Maggie O'Dell Collection, Volume 1: A Perfect Evil ; Split Second ; The Soul Catcher

by Alex Kava

  Maggie watched as Agent Tully brought out the last item—a labeled set of keys. Without getting a closer look, Maggie knew they were the keys for this house. Suddenly she felt nauseated. Tess McGowan may have shown this house yesterday, but she certainly didn’t leave of her own free will.

  CHAPTER 38

  “We don’t know that Stucky had anything to do with this.” Tully tried to sound convincing, but he wasn’t sure he believed his own words.

  It was obvious he needed to be the objective one. Ever since Ms. Heston left them, Agent O’Dell seemed to be coming apart at the seams. The calm, controlled professional now paced, quick long steps, back and forth. She ran her fingers through her short dark hair too many times, tucking strands behind her ears, tousling it with her fingers and tucking it in again. Her voice was clipped, and possessed an edge that hadn’t existed before. Tully thought he heard it quiver several times.

  He felt as if he was watching from the sidelines as she passed by him. She didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands. They ducked into her trouser pockets, then a quick swipe through her hair again. Several times they slipped into her jacket, and he knew she was checking her revolver. Tully wasn’t sure what to do with her. This was so unlike the woman he had spent most of the day with.

  It had gotten dark, and Agent O’Dell had gone through the entire two-story house, turning on lights and pulling closed what few draperies there were, but only after staring out into the night at each window. Was she expecting him to be there?

  She was doing a second check downstairs now. Tully decided they needed to leave. The house was spotless. Though the master bedroom smelled strongly of a recent dousing of ammonia, there was no trace that anything had occurred in the house. Least of all, a brutal murder and a violent kidnapping.

  “There’s no evidence that anything suspicious happened here,” he tried again. “I think it’s time we leave.” He glanced at his watch and cringed when he saw that it was after nine. Emma would be furious with him for having to spend the entire evening with Mrs. Lopez.

  “Tess McGowan was the real estate agent who sold me my house,” O’Dell repeated. It was the most she had said to him in the last several hours. “Don’t you see? Don’t you get it?”

  He knew exactly what she was thinking. It was the same thing he was thinking. Albert Stucky would have known too, especially since he must be spending a good deal of time watching Agent O’Dell. He would have seen the two of them together, just the way he saw the pizza girl and the Kansas City waitress. But the truth was, they had absolutely no evidence that McGowan was even missing, other than a forgotten briefcase, and that was hardly proof. He refused to fuel O’Dell’s panic.

  “Right now there’s nothing substantial to prove Ms. McGowan was abducted. And there’s nothing more we can do here. We need to call it a night. Maybe we can track down Ms. McGowan tomorrow.”

  “We won’t track her down. He’s taken her.” The quiver was there though she did her best to hide it. “He’s added her to his collection. She may be dead already.” Her hands reached for her holster then disappeared into her pockets. “Or if she’s not dead, she may be wishing she was,” she added in almost a whisper.

  Tully rubbed his eyes. He had removed his glasses hours ago. O’Dell was starting to spook him. He didn’t want to think about the fact that Albert Stucky may have added to his collection. Back on his desk, buried under manuals and documents, he had a bulging file of missing women from across the country. Women who had disappeared without a trace in the last five months since Stucky’s escape.

  The volume wasn’t that unusual. It happened all the time. Some of the women left and didn’t want to be found. Others had been abused by husbands and lovers and chose to disappear. But too many were gone without any explanation, and Tully knew enough about Stucky’s games to pray that none of them in his file folder were actually in Stucky’s new collection.

  “Look, there’s nothing more we can do tonight.”

  “We need to do a luminol test. We can have Keith Ganza bring it and the Lumi-Light, so we can go over the master bedroom.”

  “There’s nothing here. There’s absolutely no reason to believe anything happened in this house, Agent O’Dell.”

