Текст книги "Split Second"
Автор книги: Alex Kava
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Split Second
Maggie O'Dell [2]
Alex Kava
Harlequin MIRA (2001)
Rating: ★★★★☆
They dubbed him the Collector, so named for his ritual of collecting victims before disposing of them in the most heinous ways possible.
FBI special agent Maggie O'Dell tracked him for two years, finally ending their game of cate and mouse. Now Albert Stucky has escaped from prison…and he is setting up a new game for Maggie O'Dell.
Some say Maggie O'Dell has lost her edge as one of the FBI's best profilers. Since capturing Stucky, she has been walking a tightwire, battling nightmares and guilt over the victims she couldn't save. Now that Stucky is loose again, she's been pulled out of the field. But as Stucky's trail of victims leads closer and closer to Maggie, she is put back on the case under the supervision of Special Agent R. J. Tully. Together they race against the clock to hunt the killer, and Maggie finds herself pushed to the very edge. Has her desire to stop Albert Stucky become a matter of personal vengeance? Has she crossed the line? And has that been Stucky's goal all along—to make her into a monster?
From Publishers Weekly
FBI profiler Maggie O'Dell, star of Kava's first thriller, is back again in her second, but her return is not a happy one. From the very first scene, in which serial killer Albert Stucky escapes from two pitifully inadequate prison guards, through the inevitable and apparently endless escalation of brutality (usually against women), to the predictable ending, this is strictly a blender job: part Thomas Harris and part Patricia Cornwell, with odd bones and scraps tossed in from other similarly grisly and more successful sources. O'Dell, who plays Clarice Starling to Stucky's Hannibal Lecter, is still physically and mentally scarred by the two years she spent on his case and she's fighting to get back on it. She gets her wish. Before she can even unpack the boxes in her new home, one of her neighbors disappears, leaving behind a bloody mess, and another is found dead in a Dumpster. Soon, Stucky strikes even closer to home. The supporting cast is full of cardboard cutouts unsuccessfully masquerading as characters, and since O'Dell herself is so miserable from the start, it's hard to care whether or not she and Stucky ever do make it to their final showdown or, for that matter, which of them survives. Kava's hackneyed prose doesn't help matters: "Dear God! How much longer could she put up with the nightmares?" Probably longer than a lot of readers will put up with this book. (Aug.)Forecast: Kava's first O'Dell vehicle, A Perfect Evil, was widely praised, and Mira is looking to build on that success with a national ad campaign, a teaser chapter in the Perfect Evil paperback and a multicity author tour. Fans may go along for the ride, but Kava won't recruit many new readers with this one.
Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc.
Review
". . . a roller coaster read. Although your heart is in your throat the entire time, you enjoy every scary minute." – Woman's Own
". . . first novel is a formidable one, filled with characters comfortable with themselves and acting out their roles intelligently and believably." – Dallas Morning News
"A suspense thriller with enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing until the last page." – Mystery Scene
"Alex Kava has crafted a suspenseful novel and created a winning character in Agent O'Dell." – Washington Post Book World
"Engaging debut . . . a well-crafted page-turner . . ." – Publisher's Weekly
"This debut thriller pumps the suspense out . . . Maggie is gutsy and appealing as an FBI agent facing constant danger." – Library Journal
ALEX KAVA
SPLIT SECOND
ALEX KAVA
SPLIT SECOND
For Amy Moore-Benson, Dianne Moggy and Philip Spitzer,
an incredible team that makes dreams come true.
One book was a privilege; two, an honor.
For Amy Moore-Benson, Dianne Moggy and Philip Spitzer,
an incredible team that makes dreams come true.
One book was a privilege; two, an honor.
Special thanks to:
Patricia Sierra, fellow author and friend—I’m not sure this one would have been completed without your tender, gentle nagging. Thanks for seeing me through all the anxiety attacks.
The amazing crew at MIRA Books for their enthusiasm, hard work and dedication, especially Valerie Gray, Craig Swinwood, Krystyna de Duleba, Alex Osuszek and the best sales force in the business. Perhaps there is a reason we call them publishing houses—you’ve certainly made me feel as if I’ve found a home.
Megan Underwood and the gang at Goldberg McDuffie Communications, Inc. for their expertise and hard work.
Annie Belatti, the only person I know who gets excited about describing gunshot wounds over dinner. Thanks for your patience, medical expertise and friendship.
