Split Second (29 page)

M
aggie’s heart slammed against her chest. Turner had disappeared around a corner and into another alley. She followed without slowing down and without hesitation. Halfway down, she made herself stop. The alley was unusually narrow, barely wide enough to accommodate a small vehicle. The tall brick buildings blocked out any streetlights. The moon was only a sliver, leaving dim bulbs to light the way, some cracked but most bare, hanging above rickety back doors.

She squinted, examining the shadows and trying to listen over the pounding in her ears. By now she was breathing much too hard from such a short run. Her skin felt clammy. Every nerve ending in her body seemed to be on alert. Her muscles tensed. Where the hell had they gone? She had been minutes, no, seconds, behind them.

Something rattled behind her. She spun around, her Smith & Wesson kept close to her body, but aimed and ready to blow to pieces the empty Burger King cup. She watched the breeze lift and push it down the alley as she tried to steady her nerves. Calm. She needed to stay calm, keep focused.

She turned, keeping her grip firm on the revolver. Again she strained to hear over the thunder in her ears. The cool night air sent a shiver down her back. She needed to breathe, to control the gasps. They were gasps caused by fear, not exhaustion. Damn it! She wouldn’t let him do this to her. She needed to slow down. She needed to concentrate.

She took careful steps as she proceeded. The cobblestone street was old, with uneven and chipped bricks, some oddly spaced. It would be easy to twist an ankle, to stumble or trip, to become vulnerable. Still, she didn’t look down. She kept her eyes moving, watching though it was difficult to see beyond fifty to a hundred feet. Was it getting darker, or was it simply her imagination? Her eyes darted over everything, checking stacks of boxes, black doorways, rusty fire escapes, anyplace Albert Stucky could hide behind or sneak into. He wouldn’t trick her this time.

Where the hell was Turner? She wanted to call out, but couldn’t risk it. Was it possible they had run another way? No, she was certain they had disappeared around this corner and into this alley.

Ahead she could see an open space where two cars were parked. A Dumpster blocked her view of the entire area. Behind her in the distance footsteps ran past, missing this narrow alley. From the open space she heard muffled voices. She pushed her body against the grimy brick wall and inched her way along. Her chest ached. Her knees felt mushy. Her palms were sweaty, but she gripped the gun’s handle, keeping her finger on the trigger and the gun’s nose down.

She came to the edge of the building and had nowhere else to go. She crouched and snuck behind the Dumpster. Where the hell were Delaney and Milhaven? By now they should have backtracked. Her eyes strained to see beyond the darkness to the end of the alley. Nothing. Now the voices ahead of her were more clear.

“Hold on a minute.” She recognized Turner’s voice. “What the hell do you have there?”

She waited, but there was no answer to his question. If Stucky had a knife, she’d never hear the damage until it was too late. She peeked out just enough to see the back of the leather jacket. Good. He was facing the opposite direction. He wouldn’t see her. But how close was he to Turner?

She heard footsteps behind her, making their way noisily toward her over the cobblestone. From her hiding spot, she couldn’t see them, couldn’t wave them off, couldn’t warn them. Damn it! In seconds Stucky would hear them, too, if he hadn’t already. She needed to move now, take her chances.

In one quick motion, she jumped out from behind the Dumpster, scrambling to take a firm stance, legs apart, arms in front, aim focused on the back of the bastard’s head. It wasn’t until she cocked the gun’s hammer that she saw Stucky flinch.

“Don’t move an inch, or I’ll blow your goddamn head off.”

“O’Dell,” she heard Turner say.

She could finally see him. He was standing close to the building, a shadow covering most of his face. With Stucky between them, Maggie couldn’t see if Turner had his gun drawn. Instead, she concentrated on her target, not ten feet in front of her.

“O’Dell, it’s okay,” Turner told her, yet he still didn’t move.

Did Stucky have a gun pointed at him?

“Drop whatever you’re holding and put your hands up behind your head. Do it. Now!” she yelled, surprised at her own voice, amplified and bouncing off of the brick buildings.

The footsteps behind her had slowed, their echo making what Maggie knew to be only several men sound instead like a whole troop. She didn’t turn. Her eyes never left the back of Stucky’s head. He hadn’t moved, but hadn’t obeyed her command either.

“I said hands up. Now, goddamn it!”

“O’Dell, it’s okay,” Turner said again.

