Текст книги "Stranded"
Автор книги: Alex Kava
Соавторы: Alex Kava,Alex Kava
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by S. M. Kava
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.doubleday.com
DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Jacket design by Michael Windsor
Jacket photograph © Bruce Rolff/Shutterstock
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kava, Alex.
Stranded / Alex Kava. —First Edition.
pages cm
1. O’Dell, Maggie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Criminal profilers—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.A8682F57 2012
813′.54—dc23 2013003001
eISBN: 978-0-385-53555-7
v3.1
FOR MY MOM, PATRICIA KAVA
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Tuesday, March 19
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Wednesday, March 20
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Thursday, March 21
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Friday, March 22
Chapter 52
Saturday, March 23
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Sunday, March 24
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Tuesday, March 26
Chapter 75
Author’s Note
A Note About the Author
Other Books by This Author
He seemed to be a genuinely kind man—when he wasn’t killing.
–Helen Morrison, M.D.,
referring to Ed Gein in her book
My Life Among the Serial Killers
CHAPTER 1
OUTSIDE MANHATTAN, KANSAS
OFF INTERSTATE 70
MONDAY, MARCH 18
He was still alive.
That was all he needed to think about. That, and to keep on running.
Noah could smell his own sweat, pungent and sour … and urine. He still couldn’t believe he’d pissed himself.
Stop thinking. Just run. Run!
And vomit. He’d thrown up, splattering the front of his shirt. He had the taste in his mouth. His stomach threatened more but he couldn’t afford to slow down. How could he slow down with Ethan’s screams echoing inside his head?
Stop screaming. Please stop.
“I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell.”
Noah’s lips were moving even as he ran. Without realizing it, he was chanting the words in rhythm with the pounding of his feet.
“Won’t tell, won’t tell. I promise.”
Pathetic. So very pathetic.
How could he just run away and leave his friend? He was such a coward. But that admission didn’t slow him down. Nor did it make him glimpse over his shoulder. Right this minute he was too scared to care how pathetic he was.
Suddenly his forehead slammed into a branch. A whop and thump.
Noah staggered but stayed on his feet. His vision blurred. His head pulsed with pain.
Don’t fall down, damn it! Keep moving. Run, just run.
His feet obeyed despite the dizzy spiral swimming inside his head threatening to throw him off balance. It was so dark, too dark to see anything other than shades of gray and black. Moonlight flickered patches of light. It only contributed to the feeling of vertigo. This time he ran with his hands and arms thrashing in front of him, trying to clear the path. He used them as battering rams, making sure he didn’t slam into another low-hanging branch.
Twigs continued to whip and slash at him. Noah felt new trickles down his face and elbows and knew it was blood. It mixed with sweat and stung his eyes. His tongue could taste it on his lips. And his stomach lurched again because he knew some of the blood was not his own.
Oh God, oh God. Ethan, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t stop.
Don’t look back. Can’t help Ethan. It’s too late. Just run.
But still, his mind replayed the events in short choppy fragments. They should never have rolled down the car window. Too much beer. Too cocky.
Too frickin’ stupid!
They’d spent the first weekend of spring break partying before they went home. They hadn’t been on the road long and Ethan had to take a piss. Now Ethan was dead. If he wasn’t dead, he’d soon be wishing he was.
Noah’s lungs burned. His legs ached. He had no clue what direction he was running. Nothing mattered except to run away as far and as fast as he could. But the woods were thick with knee-high brush. The canopy above swallowed the sky, except for those rare streaks of moonlight showing him glimpses of the rocky ground beneath his feet, jagged mounds that threatened to make him stumble.
And then he did trip.
Can’t fall, can’t fall. Please don’t let me fall.
He tried to catch himself, arms flailing like an out of control windmill. He went down hard. His knees thudded against a rock. Elbows were next. Skin scraping. Pain shot through his limbs and still his mind was screaming at him to get up. But his legs wouldn’t obey this time. And suddenly he heard a snap and rustle, soft and subtle.
No, it wasn’t possible. It was just his imagination.
