Maggie O'Dell Collection, Volume 1: A Perfect Evil ; Split Second ; The Soul Catcher

by Alex Kava

  CHAPTER 43

  Tess skidded to a stop. Her bare feet were caked with mud. She could smell it and looked to find mud stuck to her hands, her trousers, her skinned elbows. She didn’t remember ripping her blouse, yet both elbows showed through, the flesh scraped and bloody, and now dirty with rancid mud. The rain had stopped without her noticing, but she knew it would be temporary because the clouds had darkened and the fog became a thicker gray, wisping around her like unsettled spirits rising from the ground. Dear God, she couldn’t think of such things. She shouldn’t think at all, just run.

  Instead, she leaned against a tree, trying to catch her breath. She had followed the only path she could find in the dense woods, hoping it would lead to freedom. Her nerves were frayed. The terror raced inside her, completely beyond her control. She expected him to step out and grab her at any second.

  Dry burrs and broken twigs poked through her blanket cape. It had been caught many times, yanking her backward like hands gripping her neck. It was a constant reminder of the painful bruises his fingers had left. Yet she refused to let it go, as if it was a flimsy shield, a makeshift security blanket. She was soaked from the rain and her own perspiration, wet strands of hair plastered against her face. Her silk blouse clung to her like a second skin.

  The thick fog added to the dampness. In less than an hour darkness would enshroud these endless woods. The thought brought fresh panic. She could hardly see through the damp haze. Twice she had slid down a ridge, almost tumbling into the body of water that had seemed like a gray mist when seen from above. The dark would make further movement impossible.

  He had taken her wristwatch, for obvious reasons, though he had left the sapphire ring and earrings. She’d gladly trade the three-thousand-dollar ring for her Timex. She hated not knowing the time. Did she know what day it was? Could it still be Wednesday? No. She remembered it being dark when she was in the car. Yes, there had been oncoming headlights. Which meant she had slept most of Thursday. Suddenly it occurred to her that she really had no idea how long she had been unconscious. It may have been days.

  Her breathing became labored again as the fear crawled through her insides. Calm. She needed to stay calm. She needed to figure out what to do for the night. She would take this moment by moment. Despite the instinct to continue running, it was more important that she find someplace to wait out the night. Now she wondered if she should have stayed in the shack. Had she really accomplished anything by leaving it? At least it had been dry, and that lumpy cot now sounded wonderful. Instead, she had no idea where she was. It certainly didn’t feel as if she had gotten any closer to escaping this endless wooded prison, though she must have covered several miles.

  She crouched down, her back pressed against the rough bark. Her legs begged to sit, but she needed to stay alert and ready to run. Black crows screeched down at her. They startled her, but she remained still and quiet, too tired, too weak to move out of their way. The crows were settling in the treetops for the night. Hundreds of them flapped overhead, coming from all directions, their rude caws a warning as they claimed their evening roost.

  Suddenly it occurred to Tess that these birds wouldn’t settle here if they didn’t perceive it to be somewhat safe. And if there was danger sometime during the night, they would probably react better than an alarm system.

  Her eyes began searching the area for a safe resting place. There were plenty of fallen leaves and pine needles, bits and pieces left over from last fall. However, everything was damp from the rain and fog. She shivered just thinking about lying on the cold ground.

  The crows’ squawks continued. She looked up and began examining branches. She hadn’t climbed a tree since she was a kid. Back then it had been a survival tactic, one more way to hide from her aunt and uncle. Her aching muscles reminded her how foolish the thought of climbing anything was right now. Foolish or not, it would be the safest place to be. He’d never look for her up above, not to mention other nightly predators. Dear God, she hadn’t even thought of other animals.

  The tree beside her had a perfect Y to accommodate her. Immediately, she pushed herself into action and began dragging logs and branches. She stacked them, crisscrossing the larger ones to construct a crude stepladder. If she could reach the lower branches, she might be able to swing her feet up into the Y.

