She turned the car onto the street, and when she knew she was safely out of sight, she gunned the engine. But it took several miles before she felt like she could breathe and before she could hear the car radio instead of the pounding of her heart. Then she remembered that she had passed Shep’s Liquor Mart. She didn’t care. She no longer felt as if she deserved a celebration, yet she tried to concentrate on her recent successes and not the past. In fact, she remained so focused, she hardly noticed the dark sedan following her.
CHAPTER 7
Before the pizza or Gwen arrived, Maggie poured a second Scotch. She had forgotten about the bottle until she discovered it staring up at her, safely stored in the box—a necessary antidote accompanying the contents of horror. The box was labeled #34666, the number that had been assigned to Albert Stucky. Perhaps it was no accident that his file number would end in 666.
Assistant Director Cunningham would be furious if he knew she had copied every last piece of paper from Stucky’s official file. She would have felt guilty if each report, each document, each note had been recorded by someone other than herself. For almost two years Maggie had tracked Stucky. She had viewed every one of his scenes of torture and dissection, scanning his handiwork for fibers, hairs, missing organs, anything that would tell her how to catch him. She had a right to his file, considering it some strange documentation of a portion of her own life.
She had taken a quick shower after her unexpected trip to the vet. Her UVA T-shirt soaked in the bathroom sink. She might never be able to remove the bloodstains. The T-shirt was old, stretched and faded, but she had an odd attachment to it. Some people kept scrapbooks, Maggie kept T-shirts.
Her years at the University of Virginia had been good ones. It was there she discovered a life of her own outside of being her mother’s caretaker. It was where she had met Greg. She glanced at her watch, then checked her cellular phone to make certain it was on. He still hadn’t returned her call about the missing carton. He’d make her wait, but she wouldn’t let herself get angry. Not tonight. She was simply too exhausted to take on one more emotion.
The doorbell chimed. Maggie glanced at her watch again. As usual, Gwen was ten minutes late. She tugged at her shirttail, making certain it hid the bulging Smith & Wesson tucked into her waistband. Lately, the gun had become as common an accessory as her wristwatch.
“I know I’m late,” Gwen said before the door was fully open. “Traffic was a bitch. Friday night and everyone’s trying to get the hell out of D.C. for the weekend.”
“Good to see you, too.”
She smiled and pulled Maggie in for a one-armed hug. For a brief moment Maggie was surprised by how soft and fragile the older woman felt. Despite Gwen’s petite and feminine stature, Maggie thought of her as her own personal Rock of Gibraltor. She had leaned on Gwen and depended on her strength and character and words of wisdom many times during their friendship.
When Gwen pulled away, she cupped Maggie’s cheek in the palm of her hand, attempting to get a good look at her.
“You look like hell,” was her gentle assessment.
“Gee, thanks!”
She smiled again and handed Maggie the carton of longnecked Bud Light she carried in her other hand. The bottles were cold and dripping with condensation. Maggie took them and used the action as an excuse to keep her eyes away from Gwen’s. It had been almost a month since the two women had seen each other, though they talked on the phone regularly. On the phone, however, Maggie could keep Gwen from seeing the panic and vulnerability that seemed to lie so close to the surface during these past several weeks.
“Pizza should be here any minute,” Maggie told her as she reset the security system.
“No Italian sausage on my half.”
“Extra mushrooms, instead.”
“Oh, bless you.” Gwen didn’t wait for an invitation to come in. She took off to roam through the rooms.
“My God, Maggie, this house is wonderful.”
“You like my designer?”
“Hmm…I’d say brown cardboard is you, simple and unpretentious. May I check out the second floor?” Gwen asked, already making her way up the stairs.
“Can I stop you?” Maggie laughed. How was it possible for this woman to sweep into a place and bring a trail of energy as well as such warmth and delight?
She and Gwen had met when Maggie had first arrived at Quantico for her forensic fellowship. Maggie had been a young, naive newbie who hadn’t yet seen blood except in a test tube, and had never fired a gun except during training on the firing range.
Gwen had been one of the local psychologists brought in by Assistant Director Cunningham to act as a private consultant and to help profile several important cases. Even back then she had a successful practice in D.C. Many of her patients were some of the elite of Washington—bored wives of congressmen, suicidal generals and even one manic-depressed White House cabinet member.
However it was Gwen’s research, the many articles she had written and her remarkable insight into the criminal mind that had attracted Assistant Director Cunningham when he first asked her to be an independent consultant for the FBI’s Investigative Support Unit. Though Maggie learned quickly that the assistant director had been attracted to Dr. Gwen Patterson in other ways as well. A person would have to be blind not to see the ongoing chemistry between the two, though Maggie knew firsthand that neither had acted upon it, nor ever intended to.
“We respect our professional relationship,” Gwen explained to Maggie once, making it clear she didn’t want the subject brought up again, though this was long after Gwen’s stint as a consultant had ended. Maggie knew that Assistant Director Cunningham’s estranged marriage probably had more to do with their hands-off policy than any attempt to remain professional.
From the first time Maggie met Gwen, she had admired the woman’s vibrancy, her keen intellect and her dry sense of humor. Gwen refused to think inside the box and didn’t hesitate to break any of the rules while still appearing to be respectful of authority. Maggie had seen her win over diplomats as well as criminals with her sophisticated but charming manner. Gwen was fifteen years older than Maggie, but the woman had instantly become a best friend as well as a mentor.
The doorbell chimed again, and Maggie’s hand reached back and grabbed her revolver before she could stop herself. She glanced up the stairs to see if Gwen had witnessed her knee-jerk reaction. She smoothed her shirttail over her jeans and checked the portico from the side window before she disarmed the alarm system. She stopped and looked out the peephole, examining the fish-eye view of the street, then she opened the door.
“Large pizza for O’Dell.” The young girl handed Maggie the warm box. Already she could smell the Romano cheese and Italian sausage.
“It smells wonderful.”
The girl grinned as though she had prepared it herself.
“It comes to $18.59, please.”
Maggie handed her a twenty and a five. “Keep the change.”
“Gee, thanks.”
The girl bounced down the circular drive, her blond ponytail waving out the back of her blue baseball cap.
Maggie set the pizza down in the middle of the living room. She returned to the door to reset the security system just as Gwen came rushing down the steps.
“Maggie, what the hell happened?” she asked, holding up the dripping T-shirt, splattered with blood.
“What is this? Did you hurt yourself?” Gwen demanded.
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, oh that. What the hell happened?”
Maggie quickly cupped a hand under the dripping T-shirt and grabbed it away, racing up the stairs to drop it
