Goodnight, Sweet Mother

by Alex Kava

  Experience a heart-pumping and thrilling tale of suspense!

  Originally published in THRILLER (2006),

  edited by #1 New York Times bestselling author James Patterson.

  In this engaging Thriller Short, New York Times bestselling writer Alex Kava sends her longtime character FBI profiler Maggie O’Dell on a road trip that does not go as planned.

  Maggie and her mom, Kathleen, decide to take a trip together, even though they really don’t get along. At a diner they encounter a man then later, back on the road, they see the same guy again. This time he sideswipes their car. The ensuing action sends the O’Dells down a hole that will make them wish they had stayed home.

  Don’t miss any of these exciting Thriller Shorts:

  James Penney’s New Identity by Lee Child

  Operation Northwoods by James Grippando

  Epitaph by J. A. Konrath

  The Face in the Window by Heather Graham

  Kowalski’s in Love by James Rollins

  The Hunt for Dmitri by Gayle Lynds

  Disfigured by Michael Palmer and Daniel Palmer

  The Abelard Sanction by David Morrell

  Falling by Chris Mooney

  Success of a Mission by Dennis Lynds

  The Portal by John Lescroart and M. J. Rose

  The Double Dealer by David Liss

  Dirty Weather by Gregg Hurwitz

  Spirit Walker by David Dun

  At the Drop of a Hat by Denise Hamilton

  The Other Side of the Mirror by Eric Van Lustbader

  Man Catch by Christopher Rice

  Goodnight, Sweet Mother by Alex Kava

  Sacrificial Lion by Grant Blackwood

  Interlude at Duane’s by F. Paul Wilson

  The Powder Monkey by Ted Bell

  Surviving Toronto by M. Diane Vogt

  Assassins by Christopher Reich

  The Athens Solution by Brad Thor

  Diplomatic Constraints by Raelynn Hillhouse

  Kill Zone by Robert Liparulo

  The Devils’ Due by Steve Berry

  The Tuesday Club by Katherine Neville

  Gone Fishing by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

  Goodnight, Sweet Mother

  Alex Kava

  CONTENTS

  Goodnight, Sweet Mother

  ALEX KAVA

  When Alex Kava wrote her first novel, A Perfect Evil, she had no intention of making it the beginning of a new series. In fact, the character, FBI profiler Special Agent Maggie O’Dell doesn’t enter the story until the seventh chapter. Instead of a series, Kava had simply based her story on two separate crimes that had occurred in Nebraska during the 1980s. One of the crimes, a serial killer who preyed on little boys, happened in the community where Kava was then working as a copy editor and paste-up artist for a small-town newspaper.

  Years later, when Kava decided to write a novel, it was the same summer John Joubert—who thirteen years earlier had confessed to and was convicted for killing three little boys—was executed. The other crime, another little boy who was murdered in nearby Omaha several years after Joubert’s capture, remains unsolved to this day. These two real-life crimes inspired Kava. However, because of A Perfect Evil and Maggie O’Dell’s international success, Kava was compelled to develop a series. The results are four more novels featuring Special Agent Maggie O’Dell: Split Second, The Soul Catcher, At the Stroke of Madness and A Necessary Evil. Her one standalone thriller, One False Move, is also loosely based on a real crime.

  Kava believes that truth is, indeed, stranger than fiction, which seems to be reiterated every time she begins research for a novel. One aspect of the Maggie O’Dell series that readers often comment on is the relationship between Maggie and her mother. It can best be described as challenging and confrontational, and definitely a far cry from what we perceive as a typical mother-daughter relationship. And yet, just like in real life there remains a bond, though sometimes unexplainable and often irrational. Here, in Goodnight, Sweet Mother, Kava takes Maggie and her mother on a road trip to illustrate that relationships, as well as perceptions, aren’t always what they appear to be.

  GOODNIGHT, SWEET MOTHER

  Maggie O’Dell knew this road trip with her mother was a mistake long before she heard the sickening scrape of metal grinding against metal, before she smelled the burning rubber of skidding tires.