Sharon Car, fellow writer and friend, who listens and encourages through the good and the bad.
Marilyn and John Cooney and Mary Means for taking such loving care of my kids when I need to be on the road.
Patti El-Kachouti for your unconditional friendship and encouragement.
Nicole Friend, who has often been my sounding board and voice of reason.
Tony Friend for sharing information, images and ideas that only you can provide.
Ellen Jacobs for telling the truth, first as a reader, then as a friend.
LaDonna Tworek for reminding me that some friendships are forever.
For their inspiration, enthusiasm and loving support, many thanks to Kenny and Connie Kava, Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, Natalie and Rich Cummings, Marlene Haney, Sandy Rockwood, my mom and dad—Patricia and Edward Kava—Mac Payne and the Movie Club group: Lyn Belitz, Mary Michaelsen, Jo Ellen Shoemaker and Becky Thomson.
Also, I want to thank the many book buyers and booksellers for making room on your lists and on your shelves for a new voice.
And to the readers. With all the wonderful fiction available, thank you for choosing mine to be a part of your escape and entertainment.
Finally, thanks to Philip Spitzer, Amy Moore-Benson and Dianne Moggy. None of this would be possible without Philip taking a chance on me, without Amy being my personal crusader and without Dianne’s patient, steady guidance and support. Together the three of you are truly a writer’s dream team.
Special thanks to:
Patricia Sierra, fellow author and friend—I’m not sure this one would have been completed without your tender, gentle nagging. Thanks for seeing me through all the anxiety attacks.
The amazing crew at MIRA Books for their enthusiasm, hard work and dedication, especially Valerie Gray, Craig Swinwood, Krystyna de Duleba, Alex Osuszek and the best sales force in the business. Perhaps there is a reason we call them publishing houses—you’ve certainly made me feel as if I’ve found a home.
Megan Underwood and the gang at Goldberg McDuffie Communications, Inc. for their expertise and hard work.
Annie Belatti, the only person I know who gets excited about describing gunshot wounds over dinner. Thanks for your patience, medical expertise and friendship.
Sharon Car, fellow writer and friend, who listens and encourages through the good and the bad.
Marilyn and John Cooney and Mary Means for taking such loving care of my kids when I need to be on the road.
Patti El-Kachouti for your unconditional friendship and encouragement.
Nicole Friend, who has often been my sounding board and voice of reason.
Tony Friend for sharing information, images and ideas that only you can provide.
Ellen Jacobs for telling the truth, first as a reader, then as a friend.
LaDonna Tworek for reminding me that some friendships are forever.
For their inspiration, enthusiasm and loving support, many thanks to Kenny and Connie Kava, Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, Natalie and Rich Cummings, Marlene Haney, Sandy Rockwood, my mom and dad—Patricia and Edward Kava—Mac Payne and the Movie Club group: Lyn Belitz, Mary Michaelsen, Jo Ellen Shoemaker and Becky Thomson.
Also, I want to thank the many book buyers and booksellers for making room on your lists and on your shelves for a new voice.
And to the readers. With all the wonderful fiction available, thank you for choosing mine to be a part of your escape and entertainment.
Finally, thanks to Philip Spitzer, Amy Moore-Benson and Dianne Moggy. None of this would be possible without Philip taking a chance on me, without Amy being my personal crusader and without Dianne’s patient, steady guidance and support. Together the three of you are truly a writer’s dream team.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
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
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
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
CHAPTER 52
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
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
EPILOGUE
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
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
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
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
CHAPTER 52
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
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
North Dade County Detention Center
Miami, Florida
Halloween—Friday, October 31
Del Macomb wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. The stiff cotton of his uniform stuck to his back, and it was only nine in the morning. How could it be this hot and humid in October?
He had grown up just north of Hope, Minnesota. Back home, ice would be forming at the edges of Silver Lake. His daddy would be writing his sermons while watching the last of the snow geese pass overhead. Del pushed wet strands off his brow. Thinking about his daddy reminded him that he needed a haircut. Crazy stuff to be thinking about. Even crazier that it was stuff that could still make him homesick.
“So who’s the fucking asshole we’re chaperoning today?”
Del’s partner startled him. He winced at Benny Zeeks’s language, then glanced over at the barrel-chested ex-marine to see if he had noticed. He certainly didn’t need another lecture—not that he didn’t have a lot to learn from Benny.
“Guys said his name is Stucky.” He wondered if Benny had heard him. He seemed preoccupied.
