by Alex Kava
Tully stared at the pizza box on the floor of the van. Despite the scent of pizza dough and pepperoni, he recognized the acrid scent as blood. So much for eating pizza ever again.
“Nothing happens in this quiet little suburb,” Dr. Holmes said while continuing to jot details on the forms he had clipped to his board. “Then two homicides in one day.”
“Two?” Cunningham’s patience seemed to wear thin with the doctor’s slow, deliberate manner. He stared at the pizza box, and Tully knew his boss wouldn’t touch it without first being invited to do so by Dr. Holmes. Tully had discovered early on that despite the director’s authority, he showed great respect for those he worked with, as well as for rules, policy and protocol.
“I’m not aware of another homicide, Frank,” he said when the doctor took too long to offer an explanation.
“Well, I’m not sure the other one is a homicide, yet. We never did find a body.” Dr. Holmes finally put the clipboard aside. “We had an agent on the scene. Maybe one of yours?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Not far from here in the nice quiet neighborhood of Newburgh Heights. Said she was a forensic psychologist. Just moved into the victim’s neighborhood. Very impressive young woman.”
Tully watched Cunningham’s face and saw the transformation from calm to agitated.
“Yes, I did hear about that. I had forgotten her new neighborhood was in Newburgh Heights. I apologize if she got in the way.”
“Oh, no apology necessary, Kyle. On the contrary, she proved very helpful. I think the arrogant bastard who was supposed to be investigating the scene may have even learned a thing or two.”
Tully caught the assistant director with a smile at the corner of his lips, before he realized he was being watched. He turned to Tully and explained, “Agent O’Dell, your predecessor, just bought a new home in this area.”
“Agent Margaret O’Dell?” Tully held his boss’s eyes until he saw that Cunningham had now made the same connection Tully had just made. Both of them stared at Dr. Holmes as he slid the pizza box closer. Suddenly, Tully knew it didn’t matter what they found in the box. Whatever had been discarded, neither of them needed to see the bloody mess to confirm that this was most likely the work of Albert Stucky. And Tully knew it was no coincidence that he had chosen to start again, close to Agent Margaret O’Dell’s new home.
CHAPTER 12
Exhaustion seeped into his bones and threatened to incapacitate him by the time he returned to the safety of his room. He shed his clothes with minimal movement, letting the fabric slide off his lean body, though what he really wanted to do was rip and tear. His body disgusted him. It had taken almost twice as long for him to come this time. Of all the fucking things he had to deal with, that one was the most annoying.
His fingers fumbled through his duffel bag, searching frantically, tossing items haphazardly to the floor. Suddenly, he stopped when he felt the smooth cylinder. Relief washed over him, chilling his sweat-drenched body.
The fatigue had moved to his fingers. It took three attempts to snap off the plastic cap and poke the needle into the orange rubber top of the vial. He hated not having complete control. The anger and the irritability only added to his nausea. He steadied his hands as best he could and watched the syringe suck the liquid from the vial.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his knees weak and perspiration sliding down his naked back. In one quick motion he stuck the needle into his thigh, forcing the colorless liquid into his bloodstream. Then he lay back and waited, closing his eyes against the red lines that jetted across his field of vision. In his mind he could hear the blood vessels popping—pop, pop, pop! The thought might drive him completely mad before it drove him completely blind.
Through closed eyelids he was aware of the flickers of lightning that invaded his dimly lit room. A rumble of thunder vibrated the window. Then the rain began again, soft and gentle, tapping out a lullaby.
Yes, his body disgusted him. He had pushed it to be strong and lean, using weights, steel machines and gut-wrenching wind sprints. He ate nutritious meals high in protein and vitamins. He had freed himself of all toxins including caffeine, alcohol and nicotine. Yet, his body still failed him, screaming out its limitations and reminding him of its imperfections.
It had only been three short months since he had noticed any of the symptoms. The first ones were simply annoying, the eternal thirst and the constant urge to piss. Who knew how long this damn thing had been lying dormant inside him, ready to strike at just the right moment.