Now footsteps. Someone coming behind him. The crunch of leaves. More twigs and branches snapped and crackled.
No. Not possible.
He had told Noah that if he didn’t tell, he’d let him go. Noah had promised. And so had the madman.
Footsteps. Close now. Too close to be his imagination.
Why isn’t he letting me go? He promised.
And why in the world did he ever believe a madman?
But he seemed so ordinary when he knocked on their car window.
Somehow Noah picked himself up. Wobbled and ignored the pain. Demanded his legs move. He limped at first. Then started to jog. Pushed harder. A chuff-chuff exploded from his mouth. His lungs were on fire.
Faster.
Tears streaked down his face. A high-pitched whine pierced his ears. It echoed through the trees. A wounded animal or one ready to attack? It didn’t matter. Nothing could hurt him as much as the animal chasing him.
Should never have rolled down the car window. Damn it, Ethan!
“Who’s going first?” the madman had asked with a smile that looked almost gentle and insane at the same time. So calm but with eyes of a wolf.
Oh God, and then he cut Ethan. So much blood.
“I promise I won’t tell.”
“Run. Go on now. Run.” The man had made it sound so natural, almost soothing.
“Go on now,” he’d repeated when Noah stared like a paralyzed deer caught in the headlights.
And now he realized the high-pitched scream was coming from his own throat. He could feel it more than hear it. It came from somewhere deep and vibrated along his ribs before escaping up and out his mouth.
He had to shut up. He’d hear him. Know exactly where he was.
Run. Faster.
Mud sucked at his bare feet. Shirt, jeans, shoes, and socks—all a cheap exchange for freedom. He knew his bruised and battered soles were cut open and bleeding, scraped raw by the sharp rocks. He blinked hot tears.
Don’t think about the pain. This is nothing compared to what’s happened to Ethan.
He needed to concentrate on running, not the pain. Not his skin that was slashed and bruised.
How far did these woods go?
There had to be a clearing. He had run away from the interstate, away from the rest area, but there had to be something more than trees. Maybe a farmhouse? Another road?
He didn’t hear the footfalls behind him anymore. No branches cracking or leaves crunching. His chest heaved and his heart jack-hammered. He slowed just a fraction and held his breath.
Nothing.
Just a breeze. Even the birds had quieted. Had the madman turned back? Given up? Decided to honor his promise?
Maybe one was enough for him tonight?
Noah chanced a look back over his shoulder. That’s when his foot caught on a fallen log and sent him sprawling. His elbows slammed into the rock and mud. The impact rattled his teeth. White stars flashed as his skin ripped on the palms of his hands.
He tried to stand. Fell back to his knees. The foot that had caused the fall burned with pain. He looked back at it and grimaced. His ankle was twisted and his left foot was at an unnatural angle. But it wasn’t the pain that sent panic throughout his body. It was the fact that he couldn’t move it.
He stopped himself. Held his breath again as best he could. Waited. Listened.
So quiet.
No sounds of traffic. No birds. No rustle of leaves. Even the breeze had been frightened to silence.
He was alone.
Relief swept over him. The madman hadn’t followed after all. The last wave of adrenaline slipped away and he dropped back onto the ground. He sat up with his legs outstretched, too weak to even touch his swelling ankle. In the moonlight he didn’t recognize his own foot. It was already ballooning, the bruised skin split open. His breathing still came in gasps, but his heartbeat had slowed to a steady drum.
He wiped a hand over his face before he realized he was only smearing blood with more blood. He brought down his hand in front of his eyes and saw that the skin on his palm had been peeled away.
Don’t think about it. It’s a small price to pay for freedom. Don’t even look at it.
He glanced around. Maybe he could find a branch. A long one. He’d use it under his arm like a crutch. Take the weight off his battered foot. He could do this. He just needed to concentrate. Forget the pain. Focus.
Pain was better than dead, right?
A twig snapped.
Noah jerked in the direction of the sound.
Without warning the man stepped out from behind a tree and into the moonlight. Calm and steady like he had been standing there all night. No sign of being out of breath. No hint that he had traveled through the same thick and dark woods that Noah had just run through.