At North Dade County Detention Center Benny Zeeks was somewhat of a legend, not only because he was a twenty-five-year veteran, but because he had spent most of that time working up in Starke on death row and even on X Wing. Del had seen his partner’s scars from scuffles he’d won over X Wingers trying to avoid the coffinlike solitary confinement.
He watched Benny shove his shirtsleeves up over his veiny forearms, not bothering to fold or roll them, revealing one of those legendary scars. It intersected a tattoo, a Polynesian dancer who now had a jagged red line across her abdomen as if she had been sliced in half. Benny could still make the dancer dance, flexing his arm and sending the lower half of her into a slow, sexy sway while the other half—the top half—froze in place, disconnected. The tattoo fascinated Del, intriguing and repulsing him at the same time.
Now his partner climbed into the armored truck’s passenger seat, concentrating on negotiating the narrow steps up into the cab. The man moved slower than usual this morning, and Del immediately knew his partner had another hangover. He swung up into the driver’s seat, buckling himself in and pretending, once again, not to notice.
“Who’d you say this asshole is?” Benny asked, while he twisted his thermos lid, the short stubby fingers desperate to get at the coffee. Del wanted to tell him the caffeine would only compound his problem, but after four short weeks on the job, he knew better than to try to tell Benny Zeeks anything.
“We’re taking Brice and Webber’s run today.”
“What the hell for?”
“Webber’s got the flu and Brice broke his hand last night.”
“How the fuck do you break a hand?”
“All I heard was that he broke it. I don’t know how. Look, I thought you hated the monotony of our regular route. Plus, all the traffic just to get to the courthouse.”
“Yeah, well, there better not be more paperwork,” Benny shifted restlessly as if anticipating the dreaded change in his routine. “And if this is Brice and Webber’s run, that means this asshole’s headed up to Glades, right? Puttin’ him in close custody until his fucking hearing. Means he’s some big-time fuckup they don’t want down here in our wussy detention lockup.”
“Hector said the guy’s name is Albert Stucky. Said he’s not such a bad guy, pretty intelligent and friendly. Hector says he’s even accepted Jesus Christ as his savior.”
Del could feel Benny scowling at him. He turned the key in the ignition and let the truck vibrate, then rumble to a slow start while he braced himself for Benny’s sarcasm. He turned the air-conditioning on, blasting them with hot air. Benny reached over and punched it off.
“Give the engine some time, first. We don’t need that goddamn hot air in our faces.”
Del felt his face grow red. He wondered if there would ever be anything he could do to win the respect of his partner. He ignored his simmering anger and rolled down the window. He pulled out the travel log and jotted down the truck’s odometer and gas tank readings, letting the routine calm him.
“Wait a minute,” Benny said. “Albert Stucky? I’ve been reading about this guy in the Miami Herald. Feebies nicknamed him The Collector.”
“Feebies?”
“Yeah, FBI. Jesus, kid, don’t you know anything?”
This time Del could feel the prickle of red at his ears. He turned his head and pretended to be checking the side mirror.
“This Stucky guy,” Benny continued, “he carved up and slaughtered three or four women, and not just here in Florida. If he’s the guy I’m thinking of, he’s one badass motherfucker. And if he’s claiming he’s found Jesus Christ, you can bet it’s because he wants to save his sorry ass from being fried by Old Sparky.”
“People can change. Don’t you believe people can change?” Del glanced at Benny. The older man’s brow was beaded with sweat and the bloodshot eyes glared at him.
“Jesus, kid. I bet you still believe in Santa Claus, too.” Benny shook his head. “They don’t send guys to wait for their trial in close custody because they think he’s found Jesus-fucking-Christ.”
Benny turned to stare out the window and sip his coffee. In doing so, he missed Del wince again. He couldn’t help it. Twenty-two years with a daddy for a preacher made it an instant reaction, like scratching an itch. Sometimes he did it without even knowing.
Del slipped the travel log into the side pocket and shifted the truck into gear. He watched the concrete prison in his side-view mirror. The sun beat down on the yard where several prisoners milled around, bumming cigarettes off each other and enduring the morning heat. How could they enjoy being outside if there was no shade? He added it to his mental list of unfair treatment. Back in Minnesota, he had been quite the activist for prison reform. Lately he’d been too busy with the move and starting his new job, but he kept a running list for when he had more time. Little by little he’d work his way up to battling causes like eliminating Starke’s X Wing.
