Split Second

  “In the linen closet there’s a bunch of cleaning supplies. Mop, bucket, sponges and liquid cleaners. Smells like the same stuff that was used. None of it contains bleach,” Ganza countered. “I checked. Besides, no one cleans and leaves handprints like that.”

  She forced herself to stare at the prints before they faded. The small fingers were elongated as they had grabbed and clawed and slid. She closed her eyes against the images her mind was trained to concoct. With little coaxing, she knew she could see it all in slow motion as if visualizing a scene from a movie, a horror movie.

  “Ready, Maggie?” Keith’s voice made her jump. He was right beside her again as the room started to return to darkness. “Let’s get the floor from here to the bathroom.”

  She felt her fingers shaking as she repositioned them on the spray bottles. Gratefully, neither Keith nor Tully could see them. She steadied herself and tried to remember exactly what direction and how far it was to the bathroom. Once she felt back in control, she began spritzing, keeping the mist away from her feet as she slowly walked sideways. Maggie hadn’t reached the bathroom door when the floor began lighting up like a runway, long skid marks following her.

  “Oh my God!” She heard Tully mutter from his dark perch, and she wanted to tell him to shut up. His shock unnerved her and worse, reminded her of her own.

  Ganza pointed the red dot to the floor, following the trail that had once been bloody feet dragged across the parquet floor. Maggie pushed back strands of hair and swiped at the perspiration on her forehead. Was Jessica unconscious by the time he got her to the bathroom? The girl would have lost a lot of blood putting up a fight like the one smeared on the wall. Maggie wondered if she was conscious when Stucky lifted her into the whirlpool bath. When he told her all the horrible things he would do to her. Was she dead or alive when he started cutting?

  “Let’s take a break here,” Keith said. “Agent Tully, go ahead and switch the lights back on.”

  Maggie blinked against the burst of light, relieved at the interruption of her mind’s descent into the depths of hell. If she tried, she would be able to hear Jessica’s screams, her pleas for help. Maggie’s memory bank seemed filled with audio clips of what sheer terror sounded like. It was something she’d never forget, no matter how many years went by.

  “Agent O’Dell?”

  Tully startled her, suddenly standing in front of her. She looked around to see Keith busy in the corner, and only now did she notice that he had taken the spray bottles from her hands and was filling them.

  “Agent O’Dell, I owe you an apology,” Agent Tully was saying. At some point he had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves in haphazard and uneven folds. He unbuttoned his collar and twisted the knot of his tie loose. “I really thought there was nothing here. I feel like such an asshole.”

  Maggie stared at him and tried to remember the last time anyone, especially in law enforcement, had apologized to her, let alone admitted to making a mistake. Was this guy for real? Instead of looking embarrassed, he genuinely looked sorry.

  “I have to admit, Agent Tully, I was simply acting on gut instinct.”

  “Maggie, we should remember to pull the drain from the whirlpool bath,” Ganza interrupted without looking up. “I’m betting that’s where he cut her open. We may find some leftovers.”

  Agent Tully’s face grew paler, and she saw him wince.

  “One thing we didn’t check last night, Agent Tully, was the garbage cans outside,” she told him, offering to save him. “Since the house is for sale and empty, the garbage collectors may have skipped it.”

  He seemed grateful for the chance to escape. “I’ll go check.”

  As he left, Maggie realized he could possibly find something equally shocking in the garbage. Perhaps she wasn’t saving him at all. She pulled out a fresh pair of latex gloves from her forensic kit and tossed out the ones she had contaminated with luminol. Keith unpacked a wrench, screwdriver and several evidence bags.

  “You’re being awfully nice to the new guy,” he said.

  She glanced at him. Though he kept his eyes on the items he was unearthing from his bag, she could see the corner of his mouth caught in a smile.

  “I can be nice. It’s not like it’s an impossibility.”

