About the Author

ALEX KAVA dedicated herself to writing in 1996, having had a successful career in PR and advertising. Praised by critics and fans alike, Alex Kava’s Maggie O’Dell novels, A Perfect Evil, Split Second, The Soul Catcher and A Necessary Evil, have all been New York Times bestsellers as well as appearing on bestseller lists around the world.

Also by Alex Kava

A NECESSARY EVIL

AT THE STROKE OF MADNESS

THE SOUL CATCHER

SPLIT SECOND

A Perfect Evil

Alex Kava

www.mirabooks.co.uk

In loving memory of

Robert (Bob) Shoemaker

(1922-1998)

whose perfect good continues to inspire.

Author’s Note

This is a work of fiction;

however, I’d like to extend my heartfelt

sympathy to any parent who has ever lost a

child to a senseless act of violence.

I owe my deepest gratitude and appreciation

to all those whose support and expertise made

this fantastic journey possible.

Special thanks to:

Philip Spitzer, my agent, who enthusiastically offered to represent this book, then made it his personal mission to see it published. Philip, you are my hero.

Patricia Sierra, fellow author, for generously sharing her wisdom, her wit and her friendship.

Amy Moore-Benson, my editor, for her tenacity, her keen insights and her ability to make the editing process painless and rewarding.

Dianne Moggy and all the professionals at MIRA® Books for their efforts and resolve to make this book a success.

Ellen Jacobs for always saying the right thing at just the right time.

Sharon Car, my writing cohort, for all those lunches spent commiserating with and encouraging me.

LaDonna Tworek, who helped me keep my perspective and encouraged me early on to hang in there.

Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, who listened over all those free, delicious dinners they fed me.

Bob Kava for patiently answering all my questions about firearms.

Mac Payne, who gave me something to prove.

My parents, Edward and Patricia Kava, especially my mum for lighting all those candles of hope.

Writing, for the most part, is a solitary act, but certainly wouldn’t be possible for me without the loving support of my family and friends. Thanks also must go to Patti El-Kachouti, Marlene Haney, Nicole Keller, Kenny and Connie Kava, Natalie Cummings, Sandy Rockwood and Margaret Shoemaker.

Finally, thanks to Bob Shoemaker. This would’t have been the type of book Bob would even have read, but that would not have stopped him from being proud of me and telling everyone he met about it.

PROLOGUE

Nebraska State Penitentiary Lincoln, Nebraska Wednesday, July 17

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” Ronald Jeffreys’ raspy monotone made the phrase a challenge rather than a confession.

Father Stephen Francis stared at Jeffreys’ hands, mesmerized by the large knuckles and stubby fingers, nails bitten to the quick. The fingers twisted—no, strangled—the corner of his blue government-issue shirt. The old priest imagined those same fingers &twisting and choking the life out of little Bobby Wilson.

“Is that how we start?”

Jeffreys’ voice startled the priest. “That’s fine,” he answered quickly.

His sweaty palms stuck to the leather Bible. His collar was suddenly too tight. The prison’s deathwatch chamber didn’t have enough air for both men. The gray concrete walls boxed them in with only one tiny window, black with night. The pungent smell of green pepper and onion nauseated the old priest. He glanced at the remnants of Jeffreys’ last supper, scattered bits of pizza crust and puddles of sticky soda. A fly buzzed over crumbs that were once cheesecake.

“What’s next?” Jeffreys asked, waiting for instructions.

Father Francis couldn’t think, not with Jeffreys’ unflinching stare. Not with the noise of the crowd outside the prison, down below in the parking lot. The chants grew louder with the approach of midnight and the full effect of alcohol. It was a raucous celebration, a morbid excuse for an outdoor frat party. “Fry, Jeffreys, fry,” over and over again, like a childhood rhyme or a pep-rally song, melodic and contagious, sick and frightening.

Jeffreys, however, appeared immune to the sound. “I’m not sure I remember how this works. What’s next?”

Yes, what came next? Father Francis’ mind was completely blank. Fifty years of hearing confessions, and his mind was blank. “Your sins,” he blurted out over the tightness in his throat. “Tell me your sins.”

Now, Jeffreys hesitated. He unraveled the hem of his shirt, wrapping the thread around his index finger, pulling it so tight that the tip bulged red. The priest stole a long glance at the man slumped in the straight-backed chair. This wasn’t the same man from the grainy newspaper photos or the quick television shots. With his head and beard shaved, Jeffreys looked exposed, almost impish and younger than his twenty-six years. He had gained bulk in his six years on death row, but he still possessed a boyishness. Suddenly, it struck Father Francis as sad that this boyish face would never wear wrinkles or laugh lines. Until Jeffreys looked up at him. Cold blue eyes held his. Ice-blue like glass—sharp glass—vacant and transparent. Yes, this was what evil looked like. The priest blinked and turned his head.

“Tell me your sins,” Father Francis repeated, this time disappointed in the tremor in his voice. He couldn’t breathe. Had Jeffreys sucked all the air out of the room on purpose? He cleared his throat, then said, “Those sins for which you are truly sorry.”

Jeffreys stared at him. Then without warning, he barked out a laugh. Father Francis jumped, and Jeffreys laughed even louder. The priest gripped his Bible with unsteady fingers while watching Jeffreys’ hands. Why had he insisted the guard remove the handcuffs? Even God couldn’t rescue the stupid. Drops of perspiration slid down the priest’s back. He thought about fleeing, escaping before Jeffreys realized one last murder would cost him nothing more. Then he remembered the door was locked from the outside.

The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Silence.

“You’re just like the rest of them.” The low guttural accusation came from somewhere deep and dead. Yet, Jeffreys smiled, revealing small, sharp teeth, the incisors longer than the rest. “You’re waiting for me to confess to something I didn’t do.” His hands ripped the bottom of his shirt, thin strips, a slow grating sound.

“I don’t understand what you mean.” Father Francis reached to loosen his collar, dismayed to find the tremor now in his hands. “I was under the impression you had asked for a priest. That you wanted to offer up your confession.”

“Yes … yes, I do.” The monotone was back. Jeffreys hesitated but only for a moment. “I killed Bobby Wilson,” he said as calmly as if ordering takeout. “I put my hands … my fingers around his throat. At first, he made a sputtering noise, a sort of gagging, and then there was no noise.” His voice was hushed and restrained, almost clinical—a well-rehearsed speech.

“He kicked just a little. A jerk, really. I think he knew he was going to die. He didn’t fight much. He didn’t even fight when I was fucking him.” He stopped, checking Father Francis’ face, looking for shock and smiling when he found it.

“I waited until he was dead before I cut him. He didn’t feel a thing. So I cut him again and again and again. Then, I fucked him one last time.” He cocked his head to the side, suddenly distracted. Had he finally noticed the celebration outside?

Father Francis waited. Could it be the massive pounding of his heart that Jeffreys heard? Like something out of Poe, it banged against the old priest’s chest, betraying him just like his hands.

“I’ve already confessed once before,” Jeffreys continued. “Right after it happened, but the priest … Let’s just say he was a little surprised. Now I’m confessing to God, you understand? I’m confessing that I killed Bobby Wilson.” The ripping continued, now in quick, jerky motions. “But I didn’t kill those other two boys. Do you hear me?” His voice rose above the monotone. “I didn’t kill the Harper or the Paltrow kid.”

Silence, then Jeffreys’ lips slowly twisted into a smirk. “But then, God already knows that. Right, Father?”

“God does know the truth,” Father Francis said, trying to stare into the cold blue eyes but flinching and quickly looking away again. What if his own guilt should somehow reveal itself?

“They want to execute me because they think I’m some serial killer who murders little boys,” Jeffreys spat through clenched teeth. “I killed Bobby Wilson, and I enjoyed it. Maybe I even deserve to die for that. But God knows I didn’t kill those other boys. Somewhere out there, Father, there’s still a monster.” Another twisted smile. “And he’s even more hideous than me.”

Metal clanked against metal down the hall. Father Francis jerked, sending the Bible crashing to the floor. This time Jeffreys didn’t laugh. The old priest held Jeffreys’ stare, but neither man made an attempt to pick up the holy book. Were they coming to take Jeffreys away? It seemed too soon, although no one expected a stay of execution.

“Are you sorry for your sins?” Father Francis whispered as if back at the confessional window in St. Margaret’s.

Yes, there were footsteps coming down the hall, coming toward them. It was time. Jeffreys sat paralyzed, listening to the click-clack of heels marching, getting closer and closer.

“Are you sorry for your sins?” Father Francis repeated, this time more insistent, almost a command. Oh, dear God, it was hard to breathe. The chants from the parking lot grew louder and louder, squeezing through the tightly sealed window.

Jeffreys stood up. Again, his eyes held Father Francis ‘. The locks grunted open, echoing against the concrete walls. Jeffreys flinched at the sound, caught himself, then stood straight with shoulders back. Was he frightened? Father Francis searched Jeffreys’ eyes, but couldn’t see beyond the steel blue.

“Are you sorry for your sins?” He tried once more, unable to offer absolution without an answer.

The door opened, sucking the remaining air from the room. Square-shouldered guards clogged the doorway.

“It’s time,” one of the men said.

“It’s show time, Father.” Jeffreys’ lips curled over gritted teeth. The blue eyes were sharp and clear, but vacant. Jeffreys turned to the three uniformed men and offered his wrists.

Father Francis winced as the shackles snapped. Then he listened to the boot heels clicking, accompanied by the pathetic shuffle-clank, shuffle-clank all the way down the long hall.

A stale breeze seeped in through the open door. It cooled his wet, clammy skin and sent a shiver down his back. He gulped greedily at the air, limited to short, asthmatic gasps. Finally, the thunder in his chest eased, leaving behind a tight-fisted ache.

“God help Ronald Jeffreys,” Father Francis whispered to no one.

At least Jeffreys had told the truth. He had not killed all three boys. And Father Francis knew this, not because Jeffreys had said so. He knew, because three days ago the faceless monster who had murdered Aaron Harper and Eric Paltrow had confessed to him through the black, wire-mesh confessional at St. Margaret’s. And because of his holy vows, he wasn’t able to tell a single soul.

Not even Ronald Jeffreys.

CHAPTER 1

Five miles outside Platte City, Nebraska Friday, October 24

Nick Morrelli wished the woman beneath him wore less makeup. He knew it was ridiculous. He listened to her soft moans—purrs really. Like a cat, she slithered against him, rubbing her silky thighs up and down the sides of his torso. She was more than ready for him. And yet, all he could think about was the blue powder smeared on her eyelids. Even with the lights out, it remained etched in his mind like fluorescent, glow-in-the-dark paint.

“Oh, baby, your body is so hard,” she purred in his ear as she ran her long fingernails up his arms and over his back.

He slid off her before she discovered that not all of his body was hard. What was wrong with him? He needed to concentrate. He licked her earlobe and nuzzled her neck, then moved down to where he really wanted to be. Instinctively, his mouth found one of her breasts. He ravished it with soft, wet kisses. She moaned even before his tongue flicked at her nipple. He loved those sounds a woman made—the short little gasp, then the low moan. He waited for them, then wrapped his tongue around her nipple and sucked it into his mouth. Her back arched, and she quivered. He leaned into her, absorbing the shiver, her soft, smooth flesh trembling against him. Normally, that reaction alone would immediately give him an erection. Tonight, nothing.

Jesus, was he losing his touch? No, he was too young to be having this problem. After all, he was four years away from forty.

When in the world had he started keeping track of his age by its distance from forty?

“Oooh, lover, don’t stop!”

He didn’t even realize he had stopped. She groaned impatiently and began moving her hips up and down, slowly, with a sensuous rhythm. Yes, she was definitely ready for him. And he was definitely not ready. Just once he wished women would use his name instead of baby, lover, stud muffin, whatever. Did women worry about yelling out the wrong name, too?

Her fingers twisted into his short, thick hair. She yanked hard, the streak of pain surprising him. Then she pulled his face back to her breasts. In the dim light, he noticed that the triangle of tanned skin was crooked. The point overlapped onto the underside of her breast. What was wrong with him? A beautiful blonde wanted him. Why didn’t her breathless anticipation arouse him? He needed to focus. It all felt too mechanical, too routine. Nevertheless, he would compensate again using his fingers and tongue. After all, he had a reputation to maintain.

He began the descent down her body, devouring her with kisses and nibbles. Her body squirmed beneath his touch. She was writhing and gasping for breath even before his teeth tugged at her lace panties. He kissed his way to the inside of her thighs. Suddenly, a sound stopped him. He strained to hear from under the bedcovers.

“No, please don’t stop,” she groaned, pulling him back into her.

There it was again. Pounding. Someone was at the front door.

“I’ll be right back.” Nick gently pushed her hands away and stumbled out of bed, disentangling himself from the sheets and almost tripping. He pulled on jeans as he checked the clock on the nightstand—10:36.

Even in the dark, he knew every creak in the staircase by heart. Out of habit, he found himself tiptoeing, though his parents hadn’t slept in the old farmhouse for over five years.

The knock was louder and more insistent now.

“Hold on a minute,” he called out impatiently, yet relieved by the interruption.

When he opened the door, Nick recognized Hank Ashford’s son, though he couldn’t recall his name. The boy was sixteen or seventeen, a linebacker on the football team and built like he could move two or three players at a time off the line of scrimmage. Yet, tonight, as he stood on Nick’s front porch, the kid slouched with his hands stashed in his pockets, eyes wild and face pale. He shivered despite the sweaty forehead.

“Sheriff Morrelli, you have to come … on Old Church Road … please, you have to …”

“Is someone hurt?” The crisp night air stung Nick’s bare skin. It felt good.

“No, it’s not … he’s not hurt … Oh, God, Sheriff, it’s awful.” The boy looked back toward his car. It was only then that Nick saw the girl in the front seat. Even looking into the headlights, he could see she was crying.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, sending the boy into a speechless, arm-crossing dance, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

What stupid game had they been playing this time? Last week, the night before homecoming, a group of boys had played chicken with a couple of Jake Turner’s tractors. The loser had tipped over into a rain-filled ditch, pinning himself under the water. The boy was lucky he had escaped with only broken ribs and the flimsy punishment of sitting out two football games.

“What the hell happened this time?” Nick found himself yelling at the shivering linebacker.

“We found … down off Old Church Road … in the tall grass. Oh God, we found … we found a body.”

“A body?” Nick wasn’t sure he believed him. “You mean a dead body?” Was the boy drunk? Was he stoned?

The boy nodded, tears filling his eyes. He scraped the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his face and looked from Nick to his girlfriend, then back to Nick.

“Hang on a minute.”

Nick stepped back inside, letting the screen door slam behind him. They had probably imagined it. Or maybe it was an early Halloween prank. They’d been out partying. Both of them were probably stoned. He pulled on his boots, bypassing socks, then grabbed his shirt from the sofa, where it had been taken off him earlier in the evening. He was annoyed to find his fingers shaking as he buttoned the front.

“Nick, what is it?”

The voice from the top of the stairs startled him. He had forgotten about Angie. Roused from bed, her long, blond hair was ruffled and floated around her shoulders. The blue eye makeup was hardly noticeable from this distance. She wore one of his T-shirts. It was transparent in the hallway’s soft light. Now, looking up at her, he couldn’t imagine why he had been relieved to leave her.

“I’ve got to check something out.”

“Is someone hurt?”

She sounded more curious than concerned. Was she only looking for a bit of gossip? Something to share with the morning coffee drinkers at Wanda’s Diner?

“I don’t know.”

“Did someone find the Alverez boy?”

Jesus, he hadn’t even thought of that. The boy had been missing since Sunday, gone, taken before he began his newspaper route.

“No, I don’t think so,” Nick told her. Even the FBI was certain the boy had more than likely been taken by his father, who they were still trying to locate. It was a simple custody battle. And this was simply teenage kids playing tricks on each other.

“I might be a while, but you’re welcome to stay.”

He grabbed the keys to his Jeep and found Ashford sitting on the front steps, his face buried in his hands.

“Let’s go.” Nick gently yanked a handful of sweatshirt and pulled the boy to his feet. “Why don’t the two of you get in with me.”

