Alex Kava Bundle

by Alex Kava

“I’m not so sure he’s the only one. The husband does seem to be the logical suspect, and yet here you are jumping to the conclusion that Stucky kidnapped her because…let me get this straight. You think Stucky kidnapped Rachel Endicott because you’re sure he killed this pizza delivery girl and you found candy bar wrappers at both scenes.”

  “And mud. Don’t forget the mud.” Maggie checked the lab’s report on Jessica’s car. The mud recovered from the accelerator contained some sort of metallic residue that Keith was now going to break down. Again she remembered the mud with sparkling flecks on Rachel Endicott’s stairs. But what if Manx hadn’t bothered to collect it? And even if he had, how would she be able to compare the two? It wasn’t like Manx would easily hand over a sample.

  “Okay,” Gwen said. “The mud I can understand, if you can make a match. But finding candy bar wrappers at both houses? I’m sorry, Maggie, that’s a bit of a stretch.”

  “Stucky leaves body parts in take-out containers just for fun, to toy with people. Why wouldn’t he leave candy bar wrappers, sort of his way of thumbing his nose at us? Like he was able to commit this inconceivably horrible murder and then have a snack afterward.”

  “So the wrappers are part of the game?”

  “Yes.” She glanced up. Gwen didn’t buy it. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “Did you ever consider they could be a necessity? Maybe the killer or even the victims have an insulin deficiency. Sometimes people with diabetes keep candy bars to prevent fluctuations in their insulin intake. Fluctuations possibly caused by stress or an injection of too much insulin.”

  “Stucky’s not diabetic.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  “Yes,” Maggie said, quite certain, then realized their lab analysis of Stucky’s blood and DNA had never been tested for the disease.

  “How can you be so certain?” Gwen persisted. “About a third of people with Type 2 diabetes don’t even know they have it. It’s not something that’s routinely checked unless there are symptoms or some family history. And I have to tell you, the symptoms, especially the early ones, are very subtle.”

  She knew Gwen was right. But she would know if Stucky had diabetes. They had his blood and DNA on file. Unless this was some recent development. No, she couldn’t imagine Albert Stucky being susceptible to anything other than silver bullets or maybe a wooden stake through his heart.

  “How about the victims?” Gwen suggested. “Maybe the candy bars belonged to the victims. Any chance they’re diabetic?”

  “Too much of a coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “No, you’d much rather believe that Albert Stucky has kidnapped your neighbor, who by the way wasn’t your neighbor yet, and took a real estate agent simply because you bought a house from her. I have to tell you, Maggie, it all sounds a bit ridiculous. You have absolutely no proof that either of these women are even missing, let alone that Stucky has them.”

  “Gwen, it’s no coincidence that the waitress in Kansas City and the pizza delivery girl had both come in contact with me only hours before they were murdered in the same manner. I’m the only link. Don’t you think I want to believe that neither Rachel nor Tess were taken by Stucky? Don’t you think I’d rather believe they are both on some secluded beach sipping piña coladas with their lovers?”

  She hated that her voice could get so shrill, that her hands could shake and her heart pound in her ears. She went back to the pile, shuffling through the folders and trying to make sense of Tully’s attempt at order, or rather his disorder. She could feel Gwen’s eyes examining her. Maybe Gwen was right. Perhaps the paranoia skewed her rationality. What if she was blowing all this out of proportion? What if she was slipping over some mental edge? It certainly felt like that.

  “If that’s true, then it would mean Stucky is watching you, following you.”

  “Yes,” Maggie said, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible.

  “If he’s choosing women he sees you with, then why hasn’t he chosen me?”

  Maggie looked up at her friend, startled by the flicker of fear she thought she saw in the otherwise strong and confident eyes. “He only targets women I come in contact with, not women I know. It makes his next move less predictable. He wants me to feel like an accomplice. I don’t think he wants to destroy me. And hurting you would destroy me.”