  She tried to ignore her fatigue, tried to pretend her feet weren’t already cut and stinging. With every load of branches or lift of a log, her muscles screamed out for her to stop. But she could feel a new surge of energy. Her heart pounded in her ears, only this time with excitement.

  Overhead the crows had gone silent, as if watching and interested in her frantic work. Or did they hear something else? She stopped. Her arms were full. Her breathing rasped. She couldn’t hear over the pounding of her heart. She held her breath as best she could and listened. It was as if the entire woods had gone silent, as if the impending dark had swallowed every sound, every movement.

  Then she heard it.

  At first it sounded like a wounded animal, a muffled cry, a high-pitched hum. Tess turned slowly, her eyes squinting against the fog and into the dark. A sudden breeze created night shadows. Swaying branches became waving arms. Rustling leaves sounded like footsteps.

  Tess unloaded her arms while her eyes continued to dart around her. Could she get into the tree without building her makeshift ladder? Her fingers clawed into the bark. Her feet tested the pile’s strength and structure. She pulled herself up and grabbed onto the closest branch. It creaked under her weight, but didn’t break. Her fingers clung to the branch despite loose bark falling into her eyes. She was ready to swing her feet up into the Y when the muffled cry transformed into words.

  “Help me. Please, help me.”

  The words, drifting with the breeze, were crisp and clear. Tess froze. She hung from the branch, her toes barely reaching the pile. Maybe she was hearing things. Maybe it was simply exhaustion playing tricks on her.

  Her arms ached. Her fingers felt numb. If she was going to make it up into the tree, she needed to use this last surge of energy.

  The words came again, floating over her as if a part of the fog.

  “Please, someone help me.”

  It was a woman’s voice, and it was close by.

  Tess dropped to the ground. By now she could see only a foot or two into the thickening darkness. She walked slowly, following the path, silently counting her steps with arms stretched out in front of her. Twigs grabbed at her hair and unseen branches reached for her. She moved in the direction of the voice, still afraid to call, afraid to give away her presence. She stepped carefully, continuing her count so she could turn around and hopefully find her tree sanctuary.

  Twenty-two, twenty-three. Then suddenly the ground opened beneath her. Tess fell and the earth swallowed her.

  CHAPTER 44

  Tess lay at the bottom of the pit. Her head roared. Her side burned as if on fire. Her breathing came in gasps and quick bursts as the terror swept through her veins. Mud oozed up around her, sucking at her arms and legs like quicksand. Her right ankle twisted under her. Even without attempting to move it, she knew she would have trouble doing so.

  The smell of mud and decay gagged her. The black dark squeezed around her. She couldn’t see in any direction. Above her she could barely make out a few shadows of branches, but the fog and the night had already begun devouring the twilight. What shadows she could see were only enough to reveal how deep her earthly tomb was. It had to be at least fifteen feet to the top. Dear God, she’d never be able to climb out.

  She struggled to stand, falling when the ankle refused to hold her up. A fresh wave of panic sent her to her feet again. This time she clawed and scratched at the dirt to hold herself up. She ripped at the wall with fingers digging and searching for a ledge that didn’t exist. Chunks of damp earth came off in her hands. She could feel the worms slithering through her fingers. She flung them off. They reminded her of snakes. And dear God, how she hated snakes. The
thought alone unleashed a new terror.

  Suddenly her bare feet and hands slashed and pounded, climbed and slid. The wind tunnel in her head continued to roar. Her heart slammed against her rib cage. She couldn’t breathe. That’s when she realized she was screaming. It wasn’t the sound that alarmed her as much as her raw throat and her aching lungs. When she stopped, the screaming continued. Surely she was losing her mind. The scream transformed into a whine, then a low moan that emanated from the black corner of the hole.

  A shiver slid down Tess’s mud and sweat-drenched back. She remembered the voice. The voice that had led her to this hellhole. Had it all been a trap?

  “Who are you?” she whispered into the dark.

  The moans became muffled sobs.

  Tess waited. She slid along the wall, ignoring her throbbing ankle and refusing to sit back down. She needed to be alert. She needed to be ready. She glanced up, expecting her captor to be smiling down at her. Instead, there was a flicker of light she recognized as lightning. A low rumble in the distance confirmed it.