Nick wished he had taken time to put on underwear. Now, in the cramped Jeep, the stiff denim scraped against him every time he put the clutch in and shifted. To make matters worse, Old Church Road was filled with ruts from the rains of the week before. The gravel popped against the Jeep as he weaved from side to side, avoiding the deep gashes in the road.

“What exactly were you two doing out on this washboard?” As soon as he said it, he realized the obvious. He didn’t need to be seventeen to remember all the benefits of an old deserted gravel road. “Never mind,” he added before either of them had time to answer. “Just tell me where I’m going.”

“It’s about another mile, just past the bridge. There’s a pasture road that runs along the river.”

“Sure, okay.”

He noticed Ashford wasn’t stuttering anymore. Perhaps he was sobering up. The girl, however, who sat between Nick and the boy, hadn’t said a word.

Nick slowed down as the Jeep bumped across the wood-slatted bridge. He found the pasture road even before Ashford pointed it out. They bounced and slid over the dirt road that consisted of rutted tire tracks filled with muddy water.

“All the way down to the trees?” Nick glanced at Ashford, who only nodded and stared straight ahead. As they approached the shelter belt, the girl hid her face in the boy’s sweatshirt.

Nick stopped, killed the engine, but left on the headlights. He reached across the two of them and pulled a flashlight from the glove compartment.

“That door sticks,” he said to Ashford. He watched the two exchange a glance. Neither made any attempt to leave the Jeep.

“You never said we’d have to look at it again,” the girl whispered to Ashford as she clung to his arm.

Nick slammed the car door. Its echo sliced through the silence. There was nothing around for miles. No traffic, no farm lights. Even the night animals seemed to be asleep. He stood outside the Jeep, waiting. The boy’s eyes met his, but still he made no motion to leave the Jeep. Instead of insisting, Nick pointed the flashlight toward an area down by the riverbank. The stream of light shot through thick grass, catching just a glimpse of rolling water. Ashford’s eyes followed. He hesitated, looked back at Nick and nodded.

The tall grass swished around Nick’s knees, camouflaging the mud that sucked at his boots. Jesus, it was dark out. Even the orange moon hid behind a gauze of clouds. Leaves rustled behind him. He spun around and shot a stream of light from tree to tree. Was there movement? There, in the brush? He could have sworn a shadow ducked from the light. Or was it just his imagination?

Nick strained to see beyond the thick branches. He held his breath and listened. Nothing. Probably just the wind. He listened again and realized there was no wind. A shiver caught him off guard, and he wished he had brought a jacket. This was crazy. He refused to be suckered by some high-school prank. The sooner he checked it out, the sooner he could be back in his warm bed.

The squashing sound grew louder the closer he got to the river. It was an effort to walk, pulling each foot out and carefully placing it to avoid slipping. His new boots would be ruined. He could already feel his feet getting wet. No socks, no underwear, no jacket.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “This better be good.” He was going to be mad as hell if he found a group of teenagers playing hide-and-seek.

The flashlight caught something glittering in the mud, close to the water. He locked his eyes on the spot and quickened his pace. He was almost there, almost out of the tall grass. Suddenly, he tripped. He lost his balance and crashed down hard, with his elbows breaking his fall. The flashlight flew out of his hand and into the black water, a tunnel of light spiraling to the bottom.

He ignored the sting shooting up his arms. The sucking mud pulled at him as he pushed himself to his hands and knees. A rancid smell clung to him, more than just the stench of the river. The silvery object lay almost within reach, and now he could tell it was a cross-shaped medallion. The chain was broken and scattered in the mud.

He glanced back to see what had caused his fall. Something solid. He expected to see a fallen tree. But not more than a yard away was a small, white body nestled in the mud and leaves.

Nick scrambled to his feet, his knees weak, his stomach in his throat. The smell was more noticeable now, and it filled the air, stinging his nostrils. He approached the body slowly as if not wanting to wake the boy, who looked asleep despite those wide eyes staring up at the stars. Then he saw the boy’s slashed throat and mangled chest, the skin ripped open and peeled back. That’s when his stomach lurched and his knees caved in.

CHAPTER 2

“All it takes is one bad apple,” Christine Hamilton pounded out on the keyboard. Then she hit the delete key and watched the words disappear. She’d never finish the article. She leaned back to steal a glance at the hall clock—the lighted beacon in the tunnel of darkness. Almost eleven o’clock. Thank God, Timmy had a sleepover.

Janitorial services had shut off the hall light again. Just another reminder of how important the “Living Today” section was. At the end of the dark hall, she saw the newsroom’s light glowing under the door that segregated the departments. Even at this distance, she could hear the wire services and fax machines buzzing. On the other side of that door, a half-dozen reporters and editors guzzled coffee and churned out last-minute articles and revisions. Just on the other side of that door, news was being made while she fussed over apple pie.

She whipped open a file folder and flipped through the notes and recipes. Over a hundred ways to slice, dice, puree and bake apples, and she couldn’t care less. Perhaps her clever wit had run dry, used up on last week’s hot little tomato dishes and a dozen ways to sneak fresh vegetables into your family’s diet. She knew her journalism degree was rusty, thanks to Bruce’s pigheadedness and his insistence that he wear the pants in the family. Too bad the asshole couldn’t keep his pants on.

She slammed the folder shut and tossed it across her desk, watching it slide off and scatter clippings all over the cracked linoleum floor. How long would she remain bitter? No, the real question was, how long would it hurt? Why did it still have to hurt like hell? After all, it had been over a year.

She shoved away from the computer terminal and raked her fingers through her thick mass of blond hair. It needed to be trimmed, and she tried to remember how much time she had before the roots would start darkening. The dye job was a new touch, a divorce present to herself. The initial results had been rewarding. Turning heads was a new experience. If only she could remember to schedule the hairstylist like everything else in her life.

She ignored the building’s no smoking rule and slapped a cigarette out of the pack she kept in her handbag. Quickly, she lit it and sucked in, waiting for the nicotine to calm her. Before she exhaled, she heard a door slam. She smashed the cigarette into a dessert plate that bulged with too many lipstick-covered butts for a person trying to quit. The footsteps echoed down the hall in quick bursts. She grabbed the plate and searched for a hiding place while swatting away the smoke. In a mad panic, she dumped the plate into the trash can under her desk. The stoneware shattered against the metal side just as Pete Dunlap entered the room.

“Hamilton. Good, you’re still here.” He swiped a hand over his weathered face in an unsuccessful attempt to remove the exhaustion. Pete had been with the Omaha Journal for almost fifty years, starting as a carrier. Despite the white hair, bifocals and arthritic hands, he was one of the few who could single-handedly put out the paper, having worked in every department.

“Major writer’s block.” Christine smiled, trying to explain why anyone would be working late in the “Living Today” section. She was relieved to see Pete instead of Charles Schneider, the usual night editor, who commandeered the place like a Nazi storm trooper.

“Bailey called in sick. Russell’s still finishing up on Congressman Neale’s sex scandal, and I just sent Sanchez to cover a three-car smashup on Highway 50. There’s some ruckus out by the river on Old Church Road in Sarpy County. Ernie can’t make out too much from the radio dispatch, but a whole slew of patrol cars are on their way. Now, it could just be some drunk kids playing with their daddies’ tractors again. I know you’re not part of the news team, Hamilton, but would you mind checking it out?”

Christine tried to contain her excitement. She hid her grin by turning back to the half-baked article on her computer screen. Finally, a chance at real news, even if it was a bunch of drunk teenagers.

“I’ll cover your ass with Whitman on whatever you’re working on,” Pete said, misreading her hesitation.

“Okay. I suppose I can check it out for you.” She chose her words carefully to emphasize that she was doing him a favor. Although she had been on the staff for only a year, she knew that journalists were promoted more quickly due to favors than talent.

“Take the interstate since Highway 50’s probably tied up with that accident. Take exit 372 to Highway 66. Old Church Road is about six miles south on 66.”

She almost interrupted him. As a teenager she had made out on Old Church Road many times. However, one slip-up could dismantle all her work to shed her country roots. So, instead, she jotted down some directions.

“Get back here before one so we can get a couple paragraphs in the morning edition.”

“Will do.” She slung her handbag over her shoulder and tried not to skip down the hall.

“Now, if I could just get Russell to write half as fast as he talks, I’d be a happy man,” she heard Pete grumble as the door closed behind her.

Safe in the dark parking lot, she twirled once and shouted, “Yes!” to the concrete wall. This was her chance to get on the other side of the door, to go from recipes and household anecdotes to real news. Whatever was happening out at the river, she planned to capture all the nitty-gritty drama. And if there was no story … well, surely a good reporter could dig something up.

CHAPTER 3

He smashed through the branches, the cracking wood exploding in the dark silence. Were they following? Were they close behind? He didn’t dare look back. Suddenly, he skidded on the mud, lost his balance and slid down the riverbank. He crashed knee-deep into ice-cold water. His arms and legs flayed in a panic, splashing water like claps of thunder. He dropped to his knees, burying his sweat-drenched body, sinking into the silt until he was up to his chin in the rolling river. The current sloshed against him, jerking him, threatening to sweep him back to where he had just escaped.

The cold water numbed the convulsions. Now, if only he could breathe. The gasps racked his chest and stabbed at his side. Breathe, he commanded himself as his lungs strangled for air. He hiccuped and swallowed a stomachful of the river, choking and gagging most of it back up.

He couldn’t see the spotlights anymore. Perhaps he had run far enough. He listened, straining over his own gasps.

There were no running footsteps, no yelping bloodhounds, no racing engines. It had been a close call—the guy with the flashlight. Was it possible the intruder hadn’t seen him crouched in the grass? Yes, he was sure no one had followed him.

He shouldn’t have come tonight. It had become a stupid habit, a dangerous risk, a wonderful addiction, a spiritual hard-on. The shame spread through him, liquid and hot despite the cold water. No, he shouldn’t have come. But no one had seen him. No one had followed him. He was safe. And now, finally, the boy was safe, too.

CHAPTER 4

The rancid smell clung to Nick. He wanted to crawl out of his clothes, but the scent of river and blood was already soaked deep into his pores. He peeled off his shirt and thanked Bob Weston for the FBI windbreaker. The sleeves stopped six inches above his wrists, and the fabric stretched tight across his chest. The zipper stuck halfway up. He knew he must look and smell like a putz. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw Eddie Gillick, one of his deputies, elbow his way through the crowd of FBI agents, uniformed cops and other deputies just to hand Nick a damp towel.

The scene looked pre-Halloween. Blinding searchlights teetered from branches. Yellow tape flapped around trees. The sizzle and smoke of night flares mixed with that awful smell of death. And in the middle of the macabre scene lay the little, white ghost of a boy, asleep in the grass.

In his two years as sheriff, Nick Morrelli had pulled three victims from car crashes. The adrenaline had erased the sight of tangled metal and flesh. He had witnessed one gunshot wound—a minor scrape, someone cleaning his gun while drinking a pint of whiskey. He had broken up numerous fist-fights, sustaining his own cuts and bruises. Nothing, however, had prepared him for this.

“Channel Nine is here.” Gillick pointed at the new set of headlights bumping down the path. The bright orange nine emblazoned on the top of the van glowed in the dark.

“Shit. How did they find out?”

“Police scanner. Probably have no idea what’s going on, just that something is.”

“Get Lloyd and Adam to keep them as far from that line of trees as possible. No cameras, no interviews, no sneak peeks. That goes for the rest of the bloodsuckers when they get here.” That was all he needed—a stint on the morning news in his clown jacket and muddy jeans revealing his incompetence to the entire state.

“Oh, good. Another fuckin’ set of tire tracks,” Weston said to the agents who were on their knees working in the mud, but looked at Nick to make sure he knew the comment was meant for him.

Nick’s face grew hot, but he swallowed his response and walked away. Weston made it no secret he thought Nick was a small-town hick of a sheriff. They had been at each other’s throats since Sunday when Danny Alverez had disappeared into thin air, leaving behind a brand-new bike and a bagful of undelivered newspapers. Nick had wanted to call in the masses to search fields and parks, while Weston had insisted they wait for a ransom note that never arrived. Nick had succumbed to Weston’s twenty-five years of FBI experience instead of listening to his gut.

Why didn’t he buy Weston’s suspicions that the boy had simply been taken by his disgruntled father? A father who had been enraged with his ex-wife for keeping him away from his only child. Hell, the paper was full of similar cases. When they couldn’t locate Major Alverez, it only made even more sense. So why wouldn’t Nick listen to Special Agent Bob Weston, despite his irrational dislike of the man?

From the very beginning, Nick resented Weston’s arrogance. At five feet six inches, he reminded Nick of a little Napoleon, always using his wiseass mouth to compensate for his small frame. Weston was a good six inches shorter than Nick and a skinny bit of a man compared to Nick’s athletic build. Yet tonight, anything Weston said made Nick feel small. He knew he had screwed up, from contaminating a crime scene to not securing a large enough area to bringing in too goddamn many officers. So, he deserved Weston’s put-downs. Now he wondered if Weston had even given him the too-small jacket on purpose.

Nick saw George Tillie making his way through the crowd, and he was relieved to see the familiar face. George looked as if he had come straight out of bed. His sport jacket was crumpled and misbuttoned over a pink nightshirt. His gray hair stuck up everywhere. His face sagged with deep lines and gray fuzz. He carried his little black bag, hugging it to his chest as he stepped carefully through the thick mud in fuzzy slippers. If Nick wasn’t mistaken, the slippers had little ears and dog snouts. He smiled and wondered how George had ever made it past the FBI sentries.

“George,” Nick called and almost laughed when George raised his eyebrows at Nick’s shoddy appearance. “The boy’s over here.” He took George’s elbow and let the old coroner lean on him as they plodded through the mud and the crowd.

An officer with a Polaroid camera flashed one last picture of the scene, then made room for them. One look at the boy, and George froze. His slumped shoulders straightened, and his face went white.

“Oh, dear God. Not again.”

CHAPTER 5

From a mile away, the pasture was lit up like a football stadium on game night. Christine stomped on the accelerator, weaving her car through the gravel.

Something big was definitely happening. The excitement fluttered in her stomach. Her heart pounded rapidly. Even her palms were sweaty. This was better than sex, or what she could remember of sex.

The police dispatch gave little information. “Officer requests immediate assistance and backup.”

It could mean anything. As she skidded into the pasture road, her excitement only grew. Rescue vehicles, two TV vans, five sheriff cruisers and a slew of other unmarked vehicles were scattered at haphazard angles in the mud. Three sheriff deputies guarded the scene, which was cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. Crime-scene tape—this was serious. Definitely not some drunk teenagers.

Then she remembered the kidnapping—the paperboy whose face had been plastered over every newscast and newspaper since the beginning of the week. Had a ransom drop been made? There were rescue units. Perhaps a rescue was in progress.

She jumped from the car, noticed it still sliding in the mud and hopped back in behind the wheel.

“Don’t be stupid, Christine,” she whispered and slammed the car into Park, shoving the emergency brake into place. “Be calm. Be cool,” she lectured herself, grabbing her notepad.

Immediately the mud swallowed her leather pumps, refusing to surrender them. She kicked out of her shoes, threw them into the back of the car and padded her way in stockinged feet to the crowd of news media.

The deputies stood straight and unflinching despite the questions being hurled at them. Beyond the trees, searchlights illuminated an area close to the river. Tall grass and a mass of uniformed bodies blocked any view of what was going on.

Channel Five had sent one of their evening anchors. Darcy McManus looked impeccable and ready for the camera, her red suit well pressed, her silky black hair and makeup all in place. Yes, she even had on her shoes. It was, however, too late at night for a live report, and the camera remained off.

Christine recognized Deputy Eddie Gillick in the line. She approached slowly, making certain he saw her, knowing one wrong move could get her throttled.

“Deputy Gillick? Hi, it’s Christine Hamilton. Remember me?”

He stared at her like a toy soldier unwilling to give in to any distraction. Then his eyes softened, and there was a hint of a smile before he controlled the impulse.

“Mrs. Hamilton. Sure, I remember. You’re Tony’s daughter. What brings you out here?”

“I work for the Omaha Journal now.”

“Oh.” The soldier face returned.

