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

by J. T. Ellison

  They watched Howard stop to examine the flight-schedule board, then head for the escalators.

  “I don’t know, Maggie. That duffel bag sure looks heavy.”

  “Yes, it does,” she said, and hurried toward the escalators with Nick alongside.

  Howard hesitated at the down escalator, waiting to get his footing right before stepping on.

  “Mr. Howard,” Maggie called out.

  Howard looked over his shoulder, grabbed the railing and did a double take. This time a flash of panic appeared in his lizard eyes. He jumped onto the escalator and ran down the moving steps, clearing a path with the duffel bag, striking and pushing people out of the way.

  “I’ll take the stairs.” Nick raced for the emergency exit.

  Maggie followed Howard, ripping her revolver from its holster and holding it nose up.

  “FBI!” she yelled, clearing her own path.

  Howard’s speed surprised her. He weaved through the crowd, zigzagging around luggage gurneys and leaping over an abandoned pet carrier. He shoved travelers aside, knocking down a small, blue-haired lady and smashing through a group of Japanese tourists. He kept looking back at Maggie, his mouth open to breathe, his forehead glistening with sweat.

  She was closing in on him, though her own breathing disappointed her. The ragged gasps sounded as if they were coming from a ventilator, surely not her own chest. She ignored the flame in her side, burning her flesh once again.

  Howard stopped suddenly, grabbed a luggage cart from a stunned flight attendant and shoved it at Maggie. The suitcases snapped free. One burst open, spewing cosmetics, shoes, clothes and assorted unmentionables across the floor. Maggie skidded on a pair of lace panties, lost her balance and fell into the mess, smashing a bottle of liquid makeup with her knee.

  Howard headed for the parking garage, smiling over his shoulder. He was almost to the door, hugging the duffel bag, his gait finally staggered by the limp. He pushed open the door just as Nick grabbed his jacket collar and swung him around. Howard fell to his knees and covered his head with his arms as if expecting a blow. Nick’s hands, however, never left Howard’s collar.

  Maggie struggled to her feet while the flight attendant scrambled for her belongings. Nick’s eyes were filled with concern for Maggie, even as his hands clutched Howard’s collar, rendering him immobile.

  “I’m fine,” Maggie said before he asked. But when she replaced her revolver, she felt the sticky wetness through her blouse. Her fingertips were smeared with blood when she brought her hand out from inside her jacket.

  “Jesus, Maggie.” Nick noticed immediately. Howard did, too, and he smiled. “What are you doing here, Ray?” Nick responded, tightening his grip and turning Howard’s smile into a grimace.

  “I brought Father Keller. He had a flight to catch. Why were you chasing me? I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  “Then why did you run?”

  “Eddie told me to watch out for you two.”

  “Eddie did?”

  “What’s in the duffel bag?” Maggie interrupted the two of them.

  “I don’t know. Father Keller said he wouldn’t be needing it anymore. He asked me to take it back for him.”

  “You mind if we take a peek?” She pried it out of his hands. His resisting arrest justified a search. The bag was heavy. She swung it up onto a nearby chair, stopped, then leaned against a pay phone until the faintness passed.

  “You sure it’s not your bag?” she said, grabbing the familiar brown cardigan and several well-pressed white shirts. Howard’s face registered surprise.

  A stack of art books accounted for the bag’s weight. Maggie put them aside, more interested in the small, carved box tucked between several pairs of boxer shorts. The carved words on the lid were Latin, but she had no idea what they said. The contents didn’t surprise her: a white linen cloth, a small crucifix, two candles and a small container of oil. She glanced up at Nick and watched his eyes examine the contents, his confusion replaced with frustration. Then Maggie reached underneath the pile of newspaper clippings to the bottom of the box. She pulled out a small pair of boy’s underpants tightly wrapped around a shiny fillet knife.

