“I remember that. What was that two, three years ago?”
“Not quite two.”
“Thankfully, I was on vacation. Fishing up in Canada.” The doctor cocked his head as though trying to remember some sporting event. Tully found everyone’s ease, all the casualness, a bit unnerving. He sat still, hoping no one could hear his heart pounding. The doctor continued. “But now if I remember right, Carson’s body was buried in a shallow grave in some woods. Outside Richmond, wasn’t it? Certainly not in some Dumpster.”
“This guy’s complicated, Frank. The ones he collects are the ones we rarely find. These women…these are his rejects. They’re simply for sport—for show-and-tell.” Cunningham sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, the balls of his feet rocking as though ready to jump into action at any moment. Everything about Cunningham telescoped his constant energy, his immediacy. Yet, his face, his voice remained calm, almost soothing.
Tully stared at the pizza box on the floor of the van. Despite the scent of pizza dough and pepperoni, he recognized the acrid scent as blood. So much for eating pizza ever again.
“Nothing happens in this quiet little suburb,” Dr. Holmes said while continuing to jot details on the forms he had clipped to his board. “Then two homicides in one day.”
“Two?” Cunningham’s patience seemed to wear thin with the doctor’s slow, deliberate manner. He stared at the pizza box, and Tully knew his boss wouldn’t touch it without first being invited to do so by Dr. Holmes. Tully had discovered early on that despite the director’s authority, he showed great respect for those he worked with, as well as for rules, policy and protocol.
“I’m not aware of another homicide, Frank,” he said when the doctor took too long to offer an explanation.
“Well, I’m not sure the other one is a homicide, yet. We never did find a body.” Dr. Holmes finally put the clipboard aside. “We had an agent on the scene. Maybe one of yours?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Not far from here in the nice quiet neighborhood of Newburgh Heights. Said she was a forensic psychologist. Just moved into the victim’s neighborhood. Very impressive young woman.”
Tully watched Cunningham’s face and saw the transformation from calm to agitated.
“Yes, I did hear about that. I had forgotten her new neighborhood was in Newburgh Heights. I apologize if she got in the way.”
“Oh, no apology necessary, Kyle. On the contrary, she proved very helpful. I think the arrogant bastard who was supposed to be investigating the scene may have even learned a thing or two.”
Tully caught the assistant director with a smile at the corner of his lips, before he realized he was being watched. He turned to Tully and explained, “Agent O’Dell, your predecessor, just bought a new home in this area.”
“Agent Margaret O’Dell?” Tully held his boss’s eyes until he saw that Cunningham had now made the same connection Tully had just made. Both of them stared at Dr. Holmes as he slid the pizza box closer. Suddenly, Tully knew it didn’t matter what they found in the box. Whatever had been discarded, neither of them needed to see the bloody mess to confirm that this was most likely the work of Albert Stucky. And Tully knew it was no coincidence that he had chosen to start again, close to Agent Margaret O’Dell’s new home.
CHAPTER 12
Exhaustion seeped into his bones and threatened to incapacitate him by the time he returned to the safety of his room. He shed his clothes with minimal movement, letting the fabric slide off his lean body, though what he really wanted to do was rip and tear. His body disgusted him. It had taken almost twice as long for him to come this time. Of all the fucking things he had to deal with, that one was the most annoying.
His fingers fumbled through his duffel bag, searching frantically, tossing items haphazardly to the floor. Suddenly, he stopped when he felt the smooth cylinder. Relief washed over him, chilling his sweat-drenched body.
The fatigue had moved to his fingers. It took three attempts to snap off the plastic cap and poke the needle into the orange rubber top of the vial. He hated not having complete control. The anger and the irritability only added to his nausea. He steadied his hands as best he could and watched the syringe suck the liquid from the vial.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his knees weak and perspiration sliding down his naked back. In one quick motion he stuck the needle into his thigh, forcing the colorless liquid into his bloodstream. Then he lay back and waited, closing his eyes against the red lines that jetted across his field of vision. In his mind he could hear the blood vessels popping—pop, pop, pop! The thought might drive him completely mad before it drove him completely blind.
Through closed eyelids he was aware of the flickers of lightning that invaded his dimly lit room. A rumble of thunder vibrated the window. Then the rain began again, soft and gentle, tapping out a lullaby.
Yes, his body disgusted him. He had pushed it to be strong and lean, using weights, steel machines and gut-wrenching wind sprints. He ate nutritious meals high in protein and vitamins. He had freed himself of all toxins including caffeine, alcohol and nicotine. Yet, his body still failed him, screaming out its limitations and reminding him of its imperfections.
It had only been three short months since he had noticed any of the symptoms. The first ones were simply annoying, the eternal thirst and the constant urge to piss. Who knew how long this damn thing had been lying dormant inside him, ready to strike at just the right moment.
Of course, it would be this one abnormality that would eventually do him in, a gift from his greedy mother whom he had never even known. The bitch would have to give him something that could destroy him.
He sat up, ignoring the slight dizziness in his head, his vision still blurred. The lapses came more often and were getting harder and harder to predict. Whatever the limitations, he refused to let them interfere with the game.
The rain tapped more persistently now. The lightning came in constant flickers. It made the room crawl with movement. Dusty objects sprang to life, jerky miniature robots. The whole frickin’ room jumped and jerked.
He grabbed the lamp on the bedstand and twisted it on, making the movement halt in the yellow glow. In the light, he could see the heap from his spilled duffel bag. Socks, shaving kit, T-shirts, several knives, a scalpel and a Glock 9 mm lay scattered on the plush carpet. He ignored the familiar buzz that had begun to invade his head, and rifled through the mess, stopping when he found the pink panties. He rubbed the soft silk against his bristled jaw, then breathed in their scent, a lovely combination of talcum powder, come and pizza.
He noticed the real estate flyer crumpled under the pile and pulled it out, unfolding it and smoothing its wrinkles. The eight-and-half-by-eleven sheet of paper included a color photo of the beautiful colonial house, a detailed description of its amenities and the shiny blue logo of Heston Realty. The house had definitely lived up to its promises, and he was sure it would continue to do so.
At the bottom corner of the flyer was a small photo of an attractive woman, trying to look professional despite something…what was it in her eyes? There was an insecurity, something that made her look uncomfortable in her cute conservative white blouse and navy blue suit. His thumb rubbed over her face, smudging the ink and dragging a trail of black and blue over her skin. That looked better. Yes, already he could feel her vulnerability. Perhaps he could see and feel it only because he had spent so much time watching her, had taken time to study and examine her. He wondered what it was that Tess McGowan was trying so hard to hide.
He walked across the room, taking slow, deliberate steps deciding not to get angry because his knees were still weak. He tacked the flyer to the bulletin board. Then, as if the memory of Tess and those shapely legs of hers had reminded him, he slid a box out from under the table. Unfortunately, movers were so negligent these days. Going off and taking breaks without tending to the precious possessions left in their care. He smiled as he broke the packaging tape and then flipped off the lid that was marked “M. O’Dell.”
He took out the yellowed newspaper clippings: Firefighter Sacrifices Life, Trust Fund Established for Hero. What a horrible way for her to lose her father, in a hellish fire.
“Do you dream about him, Maggie O’Dell?” he whispered. “Do you imagine the flames licking off his skin?”