  Hours earlier she had declared it a mistake even as she slid into a cracked red vinyl booth in a place called Freddie’s Dine—actually Diner if you counted the faded area where an “r” had once been. The diner wasn’t a part of the mistake. It didn’t bother her eating in places that couldn’t afford to replace an “r.” After all, she had gobbled cheeseburgers in autopsy suites and had enjoyed deli sandwiches in an abandoned rock quarry while surrounded by barrels stuffed with dead bodies. No, the little diner could actually be called quaint.

  Maggie had stared at a piece of apple pie à la mode the waitress had plopped down in front of her before splashing more coffee into her and her mom’s cups. The pie had looked perfectly fine and even smelled freshly baked, served warm so that the ice cream had begun to melt and trickle off the edges. The pie hadn’t been the mistake either, although without much effort Maggie had too easily envisioned blood instead of ice cream dripping down onto the white bone china plate. She had to take a sip of water, close her eyes and steady herself before opening her eyes again to ice cream instead of blood.

  No, the real mistake had been that Maggie didn’t order the pie. Her mother had. Forcing Maggie, once again, to wonder if Kathleen O’Dell was simply insensitive or if she honestly did not remember the incident that could trigger her daughter’s sudden uncontrollable nausea. How could she not remember one of the few times Maggie had shared something from her life as an FBI profiler? Of course, that incident had been several years ago and back then her mother had been drinking Jack Daniel’s in tumblers instead of shot glasses, goading Maggie into arresting her if she didn’t like it. Maggie remembered all too vividly what she had told her mother. She told her she didn’t waste time arresting suicidal alcoholics. She should have stopped there, but didn’t. Instead, she ended up pulling out and tossing onto her mother’s glass-top coffee table Poloraids from the crime scene she had just left.

  “This is what I do for a living,” she had told her mother, as if the woman needed a shocking reminder. And Maggie remembered purposely dropping the last, most brilliant one on top of the pile, the photo a close-up of a container left on the victim’s kitchen counter. Maggie would never forget that plastic take-out container, nor its contents—a perfect piece of apple pie with the victim’s bloody spleen neatly arranged on top.

  That her mother had chosen to forget or block it out shouldn’t surprise Maggie. The one survival tactic the woman possessed was her strong sense of denial, her ability to pretend certain incidents had simply not happened. How else could she explain letting her twelve-year-old daughter fend for herself while she stumbled home drunk each night, bringing along the stranger who had supplied her for that particular night? It wasn’t until one of Kathleen O’Dell’s gentleman friends suggested a threesome with mother, daughter and himself that it occurred to her mother to get a hotel room. Maggie had had to learn at an early age to take care of herself. She had grown up alone, and only now, years after her divorce, did she realize she associated being alone with being safe.

  But her mother had come a long way since then, or so Maggie had believed. That was before this road trip, before she had ordered the piece of apple pie. Perhaps Maggie should see it for what it was—the perfect microcosm of their relationship, a relationship that should never include road trips or the mere opportunity for sharing a piece of pie at a quaint little d
iner.

  She had watched as her mother sipped coffee in between swiping up bites of her own pie. As an FBI criminal profiler, Maggie O’Dell tracked killers for a living, and yet a simple outing with her mother could conjure up images of a serial killer’s leftover surprises tucked away in take-out containers. Just another day at the office. She supposed she wasn’t as good as her mother at denial, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  Suddenly Kathleen O’Dell had pointed her fork at something over Maggie’s shoulder, unable to speak because, of course, it was impolite to talk with a full mouth—never mind that during her brief and rare lapses into motherhood she constantly preached it was also impolite to point. Maggie didn’t budge, ignoring her, which was also silly if she thought it would in any way punish her mother for her earlier insensitivity. Besides it had only resulted in a more significant poke at the air from her mother’s fork.

  “That guy’s a total ass,” she was finally able to whisper.