She needed to think fast or she’d lose him. She noticed Gillick’s slicked-back hair, not a strand out of place, the overpowering smell of aftershave lotion. Even the pencil-thin mustache was meticulously trimmed. His uniform looked wrinkle-free. His tie was cinched tightly at his neck and tacked down with a gold tie tack. A quick glance showed no wedding band. She’d take a chance that he considered himself a bit of a lady’s man.

“I can’t believe how muddy it is out here. Silly me. I even lost my shoes.” She pointed to her mud-caked feet and the red-painted toenails peeking through her stockings. Gillick checked out the feet, and she was pleased when his eyes ran the length of her long legs. The uncomfortably short skirt would finally pay for its discomfort.

“Yes, ma’am, it sure is a mess.” He crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight, visibly uncomfortable. “You should be careful you don’t catch cold.” One more look, this time his eyes took in more than just her legs. She felt them stop at her breasts and found herself arching her back to split the blazer open just a little more to accommodate him.

“This whole situation is a mess, isn’t it, Eddie? It is Eddie, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He looked pleased that she remembered. “Although I’m not allowed to discuss the situation at hand.”

“Oh, sure. I understand.” She leaned in close to him, despite the smell of Brylcream. Even without shoes she was almost his height. “I know you’re not allowed to discuss anything about the Alverez boy,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear.

His glance registered surprise. An eyebrow raised, and his eyes softened again. “How did you know?” He turned to see if anyone was listening.

Bingo. She’d hit the jackpot. Careful now. Cool and calm. Don’t blow it.

“Oh, you know I can’t say who my sources are, Eddie.” Would he recognize the low hushed voice as seductive or as a line of bull? She had never been very good at seduction, or at least that was what Bruce had told her.

“Sure, of course.” He nodded, taking the hook.

“You probably didn’t even get a chance to look at the scene. You know, being stuck out here doing the real dirty work.”

“Oh, no. I got more than an eyeful.” He puffed out his chest as if he dealt with this sort of thing on a daily basis.

“The boy’s in pretty bad shape, huh?”

“Yeah, looks like the son of a bitch gutted him,” he whispered without a hint of emotion.

She felt the blood rush from her head. Her knees went weak. The boy was dead.

“Hey!” Gillick yelled, and she thought for a second he had discovered the deception. “Shut that camera off! Excuse me, Mrs. Hamilton.”

As Gillick snatched at Channel Nine’s camera, Christine retreated to her car. She sat with the door open, fanning herself with the empty notepad and taking in long breaths of the cool night air. Despite the chill, her blouse stuck to her.

Danny Alverez was dead, murdered. To quote Deputy Gillick, “gutted.”

She had her first big story, yet in the pit of her stomach the butterflies had turned into cockroaches.

CHAPTER 6

Saturday, October 25

Nick gritted his teeth, then swallowed the mouthful of thick, cold coffee. Why was he surprised to find it tasted just as bitter cold as it did hot? It reminded him how much he hated the stuff, but he poured another cup, anyway.

Maybe it wasn’t the taste he hated as much as the memories. Coffee reminded him of all-nighters studying for the LSAT. It reminded him of that excruciating road trip to watch his grandfather die. A trip made after his grandmother had pleaded, and necessary because Nick’s father, Antonio, had refused to be at the old man’s bedside. Even back then, Nick saw the trip as some kind of omen of his own relationship with his father. And he wondered if his father would see the irony if and when the great Antonio Morrelli’s time came due, and his own son would refuse to be at his bedside?

Once in a while the association still disarmed Nick—how he could smell the stout aroma of coffee and automatically think of his grandfather’s wrinkled gray flesh and those urine-stained sheets. But now, the scent of coffee would forever remind him of the sad, painful screams of a mother identifying her only son’s mangled body. It certainly was not much of a replacement.

Nick remembered the first time he had met Laura Alverez last Sunday night—Jesus, less than a week ago. Danny had been missing for almost twelve hours when Nick cut short a weekend fishing trip to question her himself. At first he, too, had been convinced it was one of those custody fights. Another woman using her son to either punish or retrieve her husband. Then he met Laura Alverez.

She was a tall woman, a bit overweight but with a voluptuous figure. The long, dark hair and smoky eyes made her look younger than her forty-five years. There was something statuesque about her that brought to mind the term “tower of strength.”

Graceful despite her size, Laura Alverez had glided that evening from her kitchen sink to the cupboard and back to the sink, over and over. She had answered his questions calmly and quietly. Much too calmly. In fact, it had taken him ten, maybe even fifteen minutes before he had realized that, for every cup or plate she had washed and stacked in the cupboard, she removed a clean one, taking it back to the sink with her. Then he noticed the tag sticking out of the collar of her inside-out sweater and the two mismatched shoes. She had been in a state of shock, disguised by a calm Nick found more spooky than reassuring.

Her calm remained throughout the week. She had portrayed an unflinching rock of strength, pouring coffee and baking rolls for the men who had filled her small house each day. Had she displayed some form of emotion, perhaps it wouldn’t have been so difficult, moments ago, when he had watched this same stately woman bend in two and crumple to the cold, hard floor of the hospital morgue. Her cries had sliced through the sterilized halls. Nick recognized that sound. It was the low-pitched scream of a wounded animal. No woman should have to face what Laura Alverez faced alone. Now he wished they had located her ex-husband, just so he could beat the crap out of him.

“Morrelli.” Bob Weston came into Nick’s office without knocking or waiting for an invitation. He plopped down in the chair across from Nick. “You should go home. Shower, change clothes. You stink.”

He watched Weston dig the exhaustion out of his eyes and decided he was only stating facts, instead of hurling more insults.

“What about the ex-husband?”

Weston looked up at him and shook his head. “I’m a father, Nick. I don’t care how pissed off he might be with his wife—I just don’t think a father could do that to his kid.”

“So where do we begin?” He must be tired, Nick realized. He was actually asking for Weston’s advice.

“I’d start with a list of known sex offenders, pedophiles and child pornographers.”

“That could be a long list.”

“Excuse me, Nick,” Lucy Burton interrupted from the doorway. “Just wanted to let you know that all four Omaha TV stations and both Lincoln stations are downstairs with camera crews. There’s also a hallful of newspaper and radio people. They’re asking about a statement or press conference.”

“Shit,” Nick muttered. “Thanks, Lucy.” He watched Weston twist in his chair to follow Lucy’s long legs down the hall. Maybe he should talk to her about the short skirts and stiletto heels now that they would be making the news. What a shame. She had lovely legs and a walk trained to show them off.

“We’ve avoided the press all week,” Nick said, returning his gaze to Weston. “We’re gonna have to talk to them.”

“I agree. You need to talk to them.”

“Me? Why me? I thought you were the hotshot expert.”

“That was when it was a kidnapping. Now it’s a homicide, Morrelli. Sorry, this is your ball game.”

Nick slumped back in his chair, leaning his head into the leather and swiveling from side to side. This couldn’t be happening. Soon he’d wake up in bed with Angie Clark beside him. God, last night seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Look, Morrelli.” Weston’s voice was soft, sympathetic, and Nick eyed him suspiciously without lifting his head. “I’ve been thinking. This being a kid and all, maybe I could request someone to help you put together a profile.”

“What do you mean?”

“It may be too early for people to start noticing the similarities to Jeffreys, but when they do, you’re going to have a frenzy on your hands.”

“A frenzy?” Frenzies weren’t part of his training. Nick swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. Suddenly, he was nauseated again. He could still smell Danny Alverez’s blood soaked into his jeans.

“We have experts who can put together a psychological profile of this guy. Narrow things down for you. Give you a fuckin’ idea of who this asshole is.”

“Yeah, that would help. That would be good.” Nick kept the desperation out of his voice. Now was not the time to reveal his weakness, despite Weston’s sudden compassion.

“I’ve been reading about this Special Agent O’Dell, an expert in profiling murderers practically right down to their shoe size. I could call Quantico.”

“How soon do you think they could get someone here?”

“Don’t let Tillie cut up the boy yet. I’ll call right now and see if we can get someone here Monday morning. Maybe even O’Dell.” Weston stood up suddenly with new energy.

Nick untangled his legs and stood, too, surprised that his knees were strong enough to hold him.

Deputy Hal Langston met Weston at the door. “Thought you guys might be interested in this morning’s edition of the Omaha Journal.” Hal unfolded the paper and held it up. The headline screamed in tall, bold letters, Boy’s Murder Echoes Jeffreys’ Style.

“What the fuck?” Weston ripped the paper from Hal and began reading out loud. “Last night, a boy’s body was found along the Platte River, off Old Church Road. Early reports suggest the still-unidentified boy was stabbed to death. A deputy at the scene, who will remain anonymous, said, ‘It looked like the bastard gutted him.’ Gaping chest wounds were a trademark of serial killer Ronald Jeffreys, who was executed in July of this year. Police have yet to make a statement concerning the boy’s identity and the cause of death.”

“Jesus,” Nick spat as the nausea infected his insides.

“Goddamn it, Morrelli. You’re gonna need to put a gag order on your men.”

“It gets worse,” Hal said, looking at Nick. “The byline is Christine Hamilton.”

“Who the fuck is Christine Hamilton?” Weston looked from Hal to Nick. “Oh, please don’t tell me she’s one of the little harem you’re bopping?”

Nick slid back into his chair. How could she do this to him? Had she even tried to warn him, to contact him? Both men stared at him, Weston waiting for an explanation.

“No,” Nick said slowly. “Christine Hamilton is my sister.”

CHAPTER 7

Maggie O’Dell kicked off her muddy running shoes in the foyer before her husband, Greg, reminded her to do so. She missed their tiny, cluttered apartment in Richmond, despite surrendering to the much-needed convenience of living between Quantico and Washington. But ever since they had bought the pricey condo in the expensive Crest Ridge area, Greg had developed an absurd obsession with image. He liked their condo spotless, an easy task since both their jobs kept them away. Yet, she resented coming home to a place that swallowed her monthly paycheck but felt like one of the hotels to which she had grown accustomed.

She peeled off the damp sweatshirt and immediately felt a pleasant chill. Though it was a crisp fall day, she had managed to work up a sweat after another night of tossing and turning. She balled up the sweatshirt and shot it into the laundry room as she passed on her way to the kitchen. How careless of her to miss the laundry basket.

She stood in front of the open refrigerator. A look inside revealed a pathetic view of their lack of domestic talents—a box of leftover Chinese food, half a bagel twisted in plastic wrap, a foam take-out container with unidentified gooey stuff. She grabbed a bottle of water and slammed the door, now shivering in only running shorts, a sweat-drenched T-shirt and sports bra that stuck to her like an extra layer of skin.

The phone rang. She searched the spotless counters and grabbed it off the unused microwave before the fourth ring.

“Hello.”

“O’Dell, it’s Cunningham.”

She ran her fingers through her wet mass of short, dark hair and stood up straight, his voice setting her at attention.

“Hi. What’s up?”

“I just received a phone call from the Omaha field office. They have a murder victim, a little boy. Some of the wounds are characteristic of a serial killer in the same area about six years ago.”

“He’s on the prowl again?” She began pacing.

“No, the serial killer was Ronald Jeffreys. I don’t know if you remember the case. He murdered three boys—”

“Yes, I remember,” she interrupted him, knowing he hated long explanations. “Wasn’t he executed in June or July?”

“Yes … yes, in July, I believe.” His voice sounded tired.

Though it was Saturday afternoon, Maggie imagined him in his office behind the stacks on his desk. She could hear him rustling through papers. Knowing Director Kyle Cunningham, he already had Jeffreys’ entire file spread out in front of him. Long before Maggie started working under him in the Behavioral Science Unit, he had been affectionately nicknamed the Hawk because nothing got past him. Lately, however, it looked as though the sharp vision came at the expense of puffy eyes, swollen from too little sleep.

“So this might be a copycat.” She stopped and opened several drawers looking for a pen and paper to jot down notes, only to find carefully folded kitchen towels, sterile utensils lined up in annoyingly neat rows. Even the odd utensils, a corkscrew and can opener, lay flat in their respective corners, not touching or overlapping. She picked up a shiny serving spoon and turned it in the wrong direction, making sure it crossed over several others. Satisfied, she closed the drawer and began pacing again.

“It could be a copycat,” Cunningham said in a distracted tone. She knew he was reading the file while he talked, that worried indent between his brows, his glasses low on his nose. “It could be a one-time thing. The point is, they requested a profiler. Matter of fact, Bob Weston requested you specifically.”

“So I’m a celebrity even in Nebraska?” She ignored the annoyance in his voice. A month ago, it wouldn’t have been there. A month ago, he would have been proud that a protégé of his had been requested. “When do I leave?”

“Not so fast, O’Dell.” She clutched the phone and waited for the lecture. “I’m sure Weston’s pile of glowing reports about you didn’t include the last case file.”

Maggie stopped and leaned against the counter. She pressed the palm of her hand against her stomach, waiting, preparing for the nausea. “I certainly hope you’re not going to hold the Stucky case over my head every time I go out into the field.” The quiver in her voice sounded angry. That was good—anger was good, better than weakness.

“You know that’s not what I’m doing, Maggie.”

Oh, God. He had used her first name. This would be a serious lecture. She stayed put and dug her nails into a nearby hand towel.

“I’m simply concerned,” he continued. “You never took a break after Stucky. You didn’t even see the bureau psychologist.”

“Kyle, I’m okay,” she lied, irritated with the sudden tremor invading her hand. “It’s not like it was the first time. I’ve seen plenty of blood and guts in the past eight years. There’s not much that shocks me anymore.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Maggie, you were in the middle of that bloodbath. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed. I don’t care how tough you think you are, when the blood and guts get sprayed all over you, it’s a little different than walking in on it.”

She didn’t need the reminder. Fact was, it didn’t take much to conjure up the image of Albert Stucky hacking those women to death—his bloody death play performed just for Maggie. His voice still came to her in the middle of the night: “I want you to watch. If you close your eyes, I’ll just kill another one and another and another.”

She had a degree in psychology. She didn’t need a psychologist to tell her why she couldn’t sleep at night, why the images still haunted her. She hadn’t even been able to tell Greg about that night; how could she tell a complete stranger?

Of course, Greg hadn’t been around when she had staggered back to her hotel room. He’d been miles away when she tore pieces of Lydia Barnett’s brain out of her hair and scrubbed Melissa Stonekey’s blood and skin out of her pores. When she had dressed her own wound, an unsightly slit across her abdomen. And it wasn’t the kind of thing you talked about over the phone.

“How was your day, dear? Mine? Oh, nothing too exciting. I just watched two women get gutted and bludgeoned to death.”

No, the real reason she hadn’t told Greg was that he would have gone nuts. He would have insisted she quit, or worse, promise to work only in the lab, examining the blood and guts safely under a microscope and not under her fingernails. He had ranted and raved once before when she had confided in him. It had been the last time she had talked about her work. He didn’t seem to mind the lack of communication. He didn’t even notice her absence beside him in bed at night, when she paced the floor to avoid the images, to quiet the screams that still echoed in her head. The lack of intimacy with her husband allowed her to keep her scars—physical and mental—to herself.

“Maggie?”

“I need to keep working, Kyle. Please don’t take that away from me.” She kept her voice strong, grateful the tremor was confined to her hands and stomach. Would he detect the vulnerability, anyway? He tracked criminals by reading between the lines. How could she expect to fool him?

There was silence, and she covered the mouthpiece of the phone, so he couldn’t hear her staggered breathing.

“I’ll fax over the details,” he finally said. “Your flight leaves in the morning at six o’clock. Call me after you get the fax if you have any questions.”

She listened to the click and waited for the dial tone. With the phone still pressed against her ear, she sighed, then breathed deeply. The front door slammed and she jumped.

“Maggie?”

“I’m in the kitchen.” She hung up the phone and gulped some water, hoping to shake the queasiness from the pit of her stomach. She needed this case. She needed to prove to Cunningham that, although Albert Stucky had assaulted and toyed with her mental state, he had not stolen her professional edge.

“Hey, babe.” Greg came around the counter. He started to hug her, but stopped when he noticed the perspiration. He manufactured a smile to disguise his disgust. When had he started using his lawyer acting talents on her?

“We have reservations for six-thirty. Are you sure you have time to get ready?”