As they approached the final checkpoint he glanced at the rearview mirror. He almost jumped, startled to find their prisoner staring back at him. All Del could see through the thick slit of glass were the piercing black eyes, and they were looking directly at him in the mirror.
Del recognized something in the prisoner’s eyes, and a knot tightened in his stomach. He had seen that look years ago as a boy, on one of his trips accompanying his father. They had visited a condemned prisoner, who Del’s father had met at one of his prison fellowship meetings. During that visit, the prisoner had confessed all the horrible, unimaginable things he had done to his own family before he murdered them—a wife, five children and even the family dog.
As a boy, the details Del heard that day had been traumatizing, but even worse was the evil pleasure the prisoner seemed to get from retelling each detail and watching the impact on a ten-year-old boy. Now Del saw that same look in the eyes of the man in the back of the armored truck. For the first time in twelve years, he felt as if he was looking straight into the eyes of pure evil.
He made himself look away and avoided the temptation to glance back. He pulled out from the last checkpoint and onto the highway. Once they got on the open road, he could relax. He enjoyed driving. It gave him time to think. But when he took a quick left, Benny, who had appeared to be lost in his thoughts, suddenly became agitated.
“Where the hell you going? I-95’s the other direction.”
“I thought we’d take a shortcut. Highway 45 has less traffic, and it’s a much nicer drive.”
“You think I fucking care about nice?”
“It’s shorter by about thirty minutes. We get the prisoner delivered, and then we’ll have an extra half hour for lunch.”
He knew his partner wouldn’t argue with an extended lunch hour. In fact, he had hoped Benny would be impressed. Del was right. Benny leaned back in his seat and poured another cup of coffee. He reached over and punched the AC. This time, cool air began filling the cab, and Benny rewarded Del with a rare smile. Finally, he had done something right. Del sat back and relaxed.
They had left Miami’s traffic and had been on the road only thirty minutes when a thump rattled the back of the truck. At first Del thought they had dropped a muffler, but the thumping continued. It came from the back of the truck but inside, not underneath.
Benny slammed his fist against the steel partition behind them. “Shut the fuck up.”
He twisted around to look through the small rectangle of glass that separated the cab from the back. “Can’t see a damned thing.”
The noise grew louder, sending vibrations under the seat. It felt to Del as though a baseball bat were being swung against the truck’s metal sides. Ridiculous, really. No chance the prisoner would have anything remotely like a baseball bat. Each blast sent Benny reeling, grabbing at his temples. Del glanced over and saw the Polynesian dancer swinging her hips with each slam of Benny’s fist against the partition.
“Hey, cut it out,” Del yelled, adding his voice to the noisy din that was beginning to make his head pound.
Obviously, the prisoner had not been completely restrained and was ramming himself against the walls of the truck. Even if it didn’t drive them crazy during the rest of the trip, it could cause some serious damage to the prisoner. He certainly didn’t want to be responsible for delivering a battered prisoner. He slowed down, pulled the truck to the side of the two-lane highway and stopped.
“What the hell you doing?” Benny demanded.
“We can’t have this going on for the rest of the trip. The guys obviously didn’t completely restrain him.”
“Why would they? He’s found Jesus Christ.”
Del only shook his head. As he climbed out of the truck it occurred to him that he had no idea what to do with a prisoner who had gotten an arm or leg loose from one of the leather restraints.
“Now hold on, kid,” Benny yelled after him, scrambling out from the passenger side. “I’ll take care of this bastard.”
It took Benny too long to come around the truck. When he did, Del noticed a stagger in his walk.
“You’re still drunk!”
“The hell I am.”
Del reached into the cab and pulled out the thermos, jerking it away when Benny grabbed for it. He twisted off the top and in one whiff could smell the alcohol-laced coffee.
“You son of a bitch.” Del’s words surprised him as much as they did Benny. Instead of apologizing, he threw the thermos and watched it explode against a nearby fence post.
“Shit! That was my only thermos, kid.” Benny looked as though he might head into the overgrown ditch to retrieve the pieces. But he turned and stomped toward the back of the truck. “Let’s make this fucker shut up.”
The banging continued, louder, now rocking the truck.
“You think you’re up for this?” Del asked, feeling angry and betrayed enough to allow the sarcasm.
