Split Second (34 page)

W
ithin minutes, the hotel’s lobby was filled with law enforcement officers from across the Midwest. All entrances and exits were guarded. Elevators were checked and watched. Stairwells were examined at all twenty-five levels. The hotel’s room-service kitchen had been invaded and the staff questioned. Despite the overwhelming brigade of manpower, Maggie knew they would never find him.

Most criminals would consider it suicide to show up in a hotel where hundreds of cops, sheriffs, detectives and FBI agents were staying. For Albert Stucky it would simply be another challenge to his game. Maggie imagined him sitting somewhere, watching and amused by the commotion, the blunders, the unsuccessful attempts at catching him. That’s why she was checking the most obvious places.

The second floor included an atrium overlooking the lobby. She stayed at the brass railing while her eyes searched down below—the line at the reservations counter, the man at the grand piano, the few diners at bistro tables in the glass-encased café the man behind the concierge desk, the cabdriver hauling out luggage. Stucky would blend in. He’d look as though he belonged. Even the room-service staff would not have noticed him had he walked into their kitchen in a white jacket and black tie.

“Any luck?”

Maggie jumped but managed to restrain herself from automatically reaching for her gun.

“Sorry.” Nick looked genuinely concerned. “He’d be nuts to stick around. I’m guessing he’s long gone.”

“Stucky likes to watch. It isn’t much fun if he doesn’t get to see people’s reactions. Half of these officers don’t know what he looks like. If he plays it cool, they might never spot him. He has the uncanny ability to blend in.”

Maggie continued searching, standing quietly and still. She could feel Nick examining her. She was tired of everyone watching for signs of some kind of mental meltdown, though she knew Nick was sincere.

“I’m fine,” she said without looking at him, answering his unspoken question.

“I know you are. I still get to be concerned.” He leaned over the railing, conducting his own search. His shoulder brushed against hers.

“Assistant Director Cunningham thinks he’s protecting me by keeping me off the investigation.”

“I wondered why you were teaching. John said there were rumors that you were burned out, losing your touch.”

She had guessed as much, yet it felt like a slap in the face to hear it out loud. She avoided looking at him. She pushed strands of damp hair out of her eyes, tucking them behind her ears. She probably looked the part of the crazed FBI agent, with her tangled hair and baggy clothes.

“Is that what you think?” she asked, not certain she wanted to hear his answer.

They stood side by side, leaning against the railing, shoulders brushing while their eyes stayed safely ahead and away from each other. His silence lasted too long.

“I told John that the Maggie O’Dell I know is tough as nails. I saw you take a knife to the gut and still not give up.”

Another of her scars. The mad child killer she and Nick had chased in Nebraska had stabbed her and left her for dead in a graveyard tunnel.

“Getting stabbed seems so much easier than what Stucky’s doing to me.”

“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, Maggie, but I think Cunningham may be smart in keeping you out of this.”

This time she turned to stare at him.

“How can you say that? It’s obvious Stucky is playing with me again.”

“Exactly. He wants to drag you into his little games. Why give him exactly what he wants?”

“But you don’t understand, Nick.” The anger bubbled too close to the surface. She tried to keep her voice calm and level. Talking about Stucky could bring her to the edge of sounding hysterical. “Stucky will continue to goad me whether I’m on the case or not. Cunningham can’t protect me. Instead, he’s keeping me from the one way I have to fight back.”

“I’m guessing he must have told you he wants you on that flight back to D.C. tonight?”

“Agent Turner is escorting me.” Why bother hiding her anger. “It’s ridiculous, Nick. Albert Stucky is right here in Kansas City. I should stay here.”

More silence. They were back to searching the crowd below, standing side by side, again leaning their elbows on the railing and again keeping their hands and eyes carefully away from each other. Nick moved closer as though purposely bringing their bodies in to contact. His shoulder no longer accidentally brushed hers. Now it stayed against her. She found a weird sense of comfort in this subtle touch, this slight contact, feeling perhaps that she wasn’t in this alone.

“I still care about you, Maggie,” he said quietly, without moving and still not looking at her. “I thought I didn’t care anymore. I tried to stop. But when I saw you this morning, I realized I hadn’t stopped caring at all.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation, Nick. I really can’t. Not now.” Her stomach churned with anticipation, with panic, with fear. She didn’t need to feel anything more.

