Split Second (5 page)

Northeast Virginia
(just outside Washington, D.C.)
Five months later—Friday, March 27

M
aggie O’Dell jerked and twisted, trying to make herself more comfortable, only now realizing she had fallen asleep in the recliner again. Her skin felt damp with perspiration and her ribs ached. The air in the room was stale and warm, making it difficult to breathe. She fumbled in the dark, reaching for the brass floor lamp, clicking the switch but getting no light. Damn! She hated waking to complete darkness. Usually she took precautions to prevent it.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, squinting and searching behind and around the stacks of boxes she had spent the day packing. Evidently Greg had not bothered to come home. She couldn’t have slept through one of his noisy entrances. It was just as well he didn’t come home. His temper tantrums would only annoy the movers.

She tried to get out of the recliner but stopped when a sharp pain raced along her abdomen. She grabbed at it, as if she could catch the pain and keep it from spreading. Her fingers felt something warm and sticky soaking through her T-shirt. Jesus! What the hell was going on? Carefully, she pulled up the hem and even in the dark she could see it. A chill slipped down her back and the nausea washed over her. A slit in her skin ran from below her left breast across her abdomen. It was bleeding, soaking into her T-shirt and dripping down into the fabric of the recliner.

Maggie bolted from the chair. She covered the wound and pressed her shirt against it, hoping to stop the bleeding. She needed to call 911. Where the hell was the phone? How could this have happened? The scar was over eight months old, and yet it was bleeding as profusely as the day Albert Stucky had cut her.

She knocked over boxes, searching. Lids popped open as cartons fell, scattering crime scene photos, toiletries, newspaper clippings, underwear and socks and sending pieces of her life bouncing off the floor and walls. Everything she had taken such care to pack suddenly flew, rolled, skidded and crashed around her.

Then, she heard a whimpering sound.

She stopped and listened, trying to hold her breath. Already her pulse beat too rapidly. Steady. She needed to stay calm. She turned slowly, cocking her head and straining to hear. She checked the desktop, the surface of the coffee table, the bookshelf. Oh dear God! Where the hell had she left her gun?

Finally, she saw the holster lying at the foot of the recliner. Of course, she would have kept it close by as she slept.

The whimpering grew louder, a high-pitched whine like a wounded animal’s. Or was it a trick?

Maggie edged her way back to the recliner, eyes darting, watching all around her. The sound came from the kitchen. And now she could smell a foul odor seeping in from that direction, too. She picked up the holster and tiptoed toward the kitchen. The closer she got, the easier it was to recognize the smell. It was blood. The acrid scent stung her nostrils and burned her lungs. It was the kind of stench that came only from massive amounts of blood.

She crouched low and eased through the doorway. Despite the warning smell, Maggie gasped at the sight of it. In the moonlit kitchen, blood had sprayed the white walls and pooled on the ceramic tile. It was everywhere, splattered across the countertops and dripping down the appliances. In the far corner of the room stood Albert Stucky. His tall, sleek shadow hovered over a whimpering woman who was down on her knees.

Maggie felt the prickling start at the back of her neck. Dear God, how had he been able to get inside her house? And yet, she wasn’t surprised to see him. Hadn’t she expected him to come? Hadn’t she been waiting for this?

Stucky yanked the woman’s hair in one hand and in the other he held a butcher knife to the woman’s throat. Maggie prevented another gasp. He hadn’t seen her yet, and she pressed herself against the wall, into the shadows.

Steady. Calm. She repeated the mantra in her head. She had prepared herself for this very moment. Had dreaded and dreamed and anticipated it for months. Now was not a time to let fear and panic unravel her nerve. She leaned against the wall, strengthening her position, though her back ached and her squatting knees trembled. From this angle, she could get a clean shot. But she knew she’d be allowed only one. One was all she needed.

Maggie gripped the holster, reaching for her gun. The holster was empty. How could it be empty? She spun around, searching the floor. Had the gun dropped out? Why hadn’t she noticed?

Then suddenly, she realized her startled reaction had just blown her cover. When she looked up, the woman was reaching out to her, pleading with her. But Maggie looked past the woman, her eyes meeting Albert Stucky’s. He smiled. Then, in one swift motion, he slit the woman’s throat.