  “The Lumi-Light might show any latent prints. And the luminol will show any blood left in the cracks, any stains we can’t see. He obviously tried to clean things up, but you can’t clean enough to get rid of blood.” It was almost as if she didn’t hear him. As though he wasn’t there and she was talking to herself.

  “We can’t do anything more tonight. I’m exhausted. You must be exhausted.” When she started for the stairs again, he gently grabbed her arm. “Agent O’Dell.”

  She wrenched her arm away, turning on him with eyes flashing anger. She stood solidly, firmly in place, staring at him as though challenging him to a dual. Then without warning she turned on her heel and marched to the door, snapping off lights in her path.

  Tully followed her cue before she changed her mind. He ran upstairs and shut off those lights, and when he returned, O’Dell was in the foyer, activating the security system. It wasn’t until he locked the front door and walked alongside her to his car that he saw her revolver in her hand, dropped at her side but in a tight grip.

  Suddenly Tully realized that the hysteria, the frustration, the anger he had witnessed was actually fear. How stupid of him not to have seen it before now. Special Agent Maggie O’Dell was scared to death, not just for Tess McGowan, but for herself, too.

  CHAPTER 39

  Tess jerked awake. Her throat felt like sandpaper, so dry it hurt to swallow. Her eyelids felt like lead shutters. Her chest ached as though some massive weight had pressed against her. There was nothing on top of her now. She lay on what appeared to be a narrow, lumpy cot. The room was dimly lit, forcing her to squint. The smell of mildew surrounded her. A draft made her pull the scratchy blanket up under her chin.

  She remembered feeling paralyzed. In a mad panic, she lifted both her arms, grateful to find no restraints but quickly disappointed to find her limbs heavy, movement awkward. They felt detached and unresponsive. But at least she could move and at least she was not tied down.

  She started to sit up, and immediately her muscles protested. The room began to spin. Her head throbbed and nausea washed over her so sudden and so strong, she lay back. She was used to hangovers, but this was much worse. Something had been injected into her bloodstream. Then she remembered the dark-haired man and the needle. Dear God, where the hell had he taken her? And where was he?

  Her eyes darted around the small space. The nausea forced her to keep her head on the pillow as she twisted and turned her neck to examine her accommodations. She was inside some sort of wooden shack. Rotted wood allowed faint light to seep in between the slats. That was the only light. From what Tess could tell, it was cloudy or else too early or late for sunshine. Either way, she’d only be able to guess. There were no windows, or at least not anymore. One wall had boards nailed over a small area that may have been a window at one time. Other than the cot, there was nothing else except a tall plastic bucket in the corner.

  Tess’s eyes searched and found what looked like a door. It was difficult to tell. The wood blended in with the rest of the shack. Only a couple of rusted hinges and a keyhole gave it away. Of course, it would be locked, maybe even bolted from the outside, but she needed to make an attempt.

  She sat up slowly and waited. Again, the nausea sent her head to the pillow.

  “Damn it!” she shouted, and immediately regretted it. What if he was watching, listening?

  She needed to concentrate. She could do this. After all, how many hangovers had she survived? But her surroundings only added to her vulnerability. Why was he doing this? What did he want from her? Had he mistaken her for someone else? A fresh panic began to crawl in her stomach. She couldn’t think about his intentions now or about him. She couldn’t think about how she got here. She wouldn’t think about any of it or it would i
mmobilize her exactly like the contents of that syringe.

  She rolled onto her side to assuage the nausea. A sharp pain pierced her side, and for a brief moment she thought she had rolled onto a spike. But there was nothing there, only the hard, lumpy mattress. She moved her fingers up under her blouse, noticing the hem had already been pulled out from her trouser’s waistband. A button was missing and the rest were off a buttonhole.

  “No, stop it,” she scolded herself in a whispered rush.

  She had to focus. She couldn’t think about what he may have done while she had been unconscious. She needed to check and see if she was okay.

