by Alex Kava
For the last five months, all Maggie had come up with were rumors of a handsome young priest who traveled from one small farming community to another, serving as their parish priest, though no assignment had officially been made. By the time Maggie tracked down the location, the elusive priest was gone, disappearing into the night with no explanation. Months later, the rumors would find him at another small parish, miles away. But again, by the time the location was narrowed down, Keller was gone. It was as though the communities protected him, keeping him safe like some fugitive unjustly accused. Or perhaps like some martyr.
The thought made Maggie sick to her stomach. That was what Maggie believed to be Keller’s motive for murdering boys he thought were abused. He had hoped to make martyrs of them, as though he could administer a perfectly evil salvation. It seemed unfair that Keller would now be protected like a martyr, instead of executed for the evil monster he was. She wondered how long it would take before these poor farmers would start to find their little boys dead along some riverbank, strangled and stabbed to death but washed clean and given their last rites.
Would they be willing to see Keller punished then? There seemed to be a problem with punishing evil these days, an evil that gained strength by conspiring with other evil. Maggie knew Keller had been the one who had visited Albert Stucky in a Florida prison. Several guards had later identified Keller from a photograph. And though she had no proof, she also knew it had been Keller who had given Stucky the wooden crucifix. It was that dagger-like crucifix Stucky had used to cut himself free of his restraints and stab a transport guard.
She shook the thought from her mind and gulped the remainder of her Scotch. Turner and Delaney looked as though they were finally at a standstill. Delaney looked miserable. Turner’s brown face had a greasy sheen to it, despite his efforts at wiping it clean. She was about to order another Scotch when Ford waved down the waitress for the check. Neither detective had allowed any of the FBI agents to pay. Maggie insisted on at least leaving the tip, which Ford did allow. Maybe he realized his detective’s salary would never be able to keep up with Turner and Delaney’s appetites.
Milhaven had driven them, but Maggie wished she could walk rather than be squashed once again into the Grand Am’s back seat between her two bodyguards. The night was clear but crisp enough to provoke a shiver. Before they got to the parking lot, they noticed a gathering in the alley. One uniformed cop stood in front of a metal Dumpster and attempted to keep a small crowd of well-dressed onlookers at a distance.
Without a word, the detectives and FBI agents made their way to the scene.
“What’s the problem here, Cooper?” Ford knew the frustrated officer.
“Let’s move out of the way,” Milhaven said to the onlookers as he and Delaney pushed them back into the parking lot that ran parallel to the alley.
The officer glanced at Maggie and Turner.
“It’s okay,” Ford reassured him. “They’re FBI. Here for the conference. So what’s going on?”
Officer Cooper pointed to the Dumpster behind him with a tilt of his head.
“Dishwasher at the Bistro took out the trash about a half hour ago. Noticed a hand sticking up out of the pile. Freaked. Called it in, but not before he announced it to the whole goddamn world.”
Maggie felt the familiar knot in her stomach. Turner was already at the Dumpster, his six-foot-three frame allowing him to look over the edge without assistance. Maggie dragged an empty milk crate and joined him. Now she wished she hadn’t drunk so much. She paused and waited for the brief spell of light-headedness to pass.
The first thing Maggie noticed was a red umbrella, its handle looped over the edge of the Dumpster as if the owner hadn’t meant for it to be mistaken for trash. Or had it purposely been left as evidence?
“Officer Cooper.” She waited for his attention. “You might mention to the detectives when they arrive that there’s an umbrella here. It probably should be bagged and taken in for fingerprints.”
“Will do.”
Without disturbing anything, Maggie could see the woman was naked and lying on her back. The patch of red pubic hair was a stark contrast to the white skin. Immediately, Maggie knew the scene had been tampered with. Officer Cooper said the dishwasher had noticed only a hand sticking up out of the pile, yet the woman’s entire torso was exposed. What looked like vegetable peels had been tossed onto her face. Her head was turned to the side, her brilliant red hair littered with pieces of leftovers.
Maggie could see the woman’s mouth, partially opened as though something may have been shoved inside. Then she noticed a dot, a beauty mark above the upper lip. The knot in her stomach tightened. She leaned forward, stretched on tiptoe, sending the crate wobbling while she reached in.
“O’Dell, what the hell are you doing?” Turner scolded her as he watched.
Gently, she swiped at a potato peel and a clump of angel-hair pasta that was stuck to the side of the woman’s face.
“It’s Rita,” she said, wishing she had been wrong.
“Rita? Rita who?”
Maggie waited, glanced at Turner and watched the recognition register on his face.
“Shit! You’re right.”
“You guys know her?” Ford asked as he looked over the top.