The madman didn’t even bother to raise the knife in his hand. Instead he it kept at his side, still smeared with Ethan’s blood.
He grinned and said, “It’s your turn, Noah.”
TUESDAY, MARCH 19
CHAPTER 2
OUTSIDE SIOUX CITY, IOWA
JUST OFF INTERSTATE 29
So far the mud had surrendered one skull from within the dug out crater. FBI agent Maggie O’Dell had a feeling there were more. Washed clean by the morning downpour, it gleamed a brilliant white as it rested on top of the black loamy soil. Besides the skull, three long bones and a scattered assortment of smaller ones had also been uprooted. Maggie had enough medical background to identify the long bones as femurs, though she prefaced her claim to Sheriff Uniss by saying, “I’m not an anthropologist.”
The sheriff blinked at the news as if she had thrown water in his face. He took a step back, wanting to distance himself, either from Maggie or from what she had just told him.
“If you’re correct,” and he paused while his Adam’s apple danced up and down. He seemed to be having some difficulty swallowing this news. Finally he continued, “That would mean we’ve got two bodies here. Not one.”
“Again, it’s just an educated guess.”
“I heard your partner say you’ve got like a premed background or something like that.”
“Premed doesn’t make me a bone expert, Sheriff. We’ll know soon enough when the real experts get here.”
Maggie stopped herself from telling the county sheriff that there could be even more bodies buried on this old farmstead.
Sheriff Uniss was already too jumpy and now she noticed the blinking had set off a nervous twitch at the corner of his left eye. His entire body seemed twitchy—feet shifting, long arms crossing then dangling until he hitched his thumbs into his belt, an unsuccessful effort to stop the constant motion.
His nervous energy reminded Maggie of the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Gray strawlike hair stuck out from under his ball cap. His clothes, however, portrayed a sense of discipline. He wore blue jeans with creases that looked freshly pressed, a red-and-gray-plaid flannel shirt, and a small notebook and two pens stuck out of his vinyl-protected breast pocket. Despite the mud, his gray and black cowboy boots were shiny and polished.
Earlier Sheriff Uniss had told Maggie and her partner, R. J. Tully, that he had seen “a few mangled bodies” from car accidents. He had said it in a way that might offer the credentials needed to handle a possible murder victim. Instead, it only reinforced in Maggie’s mind that this guy—no matter how organized and well intentioned—would be in way over his head with a murder investigation. Especially if there were more bodies. It was much too early to know, but Maggie had a gut feeling that this might be the site she and Tully had spent the last month searching for.
Maggie glanced at the two young sheriff’s deputies leaning on their mud-caked shovels at the edges of the crater. Unlike their boss, they wore brown uniforms, shirtsleeves rolled up, hats left back in their vehicles. They eyed the chunks of dirt surrounding the bones as though expecting more to pop out from the ground.
Fifty feet behind the deputies, a crew of construction workers waited beside the Bobcat and backhoe loader that had turned up this mess. The men had taken up residence next to one of the remaining outbuildings. Late yesterday afternoon the workers had accidentally dug up what they believed might be an old cemetery. They had already leveled several buildings on the farmstead and had only just begun to dig the foundation for a new wildlife preserve’s information center.
The bones made the crew stop. The accompanying smell made them back clear off. It was Maggie’s understanding that the foreman called the sheriff and the sheriff—in the hopes of finding a simple explanation—called the property’s previous owner, only to discover that she had been dead for almost ten years. Her executor had just sold the land to the federal government after leaving the property vacant for almost a decade. He was, according to the sheriff, now en route, despite being three hundred miles away when he received the sheriff’s call and despite having no explanation for the newly discovered bones. In fact, it was the executor who suggested the federal government be notified. After all, they were now the owners of this mess.
As for Maggie and Agent Tully? It was a fluke that they were here at all.
They had flown into Omaha early that morning on an unrelated matter, an entirely different search. Their flight from D.C. had been a rough one. Maggie’s stomach still roiled just at the thought of the lightning and rain that greeted their aircraft. She hated flying and the roller-coaster ride had left her white-knuckled and nauseated. When they stopped for gas and discovered fresh homemade doughnuts inside the little shop, Maggie bought only a Diet Pepsi. Tully raised an eyebrow. She rarely passed on doughnuts. Thankfully his concern dissipated after his second glazed cruller.