She glanced at the wall clock. It was only four. How bad did he think she looked?

“No problem,” she said, guzzling more water and purposely letting it dribble down her chin.

She caught him wincing at her, his perfectly chiseled jaw taut with disapproval. He worked out at the law firm’s gym, where he sweated, grunted and dribbled in the appropriate setting.

Then he showered and changed, not a shiny golden hair out of place by the time he stepped out into public again. He expected the same from her, had even told her how much he hated her running in the neighborhood. At first, she had thought it was out of concern for her safety.

“I’m a black belt, Greg. I can handle myself,” she had lovingly reassured him.

“I’m not talking about that. Christ, Maggie, you look like hell when you run. Don’t you want to make a good impression on our neighbors?”

The phone rang, and Greg reached for it.

“Let it ring,” she blurted with a mouthful of water. “It’s a fax from Director Cunningham.” Without looking at him she could feel his annoyance. She raced to the den, checked the caller ID, then flipped on the fax.

“Why is he faxing you on a Saturday?”

He startled her. She didn’t realize he had followed. He stood in the doorway with hands on his hips, looking as stern as possible in khakis and a crew-neck sweater.

“He’s faxing some details on a case I’ve been asked to profile.” She avoided looking at him, dreading the pouty lip and brooding eyes. Usually, he was the one interrupting their Saturdays together, but she convinced herself it was childish to remind him. Instead, she ripped off the fax and began transferring details from paper to memory.

“Tonight was supposed to be a nice quiet dinner—just the two of us.”

“And it will be,” she said calmly, still not looking at him. “It may just need to be an early night. I have a six o’clock flight in the morning.”

Silence. One, two, three …

“Damn it, Maggie. It’s our anniversary. This was supposed to be our weekend together.”

“No, that was last weekend, only you forgot and played in the golf tournament.”

“Oh, I see,” he snorted. “So this is payback.”

“No, it’s not payback.” She maintained her calm though she was tired of these little tantrums. It was fine for him to ruin their plans with only half an apology and that charming, smug “I’ll make it up to you, babe.”

“If it’s not payback, what do you call it?”

“Work.”

“Work, right. That’s convenient. Call it what you want. It’s payback.”

“A little boy has been murdered, and I might be able to help find the psycho who did it.” The anger bubbled close to the surface, but her voice remained amazingly calm. “Sorry, I’ll make it up to you.” The sarcasm slipped out, but he didn’t seem to notice. She took the fax and started past him to the door. He grabbed her wrist and spun her toward him.

“Tell them to send someone else, Maggie. We need this weekend together,” he pleaded, his voice now soft.

She looked into his gray eyes and wondered when they had lost their color. She searched for a flicker of the intelligent, compassionate man she had married nine years ago when they were both college seniors ready to make their marks on the world. She would track down the criminals, and he would defend the helpless victims. Then he took the job in Washington at Brackman, Harvey and Lowe, and his helpless victims became billion-dollar corporations. Still, in just a moment of silence, she thought she recognized a flicker of sincerity. She was on the verge of giving in to him when his grip tightened and his teeth clenched.

“Tell them to send someone else, or we’re finished.”

She wrenched her wrist free. He grabbed for it again, and she slammed a fist into his chest. His eyes widened in surprise.

“Don’t you ever grab me like that again. And if this one trip means we’re finished, then maybe we’ve been finished for a long time.”

She brushed past him and headed for the bedroom, hoping her knees would carry her and the sting behind her eyes would wait.

CHAPTER 8

Sunday, October 26

And so it begins, he thought as he sipped the scalding-hot tea.

The front-page headline belonged on the National Enquirer and not a newspaper as respectable as the Omaha Journal. From the Grave, Serial Killer Still Grips Community with Boy’s Recent Murder. It was almost as hysterical as yesterday’s headline, but, of course, today’s large Sunday edition would attract more readers.

The byline was Christine Hamilton again. He recognized the name from the “Living Today” section. Why would they give the story to a newcomer, a rookie?

Quickly, he turned the pages, searching for the rest of the story which continued on page ten, column one. The entire page was filled with connecting articles. There was a school photo of the boy. Beside it ran an in-depth saga of the boy’s sudden disappearance during his early-morning paper route just a week ago. The article told how the FBI and the boy’s mother had waited for a ransom note that never came. Then, finally, Sheriff Morrelli had found the body in a pasture along the river.

He glanced back at the paragraph. Morrelli? No, this was Nicholas Morrelli, not Antonio. How nice, he thought, for father and son to share the same experience.

The article went on to point out the similarities to the murders of three boys in the same small community over six years ago. And how the bodies, strangled and stabbed to death, had each been discovered days later in different wooded, isolated areas.

The article, however, made no mention of details, no description of the elaborate chest carving. Did the police hope to withhold that evidence again? He shook his head and continued to read.

He used the fillet knife to scoop jelly and spread it on his burnt English muffin. The stupid toaster hadn’t worked right for weeks, but it was better than going down to the kitchen and having breakfast with the others. At least here in his room he could have the solitude of breakfast and the morning paper without the burden of making polite conversation.

The room was very plain, white walls and hardwood floors. The small twin-size bed barely accommodated his six-foot frame. Some nights he found his feet dangling over the end. He had added the small Formica-topped table and two chairs, though he allowed no one to join him. The utility cart in the corner housed the secondhand toaster, a gift from one of the parishioners. There was also a hot plate and kettle that he used for his tea.

On the nightstand stood the most elaborate of his furnishings, an ornate lamp, the base a detailed relief of cherubs and nymphs tastefully arranged. It was one of the few things he had splurged on and purchased for himself with his meager paycheck. That and the three paintings. Of course, he could only afford framed reproductions. They hung on the wall opposite his bed so he could look at them while he drifted off to sleep, though sleep didn’t come easy these days. It never did when the throbbing began, invading his otherwise quiet life, crashing in with all those foul memories. Even though his room was simple and plain, it brought short periods of comfort, control and solitude to a life that was no longer his own.

He checked his watch and ran his hand over his jaw. He wouldn’t need to shave today, his boyish face still smooth from yesterday’s shave. He had time to finish reading, though he refused to so much as look at the ridiculous articles about Ronald Jeffreys. Jeffreys had never deserved the attention he had garnered, and here he was, still in the limelight even after death.

He finished his breakfast and meticulously cleaned the table, no crumb escaping his quick swipes with the damp rag. From his small, brown-stained bathroom sink he removed the pair of Nikes, now scrubbed clean, not a hint of mud left. Still, he wished he had taken them off sooner. He patted them dry and set them aside to wash the one plate he called his own, a fragile, hand-painted Noritake he had borrowed long ago from the community china cabinet. His matching teacup and saucer, also borrowed, he filled to the brim with more scalding-hot water. Delicately, he dunked the once-used tea bag, waiting for the water to turn the appropriate amber color, then quickly removed and strangled the tea bag as if making it surrender every last drop.

His morning ritual complete, he got down on his hands and knees and pulled a wooden box from under the bed. He laid the box on the small table and ran his fingers over the lid’s intricate carving. Carefully, he cut out the newspaper articles, bypassing those on Ronald Jeffreys. He opened the box and put the folded articles inside on top of the other newspaper clippings, some of which were just beginning to yellow. He checked the other contents: a bright white linen cloth, two candles and a small container of oil. Then he licked the remnants of jelly off the fillet knife and returned it to the box, laying it gently on the soft cotton of a pair of boy’s underpants.

CHAPTER 9

Timmy Hamilton pushed his mom’s fingers away from his face as the two of them hesitated on the steps of St. Margaret’s. It was bad enough that he was late. He didn’t need his mom fussing over him in front of his friends.

“Come on, Mom. Everybody can see.”

“Is this a new bruise?” She held his chin and gently tilted his head.

“I ran into Chad at soccer practice. It’s no big deal.” He put his hand on his hip as if to conceal the even bigger bruise hidden there.

“You need to be more careful, Timmy. You bruise so easily. I must have been out of my mind when I agreed to let you play.”

She opened her handbag and began digging.

“I’m gonna be late. Church starts in fifteen minutes.”

“I thought I had your registration form and check for the camp out.”

“Mom, I’m late already.”

“Okay, okay.” She snapped the bag shut. “Just tell Father Keller I’ll put it in the mail tomorrow.”

“Can I go now?”

“Yes.”

“You sure you don’t want to check the tags on my underwear or something?”

“Smart-ass.” She laughed and swatted him on the butt.

He liked it when she laughed, something she didn’t do much of since his dad had left. When she laughed, the lines in her face softened, denting her cheeks with dimples. She became the most beautiful woman he knew, especially now with her new silky, blond hair. She was almost prettier than Miss Roberts, his fourth-grade teacher. But Miss Roberts was last year. This year was Mr. Stedman and, though it was only October, Timmy hated the fifth grade. He lived for soccer practice—soccer practice and serving mass with Father Keller.

In July, when his mom had interrupted his summer and sent him to church camp, he had been furious with her. But Father Keller had made camp fun. It ended up being a great summer, and he’d hardly missed his dad. Then, to top it off, Father Keller had asked him to be one of his altar boys. Though he and his mom had been members of St. Margaret’s since spring, Timmy knew Father Keller’s altar boys were an elite group, handpicked and given special rewards. Rewards like the upcoming camping trip.

Timmy knocked on the ornate door to the church vestibule. When no one answered, he opened it slowly and peeked in before entering. He found a cassock in his size among those hanging in the closet, and he ripped it from the hanger, trying to make up for lost time. He threw his jacket to a chair across the room, then jumped, startled by the priest kneeling quietly next to the chair. His rod-straight back was to Timmy, but he recognized Father Keller’s dark hair curling over his collar. His thin frame towered over the chair, though he was on his knees. Despite Timmy’s jacket almost hitting him, the priest remained still and quiet.

Timmy stared, holding his breath, waiting for the priest to flinch, to move, to breathe. Finally, his elbow lifted to make the sign of the cross. He stood without effort and turned to Timmy, taking the jacket and draping it carefully over the chair’s arm.

“Does your mom know you throw around your Sunday clothes?” He smiled with white, even teeth and bright blue eyes.

“Sorry, Father. I didn’t see you when I came in. I was afraid I was late.”

“No problem. We have plenty of time.” He tousled Timmy’s hair, his hand lingering on his head. It was something Timmy’s dad used to do.

At first, Timmy had been uncomfortable when Father Keller touched him. Now, instead of tensing up, he found himself feeling safe. Though he couldn’t admit it out loud, he liked Father Keller way better than he liked his dad. Father Keller never yelled; instead, his voice was soft and soothing, low and powerful. His large hands patted and caressed—never hit. When Father Keller talked to him, Timmy felt as if he was the most important person in Father Keller’s life. He made Timmy feel special, and in return, Timmy wanted to please him, though he still messed up some of the mass stuff. Last Sunday, Timmy brought the water to the altar but forgot the wine. Father Keller had just smiled, whispered to him and waited patiently. No one else even suspected his mistake.

No, Father Keller was nothing like his dad, who had spent most of his time at work, even when the three of them had been a family. Father Keller seemed like a best friend instead of a priest. Sometimes on Saturdays, he played football with the boys down at the park, allowing himself to be tackled and getting just as muddy as the rest of them. At camp, he told gory ghost stories—the kind parents forbid. Sometimes after mass, Father Keller traded baseball cards. He had some of the best ones, really old ones like Jackie Robinson and Joe DiMaggio. No, Father Keller was too cool to be like his dad.

Timmy finished and waited for Father Keller to put on the last of his garments. The priest checked his image in the floor-length mirror, then turned to Timmy.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Father,” he said and followed the priest through the small hallway to the altar.

Timmy couldn’t help smiling at the bright white Nikes peeking out from under the priest’s long, black cassock.

CHAPTER 10

Platte City reminded Maggie of the fictional Mayberry R.F.D. She’d never understood the appeal of small towns. Quaint and friendly usually meant boring and nosy. Assignments in small towns made her cranky and edgy. She hated the presumed intimacy that found its way into “how are you?” and “good morning.” Immediately, she missed the irritating but familiar sounds of honking taxis and six-lane traffic. Worse yet was settling for Chinese takeout from places called Big Fred’s and watered-down cappuccino from convenience-store vending machines.

She had to admit, though, the drive from Omaha had been a scenic one. The foliage along the Platte River put on a show of spectacular colors: bright oranges and flaming reds mixed with green and gold. The overpowering scent of evergreens and impending rain filled the air with an annoyingly pleasant aroma. She kept the car window cracked, despite the chill.

A jet thundered overhead, and Maggie skidded to a stop at the intersection. The sudden burst of sound shook the car and left an echo rumbling through the quiet streets. She remembered that Strategic Air Command was only ten, maybe fifteen miles away. Okay, so perhaps Platte City possessed some familiar sounds, after all.

She purposely took a wrong turn away from downtown. The detour would only take a few minutes and would hopefully give her some insight into the community. A Pizza Hut took up one corner. Across the street was the obligatory convenience store and a shiny new McDonald’s. Its golden arches stood taller than anything else for miles, competing only with a grain elevator and a church steeple.

The church’s spiky iron cross stabbed at the thick clouds that had begun rolling in only moments ago. Its parking lot was beginning to empty with a line of snail-crawling churchgoers, putting Maggie in the middle of the traffic jam. She sat patiently watching as each car allowed the one in front to back out and get in line. No, it was much too organized. They even ruined a good traffic jam.

Maggie waited for room in front, then flipped the rented Ford around in one quick squeal of tires. Heads turned, the line of snails stopped and watched as she spun out in the opposite direction. She checked the rearview mirror. No flashing lights followed, though she wouldn’t have been surprised if they had.

The information she had accessed from the Nebraska Tourism Web site described Platte City (population 3,500) as a growing bedroom community for many who worked in Omaha (twenty miles to the northeast) and Lincoln (thirty miles to the southwest). That explained the beautiful, well-manicured homes and neighborhoods—many recently built—despite the nonexistence of any nearby industry.

Small shops lined the downtown square: a post office, Wanda’s Diner, a movie theater, something called Paintin’ Place, a small grocery store and, yes, even a drugstore/soda fountain. Bright red awnings hung over some of the shops. Others had window boxes with geraniums still in bloom. In the center of the square, the red brick courthouse towered over the other buildings. Built during an era when pride overrode expense, its facade included a detailed relief of Nebraska’s past—covered wagons and plow horses separated by the scales of justice.

The entire block was ornately fenced in with freshly painted, black wrought iron. The courthouse took up only half the space. Cobblestone walkways, bronze statues, a marble fountain, benches and old-fashioned lampposts made the rest of the area a quiet garden-like retreat. What impressed Maggie most as she made her way over the twists of cobblestone was the absence of trash. Not one single hamburger wrapper or foam cup dared to litter the hallowed ground. Instead, huge maple and sycamore leaves decorated the path with gold and red.

Inside the lobby of the courthouse, Maggie’s heels clicked on the marble floor, sending an echo all the way to the vaulted cathedral ceiling. There was no security guard, not even a desk clerk. She scanned the wall directory. The county sheriff’s department, along with several courtrooms and the county jail, resided on the third floor.

She bypassed the elevator and took the stairs, an open spiral that allowed a bird’s-eye view of the atrium. Lavish white and gray marble lined the stairwells and the floor. Solid oak and shiny brass trimmed the banisters and doorways. She found herself tiptoeing.

The sheriff’s department appeared empty, though the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the hum of a copy machine seeped in from one of the back rooms. The wall clock showed eleven-thirty. Maggie checked her watch. She was still on eastern time. She reset it as she walked to the windows facing south. The thick, gray clouds now blocked any hint of sun or blue sky. Below, the streets remained quiet. A few customers, dressed in their Sunday best, left Wanda’s Diner. Behind the theater a small, gray-haired man heaved trash into a huge Dumpster.

It wasn’t noon, and she was already exhausted. She was drained from her battle with Greg and another sleepless night avoiding visions of Albert Stucky. Then, this morning, the turbulent flight had jerked and jolted her thousands of feet above control. She hated flying, and it never got any easier.

It was the control, her mother reminded her whenever possible.

“You need to let it go, Mag-pie. You can’t expect to be in control twenty-four hours a day.”

