What challenge is there in breaking a horse without spirit? The challenge is to replace that spirit with fear, raw animal fear that makes one feel alive. Are you ready to feel alive, Margaret O’Dell?
It had been their first insight into the intellect of Albert Stucky, a man whose father had been a prominent doctor. A man who had been afforded all the best schools, all the privileges money could buy. Yet he was thrown out of Yale for almost burning down a women’s dormitory. There were other offenses: attempted rape, assault, petty theft. All charges had been either dropped or were never pressed, due to lack of evidence. Stucky had been questioned in the accidental death of his father, a freak boating accident though the man had supposedly been an expert yachtsman.
Then, about six or seven years ago, Albert Stucky took up a business partner, and the two of them succeeded in creating one of the Internet’s first stock-market trading sites. Stucky became a respectable businessman, and a multimillionaire.
Despite all of Maggie’s research, she never felt certain about what had set Stucky off in the first place. What had been the event, the precursor? Usually with serial killers, their crimes were precipitated by some stressor. An event, a death, a rejection, an abuse that one day made them decide to kill. She didn’t know what that had been for Stucky. Perhaps evil simply couldn’t be harnessed. And Stucky’s evil was especially terrifying.
Most serial killers murdered because it gave them pleasure, some form of gratification. It was a choice, not necessarily a sickness of the mind. But for Albert Stucky, the kill was not enough. His pleasure came from psychologically breaking down his victims, turning them into sniveling, pleading wretches—owning them body, mind and soul. He enjoyed breaking their spirit, turning it into fear. Then he rewarded his victims with a slow, torturous death. Ironically, those he killed immediately, those whose throats he slashed and whose bodies he discarded in Dumpsters—only after extracting a token organ—those were the lucky ones.
The phone startled her. She grabbed the Smith & Wesson .38 that sat by her side. Again, it was a simple reflex. It was late, and few people had her new number. She had refused to give it to the pizza place. She had even insisted Greg use her cell phone number. Maybe Gwen had forgotten something. From the floor, she reached up to the desktop and pulled the phone down.
“Yes?” she said, her muscles tense. She wondered when she had stopped answering hello.
“Agent O’Dell?”
She recognized Assistant Director Cunningham’s matter-of-fact tone, but the tension did not leave her.
“Yes, sir.”
“I couldn’t remember if you were already using the new number.”
“I just moved in today.”
She glanced at her wristwatch. It was now after midnight. They spoke infrequently these days, ever since he had taken her out of the field and assigned her to training duty. Was it possible he had some information on Stucky? She sat up with an unexpected flutter of hope.
“Is there something wrong?”
“I’m sorry, Agent O’Dell. I just realized how late it is.”
She imagined him still at this desk at Quantico, never mind that it was Friday night.
“That’s quite all right, sir. You didn’t wake me.”
“I thought you might be leaving for Kansas City tomorrow, and I didn’t want to miss you.”
“I leave on Sunday.” She kept the question, the anticipation from her voice as best she could. If he needed her to stay, she knew Stewart was able to fill in for her at the law enforcement conference. “Does there need to be a change to my schedule?”
“No, not at all. I just wanted to make sure. I did, however, receive a phone call earlier this evening that gave me great concern.”
Maggie imagined a body, sliced and left for some unsuspecting person to find beneath the trash. She waited for him to give her the details.
“A Detective Manx from the Newburgh Heights Police Department called me.”
Maggie’s anticipation quickly dissipated.
“He told me that you interfered with a crime scene investigation this afternoon. Is that true?”
Maggie reached to rub her eyes again, only now realizing she still gripped the revolver. She put it aside and sat back, feeling defeated. Damn that prick, Manx.
“Agent O’Dell? Is that true?”
“I just moved into the neighborhood this afternoon. I noticed police cruisers at the end of the block. I thought perhaps I could help.”
“So you did barge in uninvited on a crime scene.”
“I did not barge in. I offered my help.”
“That’s not the way Detective Manx described it.”
“No, I don’t imagine it is.”
“I want you to stay out of the field, Agent O’Dell.”
“But I was able to—”
“Out of the field means you don’t go using your credentials to walk onto crime scenes. Even if they are in your own neighborhood. Is that understood?”
She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. How dare Manx. He wouldn’t have discovered the dog, had it not been for her.
“Agent O’Dell, is that clear?”
“Yes. Yes, it’s perfectly clear,” she said, almost expecting an additional reprimand for the sarcasm in her voice.
“Have a safe trip,” he said in his usual abrupt manner and then hung up.
She threw the phone onto the desktop and began rifling through the files. The tension tightened in her back, her neck and shoulders. She stood up and stretched, noticing the anger still slamming in her chest. Damn Manx! Damn Cunningham! How long did he think he could keep her out of the field? How long did he intend to punish her for being vulnerable? And how could he ever expect to catch Stucky without her help?
Maggie reset the security system a third time, double-checking the red On light, even though the mechanical voice told her each time, “Alarm system has been activated.” The hell with the buzz in her head. She poured another Scotch and convinced herself that one more would surely relieve the tension.
The mess stayed scattered on the living-room floor. It seemed appropriate that her new home be initiated with a pile of blood and horror. She retreated to the sunroom, grabbing her revolver and snatching an afghan from a box in the corner, wrapping it around her shoulders. She shut off all the lights, except the one on the desk. Then she curled into the recliner that now faced the wall of windows.
She cradled and sipped the Scotch as she watched the moon slip in and out of the clouds, making shadows dance in her new backyard. In her other hand she gripped the revolver resting in her lap, tucked under the cover. Despite the progressive blur behind her eyes, she would be ready. Perhaps Assistant Director Cunningham couldn’t stop Albert Stucky from coming for her, but she sure as hell would. And this time, it would be Stucky’s turn for a surprise.
CHAPTER 10
R. J. Tully peeled off another ten-dollar bill and slid it under the ticket window. When had movie tickets
