Split Second (38 page)

“D
amn it!” Tess muttered, and flipped the light switch. Yes, the electricity was on, so there was no excuse for the alarm system not to be working.

She made a mental note to check on the last agent who had shown the house. Without even looking, she could guess it had been one of the imbeciles from Peterson Brothers. They were constantly forgetting things like this, and they had the professional ethics of pimps. There had been recent rumors about one of the Peterson brothers using empty client houses for sleazy sex parties.

Suddenly Tess remembered that this house had an extra-large master bedroom and bath with a skylight.

“There better not be a mess.”

She checked her wristwatch. Only fifteen minutes left. She tossed her briefcase into a corner of the living room, pushed up the sleeves of her suit jacket, and started up the stairs, stopping to kick off her heels. She didn’t need this crap, not this morning. Not when her patience and nerves had already been frayed and tested by her disappearing act from Daniel’s bed. He’d be getting to his office right about now. Thankfully, she had left her cellular phone in the car, because knowing Daniel, he’d be calling to scold her.

She stomped up the stairs when halfway up she heard the front door open. He was early. Why did he have to be early? She shoved her sleeves back in place and searched for her leather pumps, slipping them on one by one as she found them. By the time she reached the bottom of the staircase, a tall, dark-haired man was wandering through the spacious living room. Without window treatments, sunlight cascaded in sheets of blinding light, surrounding him.

“Hello?”

“I know I’m a bit early.”

“That’s fine.” Tess kept the annoyance from her voice, wishing she had been able to check the damn master bedroom first.

He turned, and only then did she notice the white cane. Immediately, she wondered how he had gotten here. She glanced out the window but saw no signs of another vehicle in the winding circular driveway.

She guessed he was around her age, middle to late thirties, though she found it hard to determine anyone’s age when she couldn’t see his eyes. His Ray-Ban sunglasses contained particularly dark lenses. She took notice of his designer silk shirt with the open collar, his expensive leather jacket and well-pressed chinos. She caught herself checking to see if everything matched. His features were handsome but sharp, with a chiseled jaw that was much too taut, thin but nicely curved lips and pronounced cheekbones. He had a bit of a widow’s peak, but his dark hair was thick and close cropped.

“I’m Walker Harding,” he said. “Are you the agent I spoke to on the phone?”

“Yes, I’m Tess McGowan.” She offered her hand, then snatched it back quickly, embarrassed, when she realized he couldn’t see it.

He hesitated and slowly removed his hand from his pocket. She noticed how strong and muscular it was as he held it out to her. He was a little off target, his fingers pointed to the side of her. She stepped in closer and shook it. Immediately she felt his large hand swallow hers. The long fingers wrapped all the way around her wrist, surprising her in what felt more like a caress than a handshake. She dismissed the thought and ignored her unexpected discomfort.

“I just arrived,” she said, extracting her hand. “I didn’t get a chance to make a quick run-through,” she explained, wondering how in the world he would know the difference. How was she supposed to show him a house when he couldn’t see a damn thing?

He left her and wandered without a word across the living room, tapping his cane in front of him and walking confidently. He stopped at the bay window that looked out over the backyard. He fumbled for the latch and opened it. Then he stood quietly, staring out as if transfixed by something in the yard.

“The sun feels wonderful,” he finally said, tilting his head back and letting his face be warmed by the brilliant light. “I know it might seem silly, but I like lots of windows.”

“No, it’s not silly at all.” She caught herself talking louder and immediately chastised herself. He was blind not deaf.

Tess studied his profile. The straight nose had a slight bend, and from this angle she could see a scar just below his jawline. She couldn’t help wondering if his blindness had been caused by an accident of some kind. Despite his disability, he seemed to possess confidence. There was a self-assurance in his manner, the way he walked, the way he handled himself. However, his gestures seemed stiff, his hands constantly retreated to his pockets. Was he nervous, anxious?

“How big are the evergreens?” he asked, his voice startling her as though she had forgotten what they were here for.

“Excuse me?”

“I can smell evergreens. Are there a lot and are they big or small?”

She walked up beside him, keeping a safe distance without seeming rude and still being able to look out the window. The property lots here were huge, and the evergreens, mostly cedar and pine, created a natural border at the far edge. She couldn’t smell them. But of course his other senses had probably become more refined.