Of course, it would be this one abnormality that would eventually do him in, a gift from his greedy mother whom he had never even known. The bitch would have to give him something that could destroy him.
He sat up, ignoring the slight dizziness in his head, his vision still blurred. The lapses came more often and were getting harder and harder to predict. Whatever the limitations, he refused to let them interfere with the game.
The rain tapped more persistently now. The lightning came in constant flickers. It made the room crawl with movement. Dusty objects sprang to life, jerky miniature robots. The whole frickin’ room jumped and jerked.
He grabbed the lamp on the bedstand and twisted it on, making the movement halt in the yellow glow. In the light, he could see the heap from his spilled duffel bag. Socks, shaving kit, T-shirts, several knives, a scalpel and a Glock 9 mm lay scattered on the plush carpet. He ignored the familiar buzz that had begun to invade his head, and rifled through the mess, stopping when he found the pink panties. He rubbed the soft silk against his bristled jaw, then breathed in their scent, a lovely combination of talcum powder, come and pizza.
He noticed the real estate flyer crumpled under the pile and pulled it out, unfolding it and smoothing its wrinkles. The eight-and-half-by-eleven sheet of paper included a color photo of the beautiful colonial house, a detailed description of its amenities and the shiny blue logo of Heston Realty. The house had definitely lived up to its promises, and he was sure it would continue to do so.
At the bottom corner of the flyer was a small photo of an attractive woman, trying to look professional despite something…what was it in her eyes? There was an insecurity, something that made her look uncomfortable in her cute conservative white blouse and navy blue suit. His thumb rubbed over her face, smudging the ink and dragging a trail of black and blue over her skin. That looked better. Yes, already he could feel her vulnerability. Perhaps he could see and feel it only because he had spent so much time watching her, had taken time to study and examine her. He wondered what it was that Tess McGowan was trying so hard to hide.
He walked across the room, taking slow, deliberate steps deciding not to get angry because his knees were still weak. He tacked the flyer to the bulletin board. Then, as if the memory of Tess and those shapely legs of hers had reminded him, he slid a box out from under the table. Unfortunately, movers were so negligent these days. Going off and taking breaks without tending to the precious possessions left in their care. He smiled as he broke the packaging tape and then flipped off the lid that was marked “M. O’Dell.”
He took out the yellowed newspaper clippings: Firefighter Sacrifices Life, Trust Fund Established for Hero. What a horrible way for her to lose her father, in a hellish fire.
“Do you dream about him, Maggie O’Dell?” he whispered. “Do you imagine the flames licking off his skin?”
He wondered if he had finally found an Achilles’ heel to the brave, unflinching Special Agent O’Dell.
He set the articles aside. Underneath, he discovered a bigger treasure—a leather appointment book. He flipped to the upcoming week, immediately disappointed. The anger returned as he double-checked the penciled notation. She would be in Kansas City at a law enforcement conference. Then he calmed himself and smiled again. Maybe it was better this way. Still, what a shame Agent O’Dell would miss his debut in Newburgh Heights.
CHAPTER 13
Sunday, March 29
M
aggie unpacked the last of the boxes labeled Kitchen, carefully washing, drying and placing the crystal goblets on the top cupboard shelf. It still surprised her that Greg had allowed her the set of eight. He claimed they had been a wedding gift from one of her relatives, though Maggie didn’t know anyone remotely related to her who could afford such an expensive gift or have such elegant taste. Her own mother had given them a toaster oven, a practical gift void of sentiment, which more likely reflected the characteristics of the O’Dells she knew.
The goblets reminded her that she needed to call her mother and give her the new phone number. Immediately, she felt the familiar tightness in her chest. Of course, there would be no need for the new address. Her mother rarely left Richmond and wouldn’t be visiting any time soon. Maggie cringed at the mere thought of her mother invading this new sanctuary. Even the obligatory phone call felt obtrusive to her quiet Sunday. But she should call before leaving for the airport. After years, flying still unhinged her, so why not take her mind off being out of control at thirty thousand feet with a conversation that was sure to clench her teeth?