  Maggie hadn’t been able to resist. She stole a glance, needing to see the total ass she was about to defend.

  He had seemed too ordinary to need Maggie’s defense. Ever the profiler, she had found herself immediately assessing him. She saw a tall middle-aged man with a receding hairline, weak chin and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a white oxford shirt, a size too large and sagging, even though he had tried to tuck it neatly into the waistband of wrinkled trousers—trousers that were belted below the beginning paunch of a man who spent too much time behind a desk.

  He had slid into one of the corner booths and grabbed one of the laminated menus from behind the table’s condiments holder. Immediately, he unfolded the menu and hunched over it, searching for his selection while he pulled silverware from the bundled napkin. Again, all very ordinary—an ordinary guy taking a break from work to get a bite to eat. But then Maggie had seen the old woman, shuffling to the table, holding on to the backs of the other booths along the way, her cane not enough to steady her. That’s when Maggie realized her mother’s pronouncement had little to do with the man’s appearance and everything to do with the fact that he had left this poor woman to shuffle and fumble her way to their table. He hadn’t even looked up at her as she struggled to lower herself between the table and the bench, dropping her small, fragile frame onto the seat and then scooting inch by inch across the vinyl while her cane thump-thumped its way in behind her.

  Maggie had turned away, not wanting to watch any longer. She hated to agree with her mother. She hated even more the “tsk, tsk” sound her mother had made, loud enough for others at the diner to hear, perhaps even the total ass. Funny how things worked.

  Maggie would give anything to hear that “tsk, tsk” from her mother now rather than the high-pitched scream she belted out from the passenger’s seat. But, had she not been distracted by her mother’s scream she may have noticed the blur of black steel sliding alongside her car much sooner. Certainly she would have noticed before the monster pickup rammed into her Toyota Corolla a second time, shoving her off the side of the road, all the while ripping and tearing metal.

  Was that her front bumper dragging from the pickup’s grille, looking as though the hulking truck had taken a bite out of her poor car? What the hell was this guy doing?

  “I can’t believe you didn’t see him!” her mother scolded, the previous screams leaving her usual raspy voice high-pitched and almost comical. “Where the hell did he come from?” she added, already contradicting her first comment. She strained against her seat belt, reaching and grabbing for the Skittles candies she had been eating, now scattered across the seat and plopping to the floor mat like precious rainbow beads from a broken necklace.

  “I didn’t see him,” Maggie confessed, gaining control of her car and bringing it to a stop on the dirt shoulder of the two-lane highway. God! Her hands were shaking. She gripped the steering wheel harder to make them stop. When that didn’t work she dropped them into her lap. She felt sweat trickle down her back. How could she not have seen him?

  The pickup had pulled off the road more than three car lengths ahead, the taillights winking at them through a cloud of dust. Between the two vehicles lay the Toyota’s mangled front bumper, twisted and discarded like roadside debris.

  “Don’t go telling him that,” her mother whispered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t go admitting to him that you didn’t see him. You don’t want your car insurance skyrocketing.”

  “Are you suggesting I lie?”

  “I’m suggesting you keep your mouth shut.”

  “I’m a federal law officer.”

  “No, you said you left your badge and gun at home. Today you’re a plain ol’ citizen, minding your own business.” Kathleen O’Dell popped several of the Skittles into her mouth, and Maggie couldn’t help thinking how much the bright-colored candy reminded her of the nerve pills her mother used to take, oftentimes washing them down with vodka or scotch. How could she eat at a time like this, especially when it had only been less than an hour since they had left the diner? But Maggie knew she should be grateful for the recent exchange of addictions.

  “I haven’t been in a car accident since college,” Maggie said, riffling through her wallet for proof of insurance and driver’s license.

  “Whatever you do don’t ask for the cops to be called,” she whispered again, leaning toward Maggie as though they were coconspirators.

  She and her mother had never been on the same side of any issue. Suddenly a black pickup rams into the side of their car and they’re instant friends. Okay, maybe not friends. Coconspirators did seem more appropriate.