“No!”

Maggie woke up with a violent jolt, nearly falling out of the recliner. Her fingers groped along the floor. Her heart pounded. She was drenched in sweat. She found her holster and this time ripped the gun out, jumping to her feet and swinging her outstretched arms back and forth, ready to spray the stacked cartons with bullets. Sunlight had only begun to seep into the room, but it was enough to show that she was alone.

She slumped down into the chair. The gun still clenched in her hand, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead and dug the sleep from her eyes with trembling fingers. Still not convinced it was a dream, she clawed at the hem of her T-shirt, pulling it up and twisting to see the bloody cut across her abdomen. Yes, the scar was there, a slight pucker of skin. But no, it was not bleeding.

She leaned back in the chair and raked her fingers through her tangled, short hair. Dear God! How much longer could she put up with the nightmares? It had been over eight months since Albert Stucky had trapped her in an abandoned Miami warehouse. She had chased him for almost two years, learning his patterns, studying his depraved habits, performing autopsies on the corpses he left behind and deciphering the bizarre messages for the game he, alone, had decided the two of them would play. But that hot, August evening, he had won, trapping her and making her watch. He had no intention of killing her. He simply wanted her to watch.

Maggie shook her head, willing the images to stay away. She knew she’d be successful as long as she remained awake. They had captured Albert Stucky that bloody night in August, only to have him escape from prison on Halloween. Her boss, FBI Assistant Director Kyle Cunningham, had immediately taken her out of the field. She was one of the Bureau’s top criminal profilers, and yet Cunningham had stuck her behind a desk. He had exiled her to teaching at law enforcement conferences, as if complete boredom would be some sort of protection from the madman. Instead it felt like punishment. And she didn’t deserve to be punished.

Maggie stood, immediately annoyed at her wobbly knees. She weaved through the maze of cartons to the cabinet in the corner. She checked the clock on the desktop and saw that she had almost two hours before the movers arrived. She laid her gun close by, sorted through the cabinet and brought out a bottle of Scotch. She poured herself a glass, noticing that already her hands were more steady, her heartbeat almost back to normal.

Just then she heard a high-pitched whine coming from the kitchen. Jesus! She dug her fingernails into her arm, feeling the sting and finding no comfort in the fact that she was, indeed, awake this time. She grabbed for her gun and tried to steady her pulse, already racing out of control. She slid against the wall, making her way to the kitchen, trying to listen and sniffing the air. The whining stopped as she got to the doorway.

She prepared herself, arms secure and close to her chest. Her finger pressed against the trigger. This time she was ready. She took a deep breath and swung into the kitchen, her gun pointed directly at Greg’s back. He spun around, dropping the freshly opened can of coffee, jumping backward as it crashed to the floor.

“Damn it, Maggie!” He wore only silk boxers. His normally styled blond hair stuck up, and he looked as if he had just gotten out of bed.

“Sorry,” Maggie said, desperately trying to keep the panic from her voice. “I didn’t hear you come in last night.” She tucked the Smith & Wesson .38 into the back waistband of her jeans in an easy, casual motion, as if this was a part of her regular morning routine.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he snapped through gritted teeth. Already he had a broom and dustpan and was sweeping up the mess. Gently, he lifted the tipped can, rescuing as much of his precious gourmet coffee as possible. “One of these days, Maggie, you’re gonna shoot me by mistake.” Then he stopped and looked up at her. “Or maybe it wouldn’t be a mistake.”

She ignored his sarcasm and walked past him. At the sink, she splashed cold water on her face and the back of her neck, hoping he didn’t notice that her hands were still shaking. Though she needn’t worry. Greg saw only what he wanted to see.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, keeping her back to him. “This would never happen if we had gotten a security system.”

“And we would never need a security system if you’d quit your job.”

She was so tired of this old argument. She found a dishcloth and wiped the coffee grounds from the counter. “I’d never ask you to quit being a lawyer, Greg.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Being a lawyer means just as much to you as being an FBI agent means to me.”

“But being a lawyer doesn’t get me cut up and almost killed. It doesn’t have me stalking around my own house with a loaded gun and almost shooting my spouse.” He returned the broom, slamming it into the utility closet.

