EPILOGUE
One week later
Chíuchín, Chile
He couldn’t believe how glorious the sun felt. His bare feet maneuvered the rocky shore. The minor cuts and scrapes were a small price to pay for the feel of the warm waves lapping at his feet. The Pacific Ocean stretched forever, its water rejuvenating, its power overwhelming.
Behind him, the mountains of Chile isolated this paradise, where poor, struggling farmers were as starved for attention as they were for salvation. The tiny parish included fewer than fifty families. It was perfect. Since he’d arrived, he hardly noticed the throbbing in his head. Perhaps it was gone for good this time.
A group of brown-skinned boys, clad only in shorts, chased a ball while they raced toward him. Two of them recognized him from the morning’s mass. They waved and called out to him. He laughed at their mispronunciation of his name. When they gathered around him, he petted their black hair and smiled down at them. The one with the torn, blue shorts had such sad eyes, reminding him of himself.
“My name,” he instructed, “is Father Keller. Not Father Killer.”
* * * * *
ISBN: 978-1-4603-0149-4
A PERFECT EVIL
Copyright © 2000 by S. M. Kava.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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BONE COLD
ERICA SPINDLER
CONTENTS
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
PROLOGUE
June 1978
Southern California
Terror held thirteen-year-old Harlow Anastasia Grail in a death grip. She huddled in the corner of the dimly lit, windowless room, Timmy cowering beside her, weeping.
The matted carpet smelled faintly of urine, as did the mattress she and Timmy had awakened on hours before. Or had it been days? Harlow didn’t know. She had lost all sense of whether it was day or night and of the hours passing. Time had ceased to exist the moment Monica, her father’s trusted nurse, had coaxed her and Timmy into a car Harlow hadn’t recognized.
He had been waiting inside it. The man Monica called Kurt.
Harlow shuddered, remembering the cold way he had smiled at her. She had known instantly that he meant her and Timmy harm; she had screamed and lunged for the door handle. He had stopped her, holding her fast while Monica injected her with something that had turned her world black.
“I want to go home,” Timmy whimpered. “I want my mom.”
Harlow drew the boy closer to her side, protectiveness surging through her. It was her fault he was here. She had to take care of him; he was her responsibility. “It’s going to be all right. I won’t let them hurt you.”
From the adjoining room came the sound of a TV news report in progress:
“—yet in the kidnapping of little Harlow Grail and her friend, Timmy Price. Harlow Grail, daughter of actress Savannah North Grail and Hollywood plastic surgeon Cornelius Grail, was abducted from the stables on the family’s estate. The housekeeper’s six-year-old son had apparently followed Grail to the stables and was also abducted. Authorities do not believe he was part of the original plot and FBI officials—”
A crash rent the air, followed by the sound of splintering wood. “Son-of-a-bitch!”
“Kurt, calm dow—”
“I told them what would happen if they went to the cops! Stupid Hollywood assholes! I told them—”
“Kurt, for God’s sake, don’t—”
The door flew open with such force it crashed against the wall behind it. Kurt stood in the doorway, breathing hard, face white with rage. Monica and the other woman, the one called Sis, hovered behind him. They looked terrified.
“Your parents didn’t listen,” he said softly, voice vibrating with hatred. “Too bad for you.”
“Let us go!” Harlow cried, pulling Timmy closer. The boy clung to her, sobbing, hysterical.
He laughed, the sound cruel. “Spoiled little bitch. If I let you go, how will I get what I want?”
He crossed the room and grabbed Timmy, wrenching him from her.
“Ha’low!” the boy screamed, terrified.
“Leave him alone!” As she scrambled to her feet to help him, Monica and Sis sprang forward, stopping her. Harlow fought them, but they were too strong. Their hands circled her arms, their nails dug into her flesh, holding her fast.
Kurt tossed Timmy onto the dirty cot and held the struggling six-year-old down. “Watch carefully, little princess,” he said to her. “See what your parents caused. They didn’t listen to me. I warned them not to go to the authorities. I told them what the consequences would be. They did this. Stupid Hollywood assholes.”
Laughing, Kurt grabbed a pillow and pressed it over Timmy’s face.
“No!” The word, her scream, flew out of her, reverberating off the walls and back. “No!”
