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

by J. T. Ellison

  Jesus, where in the world was this coming from? He dug his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, feigning exhaustion, when it was really that image he needed to dig out.

  “You still think it’s Keller?” he asked, but knew the answer.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just hard for me to realize I’m losing my touch.”

  Nick could certainly relate to that.

  “Eddie doesn’t fit your profile?”

  “The man in that cellar wasn’t some hothead who lost his temper and sliced up little boys. This was a mission for him, a well-thought-out and planned mission. Somehow, I really do think he believes he’s saving these boys.” She stared out the window and avoided looking at him.

  He had never asked what had happened in the cellar before he got there. The notes, the game, the references to Albert Stucky—it all seemed so personal. Perhaps he could no longer count on Maggie to be objective.

  “What does Timmy say?” She turned to him finally. “Can he identify Eddie?”

  “He seemed certain last night, but that was after Eddie chased him down the ridge and grabbed him. Eddie claims he spotted Timmy in the woods and went after him to rescue him. This morning Timmy admitted he never saw the man’s face. But, it can’t all be just coincidence, can it?”

  “No, it does sound like you have a case.” She shrugged.

  “But do I have a killer?”

  CHAPTER 96

  He stuffed his few belongings into the old suitcase. His fingers traced over the suitcase’s fabric, a cheap vinyl that cracked easily. He had lost the combination years ago. Now he simply avoided locking it. Even the handle was a mass of black tape, sticky in summer, hard and scratchy in winter. It was the only thing he had of his mother’s.

  He had stolen it out from under his stepfather’s bed the night he ran away from home. Home—that was certainly a misnomer. It had never felt like his home, even less after his mother was gone. Without her, the two-story brick house had become a prison, and he had taken his punishment nightly for almost three weeks before he left.

  Even the night of his escape, he had waited until after his stepfather had finished and then collapsed from exhaustion. He had stolen his mother’s suitcase and packed while blood trickled down the insides of his legs. Unlike his mother, he had refused to grow accustomed to his stepfather’s deep, violent thrusts, the fresh tears and old ones not allowed to heal. That night, he had barely been able to walk, but still he had managed somehow to make it the six miles to Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church where Father Daniel had offered refuge.

  A similar price had been paid for his room and board, but at least Father Daniel had been kind and gentle and small. There had been no more rips and tears, only the humiliation, which he had accepted as part of his punishment. He was, after all, a murderer. That horrible look still haunted his sleep. That look of utter surprise in his mother’s dead eyes as she lay sprawled on the basement floor, her body twisted and broken.

  He slammed the suitcase shut, hoping to slam out the image.

  His second murder had been much easier, a stray tomcat Father Daniel had taken in. Unlike himself, the cat had received room and board with no price to pay. Perhaps that alone had been reason enough to kill it. He remembered its warm blood had splattered his hands and face when he slashed its throat.

  From then on, each murder had become a spiritual revelation, a sacrificial slaughter. It wasn’t until his second year of seminary that he murdered his first boy, an unsuspecting delivery boy with sad eyes and freckles. The boy had reminded him of himself. So, of course, he needed to kill him, to get the boy out of his misery, to save him, to save himself.

  He checked his watch and knew he had plenty of time. He carefully placed the old suitcase by the door, next to the gray and black duffel bag he had packed earlier. Then he glanced at the newspaper folded neatly on his bed, the headline garnering yet another smile: Sheriff’s Deputy Suspected in Boys’ Murders.

  How wonderfully easy it had been. He knew the minute he had found Eddie Gillick’s lighter on the floor of the old blue pickup that the slick and arrogant bully would make the perfect patsy. Almost as perfect as Jeffreys had been.

  All those evenings of excruciating small talk, playing cards with the egomaniac, had finally paid off. He had pretended to be interested in Gillick’s latest sexual conquest, only to offer forgiveness and absolution when the good deputy finally sobered up. He had pretended to be Gillick’s friend when, in fact, the conceited know-it-all turned his stomach. Gillick’s bragging had also revealed a short temper, mostly targeted at “punk kids” and “cock-teasing sluts” who, according to Gillick, “had it coming.” In many ways, Eddie Gillick reminded him of his stepfather, which would make Gillick’s conviction even sweeter.

