Split Second Page 13

  “So tell me, Margaret O’Dell, do you enjoy this obsession you have with Albert Stucky?”

  Suddenly she felt a knot in her stomach. Damn it! Leave it to Kernan to cut to the chase, to strike without warning.

  “Of course I don’t enjoy it.”

  “Then why do you continue to obsess?”

  “Because I want him caught.”

  “And you’re the only one who can catch him?”

  “I know him better than anyone else.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Because he shared his little hobby with you. He left you with a little tattoo, a sort of brand to remember him by.”

  She had forgotten how cruel Kernan could be. Yet she couldn’t let him see the anger. That was exactly what he wanted.

  “I spent two years tracking him. That’s why I know him better than anyone else.”

  “I see,” he said, tilting his head. “Then your obsession will end after you catch him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And after he’s punished?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because he must be punished, right?”

  “There is no punishment great enough for someone like Albert Stucky.”

  “Really? Putting him to death won’t be punishment enough?”

  She hesitated, anticipating his trap. “No matter how many women Stucky kills, he can die only once.”

  “Ah, yes, I see. And that wouldn’t be a fitting punishment. What would be?”

  She wouldn’t take his bait.

  “You’d like to see him suffer, wouldn’t you, Margaret O’Dell?”

  Don’t flinch, she told herself. He was waiting for her to slip. He was setting her up, pushing her, forcing her to expose her anger.

  “How would you choose to make him suffer? Pain? Excruciating, drawn-out pain?” He stared at her, waiting. She stared back, refusing to give him what he wanted.

  “No, not pain,” he said finally, as if her eyes had answered for her. “No. You prefer fear, don’t you? You want him to suffer by feeling fear,” he continued in a casual voice with neither accusation nor confrontation. “You want him to experience the same fear, that same sense of helplessness that each of his victims felt. The same fear that you felt when he had you trapped. When his knife was slicing into your skin.”

  He paused, and she felt him examining her. The room had become hot, with very little air.

  “Is that it, Margaret O’Dell? You want to see Mr. Albert Stucky squirm, just like he made you squirm.”

  She hated that he referred to Stucky with the respect of using mister. How dared he?

  “Seeing him squirm in the electric chair isn’t enough for you, is it?” he continued to push.

  Maggie’s fingers started wringing in her lap. Her palms were sweaty. Why was it so damn hot in the room? Her head began to throb.

  “No, the electric chair isn’t appropriate for his crimes, is it? You have a better punishment in mind, don’t you? And how do you propose to administer this punishment, Margaret O’Dell?”

  “By making him look directly at me when I shoot the bastard between his eyes,” she blasted, no longer caring that she had allowed herself to be swallowed whole into Dr. Kernan’s psychological trap.

  32

  TESS McGowan tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were too heavy. She managed a flutter, seeing a flash of light, then darkness. She was sitting up, but the earth was moving beneath her in a low rumble.

  Why couldn’t she move? Her arms were limp, her legs like concrete. But the only restraint was across her shoulder, across her lap. She was buckled into a car. That explained the movement, the muffled sounds. It didn’t explain why she couldn’t open her eyes.

  She tried again. Another flutter. Headlights flickered before her eyelids fell closed. It was night. How could it be night? It had just been morning. Hadn’t it?

  She leaned against the headrest. She smelled jasmine, just a hint, soft and subtle. Yes, a few days ago she had bought a new sachet and stuck it under the passenger seat. So she was in her own car. The notion calmed her until she realized that if she wasn’t driving, someone else was here with her. Had she gone out drinking again? Oh, dear God! Had she picked up another stranger?

  She could hear someone breathing. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. There was a slight groan but even that hadn’t come from her. Then the car began to slow, followed by a faint electric buzz. Tess smelled fresh tar and knew the window had opened. The car stopped, but the engine continued to hum. Fumes told her they were stalled in traffic. She tried once again to open her eyes.

  “Good evening, Officer,” a deep voice said next to her. Was it Daniel? The voice sounded familiar.