Her fingers moved reluctantly over the numbers. How could this woman still make her feel like a twelve-year-old caretaker, vulnerable and anxious? Yet, Maggie had been more mature and competent at twelve than her mother ever was.
The phone rang six, seven times, and Maggie was ready to hang up when a low, raspy voice muttered something incomprehensible.
“Mom? It’s Maggie,” she said in place of a greeting.
“Mag-pie, I was just going to call you.”
Maggie grimaced, hearing her mother use the nickname her father had given her. The only time her mother called her Mag-pie was when she was drunk. Now Maggie wished she could just hang up. Her mother couldn’t call her without the new number. Maybe she wouldn’t even remember this call.
“You wouldn’t have gotten me, Mom. I just moved.”
“Mag-pie, I want you to tell your father to stop calling me.”
Maggie’s knees buckled. She leaned against the counter.
“What are you talking about, Mom?”
“Your father keeps calling me, saying stuff and then just hanging up.”
The counter wasn’t good enough. Maggie made it to the step stool and sat down. The sudden nausea and chill surprised and annoyed her. She placed her palm against her stomach as if that would calm it.
“Mom, Dad’s gone. He’s been dead for over twenty years.” She gripped a kitchen towel, the nearest thing she could lay her hands on. My God, could this be some new dementia brought on by the drinking?
“Oh, I know that, sweetie.” Her mother giggled.
Maggie couldn’t ever remember her mother giggling. Was this a sick joke? She closed her eyes and waited, not sure there would be an explanation, but certain she had no idea how to continue this conversation.
“Reverend Everett says it’s because your father still has something he needs to tell me. But hell, he keeps hanging up. Oh, I shouldn’t swear,” and she giggled, again.
“Mom, who’s Reverend Everett?”
“Reverend Joseph Everett. I told you about him, Mag-pie.”
“No, you haven’t told me anything about him.”
“I’m sure I have. Oh, Emily and Steven are here. I’ve got to go.”
“Mom, wait. Mom…” But it was too late. Her mother had already hung up.
Maggie dragged her fingers through her short hair, resisting the urge to yank. It had only been a week…okay, maybe two weeks, since she had talked to her last. How could she be making so little sense? She thought about calling her back. She hadn’t even given her the new phone number. But then her mother wasn’t in any condition to remember it. Maybe Emily and Steven or Reverend Everett—whoever the hell these people were—maybe they could take care of her. Maggie had been taking care of her mother for far too long. Maybe it was finally someone else’s turn.
The fact her mother was drinking again didn’t surprise Maggie. Years ago, she had accepted the compromise. At least when her mother was drinking she wasn’t attempting suicide. But that her mother thought she was talking to her dead husband disturbed Maggie. Plus, she hated the reminder that the one person who had truly loved her, loved her unconditionally, had been dead for more than twenty years.
Maggie tugged the chain around her neck and brought out the medallion from under her shirt collar. Her father had given her the silver cross for her First Holy Communion, claiming it would protect her from evil. Yet, Maggie couldn’t help remembering that his own identical cross had not saved him when he ran into that burning building. She often wondered if he had honestly believed it would protect him.
Since then Maggie had witnessed enough evil to know that a body armor of silver crosses would never be enough to protect her. Instead, she wore the medallion out of remembrance for her brave father. The medal against her chest dangled between her breasts and often felt as cool and hard as a knife blade. She let it remind her that there was a fine line between good and evil.
In the last nine years she had learned plenty about evil, its power to destroy completely, to leave behind empty shells that once were warm, breathing individuals. All those lessons were meant to train her to fight it, to control it, to eventually annihilate it. But in doing so, it was necessary to follow evil, to live as evil lives, to think as evil thinks. Was it possible that somewhere along the way evil had invaded her without her realizing it? Was that why she felt so much hatred, so much need for vengeance? Was that why she felt so hollow?