This from a woman who, after twenty years of therapy, still struggled with the meaning of self-control. A woman who buried her grief for her dead husband by drinking herself into a stupor every Friday night and bringing home whatever stranger had supplied her with the drinks. It wasn’t until one of her men friends suggested a threesome—daughter, mother and himself—that she stopped bringing the men home and insisted on motel rooms. Her mother hadn’t seemed disgusted by the idea of sharing her twelve-year-old daughter, as much as intimidated by it.

Maggie rubbed the back of her neck, the muscles tight with tension—tension easily brought on by thoughts of her mother. She wished she had checked into a hotel first and eaten some lunch instead of coming directly here. But she was ready to dig in, having spent the hours in the air preoccupying herself with details of Ronald Jeffreys. The recent murder resembled Jeffreys’ style, right down to the jagged X carved into the boy’s chest. Copycats were often meticulous, duplicating every last detail to amplify the thrill. Sometimes that made them even more dangerous than the original killer. It removed the passion and thus the tendency to make mistakes.

“Can I help you?”

The voice startled Maggie, and she spun around. The young woman who appeared out of nowhere was far from what Maggie had expected of someone working in a sheriff’s office. Her long hair was too tall and stiff, her knit skirt too short and tight. She looked more like a teenager ready for a date.

“I’m here to see Sheriff Nicholas Morrelli.”

The woman eyed Maggie suspiciously, keeping her post in the doorway as though guarding the back offices. Maggie knew her navy blazer and trousers made her look official, hiding the slender figure that sometimes betrayed her authority. Early in her career she had developed an abrupt and sometimes abrasive manner that demanded attention and compensated for her slight stature. At five foot five and a hundred and fifteen pounds, she had barely met the physical requirements of the agency.

“Nick’s not here right now,” the woman said in a voice that told Maggie she wasn’t about to reveal any additional information. “Was he expecting you?” The woman crossed her arms and stood up straight in an attempt to emphasize her authority.

Maggie looked around the office again, ignoring the question and showing the woman she wasn’t impressed. “Can he be reached?” She pretended to be interested in the bulletin board that contained a wanted poster from the early eighties, a flyer announcing a Halloween dance and a notice advertising a 1990 Ford pickup for sale.

“Look, lady. I don’t mean to be rude,” the young woman said, suddenly a bit unsure of herself. “What exactly is it that you need to talk to Nick … to Sheriff Morrelli about?”

Maggie glanced back at the woman, who looked older now, the lines evident around her mouth and eyes. She teetered on the two-inch spiked heels and was biting her lower lip.

Maggie reached into her jacket pocket, ready to flip out her badge when two men came noisily in the front door. The older man wore a brown deputy’s uniform, the pants impeccably pressed, the tie cinched tight at his neck. His black hair was slicked back, tucked behind his ears and curled over his collar, not a strand out of place. In contrast, the younger man was wearing a gray T-shirt drenched in sweat, shorts and running shoes. His dark brown hair, though short, was tousled, strands wet against his forehead. Despite his disheveled look, he was handsome and definitely in good shape, with long muscular legs, slender waist and broad shoulders. Immediately, Maggie was annoyed with herself for noticing these details.

Both men stopped talking as soon as they saw Maggie. There was silence as they looked from Maggie to the frazzled young woman still at her post in the doorway.

“Hi, Lucy. Is everything okay?” the younger man said as his eyes scanned the length of Maggie’s body. When his eyes finally met hers, he smiled as if she had met his approval.

“I was just trying to find out what this lady—”

“I’m here to see Sheriff Morrelli,” Maggie interrupted. She was getting impatient with being treated like a tax auditor.

“What did you need to see him about?” It was the deputy’s turn to interrogate her, his forehead creased with concern, his stance straightening as though on alert.

Maggie ran her fingers through her hair, waiting for the impatience to settle before it turned to anger. She brought out her badge and flipped it open to them. “I’m with the FBI.”

“You’re Special Agent O’Dell?” the younger man said, now looking more embarrassed than surprised.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Sorry about the third degree.” He wiped his hand on his T-shirt and extended it to her. “I’m Nick Morrelli.”

She was sure the surprise registered on her face, because he smiled at her reaction. Maggie had worked with enough small-town sheriffs to know that they didn’t look like Nick Morrelli. He looked more like a professional athlete, the kind whose good looks and charm forgave his arrogance. The eyes were sky blue and hard to ignore against the tanned skin and dark hair. His grip was firm, no gentle graze reserved for women; however, his eyes held hers, giving her all their attention as if she were the only one in the room. A look he reserved for women, no doubt.

“This is Deputy Eddie Gillick, and I guess you already met Lucy Burton. I am really sorry. We’re all just a little on edge around here. We’ve had a couple of really long nights, and there’s been a lot of reporters snooping around.”

“Well, you’ve certainly come up with an interesting disguise.” This time Maggie let her eyes slowly scan the length of Morrelli’s body, just as he had done to her. When her eyes finally met his, a flicker of embarrassment had replaced his arrogance.

“Actually, I just got back from Omaha. I ran in the Corporate Cup Run.” He seemed eager to explain, almost uncomfortable, as though he had been caught at something he shouldn’t be doing. He shifted from one foot to another. “It’s a fund-raiser for the American Lung Association … or maybe it’s the American Heart Association. I can’t remember. Anyway, it’s for a good cause.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Sheriff Morrelli,” she said, although she was pleased that her presence seemed to demand one.

There was an awkward silence. Finally Deputy Gillick cleared his throat. “I’ve got to get back on the road.” This time he smiled at Maggie. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss O’Dell.”

“Agent O’Dell,” Morrelli corrected him.

“Right, sorry.” Flustered by the correction, the deputy was now anxious to make his exit.

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again,” Maggie added to his misery.

“Lucy, do I smell fresh coffee?” Morrelli asked with a boyish smile.

“I just made a fresh pot. I’ll get you some.” Lucy’s voice was now syrupy and a feminine octave higher.

Maggie smiled to herself as she watched the young woman’s rigid, authoritarian stature give way to a soft sway as she started to fetch coffee for the handsome sheriff.

“Would you mind getting a cup for Agent O’Dell, too?” He smiled at Maggie while Lucy turned and shot her an irritated glare.

“Cream or sugar?”

“None for me, thank you.”

“How about a Pepsi, instead?” he asked, eager to please her.

“Yes, that sounds good.” Perhaps the sugar would help fill her empty stomach.

“Forget the coffee, Lucy. Two cans of Pepsi, please.”

Lucy stared at Maggie, all the excitement drained from her face and replaced by contempt. She spun around and left, the clicking of her heels echoing all the way down the hallway.

It was just the two of them. Morrelli rubbed his arms as if to ward off a chill. He looked uncomfortable, and Maggie knew she was the cause of his discomfort. Perhaps she should have called. She wasn’t good at that etiquette stuff, and it was probably expected in Platte City, Nebraska.

“After almost forty-eight straight hours, we decided to take a break today.” Again, he seemed eager to explain away his appearance and the silent department. “I really didn’t think you’d be here until tomorrow. You know, it being Sunday.”

Maggie found herself wondering if he had been appointed or elected. In either case, his boyish charm had probably outweighed his competence.

“My superiors gave me the impression that time may be important in this case. You are still holding the body for my examination, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course. He’s …” Morrelli rubbed a hand across his bristled face. Maggie noticed a small scar, a puckered white line that blemished his otherwise perfect jaw. “We’re using the hospital morgue.” He dug his fingers into his eyes. Maggie wondered if it was simple exhaustion or an attempt to block out the image that probably haunted his sleep. The report indicated that Morrelli was the one who had found the boy.

“If you’d like, I can take you there,” he added.

“Thanks. Yes, I will need to do that. But first, there’s someplace else I’d like you to take me.”

“Sure. You probably want to unpack. Are you staying here in town?”

“Actually, that’s not what I meant. I’d like to see the scene of the crime.” She watched Morrelli’s face grow pale. “I’d like you to show me where you found the body.”

CHAPTER 11

The pasture road dissolved into torn grass and jagged ruts. Tire tracks crisscrossed each other, stamped into the mud. Nick shifted the Jeep into second gear and the vehicle strained forward, the tires cutting still more deeply into the mud.

“I don’t suppose anyone realized all this traffic in and out of here may have destroyed evidence?”

Nick shot Agent O’Dell a frustrated look. He was getting tired of being reminded of his mistakes.

“By the time we discovered the body, at least two vehicles had been through here. Yeah, we realized we may have messed up the killer’s tracks.”

He glanced at her again as he tried to keep the Jeep from sliding into the worst parts of the mud. Though she acted older, he guessed she was only in her late twenties, maybe earlier thirties—much too young to be an expert. Her age wasn’t the only thing that disarmed him. Despite her cool, abrupt manner she was very attractive. And even the conservative-style suit couldn’t hide what he suspected was a knockout body. Under ordinary circumstances he’d be preparing a full-throttled charm assault. But, Jesus, there was something about her that sent him into a tailspin. She carried herself with such poise, such confidence and self-assurance. She acted as though she knew what she was doing, which only made him more aware of his own lack of expertise. It was annoying as hell.

The Jeep jerked to a stop in front of the shelterbelt of trees, and immediately the nausea of that night struck Nick. The light-headedness surprised him. It was getting to be embarrassing. He heard O’Dell struggle with the door handle, the familiar click of metal against metal.

“Wait, that door sticks. Here, let me.” Without thinking he reached across the seat, leaning against her. His hand was on the door handle before he realized his body hovered over her, his face dangerously close to hers. She pressed herself into her seat to avoid touching him, and he immediately jerked his hand away, returning to his own side.

“I’ll get it from the outside.”

“Good idea.”

Outside the Jeep, Nick berated himself. What a stupid thing to do. Not very professional. He was certainly living up to his reputation as the incompetent playboy sheriff.

He sloshed around to the other side of the Jeep. Back at the office he had taken a quick shower, put on jeans and traded the running shoes for the same boots he had worn that night. Dry mud still clung to the expensive leather. They were instantly devoured again by the sticky ooze. The gray clouds rolled in, threatening to burst at any moment and guaranteeing the ooze would stay for days ahead.

The Jeep’s door opened easily from the outside. Would O’Dell think his stupid move in the car was a cheap excuse just to get close to her? It didn’t matter. Something told Nick this woman was immune to his charm, what little he seemed to have left.

“Hold on.” He stopped her again. “I think I have some boots back here.” He climbed inside the doorway, stopping in midair as he realized the inappropriateness of his actions, again. He avoided her eyes and waited until she slid to the other side and was a safe distance away. Then he stretched over the seat. Thankfully, the rubber work boots were within arm’s reach.

“Are you sure those are necessary?” She looked at the black boots as though they were shackles.

“You’ll never get anywhere in this mud. It’s worse by the riverbank.”

He had already begun undoing the laces. He handed her a boot and began on the other, distracted when she slipped off her expensive leather flats. Clothed only in sheer socks, her feet were small, slender and delicate. He watched her slide her foot into the oversize boot. It swallowed her foot, and even her attempt at tucking in her pant leg wouldn’t guarantee that the huge rubber boot would stay attached.

As they began their hike through the mud, he was impressed that she kept up with him despite her clumsy footwear and her shorter stride. The area was still cordoned off by yellow tape strung from trees. Sections were torn, flapping in the breeze, a breeze that grew stronger as the fast-moving clouds rolled overhead. Nick pulled up the collar of his jacket. His hair was still damp. A shiver slipped down his back. He glanced at O’Dell, who wore only a wool suit jacket and matching trousers. She buttoned the jacket but showed no other sign of feeling the cutting cold.

He watched her step carefully around the impression of the small body that still remained pressed into the grass. She crouched down, examined the blades of grass, scooped up a fingerful of mud and sniffed it. Nick winced, remembering the rancid smell. His skin still felt raw from scrubbing the stench from his body.

O’Dell stood and looked out at the river. The bank was only three or four feet away. The unusually high waters churned, slapping at the banks.

“Where did you find the medallion?” she asked, without looking at him.

He walked to the spot and found the white stake one of his deputies had placed there. “Here,” he said, pointing to the plastic marker sunk into the mud, barely visible.

She looked at the spot, then back at the boy’s resting place. It was only a couple feet away.

“It was the boy’s. His mother identified it,” Nick explained, still regretting that he couldn’t give it back to Laura Alverez when she had pleaded. “The chain was broken. It must have gotten pulled off in the struggle.”

“Except there was no struggle.”

“Excuse me?” He looked back at her for an explanation, but she was on her knees again with a small tape measure stretched between the marker and the pressed grass.

“There wasn’t a struggle,” she repeated calmly, getting to her feet and wiping at the leaves and mud she had gotten on her trousers.

“What makes you say that?” He was annoyed by her matter-of-fact attitude. She had been here only minutes and seemed to have it all figured out.

“You fell here when you tripped, right?” she said, pointing to the torn grass and the indent in the mud.

Nick winced again. Even his report made him look like a putz. “That’s right,” he admitted.

“The trampling around the perimeter is obviously from your deputies.”

“And the FBI,” Nick added defensively, though he knew she wasn’t concerned with those details. “They were in charge until we ruled out a kidnapping.”

“Other than this spot and where the body lay, there is no torn grass or any beaten down. The victim’s hands and feet were bound when you found him?”

“Yeah, back behind him.”

“My guess is that he was like that when they arrived here. Does the coroner have an approximate time and place of death yet?” She brought out a small notebook and jotted down details.

“He was killed out here, probably less than twenty-four hours before I found him.” The nausea was back. He wondered if he would ever be able to get the image of the dead boy out of his mind. Those wide, innocent eyes staring up at the sky.

“When did the victim disappear?”

“Early last Sunday morning. We found his bike and bag of newspapers against a fence. He hadn’t even started his route yet.”

“So the killer had him for at least three whole days.”

“Jesus,” Nick mumbled and shook his head. He hadn’t thought about the time between the abduction and the murder. They had all been so sure the boy had been kidnapped by his father or someone who would demand a ransom. Nick had believed the boy was being well cared for.

“So how did the chain get broken?” Nick wanted to think of something other than the torture the boy may have endured.

“I don’t know for sure. Maybe the killer pulled it off. It was a silver cross, right?” She looked to him for assurance. He only nodded, impressed that she had equipped herself with so many details from his report. She continued as if thinking out loud. “Maybe the killer didn’t like staring at it. Maybe he wasn’t able to do what he wanted to do as long as the victim was wearing it. Its religious significance is some sort of protection. Perhaps the killer is religious enough to have known that and have been uncomfortable.”

“A religious killer? Great.”

“What other trace do you have?”

“Trace?”

“Other evidence—other objects, torn pieces of fabric or rope? Was the FBI able to pull any tire tracks at all?”

The tire tracks again. How many times would he need to be reminded of his screwup.

“We did find a footprint.”

She stared at him, and he saw a flicker of impatience.

“A footprint? Excuse me, Sheriff, I don’t mean to sound skeptical, but how were you able to isolate a footprint? From what I can tell, there must have been over a dozen pairs of feet out here.” She waved her hand at the shoe impressions trampled in the mud. “How do you know that the prints you found weren’t one of your men or the FBI?”

“Because none of us were barefoot.” He didn’t wait for her reaction but moved closer to the river. He grabbed on to a tree branch just as his boots slid partway down the bank. When he looked up, O’Dell was standing over him.

“Right here.” He pointed to the set of toes imprinted in the mud and highlighted with remnants of casting powder.

“There’s no guarantee those are the killer’s.”

“Who else would be nuts enough to be out here without shoes?”

She grabbed the same branch and slid down next to him.

“You mind giving me a hand?” She extended a hand to him and he took it, allowing her to hang on while she bent down and stretched over the impression without sliding into the water.

Her hand was soft and small in his, but her grip was strong. Her jacket swung open, and he made himself look away. Jesus, she certainly didn’t look like an FBI agent.

After a few seconds she pulled herself up and immediately released his hand. Back on solid ground, she started writing in the notebook. Nick stared up at the thick, gray clouds. Suddenly, he wished he was anywhere else. The last forty-eight hours had drained him. His calf muscles ached from the 10K race he had pushed himself to run that morning. And now, here he was feeling incompetent and nauseated again, remembering Danny Alverez’s white body, those wide eyes staring up at the stars. A flock of snow geese honked as they passed overhead.

