A Perfect Evil

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.