  She went back to her search, wanting to close the subject and dismiss the possibility. Fact was, she had thought about Stucky moving on to those who were close to her. Nothing would stop him from doing so if he wanted to up the ante.

  “Have you talked to Agent Tully about any of this?”

  “You’re my friend, and you think I’m nuts. Why in the world would I share any of it with him?”

  “Because he’s your partner, and the two of you should be working through this mess together, no matter how crazy every tidbit appears to be. Promise me you won’t be checking out stuff on your own.”

  Maggie found a new set of documents and began flipping through the pages. Was it possible she was only imagining that there was something else that linked Rachel Endicott to Stucky?

  “Maggie, did you hear me?”

  She glanced up to find Gwen’s normally smooth forehead wrinkled with concern, her warm green eyes filled with worry.

  “Promise me you won’t go off on your own again,” Gwen demanded.

  “I won’t go off on my own again.” She dug out a brown manila envelope and started extracting its contents.

  “Maggie, I mean it.”

  She stopped and looked up at her friend. Even Harvey stared at her with sad, brown eyes. This from the same dog who had spent the last two nights going back and forth, checking the front door and each of the windows, looking for and waiting for his master to pick him up as though he couldn’t stand to spend one more moment with Maggie.

  “Please, don’t worry, Gwen. I promise I won’t do anything stupid.” She unfolded several copies and immediately found what she had been searching for. It was the report from the airport authority and a police impound notice for a white Ford van. “Here it is. This is it. This is what’s been nagging at me.”

  “What is it?”

  Maggie stood and began pacing.

  “Susan Lyndell told me that the man Rachel Endicott may have run off with was a telephone repairman.”

  “So what’s your proof? Her phone bill?” Gwen sounded impatient.

  “This is an impound notice. When the police found Jessica Beckwith’s car at the airport, they found a van parked alongside it. The van had been stolen about two weeks ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Maggie, but I’m lost. So Stucky stole a van and abandoned it when he was finished with it. What does that have to do with your missing neighbor?”

  “The van that was recovered belonged to Northeastern Bell Telephone Company.” Maggie waited for Gwen’s reaction, and when it was less than satisfactory, she continued, “Okay, it’s a long shot, but you have to admit, it’s too much of a coincidence and—”

  “I know, I know.” Gwen raised her hand to stop her. “And you don’t believe in coincidences.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Tess couldn’t remember a night so long and dark and brutal, despite having a repertoire of many in her childhood. She sat curled in a corner, hugging her knees and trying not to think about her bare, swollen feet buried in the rancid mud. The rain had finally stopped although she heard thunder in the distance, a low rumble like a boulder rolling overhead. Was it the clouds that were preventing the sun from rising or had the madman made a deal with the devil?

  At times she could hear the woman moaning quietly to herself. Her breaths, her gasps were so close. Thankfully, the sobs and the high-pitched whine had stopped. As the sky lightened, the huddled form began to take shape.

  Tess closed her eyes against the gritty, burning sensation. Why had she been so stubborn and refused the ever-wear contact lenses? She wanted to rub and dig at her eyes. Soon she’d need to make a choi
ce about taking the contacts out or leaving them in. When she opened her eyes again, she blinked several times. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. In the dim light she saw the woman across from her was completely naked. She had twisted herself into a fetal position, her skin slathered in mud and what looked and smelled like blood and feces.

  “Oh dear God,” Tess mumbled. “Why didn’t you tell me you had nothing on?”

  Tess struggled to her feet. Her ankle rebelled, sending her to her knees. Now her pain seemed minor. She forced herself up again, putting all the weight on her other foot. Her fingers frantically pulled at the knot keeping her blanket cape around her shoulders. The woman’s body shivered. No, she wasn’t just shivering. Her muscles looked to be in some sort of convulsions. Her teeth chattered and her lower lip was bleeding where she must have bitten herself repeatedly.

  “Are you in pain?” Tess asked, realizing how stupid the question sounded. Of course she was in pain.