“I called you when I first moved to Boston,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her.

She glanced at him. Was this some line? That boyish charm, that flirtatious reputation of his surely couldn’t have disappeared so easily.

“I didn’t get any message,” she said, now curious and anxious to call him on his bluff if, in fact, that was what it turned out to be.

“Quantico wouldn’t give me any information as to where you were, or when you’d be back. I even told them I was with the Suffolk County D.A.’s office.” He glanced at her and smiled. “They weren’t impressed.”

It was a safe story. She wouldn’t be able to confirm it or deny it. She concentrated on the lobby. Below, three men toted luggage behind a well-dressed woman with silver hair and a London Fog raincoat that didn’t have a raindrop on it.

“I ended up calling Greg’s law firm.”

“You did what?”

She pushed herself away from the railing and waited until he did the same, giving her his attention and his eyes.

“Neither of you are listed in the Virginia telephone directory,” he defended himself. “I figured the law office of Brackman, Harvey and Lowe might be more understanding. They might actually care about someone from a D.A.’s office getting in touch with one of their attorneys. Even if it was after hours.”

“You talked to Greg?”

“I didn’t mean to. I was hoping to catch you at home. I thought if Greg answered, I could tell him I needed to talk to you about unfinished business in Nebraska. After all, I knew you were still looking for Father Keller.”

“But Greg didn’t buy it.”

“No.” Nick looked embarrassed. He continued anyway. “He told me the two of you were working on your marriage. He asked me as a gentleman to respect that and stay away.”

“Greg said that? About being a gentleman? As if he knew.” She shook her head and returned to her perch, pretending to be distracted by the activity below. Greg had become so good at lying, Maggie wondered if he actually believed his own bullshit. “How long ago was this?”

“Couple months ago.” He joined her again, but this time kept some distance.

“Months ago?” She couldn’t believe Greg hadn’t mentioned it, or that he hadn’t let it slip out during one of their arguments.

“It was right after I moved, so it had to be around the last week of January. I got the impression the two of you were still living together.”

“Greg and I both decided to stay at the condo, since neither of us were there that often. But I asked Greg for a divorce on New Year’s Eve. That probably sounds heartless—I meant to wait.” She watched as a maintenance crew pushed huge floor waxers into the lobby. “We were at his law firm’s holiday party. He wanted us to masquerade as the happy couple.”

The supervisor of the maintenance crew had a clipboard and wore shiny leather dress shoes. Maggie craned over the railing to get a glimpse of his face. Too young and too tall to be Stucky.

“People at the party kept congratulating me and welcoming me to the firm. They spoiled Greg’s surprise. He had managed to get me a job as the head of their investigations department without even talking to me about it. Then he couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t jump at the chance to be digging through corporate files, looking for misappropriation of funds instead of digging through Dumpsters, looking for body parts.”

“Right. Jesus, how silly of him.”

She turned and rewarded his sarcasm with a smile.

“I am a pain in the ass, aren’t I?” she said.

“An awfully beautiful pain in the ass.”

She felt a blush and looked away, annoyed that he could make her feel sensual and alive while the world was going nuts around them.

“I finally moved into a house of my own last week. In a few weeks the divorce should be final.”

“Maybe it would have been safer to stay at the condo. I mean as far as this thing with Stucky is concerned.”

“Newburgh Heights is just outside D.C. It’s probably one of the safest neighborhoods in Virginia.”

“Yeah, but I hate thinking about you being all alone.”

“I’d rather be alone when he comes for me. That way no one else gets hurt. Not this time.”

“Jesus, Maggie! You
want
him to come after you?”

She avoided looking at him. She didn’t need to see his concern. She couldn’t take on the weight of it, the responsibility of it. So instead, she concentrated on the men in blue overalls wrestling with cords and mops. When she didn’t answer, Nick reached for her hand, gently taking it. He intertwined her arm with his, bringing her hand to his chest and keeping it there, warm and tight against the pounding of his heart. Then they stood there while they watched the hotel lobby get its floors waxed.

Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, April 1

H
e could feel Dr. Gwen Patterson staring at him while he stabbed at her furniture with his white cane, fumbling for a place to sit down. Nice stuff. The office even smelled expensive, fine leather and polished wood. But why would he expect anything less? She was a classy woman; sophisticated, cultured, wise and talented. Finally, a challenge to up the ante, so to speak.

He swiped his hand across her desktop, but there wasn’t much to disturb—a phone, a Roledex, several legal pads and a daily calendar, flipped open to Wednesday, April 1. Only now did it occur to him that it was April Fools’ Day. How ironically appropriate. He resisted the urge to smile, instead turning again and bumping into a credenza, barely missing an antique vase. The window above the credenza looked out over the Potomac River. In its reflection, he watched her grimace at his bold and reckless fumblings.

“The sofa is just to your left,” she finally instructed, but stayed seated behind her desk. Though her voice sounded tight, restraining her impatience, she wouldn’t embarrass him by coming to his rescue. Excellent. She had passed his first test.

He put his hand out and patted down the soft leather, feeling for the arm, and carefully sitting himself down.

“Would you like something to drink before we get started?”

“No,” he snapped, being unnecessarily rude. Invalids could get away with shit like that. It was one of the few advantages he could look forward to. Then, to let her know he wasn’t such a bad guy, he politely added, “I’d rather we just get started.”

He set the cane by his side where he could find it easily. He bunched up his leather jacket and laid it in his lap. The room was dark, the blinds half-closed, and he wondered why she had bothered. He adjusted his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. The lenses were extra dark so that no one could see his eyes. So that no one could catch him watching. It was a lovely twist to voyeurism. Everyone thought they were being the voyeurs, safe in staring at him, watching him, pitying him. No one seemed to question whether or not a blind guy could actually see. After all, why in the world would someone fake something like that?

Except that, ironically, the lie might be coming true. The drugs weren’t working, and he couldn’t deny that his eyesight was getting worse. He had lucked out so many times before, was his number finally up? No, he didn’t believe in such a stupid thing as fate. So what if he needed a little extra help these days, a prop or two, or some assistance from an old friend to bring a little excitement into his life. Wasn’t that what friends were for?

He cocked his head to one side, waiting, pretending to need to hear her before he could turn in her direction. In the meantime, he watched her. Through the dark lenses in the dark room, he found himself squinting. She was still staring at him, sitting back in her chair, looking comfortable and in control.

She stood and reached for her suit jacket on the back of her chair, but stopped, glanced over at him and left the jacket there. Then she came around to the front of the desk, leaning against the pristine top and standing directly in front of him. She looked soft and fragile, curves in all the right places, tight skin and few wrinkles for a woman in her late forties. She wore her strawberry-blond hair loose, letting it brush her jawline in delicate wisps. He wondered if it was her natural color, and he caught himself smiling. Maybe he would need to find out for himself.

He leaned back into the sofa, waiting, sniffing in her fragrance. God, she smelled good, though he couldn’t name the fragrance. Usually he could narrow it down, but this scent was new. Her red silk blouse was thin enough to reveal small, round breasts and the slight pucker of nipples. He was glad she thought she didn’t need the jacket. He tucked his hands into his lap, making sure his folded jacket covered the swelling bulge, pleased that his new diet of porn movies seemed to be helping his temporary lapses.

“As with all my patients, Mr. Harding,” she said finally, “I’d like to know what your goals are. What you hope to accomplish in our sessions?”

He held back a smile. She was already accomplishing one of his goals. He tilted his head toward her and continued to stare at her breasts. Even if she could see his eyes, people accepted, they expected his eyes to be looking anywhere but in their own eyes.

“I’m not sure I understand the question.” He had learned it was good to make women explain. It allowed them to feel in control, and he wanted her to believe she was in control.

“You told me on the phone,” she began carefully as though measuring her words, “that you had some sexual issues you wanted to work on.” She neither emphasized nor hesitated over the phrase “sexual issues.” That was good, very good. “In order for me to help you, I need to know, more specifically, what you expect from me. What you’d like to see come out of these sessions.”

It was time to see how easily she could be shocked.

“It really is quite simple. I want to be able to enjoy fucking a woman again.”