“They’re very large. Some cedar, some pine. There’s a line of them that separates the properties.”

“Good. I do like my privacy.” He turned to her and smiled. “I hope you’re not uncomfortable having to describe things to me.”

“No, of course not,” Tess said, hoping that she sounded convincing. “Where would you like to start your tour?”

“I was told there is a fabulous master bedroom. Could we start there?”

“Good choice,” she told him. Damn it! She wished she had come earlier. That Peterson asshole better not have left a mess. “Do you prefer walking alone or would you like me to take your arm?”

“You smell quite lovely.”

She stared at him, taken off guard.

“It’s Chanel No. 5, right?”

“Yes, it is.” Was he flirting with her?

“I’ll follow your lovely scent. Just lead the way.”

“Oh, yes. Okay.”

She walked slowly, almost too slowly, causing his outstretched hand to bump into her once on the landing. He let it linger on her hip as though needing to get his bearings. Or at least that was what Tess told herself. She had experienced more outrageous come-ons and intentional gropes than this.

The master bedroom smelled of cleaning formula, and Tess’s eyes darted around. Whoever had been here last had indeed cleaned up. Thankfully, the room looked in order. In fact, it smelled and looked freshly scrubbed. Tess found it odd that Mr. Harding, whose senses had been so keen downstairs, made no comment about these new overpowering scents.

“This room is about thirty by twenty,” she proceeded casually. “There’s another bay window on the south wall that looks out over the backyard. The floor is an oak parquet. There’s a—”

“Excuse me, Ms. McGowan.”

“Please, call me Tess.”

“Tess, of course.” He stopped and smiled. “I hope you won’t find this offensive, but I like to have an idea of what the person I’m talking to looks like. May I touch your face?”

At first she thought she must have heard him wrong. She didn’t know what to say. She remembered his touching her on the landing and now wondered if indeed it had been a grope and not a harmless miscalculation.

“I’m sorry. You’re offended,” he said apologetically, his voice low and soothing.

“No, of course not,” she answered quickly. If she wasn’t careful, her paranoia could lose her the sale. “I’m afraid I’m just not as prepared as I should be to help you.”

“It’s really quite painless,” he told her as though he were explaining a surgical procedure. “I use only my fingertips. I assure you, I won’t be pawing you.” His lips curved into another smile, and Tess felt ridiculous making a fuss.

“Please, go ahead.” She stepped closer, despite her apprehension.

He set the cane aside and started slowly, gently at her hair, using both hands, but only the tips of his fingers. She avoided looking up at him, staring off over his shoulder. His hands smelled faintly of ammonia, or was it simply the overpowering scent of the freshly scrubbed wooden floor? His fingers stroked her forehead and moved over her eyelids.

She tried to ignore their dampness, but glanced at his face for any indication that he was as uncomfortable as she was. No, he seemed calm and composed and his fingers began their descent on either side of her face, sliding down her cheeks. She dismissed what felt like a caress. But then his fingertips moved to her lips. His index finger lingered too long, rubbing back and forth. For a second it felt as though he might press it into her mouth. Startled by the sensation and the thought, Tess looked at his eyes. She tried to see beyond the dark lenses, and when she was successful, getting a glimpse of his black eyes, she saw that he was staring directly at her. Was that possible? No, of course not. She was simply being paranoid, an annoying tendency left over from her past life.

By now his fingers had wandered to her chin, tracing their way down to her neck. They briefly wisped beneath the neckline of her blouse, brushing her collarbone, hesitating as if he was testing her, as if asking how far she would let him go. She began to step back just when he wrapped his fingers around her throat.

“What are you doing?” Tess gasped and grabbed at his large hands.

Now he squeezed, choking her, his eyes definitely staring into hers, a twisted smile at his lips. She clawed at the fingers, steel vise grips clamped like the jaws of a pit bull. She struggled and twisted, but he shoved her back. Her head knocked into the wall with such a force she closed her eyes against the pain. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. God, he was so strong.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that he had released one of his hands. She was able to suck in air, her lungs aching and greedy. Before she could gather her strength, he shoved his arm up against her to hold her in place, stabbing his elbow into her throat and cutting off her air once again. That’s when she saw the syringe in his free hand.

