Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [115]
All day he forced himself to listen for voices, for barking dogs or car engines, for church bells or emergency sirens. Other than a distant train whistle and one jet overhead, he had heard nothing. Where in the world was he?
He had even tried yelling until his throat hurt, only to be answered by violent gusts of wind, scolding him. It was much too quiet. Wherever he was, he had the feeling it was far, far away from anyone who could help him.
Something skidded across the floor, a click-click of tiny nails on the wood. His heart pounded and the shivering took over. He flicked on the lighter, but couldn’t see anything. Finally, he gave in. Without leaving the bed, he reached over to the crate and lit the lantern. Immediately its yellow glow filled the room. He should have felt relief. Instead, he curled up again into a tight ball, pulling the covers to his chin. And for the first time since his dad had left town, Timmy allowed himself to cry.
CHAPTER 69
She was smart, despite all the curves. Definitely a worthy adversary. But he wondered how much Special Agent Maggie O’Dell really knew and how much was just a game. It didn’t matter. He enjoyed games. They took his mind off the throbbing.
No one noticed him as he walked down the sterile hallways. Those who did, nodded and scurried past. His presence was accepted here as easily as anywhere in the community. He fit in, though it was here—out in the open—that he wore another mask, one he couldn’t just peel off like rubber.
He took the stairs. Today even the stairwells smelled of ammonia, immaculately scrubbed. It reminded him of his mother, down on her lovely hands and knees, quietly scrubbing the kitchen floor, often at two and three in the morning, while his stepfather had slept. Her delicate hands had turned red and raw from the pressure and harsh liquid. How many times had he silently watched without her knowing? Those stifled sobs and frantic swipes had been spent as though her secret early-morning ritual would somehow clean up the mess she had made of her life.
Now, here he was, so many years later, trying to clean up his own life, scrubbing out the visions of his past with his own secret rituals. How many more killings would be enough to wipe out the image of that sniveling, helpless boy from his childhood?
The door slammed shut behind him. He had been here before and found comfort in the familiar surroundings. Somewhere above, a fan wheezed. Otherwise there was silence, appropriate silence for this temporary tomb.
He snapped on the surgical gloves. Which will it be? Drawer number one, two or three? Perhaps four or five? He chose number three, pulling and wincing at the scrape of metal, but pleased to see he had been correct.
The black body bag looked so small on the long silver bed. He unzipped it carefully, reverently, tucking and folding it to the sides of the small gray body. The coroner’s surgical wounds—precise slices and cuts—disgusted him, as did the puncture marks he, himself, had administered. Matthew’s poor, little body resembled a road map. Matthew, however, was gone—to a much better place. Someplace free of pain and humiliation. Free of loneliness and abandonment. Yes, he had seen to it that Matthew’s eternal rest would be peaceful. He could remain an innocent child forever.
He pulled on rubber gloves and unwrapped the fillet knife, setting it to the side. He needed to destroy the one piece of evidence that could link him to the murders. How careless he had been. How insanely stupid. Maybe it was even too late, but if that were true, Maggie O’Dell would now be reading him his rights.
He unzipped the body bag farther until he could examine Matthew’s small legs. Yes, there it was on the thigh, the purple teeth marks. The result of the demon’s rage inside him. Shame burned down into his stomach, liquid and hot. He moved the boy’s leg and picked up the knife.
Somewhere outside the room and down the hall a door slammed. His hands