But there was still no movement, not from Stucky, not from Turner, not from the men keeping their distance behind her. Maggie inched closer. Perspiration trickled down her back. A breeze swept strands of damp hair off her forehead but whipped others into her face. Still, she didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Her finger remained firmly on the trigger, pressing, ready to squeeze. Her entire body had gone rigid, freezing much too stiffly, threatening to lock her muscles into position.

“Last time. Drop what you’re holding and put your hands up behind your head, or I’ll blow your skull wide open.” This time the ultimatum came through clenched teeth. Maggie’s head throbbed. Her hand began to ache from the effort it took not to squeeze the trigger.

Finally, his hands went up while something slapped and crunched against the cobblestone. She could feel it splatter her feet, and knew it was the plastic take-out container he had been carrying. But she refused to look down. She didn’t want to see what part of Rita had been spread all over the ground. Instead, she kept her sights on where the nose of her gun pointed, in the middle of the tuft of black hair at the base of his skull. At this close range and at this angle, the bullet would drive through the skull and into the brain, shredding the cerebellum and ripping through the frontal lobe before it exited the top of his forehead. He’d be dead by the time his body hit the ground.

“Ease up, Maggie,” she heard Delaney say, and suddenly he was beside her.

The others stayed behind them. Turner stepped out so she could see that he hadn’t been injured. Silence filled the alley so completely, she wondered if they were all holding their breaths. Yet, she hadn’t dropped her stance or lowered her weapon.

“Turn around,” she ordered the back of Stucky’s head.

“O’Dell, you can put away your gun,” Turner said, but she didn’t look at him. She wouldn’t slip this time. She wouldn’t let her guard down.

“I said turn around, damn it.” Her stomach twisted into a series of knots. Would she be able to look him in the eyes?

He turned slowly. Her finger pressed tighter. All it would take was a minor adjustment, a split second for her to refocus between his eyes. Then one more second to squeeze the trigger. But she wanted him to see it coming. She wanted him to look at her. She wanted him to know what it felt like to know another person had total control over his life. She wanted him to feel fear, and yes, she wanted to see that fear in his eyes.

The man stared down at her with wide, frightened eyes, a thin, drawn face and shaking bony hands. He looked as if he’d faint from fear. It was the exact reaction Maggie had dreamed about. It was the exact revenge she had hoped for. Only the man was not Albert Stucky.

Early Tuesday morning
March 31

M
aggie opened her hotel-room door to Delaney. Without a word or an invitation, she turned and walked back into the room, leaving him there while she continued the pacing he had interrupted. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him hesitate. Even after coming in, he held on to the doorknob, looking as though he wished he could escape. She wondered how he and Turner had decided which of them would talk to her. Had Delaney lost the coin toss?

She ignored him as he walked across the room, careful to stay out of her path. He sat down at a small table that wobbled when he leaned his elbows on it. He picked up her empty plastic glass and fingered the miniature bottle of Scotch, giving both a sniff before replacing them. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. His collar button opened. His tie removed. He looked wrinkled and tired. During one of her turns, she saw him rub his hands over his bristled face and up through his thinning hair. She’d make him speak first. She was in no mood to talk. And certainly in no mood for a lecture. Why couldn’t they just leave her alone?

“We’re worried about you, Maggie.”

So there it was. He’d have to start with a low blow, all that worrying-and-caring stuff. Plus, he was using her first name. This was serious stuff. She almost wished Turner had come instead. At least he would yell a little.

“There’s no need to worry,” she said calmly.

“Look at you. You’re wound so tight you can’t even sit still.”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her trousers, briefly alarmed, noticing for the first time how baggy the pants felt. When had she lost weight? She continued to pace, keeping her hands hidden in her pockets. No sense in showing Delaney how badly her hands had been shaking since she’d returned to her room.

“It was an honest mistake,” she defended herself before he had a chance to make the obvious accusation.

“Of course it was.”

“From the back he looked exactly like Stucky. And why the hell did he ignore my instructions three times?”

“Because he doesn’t understand English.”

She stopped and stared at him. The thought had never occurred to her. Of course it hadn’t. She had been convinced it was Stucky. There had been no doubt in her mind.

“Then why did he run from Turner?”

“Who knows.” Delaney dug his fingers into his eyes. “Maybe he’s an illegal alien. Point is, Maggie, you not only made him splatter his veal capellini all over the pavement, you almost blew his frickin’ head off.”