The doorbell rang, and again Maggie had her Smith & Wesson in her hand before she realized it. She tucked the revolver into what was becoming its regular spot, the back waistband of her jeans. Absentmindedly, she pulled down her T-shirt to conceal it.
She didn’t recognize the petite brunette standing on her front portico. Maggie’s eyes searched the street, the expanse between houses, the shadows created by trees and bushes before she moved to disarm the security system. She wasn’t sure what she expected. Did she honestly believe Albert Stucky would have followed her to her new house?
“Yes?” she asked, opening the door only wide enough to place her body in the space.
“Hi!” the woman said with a false cheerfulness.
Dressed in a black-and-white knit cardigan and matching skirt, she looked ready for an evening out. Her dark shoulder-length hair didn’t dare move in the breeze. Her makeup enhanced thin lips and concealed laugh lines. The diamond necklace, earrings and wedding ring were modest and tasteful, but Maggie recognized how expensive they were. Okay, so at least the woman wasn’t trying to sell anything. Still, Maggie waited while the woman’s eyes darted around her, hoping for a glimpse beyond the front door.
“I’m Susan Lyndell. I live next door.” She pointed to the split-timber house, only a corner of its front roof visible from Maggie’s portico.
“Hello, Ms. Lyndell.”
“Oh, please call me Susan.”
“I’m Maggie O’Dell.”
Maggie opened the door a few inches more and offered her hand, but stayed solidly in the doorway. Surely the woman didn’t expect an invitation inside. Then she caught her new neighbor glance toward her own house and back at the street. It was a nervous, anxious look, as though she was afraid of being seen.
“I saw you on Friday.” She sounded uncomfortable, and it was obvious she wasn’t here to welcome Maggie to the neighborhood. There was something else on her mind.
“Yes, I moved in on Friday.”
“Actually I didn’t see you move in,” she said, quick to make the distinction. “I mean at Rachel’s. I saw you at Rachel Endicott’s house.” The woman stepped closer and kept her voice soft and calm even though her hands were now gripping the hem of her cardigan.
“Oh.”
“I’m a friend of Rachel’s. I know that the police…” She stopped and glanced this time in both directions. “I know they’re saying Rachel may have just left on her own, but I don’t think she would do that.”
“Did you tell Detective Manx that?”
“Detective Manx?”
“He’s in charge of the investigation, Ms. Lyndell. I was simply there trying to lend a hand as a concerned neighbor.”
“But you’re with the FBI, right? I thought I heard someone say that.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t there in an official capacity. If you have any information, I suggest you talk to Detective Manx.”
All Maggie needed was to step on Manx’s toes again. Cunningham had already questioned her competency, her judgment. She wouldn’t let some prick like Manx make matters worse. However, Susan Lyndell didn’t seem pleased with Maggie’s advice. Instead, she stalled, fidgeting, her eyes darting around while she seemed to become more and more agitated.
“I know this is an awkward introduction, and I certainly apologize, but if I could just talk to you for a few minutes. May I come in?”
Her gut told her to send Susan Lyndell home, to insist she call the police and talk to Manx. Yet, for some reason she found herself letting the woman into her foyer, but no farther.
“I have a flight to catch later this afternoon,” Maggie allowed impatience to show in her voice. “As you can see I haven’t had time to unpack, let alone pack for a business trip.”
“Yes, I understand. It’s quite possible I’m simply being paranoid.”
“You don’t believe Ms. Endicott just left town for a couple of days? Maybe to get away?
Susan Lyndell’s eyes met Maggie’s and held her.
“I know there was something…something in the house that suggests Rachel didn’t do that.”
“Ms. Lyndell, I don’t know what you’ve heard—”
“It’s okay.” She stopped Maggie with a wave of a small hand, long slender fingers that reminded Maggie of a bird’s wing. “I know you can’t divulge anything you may have seen.” She fidgeted again, shifting her weight from one foot to another as though her high-heeled pumps were the cause of her discomfort. “Look, I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know that it’s not routine for three police cruisers and the county medical examiner to come rescue an injured dog. Even if it belongs to the wife of Sidney Endicott.”