“Hell, yes. I was shutting up assholes like this when you were still suckin’ at your momma’s tit.” Benny grabbed at his service revolver, fumbling with the holster’s snap before pulling the gun free.
Del wondered how much alcohol Benny Zeeks had in his system. Could he still aim his gun? Was the gun even loaded? Up until today, Brice and Webber transported the hard-core criminals, making the trips up to Glade and Charlotte, while he and Benny were assigned petty thieves and white-collar criminals, escorting them in the other direction to the county courthouse in Miami. Del unbuckled the strap on his holster, his hand shaking, the butt of his gun feeling awkward and unfamiliar.
The noise stopped as soon as Del started sliding the locks open on the heavy rear door. He looked to Benny who stood beside him with his revolver drawn. Immediately, Del noticed the slight tremor in Benny’s hand. It sent a wave of nausea loose in Del’s stomach. His back was soaked, his forehead dripping. Wet pools under his armpits soiled his once-crisp uniform. His heart pounded against his rib cage, and now in the silence, he wondered if Benny could hear it.
He took a deep breath and tightened his hold on the handle. Then he flung the door open, jumping aside and letting Benny have a full view of the dark inside. Benny stood, legs apart, arms extended in front of him, both hands gripping the gun as he tilted his head, ready to take aim.
Nothing happened. The door slammed back and forth, hitting against the side of the truck. The sound of metal clanking against metal was amplified by the peaceful surroundings and the deserted highway. Del and Benny stared into the darkness, squinting to see the corner bench where the prisoner usually sat, restrained by thick straps that snaked out of the wall and floor.
“What on earth?” Del could see the leather straps, cut and hanging from the wall of the truck.
“What the fuck?” Benny mumbled as he slowly approached the open truck.
Without warning, a tall, dark figure flew out at Benny, knocking him and the gun to the ground. Albert Stucky clamped his teeth onto Benny’s ear like a rabid dog. Benny’s scream dismantled Del. He stood paralyzed. His limbs refused to react. His heart knocked against his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. By the time he pulled out his service revolver, the prisoner was on his feet. He ran straight at Del, colliding with him and shoving something sharp and smooth and hard into Del’s stomach.
Pain exploded throughout his body. His hands were useless, and the gun slid from his fingers like water. He forced himself to look into Albert Stucky’s eyes, and instantly he saw the evil staring back at him, cold and black, an entity of its own. Del felt the demon’s hot breath on his face. When he glanced down, he saw the large hand still gripping the dagger. He looked up just in time to see Stucky’s smile as he shoved the dagger deeper.
Del slipped to his knees. His eyes blurred as he watched the tall stranger split into several images. He could see the truck and a sprawling Benny. Everything began to spin and blur. Then he slammed hard against the pavement. The steaming concrete sizzled up through his wet back, but it wasn’t as hot as his insides. A wildfire spread through his stomach, catching each of his organs on fire. Now, on his back, he saw nothing but the clouds swirling above him, brilliant white against solid blue. The morning sun blinded him. Yet, it was all so beautiful. Why hadn’t he noticed before how beautiful the sky was?
Behind him a single gun shot blasted the silence. Del managed a weak smile. Finally. He couldn’t see him but good ole’ Benny, the legend, had come through, after all. The alcohol had just slowed him down a bit.
Del pulled himself up, just enough to look at the damage to his stomach. He was startled to find himself staring down at the bloody carved image of Jesus. The dagger causing his insides to spill onto the deserted highway was actually a mahogany crucifix. Suddenly, he couldn’t feel the pain anymore. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it? Maybe he’d be okay.
“Hey, Benny,” he called out, laying his head on the pavement. He still wasn’t able to see his partner behind him. “My daddy’s gonna make a sermon out of this when I tell him I was stabbed with a crucifix.”
A long, black shadow blocked the sky.
Once again Del found himself looking into those empty, dark eyes. Albert Stucky loomed above him, tall and straight, a lean, muscular man with sharp features. He reminded Del of a vulture, perched with black wings pressed patiently against its sides, cocking its head, staring, waiting for its prey to stop struggling, to give in to the inevitable. Then, Stucky smiled as though pleased with what he saw. He raised and pointed Benny’s service revolver at Del’s head.
“You won’t be telling your daddy anything,” Albert Stucky promised in a deep, calm voice. “Tell it to Saint Peter, instead.”
The metal slammed into Del’s skull. A blast of brilliant light swirled together with oceans of blue and yellow and white and then finally…black.
