plates or even the vehicle returned before the owner is back home. Has forensics impounded the van?”
Tully nodded, sorting through the information he had on both vehicles. “Not likely they’ll find anything. It’s pretty clean. However, we did find two delivery slips in the girl’s car.
He dug in the folder, pulling out one torn piece of paper and another creased with fold lines. Both had been recovered from the floor of the girl’s car. A red stain on one corner had tested as pizza sauce, not blood. Tully handed both over the desk. “The torn one is from her first route. Number four on the list is Agent O’Dell’s new home address.”
Cunningham sat forward, resting elbows on his desk. For the first time in Tully’s three months of working at Quantico, he saw anger on his boss’s face. The assistant director’s dark eyes narrowed and his hands clenched the paper.
“So the damn bastard not only knows where she lives, but he’s watching her.”
“It looks that way. When I talked to Agent Delaney, he said the waitress in Kansas City had joked and talked with the three of them Sunday evening while she served them. He may be choosing women O’Dell comes in contact with in hopes of making her feel responsible.”
“It’s another of his goddamn games. He’s still obsessed with O’Dell. I knew it. I knew he wouldn’t let it go.”
“It appears that way. May I say one more thing, sir?”
“Of course.”
“You’ve offered me another agent to help on this case. You’ve also offered a forensic psychologist, which O’Dell is. You even suggested we have someone on hand to answer medical-related questions. If I’m not mistaken, Agent O’Dell has a premed background.”
Tully hesitated, giving Cunningham a chance to cut him off. Instead, he only stared at Tully, his face back to its stoic expression as he simply waited.
“Rather than three or four people,” Tully continued, “I’m officially requesting Agent O’Dell. If Stucky is targeting her, she may be the only one who can help us catch him.”
Tully expected a flicker of anger or at least impatience. But Cunningham’s face remained unchanged.
“I’ll give your request careful consideration,” he said. “Let me know what else you find out from Kansas City.”
“Yes, sir,” Tully said as he stood to leave, recognizing the signs of dismissal. Before he reached the door, Cunningham was on the phone again, and Tully couldn’t help wondering if his request had also been dismissed.
CHAPTER 26
Maggie couldn’t wait to peel off her damp, smelly clothes. Everyone in the hotel lobby had confirmed her suspicions—she reeked. Two people insisted on getting off the elevator, and the brave souls who continued the ride up with her looked as though they had held their breath for all twenty-three floors.
Detective Ford had dropped her and Nick at the front door then drove home to explain to his wife why he smelled like garbage on his day off. Nick’s room was in the south tower of the huge hotel complex, explaining why they hadn’t run into each other before. Which meant both banks of elevators would need disinfecting.
The three of them had spent several hours digging through Dumpsters, sifting through trash cans and looking for discarded containers on outdoor tables, window ledges, fire escapes and flower boxes. Maggie hadn’t even noticed the thick, gray thunderheads that had rolled in until the rain came in sheets, forcing them to end their search and take shelter. She would have continued if she had been alone. The rain had felt good, slashing at her and perhaps peeling away the tension along with the rancid smells from her skin. But the cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning only made her more anxious and jumpy.
Detective Ford had assured her that Albert Stucky would, indeed, be considered a suspect in Rita’s murder, despite their not finding the missing kidney. Maggie couldn’t understand why Stucky would deviate from his game, or had some unsuspecting customer taken the container home? Was it possible someone could have placed it in his refrigerator without looking, without knowing what was inside? That seemed ridiculous, and Maggie didn’t even want to think about it. The fact was, there wasn’t anything more she could do.
As soon as she came into her room, she noticed the phone’s red message light flashing. She grabbed the receiver and punched in the necessary numbers to retrieve her voice messages. She was used to getting emergency messages about her mother who attempted suicide as often as other women her age treated themselves to a manicure. But weren’t her mother’s new friends supposed to be taking care of her? Who could be calling? There was only one message, and it was, indeed, marked urgent.
“Agent O’Dell. This is Anita Glasco calling for Assistant Director Cunningham. He needs to see you in his office tomorrow morning at nine. Please call me back if you won’t be able to make it. Thank you and have a safe trip home, Maggie.”
Maggie smiled at Anita’s soothing voice, though the message itself set her on edge. She listened to her options, punched the number to erase and hung up. She began pacing, trying to contain the anger before it grabbed hold of her. It was Cunningham’s way of seeing to it that she returned immediately. He knew she would never blow off a request to meet with him. She wondered what he already knew about Rita’s murder, or if he had even considered looking into it. After all, Delaney had probably made it sound as though she was losing her mind, simply imagining things.
She checked her wristwatch and scraped something dry and crusty from its face. She still had about six hours before her rescheduled evening flight. It was the last one to D.C. tonight. If she was to make the appointment with Cunningham in the morning, she couldn’t afford another delay. But how the hell could she leave Kansas City knowing Albert Stucky was here, lurking somewhere in the city? Maybe looking for his next victim right this very minute.
She double-checked the door, making sure it was locked. She added the chain and rammed the back of the wooden desk chair up under the knob, kicking the legs until she was satisfied it was secure. Then she stripped down to her underwear and bra and tossed her smelly clothes and shoes into one of the plastic dry-cleaning bags in the closet. Still smelling them, she triple-bagged them, until the scent seemed to be contained.
She brought her Smith & Wesson with her to the bathroom, leaving it close by on the counter. She left the bathroom door open, slipped out of her bra and panties, then crawled into the shower.
The water beat and massaged her skin. She turned the temperature as hot as she could stand it. She wanted to be rid not only of the smells, but of that crawly feeling just under her skin. That infestation of maggots that invaded her system every time she knew Albert Stucky was nearby. She scrubbed at her skin until it was red and raw. She wanted her mind to be swept clean, and her body to forget the scars.
When she stepped out of the shower, she wiped at the foggy mirror. The brown eyes stared back at her with that damn vulnerability so close to the surface. And the scars were still there, too. Her body was becoming a scrapbook.
The scar began just beneath her breast. With the tip of her index finger, she forced herself to touch it. To trace its puckered line down across her abdomen.
“I could gut you in seconds,” she remembered him telling her—no, promising, not telling. By then, she had resigned herself to death. He had already trapped her. He had already forced her to watch while he bludgeoned and gutted two women to death. He had threatened that if Maggie closed her eyes he would simply bring out another woman and start all over. And he had been true to his word.
There was still no escaping those images and sounds: bloodied breasts, the crack of bones, the hollow thud of a baseball bat against a skull. There had been so much blood from severed arteries and from knives sinking into flesh, into abdomens and vaginas—places where knives should never be allowed. No place was out of limits for Stucky. Nothing on a woman’s body was sacred. He carved and sliced, pleased and encouraged by the screams.
After feeling the splatters of blood, the pieces of bone and brain, after hearing the mind-shattering cries for help and smacks of bloodied flesh, what more could he have done to her? Death would have been a relief. So instead, he left her with a constant reminder of himself, a scar.