She blinked and her light complexion flushed slightly, but she didn’t move. It was a bit of a letdown. Maybe he should go ahead and add that he wanted to enjoy fucking a woman without wanting to fuck her to death. His new habit really wasn’t much different than many of those in the animal and insect world. Perhaps he should compare his sexual habits to those of the female praying mantis who bites off her mate’s head just as he is beginning to copulate.

Would she understand that the orgasm, the erotic surge was incredibly powerful when it included pain? Should he confess that seeing his women smeared in blood and screaming for mercy made him come in an orgasmic explosion like none he could achieve otherwise? Could she understand that this hideous thing inside threatened to take away the foundation of his being, his last primal instinct?

But no, he wouldn’t share any of this with her—that would probably be a bit much. That was something Albert Stucky would do or say, and he needed to resist the urge to stoop to his old friend’s level.

“Can you do that, Doc?” he asked, sticking his chin out and up as though he was listening for her movement, for her reaction.

“I can certainly try.”

He looked over her shoulder, his body slightly turned to the side, despite her standing in front of him.

“You’re blushing,” he said, and allowed a curt smile.

The color in her cheeks deepened. Her hand went to her neck in the useless attempt to stop the blush.

“What makes you say that?”

Would she deny it? Would she disappoint him this soon and lie?

“I’m guessing,” he said, letting his voice be soft and soothing, encouraging her to confide in him, hoping to gain access to her own vulnerabilities. If he was to accomplish his ultimate goal, he would need Dr. Gwen Patterson not to feel threatened. The good doctor had a reputation for delving into some of the most famous and devious of criminal minds. He wondered what she would think if she knew she was to be the guinea pig this time.

“Let me just say, I’ve been a psychologist quite a while.” She tried to explain her reaction away casually, but he noticed the color remained in her cheeks. “I’ve heard many shocking things, much more so than your problem. You needn’t worry about embarrassing me, Mr. Harding.”

Okay, so she chose to play it safe and cool, refusing him access to her inner self. The idea of this excited him nevertheless. He did so enjoy a challenge.

“Perhaps,” she continued, “we should start by you telling me why you no longer enjoy sex.”

“Isn’t that obvious?” He used the tone he had perfected. The one that sounded angry, offended, yet sad enough to invoke the right amount of pity. It usually worked.

“Of course it’s not obvious.”

He let one of his hands stray under the pile of leather. She was making this so easy. Playing right into his hands, so to speak. He cupped a palm over his erection.

“If you’re thinking your—” she hesitated “—your handicap—”

“It’s okay. You can call it what it is. I’m blind. I don’t mind anyone saying the word.”

“Okay, but your blindness certainly should not mean a loss of libido.”

He liked the way she said “libido.” Though her lips were thin and her mouth small, he liked the shape. He enjoyed watching the upper lip curl a bit at the corner. He detected a slight accent, but he couldn’t place it—maybe upper New York? It made him anxious to hear her say “penis” and “fellatio,” and he wondered how her lips would curl around those words.

“Is that what you’re saying, Mr. Harding?” she interrupted his thoughts.

“That somehow your loss of sight has rendered you incapable of performing?”

“Men are highly visual creatures, especially when it comes to being sexually aroused.”

“Very true,” she said as she reached behind her and grabbed a file folder, his folder, his case history. “When did you begin losing your eyesight?”

“About four years ago. Do we have to talk about that?”

She looked up at him over the open file. She had shifted to the other end of the desk, but he kept his gaze on the spot where she had been.

“If it will help us deal with your current problem, then yes, I do think we should talk about it.”

He liked her decisive manner, her direct tone. She wouldn’t be pussyfooting around him. What a wonderful word—pussyfooting. He rubbed his hidden hand against his bulge.

“Do you have an objection to that, Mr. Harding? You certainly don’t appear to be a man who runs away from a challenge.”

He hesitated only because he didn’t want to interrupt the sensation. It was okay. She’d think he simply needed a moment to think about it.

“I have no objection,” he said, having some difficulty containing a smile. No, anyone who knew Walker Harding would never accuse him of running away from anything. But if he was to accept his new challenge, he’d need to depend on the master criminal mind that Dr. Patterson yet had the pleasure of examining. Yes, despite playing this new role, he would still need to depend on the genius of his old friend, Albert Stucky.