  “He sideswiped me.” Maggie defended herself anyway, despite her mother being on her side.

  “Doesn’t matter. Calling the cops only makes it worse.”

  Maggie glanced at her mother, who was still popping the candies like they were antacids. People often remarked on their resemblance to each other—the auburn hair, fair complexion and dark brown eyes. And yet, much of the time they spent together Maggie felt like a stranger to this woman who couldn’t even remember that her daughter hated apple pie.

  “I am the cops,” Maggie said, frustrated that she needed to remind her mother.

  “No, you’re not, sweetie. FBI’s not the same thing. Oh, Jesus. It’s him. That ass from the diner.”

  He had gotten out of the pickup but was surveying the damage on his own vehicle.

  “Just go,” her mother said, grabbing Maggie’s arm and giving it a shove to start the car.

  “Leave the scene of an accident?”

  “It was his fault anyway. He’s not going to report you.”

  “Too late,” Maggie said, catching in her rearview mirror the flashing lights of a state trooper pulling off the road and coming up behind her. Her mother noticed the glance and twisted around in her seat.

  “Oh fuck!”

  “Mom!” For all her faults, Kathleen O’Dell rarely swore.

  “This has not been a good trip.”

  Maggie stared at her, dumbfounded that her mother thought the trip had been as miserable an outing for her as it had been for Maggie.

  “Promise me you won’t play hero.” Kathleen O’Dell grabbed Maggie’s arm again. “Don’t go telling them you’re a federal officer.”

  “It’ll actually be easier,” Maggie told her. “There’s a bond between law enforcement officers.”

  To this her mother let out a hysterical laugh. “Oh, sweetie, if you really think a state trooper will appreciate advice or help from the feds, and a woman at that…”

  God, she hated to agree with her mother for a second time in the same day. But she was right. Maggie had experienced it almost every time she went into a rural community: small-town cops defensive and intimidated by her. Sometimes state troopers fit into that category, too.

  She opened her car door and felt her mother still tugging at her arm.

  “Promise me,” Kathleen O’Dell said in a tone that reminded Maggie of when she was a
little girl and her mother would insist Maggie promise not to divulge one of a variety of her indiscretions.

  “You don’t have to worry,” Maggie said, pulling her arm away.

  “My, my, what a mess,” the state trooper called out, his hands on his belt buckle as he approached Maggie’s car, then continued to the front bumper where he came to a stop. He looked from one vehicle to another, then back, shaking his head, his mirrored sunglasses giving Maggie a view of the wreckage he saw.

  He was young. Even without seeing his eyes she could tell. A bit short, though she didn’t think the Virginia State Police had a height requirement any longer, but he was in good shape and he knew it. Maggie realized his hands on his belt buckle wasn’t in case he needed to get at his weapon quickly but rather to emphasize his flat stomach, probably perfect six-pack abs under the gray, neatly tucked shirt.

  “Let me guess,” he said, addressing Maggie even as he watched the owner of the pickup stomping around his vehicle. “You lost control. Maybe touching up your makeup?”

  “Excuse me?” Maggie was sure she must have heard him wrong.

  “Cell phone, maybe?” He grinned at her. “It’s okay. I know you ladies love to talk and drive at the same time.”

  “This wasn’t my fault.” She wanted to get her badge from the glove compartment. She glanced back just in time to see her mother shoot her a cautionary look and she knew exactly what she was saying with her eyes, “See, it’s always worse when the cops get involved.”

  “Sure, it wasn’t your fault,” he said, not even attempting to disguise his sarcasm.

  “He was the one driving erratically.” Maggie knew it sounded lame as soon as it left her mouth. The boy trooper had already accomplished what he had set out to do—he had succeeded in making her defensive.

  “Hey, sir,” he called out to the pickup owner who finally came over and joined them, standing over Maggie’s mangled bumper, looking at it as if he had no idea how it had gotten there. “Sir, were you driving erratically?”