For weeks they had been spending a lot of time together either in cramped offices back at Quantico or on the road. Somehow they managed to remain patient with each other’s habits and quirks. Maggie knew Tully was just as tired as she was of highway motels and rental cars, both of which smelled of someone else’s perfume or aftershave and fast food.
Their search had started about a month ago after discovering a woman’s body. She had been left in an alley next to a District warehouse that had been set on fire. But the victim, Gloria Dobson—a wife, a mother of three, a breast cancer survivor—had no connection to the warehouse fire. In fact, just days earlier, Dobson had traveled from Columbia, Missouri, to attend a sales conference in Baltimore. She never made it to the conference.
Virginia State Patrol recovered her vehicle at a rest area off the interstate. In the woods behind that rest area, Maggie and Tully found Dobson’s traveling companion, a young business colleague named Zach Lester. Maggie had seen her share of gruesome scenes in her ten years as a field agent, but the viciousness of this one surprised both her and Tully. Lester’s body had been left at the base of a tree. He had been decapitated, his body sliced open and his intestines strung up in the lower branches.
It wasn’t just the nature of the murders but also the fact that the killer had taken on both Dobson and Lester—two apparently strong, healthy, and intelligent business travelers—and succeeded. That’s what convinced Maggie and Tully that this killer had done this before. Their boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, agreed and assigned them to the FBI’s Highway Serial Killings Initiative.
The initiative had been started several years earlier, creating a national database that collected, assessed, and made available details of murder victims found along the United States’ highways and interstates. Not a small task. There were currently more than five hundred victims logged into the system. The database allowed local law enforcement officers a way to check to see if bodies discovered in their jurisdictions could possibly be related to other murders in different states.
Maggie had easily bought into the project’s core belief that many of these murders were the work of serial killers who used the interstate systems. Tully jokingly called it a serial killer’s paradise. The rest areas and truck stops that provided safe havens for exhausted travelers also provided perfect targets for experienced killers. Though most were well lit, they were surrounded by woods or other isolated areas, and they provided a quick, easy escape route. In a matter of hours the killer could cross over into another jurisdiction undetected.
Bolstering the initiative, one killer had already been captured in 2007. Bruce Mendenhall, a long-haul truck driver, had been convicted of murdering a woman he picked up at a truck stop. He was suspected of killing five others from as many as four states.
The brutal murders of Gloria Dobson and Zach Lester led them to believe that they had stumbled across another highway killer. But their murders were only part of the reason Maggie and Tully had ended up in the Midwest. The killer had actually left Maggie a map. Just when they had finished solving the warehouse arsons in the District, Maggie discovered the map on the burned remnants of her kitchen counter. Her beautiful Tudor house, her sanctuary, had been set on fire. Her brother, Patrick, and her dogs had almost died inside.
But this highway killer had nothing to do with the fires. He had only taken advantage of them. The warehouse fires had been an opportunity for him to dump Gloria Dobson’s body in the alley. And the blaze that almost destroyed Maggie’s home was another opportunity. This one allowed him to invade her privacy. He had walked right into the ashes after everyone was gone and set the map on the granite countertop, anchoring it down with a rock from the ravine behind her backyard. The map was his invitation to a scavenger hunt.
The crude, hand-drawn diagram included wavy lines labeled “MissRiver” running parallel to more lines that looked like an interstate highway, complete with exits. Nothing else was marked other than north and south, east and west.
A young agent at the FBI’s crime lab, a data genius named Antonio Alonzo, had discovered the “MissRiver” was the Missouri River after he discounted all possibilities of it being the Mississippi. Then he insisted that the stretch of highway had to be Interstate 29. That narrowed Maggie and Tully’s search to seven hundred miles and thirty-two rest areas. Still a daunting amount of miles to cover.