  CHAPTER 103

  Sunday, November 2

  Maggie punched another code into the computer and waited. Her laptop’s modem was excruciatingly slow. She took another bite of her blueberry muffin, homemade, special delivery from—where else?—Wanda’s. The computer screen still read “initializing modem.” She sat down and looked around the hotel room, her foot tapping nervously, impatiently, but not making the computer work any faster.

  Her bags were packed. She had showered and dressed hours ago, but her flight didn’t leave until noon. She rubbed her stiff neck and still couldn’t believe she had slept the entire night in the straight-backed chair. Even more surprised that she had slept through the night without visions of Albert Stucky dancing in her head.

  Bored, she grabbed the huge Sunday edition of the Omaha Journal. The headlines only added to her frustration. However, she was glad to see Christine’s byline back on the front page. Even from her hospital bed, Christine continued to crank out articles. At least she and Timmy were safe and sound.

  Maggie scanned the article once again. Christine’s writing now stuck to the facts, letting quotes from the experts draw the sensational conclusions. She found her own quote and read it for the third time.

  Special Agent Maggie O’Dell, an FBI profiler assigned to the case, said it was “unlikely Gillick and Howard were partners. Serial killers,” Agent O’Dell insisted, “are loners.” However, the district attorney’s office has filed murder charges against both former sheriff’s deputy Eddie Gillick, and a church janitor, Raymond Howard, for the deaths of Aaron Harper, Eric Paltrow, Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner. A separate charge has been entered for the kidnapping of Timmy Hamilton.

  There was a tap at the door. Maggie tossed the paper aside and checked the computer screen again. “Redialing first number” flashed across the screen along with the low hum and a succession of beeps. It was Sunday morning. Why was it taking so long to make the connection?

  On the way to the door, she checked her watch. He was early. They didn’t need to leave for the airport for another thirty to forty minutes.

  As soon as she opened the door, the uninvited flutter arrived. Nick stood smiling at her, the dimples in full force. Strands of hair fell across his forehead. His blue eyes sparkled at her as if there was a special secret his eyes shared with hers. He wore a red T-shirt and blue jeans, both tight enough to outline his athletic body, teasing her eyes and making her fingers ache to touch him. Why did he have this effect on her? she wondered as they exchanged hellos, and he came into the room. She caught herself checking out his backside, shook her head and silently chastised herself.

  “It must be warm out,” she heard herself say. Yes, resort to the weather. That seemed safe, considering the electrical current he had just brought into the room.

  “It’s hard to believe we had snow a few days ago. Nebraska weather.” He shrugged. “Here, this is for you.” He handed her a gift-wrapped box that had escaped her notice. “Sort of a thank-you, slash, good-bye present.”

  Her first inclination was to decline, to say it was inappropriate and leave it at that. But she took it and slowly unwrapped it, acutely aware of him watching her. She pulled out the red football jersey with a white number seventeen emblazoned on the back. She couldn’t help but smile.

  “It’s perfect.”

  “I don’t expect it to replace the Packers,” he said with just a trace of embarrassment in his voice. “But I thought you should have a Nebraska Cornhuskers, too.”

  “Thanks. I love it.”

  “Seventeen was my number,” he added.

  Suddenly, the simple cotton jersey took on a greater significance. Her eyes met his, and without meaning it to, her smile disappeared as she combated the annoying flutter. However, he was the first to look away, and she saw a flicker of discomfo
rt. It was times like this that he surprised her most, when the arrogant, self-assured bachelor showed just a hint of the irresistible, shy, sensitive man.

  “Oh, and this is from Timmy.”

  She took the videotape, and as soon as she saw the cover, her smile returned. “The X-Files.”

  “He said that it has one of his favorite episodes—the one with the killer cockroaches, of course.”

  With no more gifts to keep his hands preoccupied, he shoved them into his pockets.

  “I’ll be sure to watch and…and I’ll let Timmy know what I think,” she said, surprised but pleased by the unfamiliar commitment to stay in touch.