Nick caught himself wondering what had been the last thing Danny had looked up at. He hoped it had been some geese, something tranquil and familiar.

“The puncture marks and the carving in the boy’s chest were exactly like the Jeffreys murders,” he said, forcing his attention back to O’Dell. “How could anyone have that information?”

“His execution was recent. July, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Oftentimes, local news media run stories about the murders when an execution occurs. A person could get plenty of information from those accounts.”

“The good ole media,” Nick said, remembering the sting from Christine’s articles.

“Or someone could get detailed information from the court transcripts. They’re usually public record after the trial is over.”

“So you think this is a copycat killer?”

“Yes. It would be too much of a coincidence to duplicate this many details.”

“Why would anyone copycat a murder like this? For kicks?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” O’Dell told him, finally looking up from the notebook and meeting his eyes. “What I can tell you is this guy is going to do it again. And probably soon.”

CHAPTER 12

The hospital’s morgue was in the basement where every sound echoed off the white brick walls. Water pipes thumped and a fan wheezed in motion. Behind them, the elevator door squeezed shut. There was a whirl and a scrape as cables strained and pulled the car back up.

Sheriff Morrelli seemed to be walking on tiptoe to avoid the clicking of his freshly cleaned boot heels against the tile floor. Maggie glanced up at him as they walked side by side. He was pretending that all of this was routine for him, but it was easy to see through the disguise. Back by the river, she had caught him wincing once or twice, betraying his calm, cool exterior.

Still, he had insisted on accompanying her here after discovering that the coroner had gone hunting for the day and couldn’t be reached. Even the idea seemed ironic to Maggie—a coroner spending the day hunting. After all the dead bodies she had examined, she couldn’t imagine spending a relaxing Sunday afternoon participating in more death.

She stood back while Morrelli fumbled with a tangle of keys, then discovered the door to the morgue unlocked. He held it open for her, pressing his body against its weight and requiring her to squeeze past him. She wasn’t sure whether it was intentional or not, but this was the second or third time he had arranged for their bodies to be within touching distance.

Usually her cool, authoritarian manner quickly put a stop to any unwanted advances. But Morrelli didn’t seem to notice. Somehow, she imagined he treated every woman he met as a potential one-night stand. She knew his type and also knew that his flirting and flattery, along with the boyish charm and athletic good looks, probably got him as far as he wanted to go. It was annoying, but in Morrelli’s case it seemed harmless.

She had dealt with much worse. She was used to lewd comments from men who were uncomfortable working with a woman. Her experiences included plenty of sexual harassment, from mild flirtation to violent gropes. If anything, at least, it had taught her to take care of herself, protect herself with a shield of indifference.

Morrelli found the light switch, and like dominoes falling, the rows of fluorescent lights blinked on, one after another. The room was larger than Maggie had expected. Immediately, the smell of ammonia hit her nostrils and burned her lungs. Everything was immaculately scrubbed. A stainless-steel table occupied the middle of the tiled floor. On one wall was a large double sink and a counter that held various tools, including a Stryker saw, several microscopes, vials and test tubes ready for use. The opposite wall contained five refrigerated vaults. Maggie couldn’t help wondering if the small hospital had ever had use for all five at one time.

She took off her jacket, laid it carefully over a stool and started rolling up the sleeves of her blouse. She stopped and looked around for a lab gown or utility apron. She looked down at the expensive silk blouse, a gift from Greg, a gift he would certainly notice if she never wore again because of unremovable stains. He would accuse her of being thoughtless and irresponsible, just as she had been with her wedding ring, which now sat somewhere on the murky bottom of the Charles River. Oh, well. She rolled up the sleeves.

She had brought with her a small, black bag that contained everything she would need. She opened it and began laying its contents on the counter, first taking out the small jar of Vicks VapoRub and dabbing a bit around her nostrils. She had learned long ago that even refrigerated dead bodies gave off a smell that was worth avoiding. She started to close the lid, then stopped and turned to Morrelli, who watched from the door. She tossed him the jar.

“If you’re going to stay, you might want to use some of this.”

He stared at the jar, then reluctantly opened it, following her example.

Next, she took out plastic surgical gloves. She handed him a pair, but he shook his head.

“You really don’t have to stay,” she told him. He was beginning to look pale again, and they hadn’t even rolled out the body.

“No, I’ll stay. I’ll just … I don’t want to be in your way.”

She wasn’t sure if it was out of a sense of duty, or if he simply felt it was required for his macho reputation. She preferred to do the examination alone but reminded herself this was Morrelli’s territory and his case. Whether he assumed the role or not, he would technically be the head of this investigation.

She continued as though he weren’t there. She pulled out a recorder, checked the tape inside and set it for voice activation. She took out a Polaroid camera and made sure it was loaded with film.

“Which drawer?” she asked, turning to the vaults, ready to begin, her hands on her hips. She glanced back at Morrelli, who stared at the wall of drawers as if he hadn’t realized they would actually have to take the body out.

He moved slowly, hesitantly, then unlatched the middle drawer and pulled. The metal rollers squealed then clicked as the drawer filled the room.

Maggie kicked the brake off the wheels of the steel table and rolled it under the drawer. It fit perfectly. Together they unhitched the drawer tray with the small body bag, so that it lay flat on the table. Then they pushed the table back to the middle of the room under the suspended lighting unit. Maggie kicked the brakes back into place, while Morrelli closed the drawer’s door. As soon as she began unzipping the bag, Morrelli retreated to the corner.

The boy’s body seemed so small and frail, which made the wounds even more pronounced. He had been a good-looking kid, Maggie found herself thinking. His reddish-blond hair was closely cropped. The freckles around his nose and cheeks stood out against the white, pasty skin. He was bruised badly under the neck, the strands of rope leaving indents just above the gaping slash.

She began by taking photos, close-ups of the puncture marks and the jagged X on the chest, then the blue and purple marks on the wrists and the slashed neck. She waited for each Polaroid to develop, making sure she had enough light and the right angle.

With the recorder close by, she began documenting what she saw.

“The victim has bruise marks under and around his neck made by what looks to be a rope. It may have been tied. There appears to be an abrasion just under the left ear, perhaps from the knot.”

She gently lifted the boy’s head to look at the back of his neck. He felt so light, so weightless. “Yes, the marks are all the way around the neck. This would indicate that the victim was strangled, then his throat slashed. The throat wound is deep and long, extending just below the ear to the other ear. Bruises on the wrists and ankles are similar to the neck. The same rope may have been used.”

His hands were so small in hers. Maggie held them carefully, reverently, as she examined the palms. “There are deep fingernail marks on the inside of his palms. This would indicate that the victim was alive while some of the wounds were inflicted. The fingernails themselves appear to be clean … very clean.”

She rested the small hands at the boy’s sides and began examining the wounds. “The victim has eight—no, nine—puncture marks in the chest cavity.” She carefully poked the wounds, watching her gloved index finger disappear into several. “They appear to have been made by a single-edged knife. Three are shallow. At least six are very deep, possibly hitting bone. One may have gone through the heart. Yet, there is very little … actually, there is no blood. Sheriff Morrelli, did it rain while the body was in the open?”

She looked up at him when he didn’t answer. He was leaning against the wall, hypnotized by the small body on the table. “Sheriff Morrelli?”

This time he realized she was talking to him. He pushed off the wall and stood straight, almost at attention. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” His voice was hushed. He whispered as if not to wake the boy.

“Do you remember if it rained while the body was out in the open?”

“No, not at all. We had plenty of rain the week before.”

“Did the coroner clean the body?”

“We asked George to hold off doing anything until you got here. Why?”

Maggie looked over the body again. She stripped off a glove and pushed her hair back out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. There was something very wrong. “Some of these wounds are deep. Even if they were made after the victim was dead, there would still be blood. If I remember correctly, there was plenty of blood at the crime scene in the grass and dirt.”

“Lots of it. It took forever to get it off my clothes.”

She lifted the small hand again. The nails were clean, no dirt, no blood or skin, even though he had dug them into the palm of his hand at one point. The feet, also, showed no sign of dirt, not a trace of the river mud. Though he couldn’t have struggled much with his wrists and ankles bound, there still should have been enough movement to warrant some dirt.

“It’s almost as if his body has been cleaned,” she said to herself. When she looked up, Morrelli was standing beside her.

“Are you saying the killer washed the body after he was finished?”

“Look at the carving in the chest.” She pulled the glove back on and gently poked her finger under the edge of the skin. “He used a different knife for this—one with a serrated edge. It ripped and tore the skin in some places. See here?” She ran her fingertip over the jagged skin.

“There would be blood. There should be blood, at least initially. And these puncture wounds are deep.” She stuck her finger into one to show him. “When you make a hole this size, this deep, it’s going to bleed profusely until you plug it up. This one, I’m almost certain, went into the heart. We’re talking major artery, major gusher. And the throat … Sheriff Morrelli?”

Morrelli was leaning against the table, his weight jerking the stainless steel and sending out a high-pitched screech of metal against tile. Maggie looked up at him. His face was white. Before she realized it, he slumped against her. She caught him by the waist, but he was too heavy, and she slipped to the floor with him, her knees crumpling under her. The weight of him crushed against her chest.

“Morrelli, hey, are you okay?”

She squeezed out from under him and propped him against a table leg. He was conscious, but his eyes were glazed over. She climbed to her feet and looked for a towel to wet. Despite the well-equipped lab, there were no linens—no gowns or towels to be found. She remembered seeing a pop machine next to the elevators. Fumbling for the correct change, she was there and back before Morrelli moved.

His legs were twisted underneath him. His head rested against the table. Now, at least, his eyes were more focused when she knelt next to him with the Pepsi can.

“Here,” she said, handing it to him.

“Thanks, but I’m not thirsty.”

“No, for your neck. Here …” She reached over and put a hand at the back of his neck, gently pushing his head forward and down. Then she laid the cold Pepsi can against the back of his neck. He leaned into her. A few more inches, and his head would rest between her breasts. But now, dealing with his own vulnerability, he seemed completely unaware. Perhaps the macho ego did come with a sensitive side. She started to pull her hand away just as Morrelli reached up and caught it, gently encircling it with his large, strong fingers. He looked into her eyes, the crystal blue finally focused.

“Thanks.” He sounded embarrassed, but his steady gaze held hers. A bit shook up and yet, if she wasn’t mistaken, he was still flirting with her.

In response, she jerked her hand away, too quickly and much more abruptly than necessary. Just as abruptly, she handed him the Pepsi, then sat back on her knees, putting more distance between them.

“I can’t believe I did that,” he said. “I’m a little embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. I spent a lot of time on the floor before I got used to this stuff.”

“How do you get used to it?” He looked back into her eyes, as if searching for the answer.

“I’m not sure. You just sort of disconnect, try not to think about it.” She looked away and quickly got to her feet. She hated how his eyes seemed to look deep inside her. She realized it as a simple device, a cunning tool of his charm. Still, she was afraid he might actually see some weakness she had carefully hidden. Months ago there wouldn’t have been anything to hide. Albert Stucky had supplied her with her own vulnerability, and she hated that it stayed so close to the surface where others might see it.

Before she could offer him a hand, Morrelli slowly stretched his long legs from the twisted knot and got to his feet without staggering or assistance. Other than his almost fainting, Maggie noticed that Sheriff Morrelli moved very smoothly, very confidently.

He smiled at her and rubbed the cold condensation of the can against his forehead, leaving a wet streak. Several strands of hair slipped across his forehead and stuck to the wetness. “Do you mind meeting me up in the cafeteria when you’re finished?”

“No, of course not. I won’t be much longer.”

“I think I’ll take a Pepsi break.” He lifted the can to her as if in a toast. He started to leave, glanced back at the boy’s body, then walked out.

Maggie’s stomach churned, and she regretted not eating the breakfast offered during her roller-coaster flight. The room was cool, but her shuffle with Morrelli had left her hot and perspiring. She pulled off a glove and wiped her hand across her forehead, not surprised to find it damp. As she did so, she glanced at the boy’s forehead. From this angle she could see something smeared on his brow.

She bent over the table, looking closely at the transparent smudge in the middle of his forehead. She wiped a finger across the area and rubbed her fingers together under her nose. If the body had been washed clean, that meant the oily liquid had been applied after. Instinctively, Maggie checked the boy’s blue lips and found a smear of the oil. Before she even looked, she knew she’d find more of the oil on the boy’s chest, just above his heart. Perhaps all those years of catechism had finally paid off. Otherwise, she may have never recognized that someone, perhaps the killer, had given this boy last rites.

CHAPTER 13

Christine Hamilton tried to edit the article she had scribbled in her notebook while pretending to know the score of the soccer game being played on the field down below her. The wooden bleachers were terribly uncomfortable no matter how she shifted her weight. She wanted a cigarette, but chewed the cap of her pen instead.

A sudden burst of applause, hoots and whistles made her look up just in time to see the team of red-clad, ten-year-old boys high-fiving each other. She had missed another point, but when the small, red-haired boy looked up from the huddle, she gave him a smile and thumbs-up as if she had seen the whole thing.

He was so much smaller than his teammates, yet to her he seemed to be growing too quickly. It didn’t help matters that he was looking more and more like his father every day.

She pushed her sunglasses on top of her windblown hair. The sun was disappearing behind the line of trees that bordered the park. Thankfully, most of the clouds had passed over without dumping more rain. It was bad enough they were playing a make-up game on a Sunday evening.

She had isolated herself on the top bleacher away from the other soccer moms and dads. She didn’t care to know these obsessive parents who wore team jerseys and screamed profanities at the coach. Later, they would slap the coach on the back and congratulate him on yet another win.

She flipped a page and was about to return to her editing when she noticed three of the other divorced soccer moms whispering to each other. Instead of watching the game, they were pointing to the sidelines. Christine turned to follow their gaze and immediately saw what had distracted them. The man striding up the sidelines typified the cliché—“tall, dark and handsome.” He wore tight jeans and a sweatshirt with Nebraska Cornhuskers emblazoned across the chest. He looked like an older version of the college quarterback he used to be. He watched the game as he walked—no, glided—up the sidelines. But Christine knew he was well aware of the attention he was drawing from the bleachers. When he finally looked over, she waved to him, enjoying the look of envy on the women’s faces when he smiled at her and made his way up the bleachers to join her.

“What’s the score?” Nick asked, sliding in beside her.

“I think it’s five to three. You realize, don’t you, that you just made me the envy of every drooling, divorced soccer mom here?”

“See, the things I do for you, and you repay me with such abuse.”

“Abuse? I never hit you a day of your life,” she told her younger brother. “Well, not hard.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He wasn’t joking.

She sat up straight, preparing to defend herself despite the guilt gnawing at her stomach. Yes, she should have called him before she turned in the story. But what if he had asked her not to run it? That story had put her on the other side of the door.

Rather than being stuck writing helpful household hints, she had two front-page articles in two days with her byline. And tomorrow she’d be sitting at her own desk in the city room.

“How about I make it up to you? Dinner tomorrow night? I’ll fix spaghetti and meatballs with Mom’s secret sauce.”

He looked over at her, glanced at the notebook. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

“Oh, come on, Nicky. You know how long I’ve been waiting to get out of the “Living Today” section? If I hadn’t filed that story, someone else would have.”

“Really? And would they have quoted an officer who told them something off the record?”

“He never once said it was off the record. If Gillick told you otherwise, he’s lying.”

“Actually, I didn’t know it was Eddie. Gee, Christine, you just gave away an anonymous source.”

Her face grew hot, and she knew the red was quickly replacing her fair complexion. “Damn you, Nicky. You know how hard I’m trying. I’m a little rusty, but I can be a damn good reporter.”

“Really? So far I think your reporting has been irresponsible.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Nicky. Just because you didn’t like what I wrote doesn’t make it irresponsible journalism.”

“What about the headlines?” Nick spoke through gritted teeth. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this upset with her. He avoided looking at her and watched the boys running up the field. “Where do you get off comparing this murder to Jeffreys’?”

“There are basic similarities.”