“Well, after today I guess it won’t be an issue,” she said quietly.

He stopped. His gray eyes met hers and for a brief moment he looked sad, almost apologetic. Then he looked away, snatching the dishcloth Maggie had set aside. He wiped the counter again in careful, deliberate swipes as though she had disappointed him even in this small task.

“So when are the guys from United getting here?” he wanted to know, as if it were a move they had planned together.

She glanced at the wall clock. “They’ll be here at eight. But I didn’t hire United.”

“Maggie, you have to be careful about movers. They’ll rip you off. You should know…” He stopped, as if reminding himself it was no longer any of his business. “Suit yourself.” He started filling the coffeemaker with level, precise scoops, pursing his lips to confine the scolding he normally would have unleashed on her.

Maggie watched him, predicting his movements, knowing he’d fill the pot to the three-cup line and that he’d squat to eye level to make certain it was exact. She recognized the familiar routine and wondered when they had become strangers. After almost ten years of marriage, they couldn’t even afford each other the courtesies of friendship. Instead, every conversation seemed to be through clenched teeth.

Maggie turned and went back to the spare room, waiting, but hoping he wouldn’t follow her. Not this time. She wouldn’t get through this day if he continued to scold and pout or worse, if he resorted to telling her he still loved her. Those words should have been a comfort; instead, they had come to feel like a sharp knife, especially when he followed them with, “And if you loved me you would quit your job.”

She returned to the liquor cabinet where she had left the glass of Scotch. The sun had barely risen and already she needed her daily dose of liquid bravery to get her through the day. Her mother would be proud. The two of them finally had something in common.

She glanced around the room while she sipped. How could this stack of cartons be the sum of her life? She rubbed a hand over her face, feeling the exhaustion as though it had taken up permanent residence in her bones. How long had it been since she had slept through an entire night? When was the last time she had felt safe? She was so tired of feeling as though she was trapped on a ledge, coming closer and closer to falling.

Assistant Director Cunningham was fooling himself if he believed he could protect her. There was nothing he could do to stop her nightmares, and there was no place he could send her that would be out of Albert Stucky’s reach. Eventually, she knew Stucky would come for her. Although it had been five months since Stucky’s escape, she knew it with certainty. It could be another month or it could be another five months. It didn’t matter how long it took. He would come.

T
ess McGowan wished she had worn different shoes. These pinched and the heels were too tall. Every nerve ending in her body concentrated on not tripping as she walked up the winding sidewalk, all the while pretending not to notice the eyes that followed her. The movers had stopped unloading the truck as soon as her black Miata pulled into the drive. Sofa ends stayed in midair. Hand-trucks remained tipped. Boxes were ignored while the men in sweaty, blue uniforms stopped to watch her.

She hated the attention and cringed at the possibility of a wolf whistle. Especially in this well-manicured neighborhood where the sanctuary-like silence would make the whistles even more obscene.

This was ridiculous; her silk blouse stuck to her, and her skin crawled. She wasn’t close to being stunning or beautiful. At best, she had a decent figure, one for which she sweated hours at the gym, and she still needed to monitor her cravings for cheeseburgers. She was far from being
Playboy
-centerfold material, so why did she suddenly feel naked though dressed in a conservative suit?

It wasn’t the men’s fault. It wasn’t even their primal instinct to watch that bothered her as much as what seemed to be her involuntary reflex to put on a show for them. The annoying habit clung to her from her past, like the scent of cigarette smoke and whiskey. Too easily she found herself reminded of Elvis tunes coming from a corner jukebox, always followed by cheap hotel rooms.

But that had been a lifetime ago, certainly too many years ago to trip her up now. After all, she was on her way to becoming a successful businesswoman. So why the hell did the past have such a hold on her? And how could something as harmless as a few indiscreet stares, from men she didn’t know, dismantle her poise and make her question her hard-earned respectability? They made her feel like a fraud. As if, once again, she was masquerading as something she was not. By the time she reached the front entrance, she wanted to turn and run. Instead, she took a deep breath and knocked on the heavy oak door that had been left half-open.

“Come on in,” a woman’s voice called from behind the door.