  “Didn’t say that it was.” He dug out Q-Tips, several brushes, forceps and small brown bottles, lining everything up as if taking inventory. “Don’t worry, Maggie, I won’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.” This time he gave her his eyes, light blue behind hooded, heavy lids that Maggie knew in the last thirty years had seen more horror and evil than any one person should ever be allowed to see. Yet now they were smiling at her.

  “Keith, what do you know about Agent Tully?”

  “I’ve heard nothing but good things.”

  “Of course there are nothing but good things. He looks like a cross between Mr. Rogers and Fox Mulder.”

  “Fox Mulder?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

  “You know, from the TV show The X-Files?”

  “Oh, I know who he is. I’m just surprised you know who he is.”

  She found herself blushing as though he’d discovered some secret.

  “I’ve caught a couple of episodes. What things have you heard? About Tully?” She quickly returned to the subject.

  “He’s here from Cleveland at Cunningham’s request, so the guy has to be good, right? Someone said he’s able to look at crime scene photos alone and come up with a profile that nine times out of ten is on target.”

  “Crime scene photos. That explains why he’s so squeamish with the real thing.”

  “I don’t think he’s been with the Bureau long—five, six years. Probably slipped in right at the age limit.”

  “What did he do before? Please don’t tell me he’s a lawyer.”

  “Something wrong with lawyers?” Agent Tully interrupted from the doorway.

  Maggie checked his eyes to see if he was angry with them. Keith went back to his task, leaving Maggie feeling as though she was the one who needed to explain.

  “I was just curious,” she said without apology.

  “You could just ask me.”

  Yes, he was angry, but she saw him pretending not to be. Did he always make certain his emotions were so carefully kept in check?

  “Okay. So what did you do before you joined the Bureau?”

  He held up a black garbage bag in one hand.

  “I was an insurance fraud investigator.” In his other latex-gloved hand he held up a wad of what looked like candy bar wrappers. “And I’d say our boy has a serious sweet tooth.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Maggie gripped the revolver and aimed at the dark figure in front of her. Her right hand shook. She could feel her jaw clench and her muscles tense.

  “Goddamn it!” she yelled though no one could hear her in the empty firearms target alley. She had come in just as Agent Ballato, the firearms instructor, had ended his class. This late on a Friday, she would have the place to herself.

  She relaxed her stance once again, dropping her arms and rolling her shoulders, flexing her neck. Why the hell couldn’t she relax? Why did she feel wound so tight? Like something would explode inside her at any minute?

  She pushed her goggles up on top of her head and leaned against the half wall of her galley. After she and Agent Tully had left the house on Archer Drive she had called Detective Ford in Kansas City. She had listened to him describe the details of Rita’s murder, of her blood-soaked apartment, the semen-stained sheets and the remnants of skin and tissue the KC forensic team had found in Rita’s bathtub. It wasn’t that different from what they had found in the whirlpool bath at Archer Drive. Only, Stucky didn’t bother to clean up after himself in Rita’s apartment. Why did he clean up at Archer Drive after killing Jessica? Was it because he needed to use the house again? Did he lure Tess McGowan there and take her for later? And if he did take her, where the hell was he keeping her?

  Maggie
closed her eyes and wished the tightness in her chest would let up. She needed to focus. She needed to relax. It was too easy to conjure up the images. It was what she had been trained to do, but this time she wished she could shove them away. Her mind wouldn’t listen. Despite her effort to stop the images, they came anyway. She could see Jessica Beckwith’s small hands passing her the pizza box. Then she could see those same hands clawing and grabbing at the walls of the empty bedroom. Why hadn’t anyone heard her screams when they seemed so loud and vivid in Maggie’s head?

  She set the gun aside and rubbed her eyes with both hands. It didn’t help. She could remember Rita’s face, the waitress’s fatigued but friendly smile as she had served the three of them Sunday evening in the smoke-filled bar and grill. And then, without effort or warning, came the images of Rita’s garbage-riddled body, her slashed throat and the glob that once was her kidney lying on a shiny dinner plate. Both women were dead only because they had had the misfortune of meeting her. And now Maggie was certain that two more women had been taken for the same reason; they had met her.