  And why wouldn’t Gillick be convicted, with his self-destructive behavior and all that damning evidence tucked neatly inside the trunk of the deputy’s very own smashed Chevy? What luck, stumbling across it in the woods like that, making it so easy to stash the fatal evidence. Just like Jeffreys.

  He remembered how Ronald Jeffreys had come to him, confessing to Bobby Wilson’s murder. When Jeffreys asked for forgiveness there hadn’t been a shred of remorse in his voice. Jeffreys deserved what had happened to him. And it had been so simple, too. One anonymous phone call to the sheriff’s department and some incriminating evidence was all it had taken.

  Yes, Ronald Jeffreys had been the perfect patsy just like Daryl Clemmons. The young seminarian had shared his homosexual fears with him, unknowingly setting himself up for the murder of that poor, defenseless paperboy. That poor boy whose body was found near the river that ran along the seminary. Then there was Randy Maiser, an unfortunate transient, who had come to St. Mary’s Catholic Church seeking refuge. The people of Wood River had been quick to convict the ragged stranger when one of their little boys ended up dead.

  Ronald Jeffreys, Daryl Clemmons and Randy Maiser—all of them such perfect patsies. And now, Eddie Gillick could be added to that list.

  He glanced at the newspaper again, and his eyes rested on Timmy’s photo. Disappointment clouded his good mood. Though Timmy’s escape had brought a surprising amount of relief, it was that very escape that required his own sudden exodus. How could he continue his day-to-day routine knowing he had failed the boy? And, eventually, Timmy would recognize his eyes, his walk, his guilt. Guilt because he hadn’t been able to save Timmy Hamilton. Unless…

  He grabbed the newspaper and flipped to the inside story of Timmy’s escape and his mother, Christine’s, accident. He scanned the article using his index finger until he noticed the ragged fingernail, bitten to the quick. He tucked his fingers into a fist, ashamed of their appearance. Then he found the paragraph, almost at the end. Yes, Timmy’s estranged father, Bruce, was back in town.

  He glanced at his watch again. Poor Timmy and all those bruises. Perhaps somehow, some way, Timmy deserved a second chance at salvation. Surely he could make time for something that important.

  CHAPTER 97

  Maggie wanted to tell Nick it was over. That no more little boys would disappear. But even as they went over the case against Eddie Gillick, she couldn’t dislodge that gnawing doubt. Was it possible she was just being stubborn, refusing to believe that she could be so wrong?

  She wished the hospital volunteer would be as punctual as she had been perky. How could anyone carry on a serious conversation in these paper-thin gowns? And would it be so much trouble to provide a robe, a sash, anything to prevent a full view of her unprotected backside?

  She could see Nick’s eyes exercising extreme caution, but all it took was a few unintentional slips to remind her of how naked she was under the loose garment. Worse yet was that damn tingle that spread over her skin every time his eyes were on her. And that stupid fluttering sensation that teased between her thighs. It was like radar. Her entire body reacted beyond her control to its own nakedness and Nick’s presence.

  “Okay, so it does look as though Eddie Gi
llick could be guilty,” she admitted, trying to keep her mind off her reactions to him. She crossed her arms over her chest and found her way back to the window, carefully keeping her back against the wall.

  Today the sky was so blue and large it looked artificial, not even a hint of a cloud. Most of the snow had melted off the sidewalks and lawns. Soon only the piles of black ice chunks along the streets would be left. Trees that hadn’t lost their leaves now shimmered with wet glossy gold, red and orange. It was as if a spell had been broken, a curse lifted, and everything was back to normal. Everything except the slight tug in Maggie’s gut, not from the stitches, but from her own nagging doubt.

  “What was Christine doing with Eddie last night?”

  “I haven’t talked to her about it this morning. Last night she said Eddie was supposed to take her home, but he took a detour. He told her if she had sex with him, he’d tell her where Timmy was.”