“Jeffreys is dead,” he whispered, looking around to make sure no one was listening. He clasped his hands together over a knee and tapped his foot on the empty bench in front of them, a nervous habit Christine recognized from childhood.

“Grow up, Nicky. Anyone with half a brain is going to compare this murder to Jeffreys’. I just wrote what everyone else is thinking. Are you saying I’m off target?”

“I’m saying we don’t need another panic in a community that just started to feel like maybe their kids were safe again.” He crossed his arms, looking unsure of what to do with his clenched fists. “You made me look like a goddamn idiot, Christine.”

“Oh, I see. That’s what this is really about. You don’t care about a panic in the community. You’re just worried about how you look. Why am I not surprised?”

He glared at her. For a moment, he looked as though he would defend himself, but instead he looked back out at the field. She hated when he absorbed her cheap shots without fighting back. Even as a kid, he never knew how to combat the insults—her secret weapons. She must be getting old, because suddenly she regretted hurting his feelings.

At the same time, though, she grew impatient with the way her brother approached things. He constantly took the easy way out, but then, why not? Everything seemed to be handed to Nick, from job opportunities to women. And he floated from one to the next without much effort, remorse or thought. When their father retired and insisted that Nick run for sheriff, Nick had left his professorship at the university without any hesitation. At least, none Christine had witnessed, though she knew he loved being on campus, being a walking legend and having coeds drool over him. Without a hitch—and quite predictably, in fact—he had been elected to the post of county sheriff. Though Nick would be the first to admit it was only because of their father’s name and reputation. But he didn’t seem to mind. He just took things as they came.

Christine, on the other hand, had to scrape and claw for everything she wanted, especially since Bruce’s departure. Well, this time she deserved the break she was getting. She refused to apologize for capitalizing on her sudden streak of good fortune.

“If it is a copycat, don’t you think people deserve a warning?” She kept her voice sincere, though she didn’t want or need to justify herself. This was news. She knew what she was doing. The public had a right to know all the grisly details.

Nick didn’t answer. Instead, he brought his feet up on the bench in front so he could lean forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on clenched fists. They sat silently in the middle of whoops and howls. There was something different, something unfamiliar about him, and the change was disconcerting.

After what seemed like a long time, Nick said quietly, calmly, “Danny Alverez was just a year older than Timmy.” His eyes were focused straight ahead.

Christine looked out at Timmy bouncing down the field, weaving in between the boys that towered over him. He was fast and agile, using his smallness to his advantage. And, yes, she had noticed the resemblance. Timmy looked very much like the school photo they had used in the newspaper of Danny. They both had reddish-blond hair, blue eyes and a sprinkle of freckles. Like Timmy, Danny also was small for his age.

“I just spent the afternoon at the morgue.” His voice startled her back to reality.

“Why?” she asked, pretending not to be interested. She stared at the game, but watched Nick out of the corner of her eye. She had never seen him so serious before.

“Bob Weston called in an expert to help us come up with a profile—Special Agent Maggie O’Dell from Quantico. She got in this morning and was raring to get to work.” He glanced over at Christine, then did a double take when he noticed her scratching down something in her notebook. “Jesus, Christine!” he spat out so suddenly it made her jump. “Isn’t anything off the record with you?”

“If you wanted it off the record, you should have said so.” She watched him rub his hand across his jaw as if she had sucker punched him. “Besides, by tomorrow everyone will know about Agent O’Dell when she starts asking questions. What are you worried about, Nicky? Calling in an expert is a good thing.”

“Is it? Or will it just make me look like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing?” He shot her another look. “Don’t you dare print that.”

“Relax. I’m not the enemy, Nicky.” She noticed the boys doing their victory dance between the required handshakes. The game was over, and it was beginning to get dark. The park lights slowly turned on one by one. “You know, Dad wasn’t afraid to work with the news media.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not Dad.” Now she had made him angry. She knew to stay away from the comparison, but she hated him treating her like an ambulance chaser. Besides, if he didn’t like the comparisons, perhaps he shouldn’t have followed in their father’s footsteps. As usual, she simply sidestepped the subject.

“I’m just saying that Dad knew how to use the media to help.”

“To help?” Nick asked incredulously, his voice rising above the cheering in front of them. He quickly looked around, realizing he was too loud. He lowered his voice again and leaned toward her. “Dad used the news media because he loved being in the limelight. There were so many leaks, it’s amazing they ever caught Jeffreys.”

“What leaks? What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” he said, glancing at her notebook.

Christine rolled her eyes at him, wondering if he was just baiting her now.

“But they did catch Jeffreys, and Dad solved the case,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, they did catch Jeffreys, and good ole Dad took all the credit.”

“Nicky, no one’s asking you to fill Dad’s shoes. You always take that on yourself.” Okay, there it was. A slip, an innocent slip. She watched his face, waiting.

Instead, he simply shook his head. A frustrated smile caught at the corner of his mouth as if he thought she couldn’t possibly understand.

“Haven’t you ever wondered …” He hesitated, looking out at the field, his thoughts far away. “Didn’t you ever think it happened all too quickly … too neat and convenient?”

“What are you talking about?”

This wasn’t the response she expected. The night air was chilly, and Christine felt a shiver down her back. She rubbed her arms and tried to look into her brother’s eyes. He was starting to scare her with his anger and his hushed manner. Normally, he joked around and never took anything too seriously, even their sibling banter. Had the mention of their father brought all this on? No, it was something else. What did he know? What was it that had her arrogant, confident little brother so spooked?

“Nicky, what do you mean?” she tried again.

“Forget it,” he said, standing up and stretching, closing the subject.

“Uncle Nick, Uncle Nick! Did you see me score?” Timmy yelled as he ran up the bleachers, carefully watching his small feet the whole way up.

“You bet I did,” Nick lied.

She watched as Nick’s entire face changed, relaxing into a smile as he snatched her small son up into his long arms, wrestling him in close for a hug.

Christine knew her brother was hiding something, and she was going to find out what it was.

CHAPTER 14

He drove around the park again, this time slowly. The game was finally over. He pulled into a parking space far from the other cars, alone in the corner of the lot. He turned off the headlights and sat watching, listening to the music and waiting for the jerky strings of Vivaldi to smooth out and silence the throbbing in his temples.

It was happening again and so soon. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control it. And worse, he didn’t want to. He was so tired. He tried to remember when he had last slept through an entire night, instead of pacing or wandering the streets. He rubbed his eyes, wiping at the exhaustion, then stopped suddenly. His fingers were trembling beyond his control.

“Dear God, make it stop,” he whispered as he tore at the hair at his temples. Why wouldn’t it stop? The throbbing, the pounding made his head ache.

He watched the group of boys in grass-stained uniforms. They looked so happy, fresh from their victory, arms crossing around one another, hands patting each other on the back. They touched so carelessly, so casually. Their singsong voices grew loud as they approached, drowning out Vivaldi with lyrics of gibberish.

The memory came flooding back to him, paralyzing him and pinning him to the stiff leather of the car seat. He was eleven years old and his stepfather had made him join the Little League team, bargaining with the coach to get him out of the house on Saturday mornings. He knew it was only because his stepfather wanted to fuck his mother all morning.

He had accidentally walked in on them the Saturday before, only because they were out of milk. The memory washed over him—powerful despite the years. So clear, so vivid he grabbed the steering wheel to brace himself.

He stood in the doorway of his mother’s bedroom, paralyzed by the sight of his mother’s skin, white and naked with the silver cross swinging between her big breasts. Her breasts wagged back and forth. She held herself up on her hands and knees while his stepfather rode her like a dog in heat.

It was his stepfather who saw him first. He yelled at him, panting and jerking, while his mother’s eyes grew wide in horror. She twisted out from under his stepfather, falling and tumbling off the bed, grabbing for the sheet. It was then that he turned to run. He stumbled down the hall, tripping and falling only once before he got to his room. Just as he began to slam the door, his stepfather crashed through it.

His stepfather was still naked. It was the first time he had seen a grown man’s penis, and it was horrible: huge, stiff and erect, protruding through the thick black hair. His stepfather grabbed him by the neck and shoved his face to the wall.

“You interested in watching or maybe you want some of this.” He could still hear the man’s graveled voice, out of breath and panting in his ear.

He stood perfectly still. He couldn’t breathe. His stepfather’s fingers strangled his neck with one hand while he ripped his pajama pants with the other. His mother screamed and pounded her fists against his locked door. Then he felt it. The intense pressure, the pain so stifling he thought his insides would explode. He kept quiet and still, though he wanted to scream. His cheek scraped against the rough texture of the bedroom wall. All he could do was stare at the crucifix hanging next to his face, while he waited for his stepfather to stop slamming into his small body.

A car’s horn blasted. He jumped and clutched the steering wheel even harder. His palms were sweaty, his fingers still trembling. He watched the boys getting into the cars and vans with their parents. How many of them were hiding secrets like his own? How many of them hid their bruises and scars? How many waited for some sort of relief, some sort of salvation from their misery? From their torture?

Then he saw the small boy waving to the others as he started up the sidewalk. He watched to see if anyone would join the boy tonight, or if he would walk home alone as he usually did.

It was starting to get dark. Several street lights blinked on. He listened to the gravel grind beneath the cars as they pulled out and drove off. Headlights flicked on and blinded him as they turned to leave. No one noticed him. No one took extra time to look his way. Those who recognized him smiled and waved, for there was nothing unusual about him taking in a neighborhood soccer game.

Half a block away, the boy still walked alone, tossing the soccer ball from one hand to the other. He looked thin and small in his baggy uniform, so very vulnerable. The boy practically skipped, regardless of no one showing up to watch him play. Perhaps he had grown accustomed to his loneliness.

The last car left the parking lot. He silenced Vivaldi in the middle of The Four Seasons: Autumn. Without looking, his fingers found the small, glass vial from inside the glove compartment. Expertly, he cracked the vial and let it dampen the brilliant white handkerchief. He wished the extra precautions were not necessary, but he had been reckless with Danny. He grabbed the black ski mask and got out of the car, gently closing the door. Immediately, he noticed that his hands were no longer trembling. Yes, he was finally feeling back in control. Then he followed quietly up the sidewalk.

CHAPTER 15

Monday, October 27

Maggie poured the rest of the Scotch from the small bottle to the plastic cup. The ice cubes cracked and tinkled against each other. She took a sip, closed her eyes and welcomed the lovely sting sliding down her throat. Lately, she worried that she had acquired her mother’s taste for alcohol, or worse, her addiction to the pleasant numbness promised by the sacred liquid.

She rubbed her eyes and glanced at the cheap clock radio across the room on the nightstand. It was after two in the morning, and she couldn’t sleep. The dim table lamp gave her a headache. It was probably the Scotch, but she made a note to ask the hotel clerk for a brighter light.

The small tabletop was covered with the Polaroid photos she had taken earlier. She attempted to put them in chronological order—hands tied, neck strangled then slashed, puncture wounds. This madman was methodical. He took his time. He cut, sliced and peeled back skin with frightening precision.

Even the jagged X followed a specific diagonal from shoulder blade to belly button.

She scattered two file folders full of police reports and newspaper clippings. There were enough gory details to provide nightmares for a lifetime. Except it was impossible to have nightmares if you couldn’t sleep.

She pulled her bare legs up, tucking her feet underneath her in an attempt to make herself comfortable in the hard chair. Her Green Bay Packers jersey had stretched and become misshapen from too many washes. It barely covered her thighs, yet it was still the softest nightshirt she owned. It had become a sort of security blanket that made her feel at home no matter how many miles away. She refused to get rid of it despite Greg’s constant complaints.

She looked at the clock again. She should have called Greg when she had gotten back to the hotel. Now it was too late. Perhaps it was just as well. They both needed some cooling-down time.

She sifted through the scattered papers and examined her notes, several pages of details, small observations, some that would probably seem insignificant to anyone else. Eventually, she would pull them all together and create a profile of the killer. She had done it many times before. Sometimes she could describe the killer right down to height, hair color and, in one case, even his aftershave lotion. This time, though, it was more difficult. Partly because the obvious suspect had already been executed. And partly because it was always difficult to crawl inside the sick, disgusting mind of a child killer.

She picked up the silver medallion and chain from the corner of the desk. It resembled the one Danny Alverez had worn. Though this one had been given to Maggie by her father for her first Holy Communion.

“As long as you wear this, God will protect you from any harm,” her father had told her. Though his own, identical medallion had not saved him. She wondered if he had gone into the burning building that night believing it would.

Until a month ago she had worn the medallion faithfully, perhaps out of routine and remembrance of her father rather than out of any sense of spirituality. She had stopped praying the day she watched her father’s casket lowered into the cold, hard earth. At twelve, none of her catechism teachings could explain why God had needed to take her father away.

In fact, she had put aside Catholicism until she joined the forensic lab at Quantico eight years ago. Suddenly, those crude drawings in her Baltimore Catechism of demons with horns and glowing red eyes had made sense. Evil did exist. She had seen it in the eyes of killers. She had seen it in the eyes of Albert Stucky. Ironically, it was that evil that had brought her closer to believing in God again. But it was Albert Stucky who made her wonder whether God simply didn’t care anymore. The night she watched Stucky slaughter two women, Maggie had gone home and removed the medallion from around her neck. And although she couldn’t bring herself to wear it anymore, she still carried it with her.

She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the medal and wondered what Danny Alverez must have felt. What must he have thought when the madman ripped away what the small boy may have seen as his last protection? Like her father, had Danny Alverez put his final breath of faith in a silly metal object?

She clutched the medallion tightly in her fist, pulled back her arm and was ready to fling the worthless charm across the room when a soft tap on the door stopped her. The knock was barely audible. Instinctively, Maggie got to her feet and slipped out her Smith & Wesson .38 revolver from its holster. She padded quietly to the door in bare feet, feeling vulnerable in only the nightshirt and underpants. She gripped the revolver, waiting for its power to remove her sense of vulnerability. Through the peephole she could see Sheriff Morrelli, and the tension slid away from her shoulders. She opened the door, but just enough to look out at him.

“What’s going on, Sheriff?”

“Sorry. I tried to call, but the night desk clerk has been on the phone for over an hour.”

He looked exhausted, his blue eyes swollen and red, his short hair sticking up out of place and his face still unshaved. His shirt was untucked, the tails hanging out over his jeans and peeking out from under his denim jacket. She noticed that several of the top buttons were missing, and his twisted collar was open, exposing wisps of dark curly hair. Immediately, she looked away, annoyed with herself for noticing this last detail.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Another boy’s missing,” he said, swallowing hard as if it was difficult to get the words out.

“That’s impossible,” she said, but knew, in fact, that it wasn’t. Albert Stucky had taken his fourth victim less than an hour after his third victim was discovered. The beautiful, blond coed had been sliced in pieces, some of which were stuffed in takeout boxes and discarded in the Dumpster behind a restaurant Stucky had eaten at earlier that evening.

“I’ve got men going door-to-door in the neighborhood and searching alleys, parks, fields.” He rubbed his hand over his exhausted face and scratched his bristled jaw. His eyes were a watery blue. “The kid was walking home from a soccer game. He only had five blocks to walk.” His eyes darted down the hall, avoiding Maggie’s gaze while pretending to make sure no one else was in the deserted hallway.

“Maybe you should come in.”

Maggie held the door open for him. He hesitated, then walked in slowly, staying in the entrance as he glanced around the room. He turned back to Maggie, and his eyes dropped to her legs. She had forgotten about the short nightshirt. He looked up quickly, met her eyes and looked away. He was embarrassed. The charming, flirtatious Morrelli was embarrassed.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?” Another glance, and this time when his eyes found hers, she felt her face grow hot. As nonchalantly as possible, she squeezed past him and went to the dresser.

“No, I was still up.”

She slid her gun back into its holster, opened one of the dresser drawers and started digging for a pair of jeans. Finally, she found a pair and pulled them on while she watched Morrelli pace the small space between the bed and table.

“Did I mention that I tried to call first?”

She looked up in the mirror and caught him watching her. Their eyes met again, this time in the mirror.

“Yes, you did. It’s okay,” she said, struggling with the zipper. “Actually, I was going over my notes.”

“I was at that game,” he said softly, quietly.

“What game?”