Also on the killer’s map was a rest area, drawn out in geometric shapes precisely penned to indicate the buildings, picnic shelters, and a parking lot with slots for cars and trucks. A kidney-shaped road swirled around it, connecting it to the interstate exits. Squiggle shapes—what Agent Alonzo determined were woods—separated the rest area from the river. More squiggles—supposedly more woods—stretched on the other side of the river, fading out to a series of X’s, one after another, perhaps shorthand for more terrain.
That was Agent Alonzo’s theory. Maggie suspected that the X’s marked the spaces where he had dumped dead bodies.
Using aerial photos from truckers’ websites and Google Earth, Agent Alonzo had narrowed down the rest areas to three in Iowa, one in Kansas, and two in South Dakota. Maggie and Tully had been on the road for only a couple of hours when Agent Alonzo called. Human bones had been discovered the day before on a farmstead. The property backed to an interstate rest area. One of the rest areas on their list.
Now Maggie was anxious to see just how close the rest area was to this farmstead. Maybe this was just another detour on their wild goose chase. The skull and femurs could be an odd and unfortunate coincidence, depending on how old they were. She knew this was Indian territory once upon a time. The farm’s buildings were almost a century old. It was possible they could have been built over an Indian burial ground.
Still, she wanted to see for herself. She excused herself from the sheriff and his deputies, gave a knowing look to Tully, and left them. The long driveway had been blocked off by a single black-and-white sheriff’s SUV. One deputy sat bored in the driver’s seat. Maggie could hear the talk radio station. She nodded at him and noticed he shifted expectantly but she didn’t stop. She continued walking past a hedge of lilac bushes. Their flowers were only starting to open, but Maggie could already smell them.
Geese honked overhead. A grove thick with river maples, elms, and cottonwoods surrounded the farm on three sides, cradling it from any view of the road as well as muffling all outside noises. In fact, if she and Tully hadn’t taken the interstate to get here, Maggie would never have guessed that an ongoing flow of traffic passed so close to the property.
She found an overgrown footpath behind the barn that took her into the woods. Buds had only started to appear, an eruption of bright green spots on otherwise bare and stark black branches. Last fall’s pine needles and old leaves, now soggy and clumped together, covered the ground. Maggie took careful steps to keep from slipping and sliding.
The path quickly narrowed and started a gradual incline. Twigs whipped into her face even as she grabbed at the branches in front of her. Thorny vines snagged her pant legs. Sunlight filtered down in streaks. Birds provided flashes of color and song—bright yellow finches, red-winged blackbirds, a cardinal. That they were singing—continuing their spring mating calls—calmed Maggie. The last time she and Tully made their way through a thick forest like this they had been following birds that had been circling, leading them to Zach Lester’s body.
Maggie climbed to a clearing at the top of the incline. Below her a shallow stream zigzagged through the brush. On the other side, the woods continued. But from above Maggie could see in the distance the ribbon of interstate traffic. And she could now hear its faint but steady hum. What attracted her attention was the rest area nestled down in the woods.
She reached in her jacket pocket and pulled out the folded map she had been carrying around with her. This was a copy. The original remained in a protective evidence bag back at Quantico’s crime lab.
She had memorized the geometric shapes, the parallel and intersecting lines. She held up the eight-by-eleven sheet in front of her to one side. Then she glanced back and forth from the map to the scenery below, eyes darting, searching, and not quite believing. She felt a chill as the realization came over her. The roads around the rest area looked like the kidney-shaped sketch on the map. The inked geometric patterns matched those below: building, picnic shelters, even the parking slots had been precisely drawn.
This was it. The scavenger hunt was over. This was exactly where the killer had led them.
“Maggie.”
She startled despite R. J. Tully’s attempt to whisper. He was breathing hard and she knew it was from anxiety, not exertion. He was in good physical shape. She waited for him to climb the last steps and stand beside her.
She held up the map and pointed down below.
“This is it,” she told him.
Tully gave it only a glance. He wiped a hand over his face and Maggie could see his jaw clenched tight when he said, “The hunt might be over but the nightmare’s just beginning. We found a black garbage bag.”
He met her eyes and added, “I think there’s a body inside.”