  Her fingers found no open wound, no sticky blood, but she was almost certain one of her ribs had been broken or badly bruised. Unfortunately, her past afforded her the knowledge of what broken ribs felt like. Carefully, her fingers probed the area under her breasts while she bit down on her lower lip. Despite the stabbing pain, she guessed bruised, not broken. That was good. She could function just fine with bruised ribs. Broken could sometimes puncture a lung. Another piece of trivia she wished she didn’t know firsthand.

  She slipped a foot out from under the covers and dangled it close to the floor. She was barefoot. What had he done with her shoes and stockings? Again, she glanced around the room. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, though her vision remained a bit off focus and her contact lenses felt gritty. It didn’t matter. There was nothing more to see in the shack.

  She let her toes and the ball of her foot touch the floor. It was colder than she expected, but she kept the foot there, forcing her body to grow accustomed to the change in temperature before she tried to stand up. The air in the shack felt damp and chilly.

  Then she heard the beginning tap-tap-tap, soft against the roof. The sound of rain had usually been a comfort to her. Now she frantically wondered how badly the rotted roof leaked and felt a new chill. She knew the bucket in the corner hadn’t been placed there for leaks. Instead, it was meant to accommodate her. He obviously intended to keep her here for a while. The thought reawakened the fear.

  She pushed herself out of the cot and stood with both feet flat on the cold floorboards while she bent at the waist and held on to the bed. Again, she bit her lip, ignoring the taste of blood, fighting the urge to vomit and waiting for the room to stop spinning.

  Her pulse quickened. The sound inside her head hummed like wind in a tunnel. She tried to concentrate on the tap-tap-tapping of the rain. Maybe she could find some level of comfort, some level of sanity, in the rain’s natural and familiar rhythm. A sudden rumble of thunder startled her like a gunshot, and she spun around to the door as though expecting to see him there. When her heart settled back in her chest, she almost burst out laughing. It was only thunder. A little bit of thunder. That’s all.

  Slowly she tested her feet, coaxing her stomach to behave, trying to ignore the pain in her side and the panic from strangling her. Only now did she realize that her breathing came in gasps. A lump obstructed her throat, and it threatened to come out screaming. It took a conscious effort to prevent it from doing so.

  Her body began shivering. She grabbed the wool blanket, wrapped it around her shoulders and tied two ends together in a knot at her neck, keeping her hands free. She checked under the cot, hoping to find something, anything to aid in her escape, or at least her shoes. There was nothing, not even furballs or dust. Which meant he had prepared this place for her, and recently. If only he hadn’t taken her shoes and stockings. Then she remembered she had worn panty hose under her trousers.

  Oh God! He had undressed her, after all. She mustn’t think about it. She had to concentrate on other things. Stop remembering. Stop feeling aches and bruises in places that might remind her of what he had done. No, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t remember. Not now. She needed to focus all her energies on getting out of here.

  Again she listened to the rain. Again she waited for its rhythm to calm her, to regulate her raspy breathing.

  When she could walk without the threat of nausea crippling her, she carefully made her way to the door. The handle was nothing more than a rusted latch. One more time, she looked around to see if she had missed anything that could be used to help pry open the door. Even the corners had been swept clean. Then she saw a rusted nail swept into a groove in the floor. She pried it out with her fingernails and began examining the keyhole. The door was indeed locked, but was it bolted as well?

  She steadied her fingers and inserted the nail into the keyhole, slipping it in and out, jingling and twisting it expertly. Another talent acquired in her not so illustrious past. But it had been years, and she was out of practice. The lock groaned in rusted protest. Oh, dear God, if only—something gave way with a metallic click.

  Tess grabbed the latch and gave it a yank. The door swung open freely, almost knocking her over in her surprise. No force had been necessary. It hadn’t been bolted. She waited, staring at the open doorway. This was too easy. Was it a blessing or another trap?

  CHAPTER 40

  Friday, April 3

  Tully drove with one hand on the steering wheel and the other fumbling with the plastic lid of his coffee container. Why did fast-food places have to make the contraptions like child-protective caps? His finger punched at the uncooperative triangular perforation, cracking the plastic and splashing hot coffee onto his lap.