  She wanted to yell and scream. She wanted the throbbing to go away. She wanted her goddamn hand to stop shaking. Ever since Tully found that handful of candy bar wrappers, Maggie kept wondering about Rachel Endicott. Was it possible she was simply jumping to conclusions, trying too hard to connect Rachel’s disappearance with Tess’s?

  There had been mud on the steps in Rachel’s house. Mud with some odd metallic substance. Tully had said that a sparkling dirt had been found on Jessica’s car accelerator. Could it be the same? There was something else that Tully had told her. She couldn’t remember what it was. It nagged at Maggie, but she couldn’t remember. Maybe something in the police report?

  “Goddamn it!” Why couldn’t she remember?

  Lately she felt as if her mind was unraveling, pieces shredding and peeling away. Her nerves felt raw, her muscles exhausted from constantly being on alert. And the worst part, the most infuriating part, was that she seemed to have absolutely no control over any of it.

  Albert Stucky had her right where he wanted her, clinging to some imaginary mental ledge. He had made her an accomplice to his evil. He had made her his partner by letting her choose who his next victim would be. He wanted her to share the responsibility. He wanted her to understand the power of evil. By doing so, did he also expect to unleash some evil beast from inside her?

  She picked up the Smith & Wesson, letting her hands stroke the cool metal, wrapping her fingers around the handle with care, almost reverence. She ignored the earplugs dangling around her neck and left the goggles perched on top of her head. She raised her right arm, keeping the elbow bent, just a little. Her left hand crisscrossed her right, adding strength and reinforcement. She stared down the front sight, willing it, commanding it not to move, not to quiver. Then without further hesitation, she squeezed the trigger, firing in rapid succession until all six bullets were spent and the scent of the discharge filled her nostrils.

  Her ears were ringing when she allowed her arm to relax and drop to her side. Her heart pounded as she punched the button on the wall, flinching at the screech of the pulley as it wheeled the target toward her. The dark figure, the silhouette of her pretend assailant stopped in front of her with a rustle of paper and a clank of metal. Maggie saw that her aim had been right on target. She took a deep breath and sighed. She should have been relieved at her precision. Instead, she felt that ledge getting closer and crumbling beneath her. Because the six bullets she had just fired had expertly and intentionally been placed right between the eyes of her target.

  CHAPTER 43

  Tess skidded to a stop. Her bare feet were caked with mud. She could smell it and looked to find mud stuck to her hands, her trousers, her skinned elbows. She didn’t remember ripping her blouse, yet both elbows showed through, the flesh scraped and bloody, and now dirty with rancid mud. The rain had stopped without her noticing, but she knew it would be temporary because the clouds had darkened and the fog became a thicker gray, wisping around her like unsettled spirits rising from the ground. Dear God, she couldn’t think of such things. She shouldn’t think at all, just run.

  Instead, she leaned against a tree, trying to catch her breath. She had followed the only path she could find in the dense woods, hoping it would lead to freedom. Her nerves were frayed. The terror raced inside her, completely beyond her control. She expected him to step out and grab her at any second.

  Dry burrs and broken twigs poked through her blanket cape. It had been caught many times, yanking her backward like hands gripping her neck. It was a constant reminder of the painful bruises his fingers had left. Yet she refused to let it go, as if it was a flimsy shield, a makeshift security blanket. She was soaked from the rain and her own perspiration, wet strands of hair plastered against her face. Her silk blouse clung to her like a second skin.

  The thick fog added to the dampness. In less than an hour darkness would enshroud these endless woods. The thought brought fresh panic. She could hardly see through the damp haze. Twice she had slid down a ridge, almost tumbling into the body of water that had seemed like a gray mist when seen from above. The dark would make further movement impossible.

