Maggie O'Dell 08 - Damaged Read online

  a cognizant v5 release august 27 2010

  ALSO BY ALEX KAVA

  Black Friday

  Exposed

  Whitewash

  A Necessary Evil

  One False Move

  At the Stroke of Madness

  The Soul Catcher

  Split Second

  A Perfect Evil

  TO PHYLLIS GRANN,

  for your patience, your perseverance, and your wisdom.

  Here’s to new beginnings.

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by this Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part 1 - Saturday, August 22

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part 2 - Sunday, August 23

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part 3 - Monday, August 24

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Part 4 - Tuesday, August 25

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Part 5 - Thursday, August 27

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgment

  Copyright

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 22

  CHAPTER 1

  PENSACOLA BAY

  PENSACOLA, FLORIDA

  Elizabeth Bailey didn’t like what she saw. Even now, after their H-65 helicopter came down into a hover less than two hundred feet above the rolling Gulf, the object in the water still looked like a container and certainly not a capsized boat. There were no thrashing arms or legs. No bobbing heads. No one needing to be rescued, as far as she could see. Yet Lieutenant Commander Wilson, their aircrew pilot, insisted they check it out. What he really meant was that Liz would check it out.

  A Coast Guard veteran at only twenty-seven years old, AST3 Liz Bailey knew she had chalked up more rescues in two days over New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina than Wilson had in his entire two-year career. Liz had dropped onto rickety apartment balconies, scraped her knees on wind-battered roofs, and waded through debris-filled water that smelled of raw sewage.

  She dared not mention any of this. It didn’t matter how many search and rescues she’d performed, because at the moment she was the newbie at Air Station Mobile, and she’d need to prove herself all over again. To add insult to injury, within her first week someone had decorated the women’s locker room by plastering downloaded photos of her from a 2005 issue of People magazine. Her superiors insisted that the feature article would be good PR for the Coast Guard, especially when other military and government agencies were taking a beating over their response to Katrina. But in an organization where attention to individual and ego could jeopardize team missions, her unwanted notoriety threatened to be the kiss of death for her career. Four years later, it still followed her around like a curse.

  By comparison, what Wilson was asking probably seemed tame. So what if the floating container might be a fisherman’s cooler washed overboard? What was the harm in checking it out? Except that rescue swimmers were trained to risk their lives in order to save other lives, not to retrieve inanimate objects. In fact, there was an unwritten rule about it. After several swimmers who were asked to haul up bales of drugs tested positive for drug use, apparently from their intimate contact in the water, it was decided the risk to the rescue team was too great. Wilson must have missed that memo.

  Besides, rescue swimmers could also elect not to deploy. In other words, she could tell Lieutenant Commander less-than-a-thousand-flight-hours Wilson that “hell no,” she wasn’t jumping into the rough waters for some fisherman’s discarded catch of the day.

  Wilson turned in his seat to look at her. From the tilt of his square chin he reminded her of a boxer daring a punch. The glint in his eyes pinned her down, his helmet’s visor slid up for greater impact. He didn’t need to say out loud what his body language said for him: “So, Bailey, are you a prima donna or are you a team player?”

  Liz wasn’t stupid. She knew that as one of less than a dozen women rescue swimmers, she was a rare breed. She was used to having to constantly prove herself. She recognized the stakes in the water as well as those in the helicopter. These were the men she’d have to trust to pull her back up when she dangled by a cable seventy feet below, out in the open, over angry seas, sometimes spinning in the wind.

  Liz had learned early on that she was expected to perform a number of complicated balancing acts. While it was necessary to be fiercely independent and capable of working alone, she also understood what the vulnerabilities were. Her life was ultimately in the hands of the crew above. Today and next week and the week after next, it would be these guys. And until they felt like she had truly proven herself, she would continue to be “the rescue swimmer” instead of “our rescue swimmer.”

  Liz kept her hesitation to herself, avoided Wilson’s eyes, and pretended to be more interested in checking out the water below. She simply listened. Inside her helmet, via the ICS (internal communication system), Wilson started relaying their strategy, telling his copilot, Lieutenant Junior Grade Tommy Ellis, and their flight mechanic, AST3 Pete Kesnick, to prepare for a direct deployment using the RS (rescue swimmer) and the basket. He was already reducing their position from two hundred feet to eighty feet.

  “Might just be an empty fishing cooler,” Kesnick said.