  “He said he knew where Timmy was?”

  “That’s what Christine said. Of course, I think she was delusional. She also told me President Nixon carried her to the side of the road.”

  “The mask, of course. He carried Christine out of the car then stuffed his disguise into the trunk.”

  “Then hurried along to chase Timmy through the woods,” Nick added. “This, of course, is after he tried to rape Christine, then attack you in the graveyard cellar. Busy guy.”

  They stared at each other. The obvious left unsaid, settling between them and stirring up the same disappointment and panic that had driven them to this point.

  “Did he try anything with you?” Nick finally asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know… Did he…”

  “No,” she said, cutting him off, rescuing him. “No, he didn’t.”

  Maggie remembered the killer fishing her gun out from inside her coat, accidentally grazing her breast. He had snapped his hand back instead of letting it linger. When he whispered into her ear, he never once touched her skin. He wasn’t interested in sex, not with men and certainly not with women. His mother was a saint, after all. She remembered the images of tortured saints on Father Keller’s bedroom wall. The priesthood and its vow of celibacy would have been an excellent escape, an excellent hiding place.

  “We need to question Keller one last time,” she said.

  “We have absolutely nothing on him, Maggie.”

  “So humor me.”

  “Ms. O’Dell?” A nurse peeked around the door. “You have a visitor.”

  “It’s about time,” Maggie said, expecting the perky, blond volunteer.

  The nurse held open the door and smiled flirtatiously at the handsome, golden-haired man in the black Armani suit. He carried a cheap overnight case, and a matching garment bag was slung over his arm.

  “Hi, Maggie,” he said, walking into the room as if he owned it, throwing a look at Nick before smiling his expensive-lawyer smile at Maggie.

  “Greg? What in the world are you doing here?”

  CHAPTER 98

  Timmy listened for the vending machine to swallow his quarters before he made his selection. He almost chose a Snickers, but his gut remembered, and he punched the Reese’s button, instead.

  He tried not to think about the stranger or the little room. He needed to stay focused on his mom and help her get better. It scared him to see her in that huge, white hospital bed, hooked up to all those machines that gurgled, wheezed and clicked. She seemed to be okay, even seemed happy to see his dad after, of course, she had yelled at him. But this time his dad didn’t yell back. He just kept saying he was sorry. When Timmy left the room, his dad was holding his mom’s hand, and she actually let him. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it?

  Timmy sat in the plastic waiting-room chair. He unwrapped his candy bar and separated out the two pieces. Grandpa Morrelli was supposed to bring him a sandwich from Subway after the two of them had inspected the cafeteria’s meat loaf. The Subway was only across the street, but Timmy hadn’t had breakfast. He popped one whole peanut butter cup into his mouth and let it melt before he started chewing.

  “I thought you were a Snickers guy.”

  Timmy spun around in the chair, startled. He hadn’t even heard footsteps.

  “Hi, Father Keller,” he mumbled over a mouthful.

  “How are you, Timmy?” The priest patted Timmy’s shoulder, his hand lingering on Timmy’s back.

  “I’m okay.” He swallowed the rest of the candy bar, clearing his mouth. “My mom had surgery this morning.”

  “I heard.” Father Keller slid a duffel bag into the seat next to Timmy’s then knelt down in front of him.

  Timmy liked that about Father Keller, how he made him feel special. He was genuinely interested. Timmy could see that in his eyes, those soft, blue eyes, that sometimes looked so sad. Father Keller really did care. Those eyes…Timmy looked again and suddenly a knot twisted in his stomach. Today, there was something different about Father Keller’s eyes. Timmy didn’t know what it was. He squirmed in his seat, and Father Keller looked concerned.

  “You okay, Timmy?”

  “Fine…I’m fine. It’s probably just all the sugar. I didn’t eat breakfast. You going someplace?” Timmy asked, swinging a thumb at the duffel bag.

  “I’m taking Father Francis to his burial place. In fact, that’s why I’m here, to make sure the body is ready.”

  “He’s here?” Timmy didn’t mean to whisper, but that’s how it came out.