Timmy struggled. He clawed at Kurt’s hands, his legs flailed wildly at first, then with less force. Harlow watched in horror, a litany of pleas slipping from her lips, tears streaming down her face.
Timmy went still. “No!” Harlow screamed. “Timmy!”
Kurt straightened. He turned and faced her, an evil smile twisting his lips. “Your turn, little princess.”
He and Monica dragged her to the kitchen. Harlow told herself to fight, but terror had leeched her of her ability to do more than beg. Monica forced her right hand out over the white porcela
in of the chipped and stained sink.
“Ready or not, here I come.”
Harlow caught the glint of metal. Some sort of cutters or clippers, she realized, a scream rising in her throat.
He found her hand, closed the cutters over her right pinkie. First came the pain, hot, blinding. Then the pop of bone being snapped in two. The white sink turned red.
Harlow’s vision blurred, then faded to black.
* * *
Pain emanated from Harlow’s bandaged hand and up her arm in fiery waves. With each crest, a bitter, steely taste filled her mouth, all but choking her. She bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep from crying aloud. She had to be quiet. Absolutely still. Kurt and the others thought she was asleep, knocked out by the pain medication Monica had given her. The medicine Harlow had only pretended to take.
The wave passed and Harlow experienced a moment’s respite from the agony. Tears flooded her eyes, tears of horror. Of hopelessness. With the emotion came another wave of pain. Light-headed, on the verge of passing out, Harlow struggled to breathe. She couldn’t pass out now. She couldn’t give in to the pain. Or the fear. Not if she wanted to live. Her parents were making the drop tonight. She had heard Kurt talking. He’d told the other two he would let her go when he got the money.
He was a liar. A filthy bastard liar. He’d killed Timmy even though the boy hadn’t caused any trouble. Sweet little Timmy. All he had wanted was to go home.
Dirty bastard was going to kill her, too. No matter what he promised. She might be only thirteen, but she wasn’t stupid—she had seen all three of their faces.
Harlow eased herself off the cot, careful not to cause the springs to squeak, and crept across the matted carpet to the door. She pressed her ear to it. Kurt was speaking, though Harlow couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying. It involved her. And the pickup.
It was happening tonight.
Harlow hurried back to the cot, lay down and closed her eyes. She heard the click of the doorknob being twisted then the soft whoosh of the door opening, of someone crossing to stand beside her.
Once again the door hadn’t been locked. Why would they lock it? They thought she was in a deep, drug-induced sleep.
Her visitor bent over the bed and Harlow realized it was the old woman, Sis. Harlow could tell it was her by the way she smelled—of roses and baby powder, sweet scents that only partially masked the gross smell of cigarettes.
Sis leaned closer. Harlow felt the woman’s breath on her face and fought to lie perfectly still, to not recoil.
“Sweet lamb,” the woman whispered. “It’s almost over now. Once Kurt has the money, everything will be all right.”
He had left to make the pickup. Time was running out.
“I couldn’t stop him before. He was angry…he… Your parents shouldn’t have defied him. It’s their fault. They’re the ones—” Her voice thickened. “I did the best I could. You have to understand, he…”
You didn’t do the best you could. You could have saved Timmy, you old witch. You made such a fuss over him but you didn’t do a thing to save him. I hate you.
“I’ll be back.” The woman pressed a kiss to Harlow’s forehead; it was all Harlow could do to keep from screaming. “Sleep sound, little princess. It’ll be over soon. I promise.”
The woman exited the room, closing the door behind her. Harlow listened intently for the telltale click of the lock turning over.
It didn’t come.
She cracked open her eyes. She was alone. Carefully, heart thundering, terrified of making a sound that would alert the old woman, she sat up. Too quickly. Dizziness assailed her and she grabbed the edge of the cot for support. She held herself perfectly still, breathing deeply through her nose, fighting to clear her head.
The dizziness passed, but still she remained motionless. She collected her thoughts. From what she had been able to ascertain over the past few days, she was being kept in a small, relatively isolated house. She hadn’t heard sounds of traffic or passersby; nobody had rung the doorbell. In the morning she had heard the twittering of birds and twice at night the lonely howl of a coyote.
What if she couldn’t find anyone to help her? What if she got lost? What if the same coyote she heard howling found her and tore her apart?