  Liz watched him out of the corner of her eyes. Kesnick didn’t like this, either. The senior member of the aircrew, Kesnick had a tanned weathered face with crinkle lines at his eyes and mouth that never changed, never telegraphed whether he was angry or pleased.

  “Or it might be cocaine,” Ellis countered. “They found fifty kilos washed ashore someplace in Texas.”

  “McFaddin Beach,” Wilson filled in. “Sealed and wrapped in thick plastic. Someone missed a drop-off or panicked and tossed it. Could be what we have here.”

  “Then shouldn’t we radio it in and leave it for a cutter to pick up?” Kesnick said as he glanced at Liz. She could tell he was trying to let her know that he’d back her if she elected not to deploy.

  Wilson noticed the glance. “It’s up to you, Bailey. What do you want to do?”

  She still didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t want to
give him the satisfaction of seeing even a hint of her reluctance.

  “We should use the medevac board instead of the basket,” she said. “It’ll be easier to slide it under the container and strap it down.”

  Knowing he was surprised by her response, she simply removed her flight helmet, cutting off communication. If Ellis or Kesnick had something to say about her, she dared them to say it after her attempt at nonchalance.

  She fingered strands of her hair back under her surf cap and strapped on her lightweight Seda helmet. She attached the gunner’s belt to her harness, positioned the quick strop over her shoulders, made sure to keep the friction slide close to the hoist hook. Finished, she moved to the door of the helicopter, squatted in position, and waited for Kesnick’s signal.

  She couldn’t avoid looking at him. They had done this routine at least half a dozen times since she started at the air station. She suspected that Pete Kesnick treated her no differently than he had been treating rescue swimmers for the last fifteen years of his career as a Coastie flight mechanic and hoist operator. Even now, he didn’t second-guess her, though his steel-blue eyes studied her a second longer than usual before he flipped down his visor.

  He tapped her on the chest, the signal for “ready”—two gloved fingers practically at her collarbone. Probably not the same tap he used with male rescue swimmers. Liz didn’t mind. It was a small thing, done out of respect more than anything else.

  She released the gunner’s belt, gave Kesnick a thumbs-up to tell him she was ready. She maintained control over the quick strop as he hoisted her clear of the deck. Then he stopped. Liz readjusted herself as the cable pulled tight. She turned and gave Kesnick another thumbs-up and descended into the rolling waters.

  Without a survivor in the water Liz quickly assessed the situation. The container was huge. By Liz’s estimates, at least forty inches long and twenty inches wide and deep. She recognized the battered white stainless steel as a commercial-grade marine cooler. A frayed tie-down floated from its handle bracket. Frayed, not cut. So maybe its owner hadn’t intended to ditch it, after all. She grabbed the tie-down, which was made of bright yellow-and-blue strands twisted into a half-inch-thick rope, and looped it through her harness to keep the cooler from bobbing away in the rotor wash of the helicopter.

  She signaled Kesnick: her left arm raised, her right arm crossing over her head and touching her left elbow. She was ready for them to deploy the medevac board.

  The bobbing container fought against her, pushing and pulling with each wave, not able to go any farther than the rope attached to her belt allowed. It took two attempts but within fifteen minutes Liz had the fishing cooler attached to the medevac board. She cinched the restraints tight, hooked it to the cable, and raised her arm again, giving a thumbs-up.

  No records broken, but by the time Kesnick hoisted her back into the helicopter, she could tell her crew was pleased. Not impressed, but pleased. It was a small step.

  Lieutenant Commander Wilson still looked impatient. Liz barely caught her breath, but yanked off her Seda helmet, exchanging it for her flight helmet with the communications gear inside. She caught Wilson in the middle of instructing Kesnick to open the latch.

  “Shouldn’t we wait?” Kesnick tried being the diplomat.

  “It’s not locked. Just take a peek.”

  Liz slid out of the way and to the side of the cabin, unbuckling the rest of her gear. She didn’t want any part of this. As far as she was concerned, her job was finished.

  Kesnick paused and at first she thought he would refuse. He moved to her side and pushed back his visor, avoiding her eyes. The child-safety latch slid back without effort but he had to use the palm of his hand to shove the snap lock free. Liz saw him draw in a deep breath before he flung open the lid.

  The first thing Liz noticed was the fish-measuring ruler molded into the lid. It seemed an odd thing to notice but later it would stick in her mind. A fetid smell escaped but it wasn’t rotten fish. More like opening a Dumpster.