  “Good evening,” another voice bellowed. “Oh, sorry,” came a whisper. “Didn’t see your wife sleeping.”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  Yes, Tess wanted to know, too. What was the problem? Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she open her eyes? What wife was sleeping?

  “We’ve got an accident we’re cleaning up on the other side of the toll bridge. Be just a minute or two. Then we’ll let you through.”

  “No hurry,” the voice said calmly.

  No. It wasn’t Daniel. Daniel was always in a hurry. He’d be making the officer understand how important he was. He’d be causing a scene.

  A flutter of panic crawled over her. “No hurry”? Yes, the voice was familiar.

  She began to remember.

  “You smell quite lovely,” that same voice had told her. It came to her in pieces. The house on Archer Drive. “I hope you’re not offended.”

  He wanted to see her face. “It’s really quite painless.” No, he wanted to feel her face. His fingers on her hair, her cheeks, her neck. Then wrapping those hands around her throat, tight and hard, the muscles squeezing. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Dark eyes. And a smile. Yes, he had smiled while his fingers squeezed and wrung her neck. It hurt. Stop it. It hurt so bad. Her head hurt, and she could hear the smack of it against the wall. She fought with fists and fingernails. God, he was strong.

  Then a prick of the needle as it sank into her arm. The rush of heat that flowed through her veins. She remembered the room spinning.

  Now she tried to raise that same arm. It wouldn’t move, but it ached. What had he given her? Who the hell was he? Where was he taking her? Even the fear felt trapped, a lump caught inside her throat, straining to be set free. She couldn’t kick or run. She couldn’t even scream.

  33

  MAGGIE had gone straight home after her meeting with Kernan. Meeting? That was a joke. What kind of psychologist left his patients wanting to slam fists through walls?

  She noticed her bags at the bottom of the staircase, still packed from her Kansas City trip. Boxes remained stacked in the corners. Her nerves felt as if they had been rubbed raw. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten. It had probably been on the flight last night.

  She considered changing and going for a run. It was getting dark but that had never stopped her before. No, what did stop her was knowing Stucky could be watching. Had he returned from Kansas? Was he out there somewhere, watching?

  She hated feeling like a caged animal in her own home. Other than the clicking of her heels on the polished wood floor, Maggie heard nothing. But wasn’t the peace and quiet exactly what she longed for when she bought this house? What was that old saying—be careful what you wish for?

  She unearthed her CD player, an inexpensive oversize boom box. She dug through the overflowing box of CDs. Finally she decided on an early Jim Brickman, hoping the piano solos would soothe her agitated insides. The music barely began, when Maggie noticed Susan Lyndell on the drive. It looked as though there would be no stress relief.

  She opened the door before Susan made it up the steps. Her eyes darted everywhere but at Susan, checking, double-checking.

  “How was your trip?” Susan asked as though they were old friends.

  “It was fine.�
� Maggie grabbed the woman’s elbow gently and urged her into the foyer.

  Susan stared at her, surprised. On her first visit Maggie had barely let the woman through the door, and now she was pulling her in.

  “I got back late last night,” Maggie continued, closing the door. All she could think about was Stucky watching, choosing his next victim.

  “I tried to call but you’re not listed yet.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said with finality. “Did you speak with Detective Manx?”

  “Actually, that’s what I wanted to tell you. I think I was mistaken about what we discussed the other day.”

  “Why do think you were mistaken?” Maggie waited while her neighbor glanced around at her stacked cartons, probably wondering how she could ever afford such a house.

  “I spoke with Sid,” Susan told her, though she still seemed distracted by Maggie’s things, or rather her lack of things.

  “Mr. Endicott? What exactly did you speak to him about?”

  “Sid’s a good man. I hate to see him going through this alone. I felt he had a right to know…about Rachel and that man.”

  “The telephone repairman?”

  “Yes.” Now Susan wouldn’t meet Maggie’s eyes, but it had nothing to do with the surroundings.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Just that quite possibly she may have left with him.”