Act or die, she reminded herself, trembling. Kurt intended to kill her. At least if she ran she would have a chance.
A chance. Her only chance. Harlow climbed out of the bed, swaying slightly as she stood. She pressed on anyway, creeping toward the door. She inched it open. The room beyond appeared to be empty. The TV was on, sound muted. A cigarette burned in the ashtray on the arm of the easy chair, a curl of acrid-smelling smoke wafting toward the ceiling.
She had to go now. She had to run.
Harlow reacted to the thought, darting toward the front door. She reached it, fumbled with the dead-bolt lock, then grabbed the handle and yanked it open. With a small, involuntary cry, she stumbled out into the dark, starless night. And began to run. Blindly. Sobbing. Across scorched earth, through a thicket. She pitched headlong into a ditch, then clawed her way out and back to her feet.
And onto a deserted road. Hope exploded inside her. Someone, there had to be someone…
As the words made their way through her head, a car crested the hill ahead, its headlights slicing through the darkness, pinning her. She stood frozen, trembling, too weak and exhausted to even wave. The lights grew closer; the driver blew his horn.
“Help me,” she whispered, dropping to her knees. “Please, help me.”
The vehicle screeched to a stop. A door opened. Footsteps sounded on the pavement.
“Don’t, Frank,” a woman begged. “What if—”
“For God’s sake, Donna, I can’t just… Oh my God, it’s a kid.”
“A kid?” The woman emerged from the car. Harlow lifted her head and the woman caught her breath. “Dear Lord, look at her red hair. It’s her, the one they’re searching for. Little Harlow Grail.”
The man made a sound of disbelief, then apprehension. He glanced around them as if suddenly realizing he could be in danger.
“I don’t like this,” the woman said, obviously frightened. “Let’s get out of here.”
The man agreed. He scooped Harlow up, his grasp strong but gentle. “It’s all right, it’s going to be all right,” he murmured, starting for his vehicle. “You’re going home. You’re safe now.”
Harlow shuddered and slumped against him, though even as she did, she knew she would never feel safe again.
CHAPTER 1
Wednesday, January 10, 2001
New Orleans, Louisiana
“Timmy! No!”
Anna sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in a cold sweat, Timmy’s name, her screams, reverberating off the walls of her bedroom.
With a squeak of terror, she dragged the blankets to her chin. She looked wildly around her. When she’d drifted off, her bedside light had been on—she always slept with a light on. Yet her bedroom was dark. The shadows in the corners mocked her, deep and black. What did those shadows hold for her? What could they hide? Who?
Kurt. He was coming for her. To finish what he’d begun twenty-three years ago. To punish her for escaping. For spoiling his plans.
“Ready or not, here I come.”
With a cry, Anna scrambled out of bed. She ran from the bedroom to the bathroom, located down the hallway. She raced to the commode, flipped up the seat, bent and threw up. She heaved until she was empty, until she had nothing left to expel but memories.
She yanked off a length of toilet tissue, wiped her mouth, then dropped the tissue into the commode and flushed. Her right hand hurt. It burned, as if Kurt had just done it. Severed her pinkie finger to send to her parents as a warning.
But he hadn’t just done it, she reminded herself. It had happened a lifetime ago. She’d been a child, still Harlow Anastasia Grail, little Hollywood princess.
A lifetime ago. A whole other identity ago.
Turning, Anna crossed to the sink and turned on the faucet. Bending, she splashed the icy-cold water on her face, struggling to shake off the nightmare.
She was safe. In her own apartment. Except for her parents, she’d cut all ties to her past. None of her friends or business associates knew who she was. Not even her publisher or literary agent. She was Anna North now. She had been Anna North for twelve years.
Even if Kurt came looking for her, he wouldn’t be able to find her.
Anna muttered an oath and flipped off the water. She snatched the hand towel from the ring and dried her face. Kurt wasn’t going to come looking for her. Twenty-three years had passed, for heaven’s sake. The FBI had been certain the man she’d known as Kurt posed no further threat to her. They believed he had slipped over the border into Mexico. The discovery of Monica’s body in the border town of Baja, California, six days after Harlow’s escape had supported that belief.
Disgusted with herself, she tossed the hand towel onto the counter. When was she going to get over this? How many years had to pass before she could sleep without a light on? Before nightmares no longer awakened her, night after night?
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