her for hours, touching her, running his hands along her smooth skin, his fingers through her hair. He simply wanted to get lost in her for a very long time.
Jesus, where in the world was this coining from? He dug his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, feigning exhaustion, when it was really that image he needed to dig out.
“You still think it’s Keller?” he asked, but knew the answer.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just hard for me to realize I’m losing my touch.”
Nick could certainly relate to that.
“Eddie doesn’t fit your profile?”
“The man in that cellar wasn’t some hothead who lost his temper and sliced up little boys. This was a mission for him, a well-thought-out and planned mission. Somehow, I really do think he believes he’s saving these boys.” She stared out the window and avoided looking at him.
He had never asked what had happened in the cellar before he got there. The notes, the game, the references to Albert Stucky- it all seemed so personal. Perhaps he could no longer count on Maggie to be objective.
“What does Timmy say?” She turned to him finally. “Can he identify Eddie?”
“He seemed certain last night, but that was after Eddie chased him down the ridge and grabbed him. Eddie claims he spotted Timmy in the woods and went after him to rescue him. This morning Timmy admitted he never saw the man’s face. But, it can’t all be just coincidence, can it?”
“No, it does sound like you have a case.” She shrugged.
“But do I have a killer?”
Chapter 96
He stuffed his few belongings into the old suitcase. His fingers traced over the suitcase’s fabric, a cheap vinyl that cracked easily. He had lost the combination years ago. Now he simply avoided locking it. Even the handle was a mass of black tape, sticky in summer, hard and scratchy in winter. It was the only thing he had of his mother’s.
He had stolen it out from under his stepfather’s bed the night he ran away from home. Home-that was certainly a misnomer. It had never felt like his home, even less after his mother was gone. Without her, the two-story brick house had become a prison, and he had taken his punishment nightly for almost three weeks before he left.
Even the night of his escape, he had waited until after his stepfather had finished and then collapsed from exhaustion. He had stolen his mother’s suitcase and packed while blood trickled down the insides of his legs. Unlike his mother, he had refused to grow accustomed to his stepfather’s deep, violent thrusts, the fresh tears and old ones not allowed to heal. That night, he had barely been able to walk, but still he had managed somehow to make it the six miles to Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church where Father Daniel had offered refuge.
A similar price had been paid for his room and board, but at least Father Daniel had been kind and gentle and small. There had been no more rips and tears, only the humiliation, which he had accepted as part of his punishment. He was, after all, a murderer. That horrible look still haunted his sleep. That look of utter surprise in his mother’s dead eyes as she lay sprawled on the basement floor, her body twisted and broken.
He slammed the suitcase shut, hoping to slam out the image.
His second murder had been much easier, a stray tomcat Father Daniel had taken in. Unlike himself, the cat had received room and board with no price to pay. Perhaps that alone had been reason enough to kill it. He remembered its warm blood had splattered his hands and face when he slashed its throat.
From then on, each murder had become a spiritual revelation, a sacrificial slaughter. It wasn’t until his second year of seminary that he murdered his first boy, an unsuspecting delivery boy with sad eyes and freckles. The boy had reminded him of himself. So, of course, he needed to kill him, to get the boy out of his misery, to save him, to save himself.
He checked his watch and knew he had plenty of time. He carefully placed the old suitcase by the door, next to the gray and black duffel bag he had packed earlier. Then he glanced at the newspaper folded neatly on his bed, the headline garnering yet another smile: Sheriff’s Deputy Suspected in Boys’ Murders.
How wonderfully easy it had been. He knew the minute he had found Eddie Gillick’s lighter on the floor of the old blue pickup that the slick and arrogant bully would make the perfect patsy. Almost as perfect as Jeffreys had been.
All those evenings of excruciating small talk, playing cards with the egomaniac, had finally paid off. He had pretended to be interested in Gillick’s latest sexual conquest, only to offer forgiveness and absolution when the good deputy finally sobered up. He had pretended to be Gillick’s friend when, in fact, the conceited know-it-all turned his stomach. Gillick’s bragging had also revealed a short temper, mostly targeted at “punk kids” and “cock- teasing sluts” who, according to Gillick, “had it coming.” In many ways, Eddie Gillick reminded him of his stepfather, which would make Gillick’s conviction even sweeter.
And why wouldn’t Gillick be convicted, with his self-destructive behavior and all that damning evidence tucked neatly inside the trunk of the deputy’s very own smashed Chevy? What luck, stumbling across it in the woods like that, making it so easy to stash the fatal evidence. Just like Jeffreys.
He remembered how Ronald Jeffreys had come to him, confessing to Bobby Wilson’s murder. When Jeffreys asked for forgiveness there hadn’t been a shred of remorse in his voice. Jeffreys deserved what had happened to him. And it had been so simple, too. One anonymous phone call to the sheriff’s department and some incriminating evidence was all it had taken.
Yes, Ronald Jeffreys had been the perfect patsy just like Daryl Clemmons. The young seminarian had shared his homosexual fears with him, unknowingly setting himself up for the murder of that poor, defenseless paperboy. That poor boy whose body was found near the river that ran along the seminary. Then there was Randy Maiser, an unfortunate transient, who had come to St. Mary’s Catholic Church seeking refuge. The people of Wood River had been quick to convict the ragged stranger when one of their little boys ended up dead.
Ronald Jeffreys, Daryl Clemmons and Randy Maiser-all of them such perfect patsies. And now, Eddie Gillick could be added to that list.
He glanced at the newspaper again, and his eyes rested on Timmy’s photo. Disappointment clouded his good mood. Though Timmy’s escape had brought a surprising amount of relief, it was that very escape that required his own sudden exodus. How could he continue his day-to-day routine knowing he had failed the boy? And, eventually, Timmy would recognize his eyes, his walk, his guilt. Guilt because lie hadn’t been able to save Timmy Hamilton. Unless…
He grabbed the newspaper and flipped to the inside story of Timmy’s escape and his mother, Christine’s, accident. He scanned the article using his index finger until he noticed the ragged fingernail, bitten to the quick. He tucked his fingers into a fist, ashamed of their appearance. Then he found the paragraph, almost at the end. Yes, Timmy’s estranged father, Bruce, was back in town.
He glanced at his watch again. Poor Timmy and all those bruises. Perhaps somehow, some way, Timmy deserved a second chance at salvation. Surely he could make time for something that important.
Chapter 97
Maggie wanted to tell Nick it was over. That no more little boys would disappear. But even as they went over the case against Eddie Gillick, she couldn’t dislodge that gnawing doubt. Was it possible she was just being stubborn, refusing to believe that she could be so wrong?
She wished the hospital volunteer would be as punctual as she had been perky. How could anyone carry on a serious conversation in these paper-thin gowns? And would it be so much trouble to provide a robe, a sash, anything to prevent a full view of her unprotected backside?
She could see Nick’s eyes exercising extreme caution, but all it took was a few unintentional slips to remind her of how naked she was under the loose garment. Worse yet was that damn tingle that spread over her skin every time his eyes were on her. And that stupid fluttering sensation that teased between her thighs. It was like radar.