  She ripped the blanket off and draped it carefully around the woman. It was damp but the wool had somehow kept her own body heat from escaping all night long. Hopefully it wouldn’t make matters worse. How could it possibly make things worse?

  Tess kept a safe distance as she examined the horrible bruises, the raw cuts and torn flesh left from what looked like bites—human bites.

  “Dear God. We need to get you to a hospital.” Another ridiculous thing to say. If she couldn’t get out of this pit, how could she get her to a hospital?

  The woman didn’t seem to hear Tess. Though her eyes were wide and open, they stared at the mud wall in front of her. Her tangled hair stuck to her face. Tess reached down and wiped a clump away from her cheek. The woman didn’t even blink. She was in shock, and Tess wondered if her mind had retreated inside herself, into a deep, unreachable cavern. It was exactly what Tess had done so many times as a child. It had been her only defense in combating the long stays of punishment that had exiled her to the dark storm cellar, sometimes for days at a time.

  She caressed the woman’s cheek, wiping mud and hair from her face and neck. Her stomach lurched when she saw the bruises and bite marks that covered her neck and breast. A raw gash also circled her neck. It looked like an indentation left from a rope or cord pulled so tight it had dug into the flesh.

  “Are you able to move?” Tess asked, but got no response.

  She looked up to survey the depths of their hell now that light seeped down to them. It was not as deep as she had initially thought—twelve, maybe fifteen feet at the most, about five feet wide and ten feet long. It looked to be an old trench, partially caved in with uneven sides. Tree roots snaked out and rocks jutted out in places. But there were fresh spade marks that told her he intended for this to be a trap.

  What kind of monster did this to a woman and then threw her into a pit? She couldn’t think about him. She couldn’t wonder or imagine, or it would completely paralyze her. Instead, she needed to concentrate on getting them out of here. But how the hell could she do that?

  She kneeled next to the woman. The blanket seemed to reduce the convulsions. She’d need to examine her for broken bones. There were enough gashes in the walls and jutting rocks that they could climb their way out, but she’d never be able to pull or carry the woman.

  Just as Tess reached to touch the woman’s shoulder, she saw what it was that the woman’s eyes were focused on so intently. Startled, she jumped back. Slowly she forced herself closer for a better look, despite her amazement, despite her revulsion. Directly in front of her, buried in the dirt wall and partially unearthed by the rain was a human skull, the empty eye sockets staring out at them. And then, Tess realized. This wasn’t a trap, at all. It was a grave. It was their grave.

  CHAPTER 47

  Saturday, April 4

  She wore another red silk blouse. She looked good in red. It emphasized her strawberry-blond hair. It had become a habit for her to leave off her jacket and stand in front of her desk, half sitting on the corner. Today, she didn’t bother to pull down the skirt hem that hiked up just enough to reveal shapely smooth thighs. Lovely, tender thighs that made him wonder what it would feel like to sink his teeth into them.

  She waited for him to talk while she scribbled in her notepad, probably not even taking notes on him. If the notes were about him, he wasn’t the least bit curious about what they said. He was more interested in what her moans would sound like when he finally stuck himself inside her, thrusting deep and hard until she was screaming. He so enjoyed it when they screamed, especially when he was inside them. The vibration felt like shock waves, like he was causing a fucking earthquake.

  It was one of many things he had in common with his old friend, his old partner. At least it was one thing he didn’t need to fake. He pushed the sunglasses up on the bridge of his nose and realized she was waiting.

  “Mr. Harding,” she interrupted his thoughts. “You never answered my question.”

  He couldn’t remember what the fucking question had been. He cocked his head to the side and jutted out his chin in that pathetic gesture that said, “Forgive me, I’m blind.”

  “I asked if any of the exercises I suggested have helped.”

  Sure enough. If he waited, people always made it easy, supplying the answer, repeating themselves or getting up and doing whatever it was they had wanted him to do. He was getting good at this. Probably a good thing, in case it became permanent.