  “Down in the morgue. Would you like to come with me?”

  “I don’t know. I’m waiting for my grandpa.”

  “It’ll only take a few minutes, and I think you’ll enjoy seeing it. It looks like something out of The X-Files.”

  “Really?” Timmy remembered watching Special Agent Scully doing autopsies. He wondered if dead people really did look all stiff and gray. “You sure it’s okay if I come along? Won’t the hospital people get mad?”

  “Nah, there’s never anyone down there.”

  Father Keller stood up and grabbed the duffel bag. He waited while Timmy shoved the rest of the Reese’s into his mouth, accidentally dropping the wrapper. When he knelt to pick it up, Timmy noticed Father Keller’s Nikes, crisp and white, as usual. Only today there was…there was a knot in one of the shoestrings. A knot holding it together. The knot in Timmy’s stomach tightened.

  He stood up slowly, a bit dizzy. A sugar rush—that was all it was. He glanced up at Father Keller’s smiling face, the priest’s hand outstretched to him, waiting. One last quick glance at the shoe. Why did Father Keller have a knot in his shoestring?

  CHAPTER 99

  “How did you find out I was in the hospital?” Maggie asked when she and Greg were alone. She spread out the suits she had carefully packed days ago, pleased with their appearance despite two trips halfway across the country.

  “Actually, I didn’t know until I arrived at the sheriff’s department earlier this morning. Some bimbo in a leather skirt told me about it.”

  “She’s not a bimbo.” Maggie couldn’t believe she was defending Lucy Burton.

  “This just reiterates my point, Maggie.”

  “Your point?”

  “That this job is much too dangerous.”

  She dug through the overnight case he’d brought her, keeping her back to him and vowing to ignore the mounting anger. She concentrated on how good it felt to have her own things back. Perhaps it was ridiculous, but fingering her own underwear gave her an odd sense of control and security.

  “Why won’t you just admit it?” Greg insisted.

  “Admit what?”

  “That this job is too dangerous.”

  “For who, Greg? You? Because I don’t have a problem with it. I’ve always known there would be risks.”

  She stayed calm, glanced over her shoulder at him. He was pacing, hands on his hips as if waiting for a verdict. “When I asked you to pick up my bags from the airport, I didn’t mean for you to deliver them.” She tried a smile,
but he looked determined not to let her off so easily.

  “Next year I’ll make partner. We’re on our way, Maggie.”

  “On our way to what?” She pulled out a matching bra and panties.

  “You shouldn’t have to do all this dangerous fieldwork. For God’s sake, Maggie, you’ve got eight stinking years with the Bureau. You finally have the clout to be…I don’t know, a supervisor, an instructor…something, anything else.”

  “I enjoy what I do, Greg.” She started to pull off the hideous gown, hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder. Greg threw his hands in the air and rolled his eyes.

  “What? You want me to leave?” His voice was filled with sarcasm, a hint of anger. “Yes, maybe I should leave so you can invite your cowboy back.”

  “He’s not my cowboy.” Maggie felt the anger color her cheeks.

  “Is that why you haven’t returned my calls? Is there something going on with you and Sheriff Hardbody?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Greg.” She yanked off the gown and struggled into the panties. It hurt to bend, to lift her arms. She was grateful a bandage covered the unsightly stitches.

  “Oh my God, Maggie.”

  She spun around to find him staring at her wounded shoulder, a grimace contorting his handsome features. She couldn’t help wondering whether it was disgust or concern. His eyes examined the rest of her body, finally resting on the scar below her breasts. Suddenly, she felt exposed and embarrassed, neither of which made sense. He was her husband, after all. Yet, she grabbed the gown and pressed it to her breasts.

  “Not all of those are from last night,” he said, the anger more prevalent than the concern. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why didn’t you notice?”

  “So this is my fault?” Again, the hands in the air. It was a gesture she recognized from when he practiced his summations. Perhaps it worked with jurors. To her, it was worthless melodrama, a simple technique to draw attention to himself. How dare he make her scars about him.