  They stood there staring at each other. Maggie didn’t want to move, couldn’t move. They had spent the last week together, almost around the clock, sharing pizza and brandy, exchanging opinions and views, wrestling madmen and holy men, dousing fears and expectations and grieving for small boys, neither of whom they knew. She had allowed Nick Morrelli access to vulnerabilities she had shared with no one else, not even herself. Perhaps that was why she suddenly felt as if a major chunk of herself would be left behind. And, of all places, in a small Nebraska town she had never even heard of before. What had happened to the cool, aloof FBI agent who maintained her professionalism at whatever the cost?

  “Maggie, I—”

  “I’m sorry,” she interrupted, not prepared for what might be a revelation of feelings. “I almost forgot. I’m trying to access some information.” She escaped to the table in the corner. The computer connection had finally been made, and she punched several more keys, immediately annoyed by the unwarranted tremble in her fingers and the shortness of breath.

  “You’re still looking for him,” he said without surprise or irritation, coming up behind her, too close to allow her normal breathing to resume.

  “From Caracas, Father Francis’ body was shipped by truck to a small community about a hundred miles to the south. Keller’s airline ticket has him returning today. I’m trying to find out if he boarded the flight back to Miami or if he headed somewhere else.”

  “It amazes me the information you can access.”

  She felt him lean forward to examine the screen.

  “At the airport,” he continued, “I remember thinking how nice it would be to have FBI credentials instead of my measly sheriff’s badge. I was way out of my jurisdiction.”

  “I certainly hope you aren’t still worried about looking incompetent?”

  “No. Actually, no, I’m not,” he said, sounding like he definitely meant it.

  Finally, the passenger list for TWA flight 1692 materialized on the screen. Maggie easily found Reverend Michael Keller’s name, and it was on the list even after departure.

  “Just because he’s on the list doesn’t mean he was on the plane.”

  “I know that.” She scooted out from between the computer and Nick before turning to face him.

  “So what happens if he doesn’t come back?”

  “I’ll find him,” she said simply. “What is that saying? He can run, but he can’t hide.”

  “Even if you find him, we don’t have a shred of evidence to implicate him.”

  “Do you honestly believe Eddie Gillick or Ray Howard killed those boys?”

  He hesitated, glanced back at the computer, then around the room, stopping at her suitcases before returning to her.

  “I’m not sure what part, if any, Eddie may have played in the murders. But you know I suspected Howard from the beginning. Come on, Maggie. We found him at the airport with what could be the murder weapon.”

  She frowned at him and shook her head. “He doesn’t fit the profile.”

  “Maybe not, but you know what? I don’t want to spend my last hour with you talking about Eddie Gillick or Ray Howard or Father Keller or anything to do with this case.”

  He approached slowly, cautiously. She nervously pushed her hair away from her face. Tucked a stubborn strand behind her ear. The look in his eyes made the tremble invade her fingers again, and the flutter raced from her stomach to between her thighs.

  He touched her face gently, holding her eyes with an intensity that made her feel as though she was the only woman in the world—at least, for the moment. She could easily have stopped the kiss, had meant to when he first leaned down. But when his lips brushed hers, all her energy focused on keeping her knees from buckling. When she didn’t protest, his mouth caught hers in a wet, soft kiss filled with so much urgency and emotion that she felt certain the room was spinning. Even after his mouth left hers, she kept her eyes closed, trying to steady her breathing, trying to stop the spinning.

  “I love you, Maggie O’Dell.”

  Her eyes flew open. His face was still close to hers, his eyes serious. She saw a bit of boyish apprehension and knew how hard those words had been to say. She pulled away, only now realizing that, other than his fingers on her face and his mouth on hers, he hadn’t touched her anywhere else. Which made her retreat disappointingly easy.

  “Nick, we barely know each other.” It was still hard to breathe. How could one simple kiss take her breath so completely away?

  “I’ve never felt this way before, Maggie. And it’s not just because you’re unavailable. It’s something I can’t even explain.”

  “Nick…”

  “Please, just let me finish.”