  “Mr. Harding?”

  She didn’t have much patience today. He wanted to ask how long it had been since she had been fucked. That was, no doubt, the problem. Or perhaps she needed a few porn movies from his new private collection.

  He knew from his personal research that she was divorced, for almost twenty-five years now. It had been a short, two-year marriage, a youthful indiscretion. Certainly there must have been several lovers since, though, of course, those details weren’t easily accessible on the Internet.

  Now he could see her impatience growing in the way she crossed her arms. Finally, he said politely, “The exercises worked quite well, but that doesn’t prove or help anything.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “What good does it do to get myself…well, excuse the expression…to get my little general all hot, hard and bothered when I’m alone?”

  She smiled, the first she had surrendered since they had met.

  “We need to start somewhere.”

  “Okay, but I’m afraid I must object if you suggest I move on to blow-up dolls.”

  Another smile. He was on a roll. Should he tell her he’d like her to be his blow-up doll? He wondered how good a blow job she could give with that sweet, sexy little mouth of hers. He was certain he could fill it quite nicely.

  “No, I won’t make any more suggestions for the time being,” she said, detecting none of what went through his mind. “However, I would encourage you to continue with the exercises. The idea is to have a—excuse the expression—surefire method of arousal to fall back on should you find yourself wanting to perform with a woman but not able to.”

  She was idly swinging her left foot as she sat on the corner of the desk. Her black leather pump teetered at the end of her toes as she played with it. He wished the shoe would fall off. He wanted to see if she had painted her toenails. He loved red painted toenails.

  “Whether we want to believe it or not, many of our preconceived notions about sex,” she continued, though he paid little attention, “come from our parents. Boys especially find themselves imitating their fathers’ behaviors. What was your father like, Mr. Harding?”

  “He certainly had no problems when it came to women,” he snapped, and immediately regretted letting her see that the subject was a touchy one. Now she wouldn’t leave it alone. She’d insist they poke and probe through it until she found a way to bring his mother into it as well. Unless…unless he turned it around somehow and embarrassed her away from the subject entirely.

  “My father brought women home quite frequently. He even le
t me watch. Sometimes the women let me join in. What other thirteen-year-old boy can say he got his cock sucked by a woman while his dad fucked the shit out of her from behind?”

  There it was—that look of utter shock. Soon it would be followed by the pity look. Funny how the truth possessed such remarkable power. A knock at the door made her jump. He stared off into oblivion like a good little blind fucker.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” her secretary called from the door. “That phone call you’ve been waiting for is on line three.”

  “I need to take this call, Mr. Harding.”

  “That’s fine.” He stood and fumbled for his cane. “Perhaps we can end early today.”

  “Are you sure? This really will take but a minute or two.”

  “No, I’m exhausted. Besides, I think you more than earned your money today.” He rewarded her with a smile so that she wouldn’t continue to object. He found the door before she could offer to call his make-believe driver. As he waited for the elevator, the anger began to churn inside his guts. He hated thinking about his parents. She had no right bringing them into this. She had overstepped her bounds. Yes, today, Dr. Gwen Patterson had gone too far.

  CHAPTER 48

  Assistant Director Cunningham had commandeered a small conference room for them on the first level. Tully was so excited about having windows—two that looked into the woods at the edge of the training field—he didn’t care that he had to walk up and down stairs, clear to the other end of the building to bring stuff from his cramped office.

  He spread out everything they had gathered in the last five months, while O’Dell followed behind him, insisting on putting it all in neat little stacks, lining it up on the long conference table so that it flowed from left to right in chronological order. Instead of being irritated by her anal-retentive process, he found himself amused. So they approached puzzles differently. She liked to start by finding all the corner pieces and lining them up, while he liked to scatter all the pieces in the center, picking and choosing random sections to piece together. Neither way was right or wrong. It was simply a matter of preference, although he doubted that O’Dell would agree with that assessment.