The terror spread through her quickly, her arms and legs flaying in defense. It was useless. He was much too strong. The needle poked through her jacket and sunk deep into the skin of her arm. She felt her entire body jerk. In seconds the room began to spin. Her hands, her knees, her muscles became limp, and then the room went black.

T
he minute Maggie walked into Dr. James Kernan’s office she felt like a nineteen-year-old college student again. The feelings of confusion, wonder and intimidation all came back to her in a rush of sights and smells. His office, set in the Wilmington Towers in Washington, D.C., and no longer on the University of Virginia’s campus, still looked and smelled the same.

Immediately, her nostrils were accosted by stale cigar smoke, old leather and Ben-Gay rubbing ointment. The tiny space was littered with the same strange paraphernalia. A human brain’s dissected frontal lobe bulged in a mason jar filled with formaldehyde. The jar acted as a makeshift bookend, ironically holding up such texts as
Explaining Hitler: The Search for the Origins of Evil, Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams
and what Maggie knew to be a rare first edition of
Alice In Wonderland
. Of the three, the last seemed most appropriate for the professor of psychology who easily conjured up images of the Mad Hatter.

On the mahogany credenza across the room were antique instruments, their shapes and points intriguing until they were recognized as surgical instruments once used to perform lobotomies. On the wall behind the matching mahogany desk were black-and-white photographs of the procedure. Another equally disturbing photograph included a young woman undergoing shock treatment. The woman’s empty eyes and resigned posture beneath the ominous iron equipment had always reminded Maggie more of an execution than a medical treatment. Sometimes she questioned how she could be involved in a profession that, at one time, could be so brutal while pretending to cure the ailments of the psyche.

Kernan, however, embraced the eccentricities of their profession. His office was simply an extension of the strange little man. A man as notorious for his crude jokes about “nutcases” as he was for his own version of shock treatment, which he had perfected on his students.

The man loved mind games and could lure and trick a person into them without warning. One moment he would drill an unprepared freshman with rapid-fire questions, not allowing the poor student to even answer. The next minute he’d be in a corner of the classroom, standing silently with his face to the wall. Then still later, he’d climb atop a desk and lecture while teetering from one desk to another, his small, stocky but aging body threatening to send him falling while he lectured and did a balancing act at the same time. Even the se-niors in his classes had no idea what to expect of their odd professor. And this was the man the FBI trusted to determine her sanity?

Maggie heard the familiar clomp-squeak of his footsteps outside the office. Instinctively, she sat up straight and stopped her browsing. Even the man’s footsteps transformed her into an incompetent college kid.

Dr. Kernan entered his office unceremoniously and shuffled to his desk without recognizing or acknowledging Maggie. He plopped down into the leather chair, sending it into a series of creaks. Maggie couldn’t be sure that all the creaks came from the chair and not the old man’s joints.

He began rummaging through stacks of papers. She watched quietly, her hands folded in her lap. Kernan looked as though he had shrunk since the last time she had seen him, over ten years ago. Back then he had seemed ancient, but now his shoulders were hunched, his hands trembled and were speckled with brown spots. His hair, just as white as she remembered, was thin and feathery, revealing more brown spots on his forehead and the top of his head. Tufts of white hair protruded from his ears.

Finally he appeared to find what he had been so desperately in search of. He struggled to open the tin box of breath mints, took two without offering any to Maggie and snapped the container shut.

“O’Dell, Margaret,” he said to himself, still not acknowledging her presence.

He sorted through the rubble again. “Class of 1990.” He stopped and thumbed through a folder. Maggie glanced at the cover to see if he was reading her file, only to discover a label that read, Twenty-five Best Internet Porn Sites.

“I remember a Margaret O’Dell,” he said without looking up at her, and in a voice that sounded like a senile old man talking to himself. “O’Dell, O’Dell, the farmer and the dell.”

Maggie shifted in her chair, forcing herself to be patient, to be polite. Nothing had changed. Why was she surprised to find him treating patients the same way he had treated his students, playing silly word games, reducing names and identities to nursery rhymes? It was all part of his intimidation.