  “I see.” She wondered why Susan could so easily betray her friend. And why was it suddenly so easy to believe Rachel had left with some stranger who, only days ago, Susan thought might hurt her friend? “And what did Mr. Endicott say?”

  “Oh, maybe you haven’t heard. Rachel’s car wasn’t in the garage. The police initially saw Sid’s Mercedes and didn’t realize that Rachel’s was gone. She usually drives Sid to the airport when he goes out of town so he won’t need to leave the car in airport parking. Sid’s always worried about his car. Anyway, I think Rachel must have taken off with this guy. She was certainly infatuated by him.”

  “What about the dog?”

  “The dog?”

  “We found her dog stabbed…injured under the bed.”

  “I have no idea about that.” Susan shrugged as if she couldn’t be expected to figure out everything.

  Maggie’s phone started ringing from inside her jacket. She hesitated. Susan waved a birdlike hand at her to go ahead. “I won’t keep you. Just wanted to fill you in.” Before Maggie could protest, her neighbor was out the door, almost skipping down the driveway. She definitely didn’t seem like the same anxious woman she had met a few days ago.

  Maggie closed the door and took time to activate the alarm system while the phone continued to ring. Finished, she twisted it out of her pocket.

  “Maggie O’Dell.”

  “Jesus, finally. You need a better cell phone, Maggie. I think your battery must be low again.”

  Immediately, Maggie felt the tension return to her neck and shoulders. Greg’s greetings always sounded like scoldings.

  “My phone’s been off. I’ve been out of town. You got my message.”

  “You should have some sort of messaging service,” he persisted.

  “Greg, did I leave a carton at the condo?”

  “No, there’s nothing here. You do realize that none of this would have happened if you had used United?”

  Maggie ignored his I-told-you-so. “Are you sure? Look, I don’t care if you’ve opened it or if you’ve gone through it.”

  “Listen to you. You don’t trust or believe anybody anymore. Can’t you see what this goddamn job is doing to you?” Why did he have to make this so difficult?

  “Did you check in the basement?” she asked, knowing there was no way it had ended up there, but giving him one last chance for a way out if he had, indeed, opened the box.

  “No, there’s nothing. What was in it? One of your precious guns? Are you not able to sleep at night without one?”

  “Would you just call me if the carton shows up?”

  “It’s not here.”

  “Okay, fine. Goodbye.”

  The doorbell chimed, and she was grabbing for her revolver before she even realized it. Jesus! Maybe Greg was right. She did live in a paranoid world.

  Beside a lamppost, she could see a van with Riley’s Veterinary Clinic on the side. A man in white overalls and a baseball cap stood on the portico. Sitting patiently beside him was a white Labrador. Maggie recognized it as the dog she had helped rescue from the Endicotts’ house. Nevertheless, she examined the man, making certain this wasn’t a disguise. Finally she decided he was too short to be Stucky.

  “The Endicotts live farther down the street,” she said as soon as she opened the door.

  “I know that,” the man snapped. “Mr. Endicott refuses to take the dog.”

  “Is that what he said?” Maggie thought the idea incredible after what the dog had been through.

  “Well, his exact words were, it’s his wife’s frickin’ dog and if she took off and left the stupid dog, then he doesn’t want him either.”

  “I’m not sure what you expect me to do. I don’t think my talking to Mr. Endicott will change his mind. I don’t even know the man.”

  “Your name and address is on the release form you signed when you brought in the dog. Detective Manx told us to leave the dog with you.”

  “He did, did he?” Of all the nerve. “And what if I refuse to take him?”

  “I have orders from Mr. Endicott to take him to the pound.”

  Maggie looked at the dog again, and as if on cue he stared up at her with sad, pathetic brown eyes. Damn it! What did she know about taking care of a dog? She wasn’t home enough to take care of a dog. She couldn’t have a dog. Greg was allergic to dogs and cats, or so he had said once. Allergic or not, she knew he would never have been able to tolerate anything with four paws climbing on his precious furniture. Suddenly Maggie realized that seemed like a good enough reason.

