called Nick’s and her father answered, she was surprised and relieved. But now there was no comfort in watching him stomp back and forth while he barked orders to the deputies who filled her house and yard. She felt even more helpless in his presence. Suddenly, she was that invisible little girl, incapable of doing anything.

  “Why don’t you go lie down, honey. Get some rest,” her father said in one of his passes.

  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.”