“Premed,” he continued while riffling through the list of porn sites. Several times he stopped, smacking his lips together or hissing out a “tis, tis.” “Sat in the back left corner of my classroom, taking very few notes. B student. Asked questions only about criminal behavior and hereditary traits.”

Maggie hid her surprise. These could easily be odd little facts he may have noted and kept in a student file. And of course, he would have reviewed her file before she arrived, so as to have an advantage. Not that he needed an advantage. She waited, forcing her hands to keep still when they wanted to grip the arms of her chair. She wanted to dig her fingernails into the leather to steady herself and prevent her from storming out of this ridiculous inquisition.

“Got a master’s in behavioral psychology,” he went on in his droll tone. “Managed to land a forensic fellowship at Quantico.” Finally he looked up at her, his pale blue eyes magnified and swimming behind the thick square glasses. Bushy white eyebrows stuck out in every direction. He rubbed his jaw and said, “Wonder what the hell you would have done if you’d been an A student.” Then he stared at her, waiting.

As usual, he caught her off guard. She didn’t know what to say. He had a talent for disarming people by making them feel invisible. Then suddenly he expected a response to what was never a question. Maggie remained silent and returned his steady gaze, vowing not to flinch. She hated that he could reduce her to an unsure, speechless teenager with only a few words and that goddamn look of his. This was certainly not her idea of therapy. Assistant Director Cunningham was way off base on this one. Sending her to see anyone was a waste of time. Sending her to see Kernan would only challenge her sanity further and would certainly not be a remedy.

“So, Margaret O’Dell, the quiet little bird in the corner, the B student who was so interested in criminals but didn’t think she belonged in my classroom, is now Special Agent Margaret O’Dell, who wears a gun and a shiny badge and now doesn’t think she belongs in my office.”

He stared at her again, waiting for a response, still not asking a question. His elbows leaned on the wobbly stacks of paper as he laced his fingers together.

“That’s true, isn’t it? You don’t think you should be here?”

“No, I don’t,” she answered, her voice strong and defiant despite the man’s ability to intimidate the hell out of her.

“So your superiors are wrong? All those years of training. All that experience, and they’re flat out wrong. Is that right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Really? That wasn’t what you said?”

Word games, mind games, confusion—Kernan was a master. Maggie needed to concentrate. She couldn’t let him twist her words. She wouldn’t let him trap her.

“You asked me if I thought I should be here,” she explained calmly. “I simply said no, I don’t think that I should be here.”

“Awwww,” he said, drawing it out into a sigh as he sank back in his chair. He rested his hands on his thick chest, letting his wrinkled jacket fall open. “I’m so glad you clarified that for me, Margaret O’Dell.”

She remembered that her one-on-one encounters with the man had always felt like an interrogation. It was disconcerting that this befuddled, little old man who looked as if he slept in his clothes, still possessed that same power. She refused to let him unnerve her. Instead, she stared at him and waited.

“So, tell me, Margaret O’Dell, who doesn’t think she belongs in my office, 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.” She kept her voice steady, her eyes level with his. She mustn’t blink too many times. He would be counting the blinks. Despite those Coke-bottle glasses, Kernan wouldn’t miss a twitch or a grimace.

“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. That’s right. 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 forced herself to stay calm. 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 as if necessary to do so. “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, well aware of his biting sarcasm and anticipating his trap. She proceeded anyway.

“No matter how many victims, 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 didn’t answer. She wouldn’t take his bait.

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

She held his gaze. 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, inviting her to confide in him.

Her hands stayed in her lap. She continued to sit up straight, eyes never leaving his while the anger began churning in her stomach.

“You want him to experience the same fear, that same sense of helplessness that each of his victims felt.” He sat forward in his chair, the creak amplified in the silence. “The same fear that you felt when he had you trapped. When he was cutting you. 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. Yet she kept her hands from wiping the strands of hair that had become damp on her forehead. She resisted the urge to bite down on her lower lip. Instead, she simply returned his stare.

“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 dare 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 cheeks were flushed. Her head began to throb.

“No, the electric chair isn’t a punishment 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 goddamn bastard between his eyes,” she blasted, no longer caring that she had just allowed herself to be swallowed whole into Dr. James Kernan’s psychological trap.