Tess found Maggie O’Dell at the panel of buttons and blinking lights that made up the house’s newly installed security system.

“Oh, hi, Ms. McGowan. Did we forget to sign some papers?” Maggie only glanced at Tess while she punched the small keyboard and continued to program the device.

“Please, you really must call me Tess.” She hesitated in case Maggie wanted to say the same, but wasn’t surprised when there was no such invitation. Tess knew it wasn’t that Maggie was rude, just that she liked to keep her distance. It was something Tess could relate to, something she understood and respected. “No, there aren’t any more papers. I promise. I knew today was the big move. Just wanted to see how things were going.

“Take a look around, I’m almost finished with this.”

Tess walked from the foyer into the living room. The afternoon sunlight filled the room, but thankfully all the windows were open, a cool south breeze replacing the stale warm air. Tess wiped at her forehead, disappointed to find it damp. She examined her client out of the corner of her eyes.

Now, this was a woman who deserved to be ogled by men. Tess knew Maggie was close to her own age, somewhere in her early thirties. But without the usual power suit, Maggie could easily pass for a college student. Dressed in a ratty University of Virginia T-shirt and threadbare jeans, she failed to hide her shapely athletic figure. She had a natural beauty no one could manufacture. Her skin was smooth and creamy. Her short dark hair shone even though it was mussed and tangled. She possessed rich brown eyes and high cheekbones that Tess would kill for. Yet, Tess knew that the men who had stopped in their tracks just moments before to stare at her would not dare do the same to Maggie O’Dell, though they would definitely want to and it would take tremendous effort not to.

Yes, there was something about this woman. Something Tess had noticed the very first day they had met. She couldn’t quite describe it. It was the way Maggie carried herself, the way she appeared, at times, to be oblivious to the outside world. The way she seemed totally unaware of her effect on people. It was something that invoked—no, demanded, respect. Despite her designer suits and expensive car, Tess would never capture that ability, that power. Yet for all their differences, Tess had felt an immediate kinship with Maggie O’Dell. They both seemed so alone.

“Sorry,” Maggie said, finally joining Tess who had moved to the windows overlooking the backyard. “I’m staying here tonight,” she explained, “and I want to make certain the alarm system is up and running.”

“Of course,” Tess nodded and smiled.

Maggie had been more concerned about the security system than the square footage or the seller’s price of any of the houses Tess had shown her. In the beginning, Tess chalked it up to the nature of her client’s profession. Of course FBI agents would be more sensitive to security matters than the average home buyer. But Tess had witnessed a look in Maggie’s eyes, a glimpse of something that Tess recognized as vulnerability. She couldn’t help wondering what the confident, independent agent hoped to lock herself away from. Even as they stood side by side, Maggie O’Dell seemed far away, her eyes examining her new backyard like a woman looking for and expecting an intruder, rather than a new home owner admiring the foliage.

Tess glanced around the room. There were plenty of stacked boxes, but very little furniture. Perhaps the movers had only begun to bring in the heavy stuff. She wondered how much Maggie was able to take from the condo she and her husband owned. Tess knew the divorce proceedings were growing messy. Not that her client had shared any of this with her.

Everything Tess knew of Maggie O’Dell, she had learned from a mutual friend, Maggie’s attorney, who had recommended Tess. It was this mutual friend, Teresa Ramairez, who had told Tess about Maggie O’Dell’s bitter lawyer husband, and how Maggie needed to invest in a substantial piece of real estate or risk sharing—maybe even losing—a large trust left in her name. In fact, Maggie O’Dell had confided nothing in Tess, other than those necessities required for the business transaction. She wondered if Maggie’s secrecy and her aloof manner were an occupational hazard that carried over into her personal life.

It didn’t matter—Tess was used to just the opposite. Usually clients confided in her as if she was Dear Abby. Being a real estate agent had proven to be a little like being a bartender. Perhaps part of her colorful past had been good preparation, after all. That Maggie O’Dell didn’t wish to bare her soul was perfectly fine with Tess. She certainly didn’t take it personally. Instead, she could relate. It was exactly the way she handled her own life, her own secrets. Yes, the less people knew, the better.

“So, have you met any of your new neighbors?”