“The soccer game. The one the boy was walking home from. My nephew played. Jesus, Timmy probably knows this kid.” He continued to pace the room, making the space seem even smaller with his long strides.

“Are you sure the boy didn’t go home with a friend?”

“We called other parents. His friends remember seeing him start walking up the sidewalk toward home. And we found his soccer ball. It’s autographed by some famous soccer player. His mom says it’s one of his most prized possessions. She insists he wouldn’t have just left it.”

He scraped a sleeve across his face. Maggie recognized the panic in his eyes. He wasn’t prepared to handle a situation like this. She wondered what experience he had in crisis management. She sighed and raked her fingers through her tangled hair. Already she regretted that it would be up to her to keep him focused.

“Sheriff, maybe you should sit down.”

“Bob Weston suggested I compile a list of pedophiles and known sex offenders. Do I start hauling them in for questioning?

Can you give me any idea who I should be looking for?” He glanced over the papers spread out on the table in one of his passes.

“Sheriff Morrelli, why don’t you sit down?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“No, I insist.” She reached up and grabbed him by the shoulders, gently shoving him into a chair behind the table. He looked as though he’d stand up again, thought better of it, then stretched out his long legs.

“Did you have any suspects at all when the Alverez boy was taken?” Maggie asked.

“Just one. His father. His parents are divorced. The father was refused custody and visitation because of his drinking and abusiveness. We were never able to track him down. Hell, the air force can’t even find him. He was a major at the base, but went AWOL two months ago. He ran off with a sixteen-year-old girl he met over the Internet.”

She found herself pacing as she listened. Perhaps it had been a mistake to make him sit. Now that he gave her his full attention it dismantled her thought process. She rubbed her eyes, realizing how exhausted she was. How long could a person function without sufficient sleep?

“Have you made any progress in tracking him down?”

“We stopped.”

“What do you mean you stopped?”

“After we found Danny’s body, Weston said it couldn’t be the father. That a father wouldn’t be able to do that to his own son.”

“I’ve seen what fathers can do to their sons. I remember a case three, no, four years ago where a father buried his six-year-old son in a box. He dug a hole in the backyard and left just a small airhole with a piece of rubber hose. It was punishment for something stupid. I can’t even remember now what the kid had done. After several days of rain, he couldn’t find the air hole. Instead of digging up his entire backyard, he tried to make it look like a kidnapping. The wife went along with his crazy scheme. She probably didn’t want to end up in a box of her own. Maybe you should continue searching for Mr. Alverez. Didn’t you say he was abusive?”

“Yeah, the guy’s a real asshole. Beat up regularly on his wife and Danny, even after the divorce. She’s had a half-dozen restraining orders out on him. But what possible connection could there be with this boy? I don’t think Matthew Tanner even knew Danny Alverez.”

“There may not be a connection. We don’t know for sure that this boy was taken. He could still show up at a friend’s house. Or he may have run away.”

“Okay.” He sighed, not looking convinced. He slid down farther in the chair to rest his head against the back. “But you don’t really believe he ran away, do you?”

Her eyes searched his. Despite his confusion and panic, he wanted the truth. She decided to level with him.

“No. Probably not,” she said. “I knew the killer would strike again. I just didn’t think it would be this soon.”

“So tell me where to begin. Have you had time to figure out anything about this guy?”

She came around the table and stared at the montage of photos, notes and reports.

“He’s meticulous, in control. He takes his time, not only with the murder, but in cleaning up after himself. Though the cleaning isn’t to hide evidence—it’s part of his ritual. I think he may have done this before.” She fingered through her notes. “He’s definitely not young and immature,” she continued. “There was no sign of struggle at the site, so the victim was tied beforehand. That means he has to be strong enough to carry a seventy-to-eighty-pound boy at least three hundred to five hundred yards. I’m guessing he’s in his thirties, about six feet tall, two hundred pounds. He’s white. He’s educated and he’s intelligent.”

At some point during her description, Morrelli sat up, suddenly alert and interested in the mess she poked through.

“Remember at the hospital after I examined the Alverez boy, I told you he may have given the boy last rites? That would mean the killer’s Catholic, maybe not practicing, but his Catholic guilt is still strong. Strong enough that he’s bothered by a medallion in the shape of a cross, so he rips it off. He performs extreme unction, perhaps to atone for his sin. You might check to see whether this boy, Matthew Tanner,” she said, looking at Nick to make certain she had the name right. When he nodded, she continued, “if he belonged to the same church as the Alverez boy.”

“Right offhand, I’d say it’s unlikely,” Nick said. “Danny went to school and church out by the base. The Tanner house is only a few blocks from St. Margaret’s, unless the Tanners aren’t Catholic.”

“Chances are, the killer doesn’t even know the boys.” Maggie started pacing again. “It could be he simply looks for easy targets, boys out alone, with no one else around. I do think he may still be connected somehow to a Catholic church, and quite possibly in this area. Odd as it might seem, these guys don’t often stray too far from their own familiar territory.”

“He sounds like a real sicko. You said he may have done this before. Is it possible he may have a record? Maybe child abuse or sexual molestation? Maybe even beating up a gay lover?”

“You’re assuming he’s gay or that he’s a pedophile?”

“An adult male who does this to little boys—isn’t that a safe assumption?”

“No, not at all. He may be worried that he is, or he may have homosexual tendencies, but no, I don’t think he’s gay, nor do I believe he’s a pedophile.”

“And you can tell all that just from the evidence we’ve found?”

“No. I’m guessing that from the evidence we haven’t found. The victim didn’t appear to be sexually abused. There were no traces of semen in the mouth or rectum, though he may have washed it off. There were no signs of any penetration, no indication of sexual stimulation. Even with Jeffreys’ victims, only one—Bobby Wilson,” she said, checking her notes. “Only the Wilson boy showed signs of sexual abuse and those seemed very obvious. Multiple penetration, lots of tearing and bruising.”

“Wait a minute. If this guy is only copying Jeffreys, how can we be sure any of what he does is an indication of who he is?”

“Copycats choose murders that often play out their own fantasies. Sometimes they add their individual touches. I can’t find any indications that Jeffreys gave his victims last rites, though it could easily have been overlooked.”

“I do know he asked for a priest to hear his confession before he was executed.”

“How do you know that?” She looked down at him, only then realizing she was half sitting on the chair’s armrest. Her thigh rubbed against Morrelli’s arm. She stood up. Perhaps a bit too suddenly. He didn’t seem to notice.

“You probably know that my dad was the sheriff who brought in Jeffreys. Well, he had a front-row seat at the execution.”

“Is it possible to ask him some questions?”

“He and my mom bought an RV a few years ago. They travel year-round. They check in from time to time, but I don’t know how to get ahold of them. I’m sure once they hear about this, he’ll be in touch, but it may take a while.”

“I wonder if it’s possible to track down the priest?”

“No problem. Father Francis is still here at St. Margaret’s. Though I don’t know what help he could be. It’s not likely he’ll share Jeffreys’ confession.”

“I’d still like to talk to him. Then we better talk to the Tanners. You’ve obviously met them already?”

“His mom. Matthew’s parents are divorced.”

Maggie stared at him, then began digging through her files.

“What is it?” Nick leaned forward, almost touching her side.

She found what she was looking for, flipped through the pages, then stopped. “All three of Jeffreys’ victims came from single-parent households. Mothers raising their sons alone.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means there may be nothing random about how he picks his victims. I was wrong about him waiting to simply find a boy alone. He chooses each one very carefully. You said the Alverez boy left his bike and newspapers against a fence somewhere?”

“Right. He hadn’t even started his route yet.”

“And there was no sign of a struggle?”

“None. It looked like he carefully parked his bike and got in with this guy. That’s why we thought it might be someone he knew. These kids are small-town kids, but they still know the drill. I just don’t think Danny would get into a stranger’s vehicle.”

“Unless he thought it was someone he could trust.”

Maggie could see Morrelli growing more and more concerned. She recognized the panic, that look on people’s faces when they realized the killer could be someone in their community.

“What do mean? Like someone who pretended to know him or his mom?”

“Perhaps. Or someone who looked official, maybe even wearing a uniform.” Maggie had seen it dozens of times before. No one seemed to question whether a person in uniform actually belonged in the uniform.

“Maybe a military uniform like his dad’s?” Nick asked.

“Or a white lab coat, or even a police officer’s uniform.”

CHAPTER 16

Timmy slid against the wall until he was sitting on the floor, watching the bathroom door. He had to pee but knew better than to interrupt his mom. If he knocked, she would insist he come in and take care of business while she finished her makeup. He was getting too old to pee with his mom in the same room.

He listened to her singing and decided to retie his tennis shoes. The crack in the sole had spread. Soon he’d need to ask for new ones, even though his mom couldn’t afford them. He had overheard her on the phone with his dad and knew his dad hadn’t sent them any of the money the court had said he was supposed to send each month.

It was something from The Little Mermaid—that’s what his mom was singing. Her Jamaican accent needed help, even though she had watched that movie almost as many times as he had watched Star Wars. The phone started ringing. She would never be able to hear it down “under the sea.” He scrambled to his feet to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Timmy? This is Mrs. Calloway—Chad’s mom. Is your mom there?”

He almost blurted out that Chad had hit him first. If Chad said it was the other way around, he was lying. Instead, he said, “Just a minute. I’ll get her.”

Chad Calloway was a bully, but if Timmy had told his mom that Chad had purposely inflicted the bruises, she would have most definitely made him quit soccer. And now the bully had probably lied about his own bruises.

Timmy knocked softly on the bathroom door. If she didn’t answer, he’d have to tell Mrs. Calloway that his mom couldn’t come to the phone right now. The door, however, clicked and opened. His heart sank down to his cracked shoes.

“Was that the phone?” She came out smelling good and bringing a trail of perfume with her.

“It’s Mrs. Calloway.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Calloway, Chad’s mom.”

She squinted at him, her eyebrows raised as she waited for more.

“I don’t know what she wants.” He shrugged and followed her to the phone even though he still had to pee, more than ever now.

“This is Christine Hamilton. Yes, of course.” She spun around to Timmy and mouthed, “Calloway?”

“She’s Chad’s mom,” he whispered. She never listened to him.

“Yes, you’re Chad’s mom.”

He couldn’t tell what Mrs. Calloway was telling his mom. She paced as she normally did while on the phone, nodding though the other person couldn’t see her. Her answers were short. A couple of “uh-huhs” and one “oh, sure.”

Then suddenly, she stopped and gripped the phone. Here it was. He needed to prepare his story. Wait a minute. He didn’t need a story. The truth was, Chad had picked on him. No, beat the shit out of him was more accurate. And for no real reason, other than he liked it.

“Thank you for calling, Mrs. Calloway.”

His mom hung up the phone and stared out the window. He couldn’t tell whether she was angry. She couldn’t make him quit soccer. He was ready to spit out his defense when she turned and beat him to it.

“Timmy, one of your teammates is missing.”

“What?”

“Matthew Tanner never came home last night after the soccer game.”

So it had nothing to do with Chad?

“Some of the other soccer parents are meeting at the Tanner house this morning to help out.”

“Is Matthew in trouble? Why didn’t he go home?” He hoped he didn’t sound relieved, but in fact, he was.

“Now, I don’t want you to worry, Timmy, but do you remember my articles about that boy, Danny Alverez?”

He nodded. How could he not remember? She had sent him out yesterday morning to buy five extra copies of the newspaper, even though she could have had as many copies as she wanted from work.

“Well, we don’t know for sure yet, so I don’t want you to get scared, but the man who took Danny may have taken Matthew.”

His mom looked worried. Those lines around her mouth showed up every time she frowned.

“Go use the bathroom, and I’ll take you to school. I don’t want you walking today.”

“Okay.” He raced back to the bathroom. Poor Matthew, he found himself thinking. Too bad Chad couldn’t have been the one taken, instead.

CHAPTER 17

Christine couldn’t believe her luck, though she tried to contain her excitement. While Timmy had been in the bathroom, she had called Taylor Corby, the news editor, her new boss. They had talked several times over the weekend by phone, and, although they had never met, Christine knew exactly who he was. Her co-workers in the “Living Today” section called Corby a news nerd. He wore funky wire-rimmed glasses and seemed to own only black trousers and white oxford shirts, which he decorated with different Looney Tunes ties. To make matters worse, he rode a bicycle even in the winter—and not because he couldn’t afford a car, but simply because he wanted to.

This morning when she told him about Matthew Tanner, Corby quietly listened.

“Christine, you know what that means?”

It was easy to understand why he had chosen print instead of broadcast journalism. His voice never changed, showed no emotion. And regardless of his choice of words, it was sometimes difficult to tell whether he was excited, bored or simply disinterested. “If you have copy for this evening’s paper, we will have scooped the other media three days in a row.”

“I still need to convince Mrs. Tanner to let me interview her.”

“Interview or not, you already have enough for a great story. Just make sure you substantiate your facts.”

“Of course.”

Now, Christine looked over at her son, knowing he must be worried about his friend. He had made no fuss about her driving him to school and had sat most of the trip in silence. She turned the corner to the school and immediately slammed on the brakes. A line of cars extended to the corner as parents pulled in front of the school to drop off their children. On the sidewalks, parents walked alongside their kids. Every intersection in view had adult crossing guards accompanying their smaller charges.

A horn behind them blasted, making both Christine and Timmy jump. She inched the car forward, getting in line.

“What’s going on, Mom?” Timmy snapped out of his seat belt so he could sit on his feet, allowing a view over the dash.

“Parents are just making sure their kids get to school okay.” Some of the parents looked frantic, scurrying along with one hand on a shoulder, an arm, a back, as though the extra contact would add protection.

“Because of Matthew?”

“We don’t know what’s happened to Matthew yet. He may have just gotten upset and run away from home. You shouldn’t say anything about Matthew.” She shouldn’t have told Timmy about Matthew. Though she had promised to be open and honest with her son after Bruce left, this was not something she should have shared with him. Besides, very few people even knew about Matthew. This panic was in response to her articles. Just the mention of Ronald Jeffreys invoked a protectiveness in parents. This was the same panic parents had displayed when Jeffreys had been on the prowl.

Christine recognized Richard Melzer from KRAP radio.

He hurried up the sidewalk in his trench coat, carrying his briefcase and holding the hand of a small blond girl, his daughter no doubt. Christine needed to get to Michelle Tanner’s as soon as possible. It wouldn’t be long before others found out about Matthew.

The line moved along at a crawl, and she searched for an opening. Perhaps she could just let Timmy out here. She knew he wouldn’t mind, except everyone would notice.

“Mom?”

“Timmy, we’re moving as fast as possible.”

“Mom, I’m pretty sure Matthew wouldn’t just run away from home.”

She glanced at her small son perched on his feet, watching the unusual parade outside his window. His hair stuck up where he had plastered down the cowlick. The sprinkle of freckles only made his skin more pale. When had this little boy grown so wise? She should have felt proud, yet this morning it made her a little sad that she could no longer preserve his innocence.

CHAPTER 18

Brightly colored stained-glass figures stared down from their heavenly perch. The scent of burning incense and candle wax filled Maggie’s nostrils. Why was it that being inside of a Catholic church always made her feel as if she was twelve again? Immediately, she thought of the black bra and panties she wore—too much lace, an inappropriate color. The butt of her gun stabbed into her side. She reached inside her jacket and readjusted the shoulder strap. Should she even be carrying a gun inside a church? Of course, she was being ridiculous.

She glanced over her shoulder as if expecting to see a casket being rolled up the aisle behind them. She could still hear the click-clack of rollers, the soft tap of a dozen leather shoes marching in unison along with her father’s casket. When she looked up, Morrelli was watching her, waiting for her at the altar.

“Everything okay?”

He had left her hotel room at five o’clock to go home, shower, shave and change clothes. When he arrived two hours later to pick her up, she hardly recognized him. His short hair was neatly combed back. His face was clean-shaven, and the white scar on his chin—even more pronounced—added a rugged edge to his good looks. Underneath his denim jacket he wore a white shirt and black tie with crisp blue jeans and shiny black cowboy boots. It was a stretch from the customary brown uniforms the rest of his department wore, but he still looked official. Perhaps it was simply the way he carried himself, straight and tall, self-assured with long, confident strides.

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