Split Second (39 page)

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.

T
ess 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 and steady vibration. Somewhere a soft, deep voice with a country twang was singing about hurting the ones you love.

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

She tried again. Another flutter. Headlights flickered before her heavy 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, she remembered 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 scent, the notion calmed her until she realized that if she wasn’t driving, someone else was here with her. Was it Daniel? Why couldn’t she remember? Why did her mind feel as though it was filled with cobwebs? Had she gone out drinking again? Oh dear God! Had she picked up another stranger?

She turned her head slightly to the side without removing it from the headrest. It took such effort to move, each inch as if in slow motion. One more time she attempted to open her eyes. Too dark, but there was movement. The eyelids dropped shut again.

She listened. She could hear someone breathing. She opened her mouth to speak. She would ask where they were going. It was a simple question, 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 felt a draft, smelled fresh tar and knew the window had opened. The car stopped, but the engine continued to hum. Gas fumes told her they were stalled in traffic. She tried once again to open her eyes.

“Good evening, Officer,” a deep voice said from the seat 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? Did the officer mean her?

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

“No hurry.” the voice said much too 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. Oh, how she hated when he did that. But if it wasn’t Daniel beside her, then who?

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. He wanted to see the master bedroom. “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 hands, 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 hitting against the wall. She fought with fists and fingernails. God, he was strong.

Then she had felt it. A prick of the needle as it sunk deep into her arm. She remembered 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 deep inside her throat, straining to be set free. She couldn’t wave or swing her arms. She couldn’t kick or run. My God, she couldn’t even scream.