  “Who are you?” she shouted this time, giving in to the raw emotion that squeezed her chest and made it difficult to breathe. “And what the hell are you doing here?” She wasn’t sure she wanted or needed an answer to her second question.

  “He…did this.” The voice came with effort, high-pitched and quaking. “Awful things…” she continued. “He did…this. I tried to stop him. I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough.” She started moaning again.

  The woman’s fear was palpable. It grabbed Tess by the throat and crawled under her skin. She couldn’t afford to take on this woman’s terror, too.

  “He had a knife,” the woman said between sobs. “He…he cut me.”

  “Are you hurt? Are you bleeding?” But Tess stayed against the wall, unable to move. Her eyes tried to adjust to the dark, but she could see nothing but a huddled shadow only six or seven feet away from her.

  “He said…he told me he’d kill me.”

  “When did he put you down here? Do you remember?”

  “He tied my wrists.”

  “I can help you untie—”

  “He tied my ankles. I couldn’t move.”

  “I can—”

  “He ripped my clothes, then he took off my blindfold. He said…he told me he wanted me to watch. He…wanted me to see. Then he…then he raped me.”

  Tess wiped at her face, replacing tears with mud. She remembered her own clothes, the misbuttoned blouse, the missing panty hose. She felt nauseated. She couldn’t think about it. She didn’t want to remember. Not now.

  “He cut me when I screamed.” The woman was still confessing, her voice rambling now out of control. “He wanted me to scream. I couldn’t fight him. He was so strong. He got on top of me. So heavy. My chest…he crushed my chest, sitting there on top of me. He was so heavy. My arms were pinned under his legs. He sat on top of me so he could stick…so that he could…he shoved himself down my throat. I gagged. He shoved farther. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. He kept—”

  “Shut up!” Tess yelled, surprising herself. She didn’t recognize her own voice, frightened by the shrillness of it. “Please just shut up!”

  Immediately there was silence. No moans. No sobs. Tess listened over the pounding of her heart. Her body shook beyond her control. A liquid cold invaded her veins. Air continued to leak out, replaced by more of the rancid smell of death.

  Thunder grew closer, vibrating the earth against her back. The flashes of lightning lit up the world above, but didn’t make it down into the black pit. Tess leaned her head against the dirt wall and stared up at the branches, eerie skeletal arms waving down at her in the flickering light. Her entire body hurt from trying to control the convulsions threatening to take over.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, determined to ward off those childhood memories, those childhood fears she had worked so hard to destroy. She could feel them crashing through her carefully constructed barriers. She could feel them seeping into her veins, a poison infecting her entire body. She couldn’t…she wouldn’t allow them to return and render her helpless. Oh dear God! It had taken years to lock them away. And several more years to erase them. No, she couldn’t let them back in. Please, dear Lord, not now. Not when she was already feeling so vulnerable, so completely helpless.

  The rain began, and Tess let her body slide down against the wall until she felt the mud sucking at her again. Her body began rocking back and forth. She hugged herself tight against the cold and against the memories, but both broke through anyway. As though it had been only yesterday, she remembered what it felt like. She remembered being six years old and being buried alive.

  CHAPTER 45

  “I think Stucky may have taken my neighbor, too.”

  “Come on, Maggie. Now you’re just sounding paranoid.” Gwen sat in Maggie’s recliner, sipping wine and petting Harvey’s huge head, which filled her lap. The two had become instant pals. “By the way, this wine is very nice. You’re getting good at this. See, there are things other than Scotch.”

  However, Maggie’s glass of wine remained full to the rim. She rummaged through the files Tully had given her on Jessica’s and Rita’s murders. Besides, she hadn’t waited for Gwen to arrive before she drank just enough Scotch to settle the restlessness that seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside her. She had hoped target practice would have helped dislodge it. But even the Scotch had not done its usual job of anesthetizing it. Still she was having trouble reading her own handwriting through the blur. She was pleased, though, that she had finally been able to choose a wine that Gwen liked.