  He had taken her wristwatch, for obvious reasons, though he had left the sapphire ring and earrings. She’d gladly trade the three-thousand-dollar ring for her Timex. She hated not knowing the time. Did she know what day it was? Could it still be Wednesday? No. She remembered it being dark when she was in the car. Yes, there had been oncoming headlights. Which meant she had slept most of Thursday. Suddenly it occurred to her that she really had no idea how long she had been unconscious. It may have been days.

  Her breathing became labored again as the fear crawled through her insides. Calm. She needed to stay calm. She needed to figure out what to do for the night. She would take this moment by moment. Despite the instinct to continue running, it was more important that she find someplace to wait out the night. Now she wondered if she should have stayed in the shack. Had she really accomplished anything by leaving it? At least it had been dry, and that lumpy cot now sounded wonderful. Instead, she had no idea where she was. It certainly didn’t feel as if she had gotten any closer to escaping this endless wooded prison, though she must have covered several miles.

  She crouched down, her back pressed against the rough bark. Her legs begged to sit, but she needed to stay alert and ready to run. Black crows screeched down at her. They startled her, but she remained still and quiet, too tired, too weak to move out of their way. The crows were settling in the treetops for the night. Hundreds of them flapped overhead, coming from all directions, their rude caws a warning as they claimed their evening roost.

  Suddenly it occurred to Tess that these birds wouldn’t settle here if they didn’t perceive it to be somewhat safe. And if there was danger sometime during the night, they would probably react better than an alarm system.

  Her eyes began searching the area for a safe resting place. There were plenty of fallen leaves and pine needles, bits and pieces left over from last fall. However, everything was damp from the rain and fog. She shivered just thinking about lying on the cold ground.

  The crows’ squawks continued. She looked up and began examining branches. She hadn’t climbed a tree since she was a kid. Back then it had been a survival tactic, one more way to hide from her aunt and uncle. Her aching muscles reminded her how foolish the thought of climbing anything was right now. Foolish or not, it would be the safest place to be. He’d never look for her up above, not to mention other nightly predators. Dear God, she hadn’t even thought of other animals.

  The tree beside her had a perfect Y to accommodate her. Immediately, she pushed herself into action and began dragging logs and branches. She stacked them, crisscrossing the larger ones to construct a crude stepladder. If she could reach the lower branches, she might be able to swing her feet up into the Y.

  She tried to ignore her fatigue, tried to pretend her feet weren’t already
cut and stinging. With every load of branches or lift of a log, her muscles screamed out for her to stop. But she could feel a new surge of energy. Her heart pounded in her ears, only this time with excitement.

  Overhead the crows had gone silent, as if watching and interested in her frantic work. Or did they hear something else? She stopped. Her arms were full. Her breathing rasped. She couldn’t hear over the pounding of her heart. She held her breath as best she could and listened. It was as if the entire woods had gone silent, as if the impending dark had swallowed every sound, every movement.

  Then she heard it.

  At first it sounded like a wounded animal, a muffled cry, a high-pitched hum. Tess turned slowly, her eyes squinting against the fog and into the dark. A sudden breeze created night shadows. Swaying branches became waving arms. Rustling leaves sounded like footsteps.

  Tess unloaded her arms while her eyes continued to dart around her. Could she get into the tree without building her makeshift ladder? Her fingers clawed into the bark. Her feet tested the pile’s strength and structure. She pulled herself up and grabbed onto the closest branch. It creaked under her weight, but didn’t break. Her fingers clung to the branch despite loose bark falling into her eyes. She was ready to swing her feet up into the Y when the muffled cry transformed into words.

  “Help me. Please, help me.”

  The words, drifting with the breeze, were crisp and clear. Tess froze. She hung from the branch, her toes barely reaching the pile. Maybe she was hearing things. Maybe it was simply exhaustion playing tricks on her.

  Her arms ached. Her fingers felt numb. If she was going to make it up into the tree, she needed to use this last surge of energy.

  The words came again, floating over her as if a part of the fog.