  Inside she could see what looked like thick plastic wrap encasing several oblong objects, one large and four smaller. Not the square bundles that might be cocaine.

  “Well?” Wilson asked, trying to glance over his shoulder.

  Kesnick poked at one of the smaller bundles with a gloved finger. It flipped over. The plastic was more transparent on this side and suddenly the content was unmistakable.

  His eyes met Liz’s and now the ever calm, poker-faced Kesnick looked panicked.

  “I think it’s a foot,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I think it’s a goddamn human foot.”

  CHAPTER 2

  NEWBURGH HEIGHTS, VIRGINIA

  Maggie O’Dell peeled off her blouse without undoing the buttons, popping one before it came off. Didn’t matter. The blouse was a goner. Even the best cleaners couldn’t take out this much blood.

  She folded the shirt into a wad and dropped it into her bathroom sink. Something wet was stuck to her neck. She grabbed at it, threw it in the sink.

  Pink. Like clotted cheese.

  She’d been so close. Too close when the fatal shot came. Impossible to get out of the way.

  She swatted at her neck and yanked at her hair, expecting more pieces. Her fingers got stuck in sweaty tangles, damp, sticky. But thank God, no more chunks.

  They hadn’t expected the killer to still be there. The warehouse appeared empty, only remnants of his torture chamber remained, just as Maggie had predicted. Why the hell had he stayed? Or had he come back? To watch.

  Maggie’s boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, had made the fatal shot. And afterward he was already taking it out on Maggie, as if it were her fault, as if she had forced his hand. But there was no way she could have known that the killer was there, hiding in the shadows. No profiler could have predicted that. Kunze couldn’t possibly hold her accountable, and yet she knew he would do exactly that.

  Harvey, her white Lab, grabbed one of her discarded, muddy shoes. Rather than taking it to play he dropped to his belly and started whining, a low guttural moan that tugged at Maggie’s heart.

  “Come on and drop it, Harvey,” she ordered, but instead of scolding, she said it quietly, gently.

  He could smell the blood on her, was already concerned. But the shoe plopped out of his mouth.

  “Sorry, big guy.”

  Maggie swiped the shoe up and placed it in the sink with her soiled blouse. Then she knelt down beside Harvey, petting him. She wanted to hug him but there was still too much blood on her.

  “Wait for me outside, buddy,” she said, leading him out of the huge master bathroom and into her bedroom, telling him to sit where he could see her through the doorway. She scratched behind his ears until he relaxed, waiting for his sigh and his collapse into lay-down position.

  The smell of blood still panicked him. She hated the reminder. With it came the memory of that day she found him, bleeding and cowering under his first owner’s bed, right in the middle of his own bloody ordeal. The dog had fought hard and still had been unsuccessful in protecting his mistress, who had been taken from her house and later murdered.

  “I’m okay,” she reassured him, as she dared to take a good look at herself in the mirror to see if what she said was true.

  It wasn’t so bad. She’d been through worse. And at least this time it wasn’t her own blood.

  Her tangled, dark-auburn hair almost reached her shoulders. She needed to get it trimmed. What a thing to think about. Her eyes were bloodshot but it had nothing to do with this incident. She hadn’t been able to sleep through the night for months now, waking every hour on the hour as if some alarm in her head triggered it. The sleep deprivation was bound to catch up with her.

  She had tried all the recommended remedies. An evening run to exhaust her body. No exercise at all after seven. Soaking in a warm bath. Drinking a glass of wine. When wine didn’t work, warm milk. She tried reciting meditation chants. Cutting out caffeine. Reading. Listeni
ng to CDs of nature sounds. Using new therapeutic pillows. Lighting candles with soothing aromas. Even a little Scotch in the warm milk.

  Nothing worked.

  She hadn’t resorted to sleep meds … yet. As an FBI special agent and profiler she received phone calls in the middle of the night or the early-morning hours that sometimes made it necessary for her to rush to a crime scene. Most of the meds—the good ones—required eight hours of uninterrupted sleep time. Who had that? Certainly not an agent.

  She took a long, hot shower, gently washing. No scrubbing, though that was her first inclination. She avoided watching the drain and what went down. She left her hair damp. Put on a clean, loose-fitting pair of athletic shorts and her University of Virginia T-shirt. After bagging up her clothes—at least those that couldn’t be salvaged—and tossing them in the garbage, Maggie retreated to the great room. Harvey followed close behind.