  A gourmet cook, Gwen enjoyed fine food and wine. When she had called earlier, offering to bring over dinner, Maggie had rushed out to Shep’s Liquor Mart to search the aisles. The clerk, an attractive but overly enthusiastic brunette named Hannah, had told Maggie that the Bolla Sauve was “a delicious semi-dry white wine with touches of floral spiciness and apricot.” Hannah assured her that it would complement the chicken and asparagus en papillote that Gwen had promised.

  Wine was much too complex. With Scotch she didn’t need to choose from merlot, chardonnay, chablis, blush, red or white. All she needed to remember was Scotch, neat. Simple. And it certainly did the job. Though not this evening. The tension strangled her muscles and tightened her rib cage, squeezing and causing her chest to ache.

  “What do the police say about Rachel’s disappearance?”

  “I’m not sure.” Maggie flipped through a file folder with newspaper clippings, but still couldn’t find what she was looking for. “The lead detective called Cunningham and complained about me barging in on his territory, so it’s not like I can just call him up and say, ‘Hey, I think I know what happened with that case you want me to keep my nose out of.’ But my other neighbor gave me the impression everyone, including the husband, is treating it as though Rachel just decided to leave.”

  “That seems odd. Has she done this sort of thing before?”

  “I have no clue. But doesn’t it seem odder that the husband wouldn’t want the dog?”

  “Not if he thinks she ran off with someone. It’s one of the few ways he has left to punish her.”

  “It doesn’t explain why we found the dog in the condition we did. There was a lot of blood, and I’m still not convinced it was all Harvey’s.” Maggie noticed Gwen stroking Harvey’s head as though administering therapy. “Who names a dog Harvey?”

  He looked up at Maggie’s mention of his name, but didn’t budge.

  “It’s a perfectly good name,” Gwen declared as she continued her generous strokes.

  “It was the name of the black Lab that David Berkowitz believed was possessed.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes. “Now, why is it that you think of that immediately? Maybe Rachel is a Jimmy Stewart fan or a classic-movie buff, and named him after Harvey the six-foot invisible rabbit.”

  “Oh, right. Why didn’t I think of that?” It was Maggie’s turn for sarcasm.
The truth was, she didn’t want to think of Harvey’s owner and what she believed may have happened to her, or was still happening to her. She returned her attention to the folders. She wished she could remember exactly what it was that Agent Tully had said. There was something nagging at her. Something that connected Rachel’s disappearance to Jessica’s murder. Not just the mud. Yet she couldn’t remember what it was that made her think that. She was hoping one of the police reports would trigger her memory.

  “Why the hell isn’t the husband the prime suspect?” Gwen suddenly sounded irritated. “That would be a logical explanation to me.”

  “You’d need to meet Detective Manx to understand. He doesn’t seem to be approaching any of this logically.”

  “I’m not so sure he’s the only one. The husband does seem to be the logical suspect, and yet here you are jumping to the conclusion that Stucky kidnapped her because…let me get this straight. You think Stucky kidnapped Rachel Endicott because you’re sure he killed this pizza delivery girl and you found candy bar wrappers at both scenes.”

  “And mud. Don’t forget the mud.” Maggie checked the lab’s report on Jessica’s car. The mud recovered from the accelerator contained some sort of metallic residue that Keith was now going to break down. Again she remembered the mud with sparkling flecks on Rachel Endicott’s stairs. But what if Manx hadn’t bothered to collect it? And even if he had, how would she be able to compare the two? It wasn’t like Manx would easily hand over a sample.

  “Okay,” Gwen said. “The mud I can understand, if you can make a match. But finding candy bar wrappers at both houses? I’m sorry, Maggie, that’s a bit of a stretch.”

  “Stucky leaves body parts in take-out containers just for fun, to toy with people. Why wouldn’t he leave candy bar wrappers, sort of his way of thumbing his nose at us? Like he was able to commit this inconceivably horrible murder and then have a snack afterward.”