  “What’s his name?” she asked as she took the dog’s leash.

  “It’s Harvey.”

  34

  MAGGIE was surprised to find that Tully had managed to make her old office look smaller than it was. Books that didn’t fit in the bookcase formed leaning towers in the corner. A chair intended for visitors was hidden under stacks of newspapers. The in-tray was crushed under a pile of documents and folders. One lone mug teetered on a stack of legal pads and computer manuals. Peeking from behind the door, Maggie glimpsed running gear where normal people hung a coat.

  The only thing in the office that held some prominence was a photo in a cheap frame that sat on the desk. Maggie immediately recognized Tully, though the photo appeared to be several years old. The little blond girl had his eyes, but otherwise looked exactly like a younger version of her mother. The three of them looked genuinely happy.

  Agent Tully came in carrying two cartons, stacked so that he peered around the sides of them. Maggie helped him find a clear spot and unload his arms.

  “I think these are the last of the old case files.”

  She wanted to tell him that every last copy she had made for herself had fit nicely into one box, but she was anxious to see what had been added to the case in the past five months. She stood back and allowed Agent Tully to sort through the mess.

  “May I see the most recent file?”

  “I have the delivery girl on my desk.” He jumped up from his squatting position and quickly riffled through several piles on his desk. “The Kansas City case is here, too. They’ve been faxing us stuff.”

  Maggie resisted the urge to help. She wanted to grab all his piles and make order of them. How the hell did this guy get anything done?

  “Here’s the file on the delivery girl.”

  He handed her a bulging folder with papers and photos sticking out at odd angles.

  “Is it okay if we use her name when we refer to her?”

  “Of course,” he said, grabbing another folder and shuffling through it.

  Now he was a bit flus
tered, and Maggie knew he didn’t know the girl’s name without looking. It wasn’t a matter of disrespect. It helped to disconnect. Profilers often referred to a body simply as “the victim.” Now it suddenly seemed important to Maggie to know this girl’s name. This beautiful young blond woman who had been so cheerful when she had delivered Maggie’s pizza less than a week ago. And who was now dead simply because she had done so.

  “Jessica,” Tully finally blurted out. “Her name was Jessica Beckwith.”

  Maggie realized she could have found the girl’s name just as easily. The top document was the autopsy report, and the girl had already been identified at that point. She tried not to think of the parents.

  “Any trace recovered at the scene that could be used for DNA testing?”

  “Nothing substantial. Some fingerprints, but they aren’t matching Stucky’s. Weird thing is, everything looked wiped clean except for this set of fingerprints—one index, one thumb. Chances are they belong to a rookie cop who touched stuff he wasn’t supposed to touch and now he’s afraid to admit it.”

  “The weapon was not retrieved. Is that right?”

  “Correct. Looks to be very thin, razor sharp and single edged. I’m thinking maybe even a scalpel, from the way he’s able to slice and dice so easily.”

  Maggie winced at his choice of description.

  “Sorry,” he said. “That’s the first thing that came to mind.”

  “Any saliva on the body? Any semen in the mouth?”

  “No, which I know is different from Stucky’s usual M.O.”

  “If it is Stucky.”

  She felt him staring at her but avoided his eyes and examined the autopsy report. Why would Stucky hold back or pull out early now? He certainly wouldn’t go to the trouble of using a condom. After they had revealed his identity as being Albert Stucky, he had blatantly gone on to do whatever he wanted. And that usually meant showing off his sexual prowess by raping his victims several times, often forcing them to perform oral sex on him. She wished she could take a second look at the body. She knew what kinds of things to look for, otherwise insignificant evidence that telegraphed Stucky’s patterns. Unfortunately, she saw that Jessica’s body had already been released to her family. Even if she stopped the transfer, all the PE would be gone, washed away by a well-intentioned funeral director.