  She waited, braced herself and leaned against the dresser. The same dresser she had clung to the night they had come so dangerously close to making love.

  “I know it’s only been a week, but I can assure you, I’m not impulsive when it comes to…well, sex, yes, but not this…not love. I’ve never felt this way before. And I’ve certainly never told a woman I loved her before.”

  It sounded like a line, but she knew from his eyes that it was true. She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a hand to stop her.

  “I don’t expect anything I say to compromise your marriage. But I didn’t want you to leave without knowing, just in case it did make a difference. And I guess even if it doesn’t, I still want you to know that I…that I am madly, deeply, hopelessly, head over heels in love with you, Maggie O’Dell.”

  It was his turn to wait. She couldn’t speak. Her fingers clawed at the dresser top, keeping her from going to him and wrapping her arms around him.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” His eyes told her he meant it.

  “I obviously have feelings for you.” She struggled with the words. She hated the thought of never seeing him again. But what did she know about being in love? Hadn’t she been in love with Greg, once upon a time? Hadn’t she vowed to love him forever?

  “Things are really complicated right now,” she heard herself say and wanted to kick herself. He had opened his heart to her, taken such a risk, and here she was being practical and rational.

  “I know,” he said. “But maybe they won’t always be complicated.”

  “It does make a difference, Nick,” she said, making a feeble attempt at correcting her ambiguity.

  He seemed relieved by that simple revelation, as though it was more than he had ever hoped for.

  “You know,” he said, sounding more comfortable while her heart screamed at her to tell him how she felt. “You’ve helped me see a lot of things about myself, about life. I’ve been following in these huge, deep footsteps my father keeps leaving behind and…and I don’t want to do that anymore.”

  “You’re a good sheriff, Nick.” She ignored the tug at her heart. Maybe it was better this way.

  “Thanks, but it’s not what I want,” he continued. “I admire how much your job means to you. Your dedication—your stubborn dedication, I might add. I never realized before how much I want something like that, something to believe in.”

  “So what does Nick Morrelli want to be when he grows up?” she asked, smiling at him when she really wanted to touch him.

  “When I was in law school I worked at the Suffolk County district
attorney’s office in Boston. They always said I was welcome to come back. It’s been a long time, but I think I might give them a call.”

  Boston. So close, she couldn’t help thinking.

  “That sounds great,” she said, already calculating the miles between Quantico and Boston.

  “I’m going to miss you,” he said simply.

  His words caught her off guard, just when she thought she was safe. He must have seen the panic in her eyes, because he quickly checked his watch.

  “I should get you to the airport.”

  “Right.” Their eyes met again. One last tug, one last chance to tell him. Or would there be plenty of chances?

  She brushed past him and closed down the computer, unplugging cords, snapping the lid shut and shoving the computer into its case. He grabbed her suitcase. She grabbed her garment bag. They were at the door when the phone rang. At first, she thought about ignoring it and leaving. Suddenly, she hurried back and grabbed the receiver.

  “Maggie O’Dell.”

  “O’Dell, I’m glad I caught you.”

  It was Director Cunningham. She hadn’t talked to him in days. “I was just on my way out.”

  “Good. Get back here as quickly as possible. I’m having Delaney and Turner meet you at the airport.”

  “What’s going on?” She glanced at Nick, who came back into the room, his face filled with concern. “You make it sound like I need bodyguards,” she joked, then tensed when his silence lasted too long.

  “I wanted you to know before you hear it on the news.”

  “Hear what?”

  “Albert Stucky has escaped. They were transferring him from Miami to a maximum-security facility in North Florida. Stucky ended up biting the ear off one guard and stabbing the other with—get this—a wooden crucifix. Then he blew both their heads off with their own service revolvers. Seems the day before, a Catholic priest visited Stucky in his cell. He had to be the one who left the crucifix. I don’t want you to worry, Maggie. We got the bastard before, we’ll get him again.”

  But the only thing Maggie heard was, “Albert Stucky has escaped.”