“Not yet.” Maggie answered while she stared out at the huge pine trees lining her property like a fortress. “Only the one you and I met last week.”

“Oh sure, Rachel…um…I can’t remember her last name. I’m usually very good with names.”

“Endicott,” Maggie supplied without effort.

“She seemed very nice,” Tess added, though what little she had gleaned from the brief introduction made her wonder how Special Agent O’Dell would fit into this neighborhood of doctors, congressmen, Ph.D.’s and their stay-at-home society-conscious wives. She remembered seeing Rachel Endicott out for a jog with her pure white Labrador, while dressed in a designer jogging suit, expensive running shoes and not a blond hair out of place nor a single bead of sweat on her brow. And in contrast, here was Agent O’Dell in a stretched-out T-shirt, worn jeans and a pair of gray Nikes that should have been thrown out ages ago.

Two men grunted their way through the front entrance with a huge rolltop desk. Immediately, Maggie’s attention transferred to the desk, which looked incredibly heavy and was quite possibly an antique.

“Where ya want this, ma’am?”

“Over against that wall.”

“Sorta centered?”

“Yes, please.”

Maggie O’Dell’s eyes never left them until the piece was carefully set down.

“Dat good?”

“Perfect.”

Both men seemed pleased. The older one smiled. The tall, thin one avoided looking at the women, slouching not from pain but as though he wasn’t comfortable being tall. They unwrapped the tape and unlatched the plastic fasteners from the desk’s many nooks. The tall man tested the drawers, then stopped suddenly, snapping his hand back as though he had been stung.

“Um…ma’am. Did you know you had this in here?”

Maggie crossed the room to look inside the drawer. She reached in and pulled out a black pistol encased in some kind of holster.

“Sorry. I forgot about this one.”

This one? Tess wondered how many the agent had stashed. Maybe the obsession with security was a bit over the top, even for an FBI agent.

“We should be done in a bit,” the older man told her, and he followed his partner out as though there was nothing unusual about hauling loaded guns.

“Do you have anyone coming to help you unpack?” Tess tried to disguise her mistrust, her distaste for guns. No, why kid herself? It was more than a simple distaste, it was a genuine fear.

“I really don’t have much.”

Tess glanced around the room, and when she looked back, Maggie was watching her. Tess’s cheeks grew hot. She felt as though she had been caught, because that was exactly what she had been thinking—that Maggie O’Dell really didn’t have much. How could she possibly fill the huge rooms that made up this two-story Tudor?

“It’s just that…well, I remember you mentioning that your mother lives in Richmond,” Tess tried to explain.

“Yes, she does,” she said in a way that told Tess there would be no further conversation on the topic.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to work.” Tess suddenly felt awkward and anxious to leave. “I need to finish up the paperwork.”

She extended her hand, and Maggie politely shook it with a strong, firm grip that again took Tess off guard. The woman exuded strength and confidence, but unless Tess was imagining things, Maggie’s obsession with security sprung from some vulnerability, some deep-seated fear. Having dealt with her own vulnerabilities and fears for so many years, Tess could sense them in others.

“If you need anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call me, okay?”

“Thanks, Tess, I will.”

But Tess knew she would not.

As Tess backed her car down the driveway, she wondered whether Special Agent Maggie O’Dell was simply cautious or paranoid, careful or obsessive. At the corner of the intersection, she noticed a van parked along the curb, an oddity in this neighborhood where the houses were set far back from the street and the long driveways afforded plenty of parking space for several cars or utility vehicles.

The man in dark glasses and a uniform sat behind the wheel, absorbed in a newspaper. Tess’s first thought was how odd to be reading a newspaper with sunglasses on, especially with the sun setting behind him. As she drove by, she recognized the logo on the side of the van: Northeastern Bell Telephone. Immediately, she found herself suspicious. Why was the guy so far out of his territory? Then suddenly, she shrugged and laughed out loud. Perhaps her client’s paranoia was contagious.

She shook her head, pulled out onto the highway and left the secluded neighborhood to return to her office. As she glanced back at the stately houses tucked away between huge oaks, dogwoods and armies of pine trees, Tess hoped Maggie O’Dell would finally feel safe.