  “Damn it!” he yelled as he swerved to the side of the road and screeched on the brakes, splattering more coffee onto the fabric of his car seat. He grabbed napkins to sop it up, but already the brown stain spread deep into the cream color. As an afterthought, he checked the rearview mirror, relieved no one was behind him.

  He shoved the car’s gearshift into park and released his foot from the brake pedal, only now realizing how tense and rigid his body had become in response to the stress. He sat back and rubbed a hand over his jaw, immediately feeling the nicks he had inflicted earlier with his razor. It had been one day and already Agent O’Dell had him feeling as if he was on the rim of her personal cliff, and he was straddling the ledge while pieces of rock crumbled at his feet.

  Maybe it had been a mistake asking Assistant Director Cunningham to let O’Dell help on the Stucky case. Last night may have been proof that she simply couldn’t handle the pressure. But then her phone message this morning telling him to meet her back at the Archer Drive house made Tully realize that he was in for an even more difficult task.

  They had found nothing at the house to warrant a further search. Yet O’Dell had told him she had written permission from Ms. Hes-ton and the owners to do so. Now he wondered if she had gotten them out of bed. How else had she been able to obtain written permission between last night and early this morning? And how the hell would he make her see that she was being irrational and paranoid and possibly wasting precious time?

  After last night, Tully knew O’Dell was wound so tight, that controlling her could be impossible, and trying to restrain her could make matters worse. But he wouldn’t talk to Cunningham. He couldn’t. Not yet. He needed to handle this. He needed to settle O’Dell down so they could move forward.

  He sipped what coffee was left and glanced at his watch. Today the damn thing was slow, according to the car’s digital clock. It wasn’t even seven o’clock. O’Dell had left the message on his machine at about six while he was in the shower. He wondered if she had gone to bed at all last night.

  He put the coffee container safely into a cup holder, massaged the tension in his neck and then shifted into drive. He had only three blocks to go. When he turned onto the street, his tension turned to anger. Parked in the driveway were O’Dell’s red Toyota and a navy blue panel van, the kind the forensic lab used. She hadn’t wasted any time nor bothered to wait for his okay. What was the use of being lead in an investigation if no one paid any goddamn attention? He needed to put a stop to this now.

  As he walked toward the front door, lampposts along the driveway blinked, trying to decide whether to stay on or shut off. They needed rain. Eac
h time it looked like spring showers, the rains dumped on the shoreline or just offshore before rolling inland. But this morning thick clouds smudged out the sunrise. A low rumble could be heard in the distance. It suited Tully’s mood, and he caught himself making fists as he got closer to the door. He hated confrontation. If he couldn’t get his own daughter to obey him, then how the hell did he expect to get Agent O’Dell to?

  The front door was unlocked, the security system silent. He followed the voices upstairs to the master bedroom. Keith Ganza wore a short white lab coat, and Tully wondered if the man even owned an ordinary sports jacket.

  “Agent Tully,” O’Dell said, coming from the master bathroom, wearing latex gloves and carrying jugs of liquid. “We’re almost ready. We just finished mixing the luminol.”

  She set the jugs on the floor in the corner where Ganza had set up shop.

  “You two know each other, right?” O’Dell asked as though she thought that was the reason for Tully’s frown.

  “Yes,” he answered, trying to restrain his anger and maintain his professionalism.

  Ganza simply nodded at Tully and continued loading and preparing a video camera. A Will comm camera on a tripod stood in the center of the room, already assembled. Several duffel bags, more jugs and four or five spray bottles were carefully set on the floor. A black case leaned against the wall. Tully recognized it as the Lumi-Light. Each of the windows were covered with some kind of black film taped to the frames so that light couldn’t filter in from the outside. Even now the room required the ceiling light. The bathroom lights were on too, and Tully wondered what, if anything, they had used to block out the skylight. This was ridiculous.