“I did not almost blow his head off. I followed protocol. I couldn’t see Turner. I couldn’t see what this fucking idiot had in his hands, and he wasn’t responding. What the hell would you have done, Delaney?”

His eyes met hers for the first time, and she held him there, despite his discomfort.

“I probably would have done the same thing.” But his admission made him look away.

Maggie thought she saw a hint of embarrassment. There was more to this little visit than concern or a lecture. She braced herself and leaned against the chest of drawers, the only solid piece of furniture in the room.

“What’s going on, Delaney?”

“I called Assistant Director Cunningham,” he said, glancing up at her but avoiding her eyes. “I had to tell him what happened.”

“Goddamn you, Delaney,” she said under her breath, and began pacing once more to steady the brewing anger.

“We’re worried about you, Maggie.”

“Right.”

“I saw the look in your eyes, Maggie, and it scared the hell out of me. I saw how much you wanted to pull the trigger.”

“But I didn’t, did I? Doesn’t that count for anything? I didn’t pull the goddamn trigger.”

“No, not this time.”

She stopped at the window and stared down at the lights of the plaza below. She bit her lower lip. The lights were beginning to blur. She would not cry. She closed her eyes tight against the urge. Behind her, Delaney remained still and quiet. She refused to give him anything other than her back.

“Cunningham wants you to return to Quantico,” he said in a low, apologetic voice. “He’s sending Stewart to finish your workshop. He’ll be here in a couple of hours, so you don’t need to worry about the morning session.”

She watched several cars below as they glided through intersections. At this height, they reminded her of a slow-motion video game. Streetlights flickered, confused whether to stay on or shut off as the sky lightened in anticipation of sunrise. In less than an hour, Kansas City would be waking up, and she hadn’t even been to bed yet.

“Did you, at least, tell Cunningham about Rita?”

“Yes.”

When he offered nothing more, she turned to him, suddenly hopeful. She watched his face when she asked, “Does he believe it was Stucky?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

“So maybe he wants me to return to finally help on the case?”

Again, Delaney looked away, staring at the tabletop. She knew without any response that she was wrong.

“Jesus! Cunningham thinks I’m losing it, too,” she said quietly, and turned back to the window. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, hoping it would steady her nerves. Why couldn’t she just feel numb, instead of all this anger and now this sudden feeling of defeat?

After a long silence, she heard Delaney get up and start for the door.

“I already made arrangements for you. Your flight leaves a little before one this afternoon. I don’t have any sessions today, so I can drive you to the airport.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll take a cab,” she said without moving.

She heard him waiting, fidgeting. She refused to give him her eyes. And she certainly would not give him the absolution she knew Delaney would feel guilty without. Down below, cars began to fill the video-game slots, black and red and white, stopping and going.

“Maggie, we’re all just worried about you,” he said again, as if it should be enough.

“Right.” She didn’t bother to disguise the hurt and anger.

She waited for the soft slap of the door to close behind him. Then she crossed the room and turned the dead bolt. She stood with her back leaning against the door, listening to her heart pound, waiting for the anger and disappointment to leave. Why couldn’t she replace it with acceptance or, at least, complacency? She needed to go home to her new, huge Tudor house with her belongings stacked in cardboard boxes and her shiny new state-of-the-art security system. She needed to let this go, before she did slip so far over the edge there would be no return.

She waited, pressed against the door, staring at the ceiling and listening, if not for her heart to stop banging then at least for her common sense to return. Then making up her mind, she stomped to the middle of the room. She began stripping out of the clothes she had worn since yesterday morning. In minutes she was dressed in blue jeans, a sweatshirt and an old pair of Nikes. She slipped on her shoulder holster, shoved her badge into the back pocket of her jeans and wrestled into a navy FBI windbreaker.

Her forensic kit hadn’t been used in months, but she still didn’t leave home without it. She pulled out several pairs of latex gloves, some evidence bags and a surgical face mask, transferring the items to the pockets of her jacket.

It was almost 6:00 a.m. She had only six hours, but she wasn’t leaving this city until she connected Albert Stucky to Rita’s murder. And she didn’t care if that meant checking every last Dumpster and every last discarded take-out container in Westport’s market district. Suddenly feeling energized, she grabbed her room’s key card and left.