“She’s a waitress from the bar and grill down the street,” Maggie explained as her eyes continued to examine what she could of Rita’s body.
Her throat had been slashed, so deep it had nearly decapitated her. The rest of her body had few bruises and no punctures except for her wrists, which showed ligature marks. Whatever the method of capture, the struggle had been minimal, suggesting that hopefully death had come quickly. Maggie found herself relieved and at the same time disparaged to be relieved by such a thing.
Then she saw the bloody incision in Rita’s side underneath a mass of spaghetti. She shoved herself away from the Dumpster, half jumping, half falling off the crate. The light-headedness was quickly replaced by a dizzy buzz. She rushed a safe distance away before she wrapped her arms around herself to stop the wave of panic. Damn it! She never got sick at crime scenes anymore. But this was different. This was a mixture of dread and fear, not nausea.
“O’Dell, you okay?”
Turner was at her side. His large hand touched her shoulder, startling her. She avoided his eyes.
“Stucky did this,” she said, keeping her voice steady and free of the quiver invading her lower lip.
“O’Dell, come on now.”
“I thought I saw him when we were in the bar and grill last night.”
“As I remember, we all had plenty to drink.”
“No, Turner, you don’t understand. Stucky must have seen her. He must have noticed us talking, joking with her. He chose her because of me.”
“O’Dell, we’re in Kansas City. You’re not even on the conference roster. Stucky couldn’t possibly know you’re here.”
“I know you and Delaney think I’m losing it. But this is exactly Stucky’s M.O. We should start looking for a container, a take-out container, before someone else finds it.”
“Look, O’Dell. You’re just on edge.”
“It’s him, Turner. I know it. And whatever he sliced out of her is going to show up at some outdoor café table. Maybe even in front of this restaurant. We need to—”
“O’Dell, slow down,” he whispered, looking around as if to make sure he was the only one witnessing her hysteria. “I know you’re feeling like you need to be checking over your shoulder, thinking—”
“Damn it, Turner. This isn’t my imagination.”
He went to touch her shoulder again, and this time she jerked back just as she noticed a dark figure across the alley.
“O’Dell, relax.”
The man stood at the edge of the crowd, a crowd that had doubled in only a few minutes. He was too far away, and it was too dark for her to be certain, but he wore a black leather jacket, like the man she had seen last night.
“I think he’
s here,” she whispered, and positioned herself behind Turner so she could look without being obvious. Her pulse quickened.
“O’Dell.” By the tone of his voice, she knew Turner was growing impatient.
“There’s a man in the crowd,” she explained, keeping her voice low, “tall, thin, dark, sharp features. From what I can see of his profile, it could be Stucky. My God, he’s even carrying what looks like a take-out container.”
“As are a whole bunch of others. Come on, O’Dell, this is a restaurant district.”
“It could be Stucky, Turner.”
“And it could be the mayor of Kansas City.”
“Fine—” she let him hear her anger “—I’ll just go talk to him myself.”
She started around him, but Turner grabbed her arm.
“Stay put and stay cool,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna talk to the man. Ask a few questions.”
“If it’s Stucky—”
“If it’s Stucky, I’ll recognize the bastard. If it’s not, you’re picking up the dinner tab tomorrow night. I’m thinking you better get your credit card ready for prime rib.”
She watched Turner while trying not to be obvious about it. She positioned herself behind Delaney and Milhaven, who were deep in discussion about baseball. Neither man seemed to notice her. Through the space between them, Maggie could see Turner walk with his casual yet authoritarian gait toward the crowd. She knew he wasn’t taking her seriously, and he wouldn’t be prepared if it was, indeed, Stucky.
She reached inside her jacket and unsnapped the restraint on her holster, then kept her hand on the butt of the gun. Already her heart was pounding against her rib cage. All other motion, all other conversation stood still as she concentrated on the man in the black leather jacket. Could it really be Stucky? Could the bastard be so arrogant to kill in a city crawling with law enforcement officers from across the country, then stand back and watch? Yes, Stucky would love the challenge. He’d love to be able to thumb his nose at them all. A shiver slid down her back as a night breeze swirled around her, wet and cold.
Turner didn’t reach the crowd before the man turned to leave.
“Hey, wait a minute.” Turner yelled at the man loud enough for even Delaney and Milhaven to look. “I want to talk to you.”
The man bolted and so did Turner. Delaney started to ask Maggie something, but she didn’t wait to hear. She raced across the parking lot, gun drawn, its nose to the ground. The crowd scattered out of her way with gasps and one scream.
All Maggie could think was this time Albert Stucky would not escape.
CHAPTER 22
Maggie’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 th
rough 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.