by Alex Kava
“Jesus.” It all made sense. She wasn’t sure she had completely believed Stucky would allow anyone, even Harding, in on his game. “So he had the perfect disguise and the perfect hiding place.”
“There’s more, Agent O’Dell. The other body has been dead for several weeks, too, and it’s not Albert Stucky.”
Maggie sat down before her knees gave out from under her. “No, this can’t be happening. He can’t have escaped again.”
“We’re not sure who it is. Maybe a friend or caretaker of Harding’s. Harding was definitely blind. Dr. Holmes says both his retinas were detached, and there were no signs of diabetes.”
Maggie was barely listening anymore. She could hardly hear him over the pounding of her heart as she glanced frantically around the room. She noticed Harvey sniffing at the back door, now agitated. Where the hell had she left her Smith & Wesson?
“I’ve sent several agents back to watch your house,” Cunningham said as if that would be enough. “I suggest you not leave tonight. Stay put. If he comes after you, we’ll be ready.”
She met Gwen’s questioning eyes. The fear began invading Maggie’s system like cold liquid injected into her veins.
“Stucky wouldn’t dare come after me again.”
70
HE CRAWLED through the bushes, staying low to the ground. They had prickly branches that kept grabbing his sweatshirt. This sort of thing would never happen with his leather jacket. He missed it already, though it had been a worthy sacrifice to see Special Agent Maggie O’Dell’s look of relief and know it to be false. He had fooled them all, slipping in and out of hiding places he had specifically prepared for just such an occasion.
He rubbed at his eyes. Fuck, it was dark! He wished the red lines would go away. The insulin stabilized his body, but there seemed to be nothing to stop the exploding blood vessels in his eyes.
He could still hear Walker’s tinny laugh, telling him, “You’ll be a blind fucker just like me, Al.” Walker was still laughing when he put the.22 at the base of his head and pulled the trigger.
The lights were completely out now. He had seen her moving back and forth in the bedroom. He wished he could see her face, relaxed and unsuspecting, but the curtains were drawn and not sheer enough.
He had already intercepted and dismantled the security system with a handheld gadget that Walker had invented for him a few months ago. Blind as a bat, but the man had been an electronics genius. He didn’t even know how the thing worked. But he had tested it on the house on Archer Drive, and it did, indeed, work.
He started up the trellis that was hidden by vines and more bushes. He hoped it was sturdier than it looked. Actually, all of this seemed too easy, not much of a challenge. But then, she would be the challenge. He knew she wouldn’t disappoint him.
He thought of the scalpel tucked safely inside his boot. He’d take his time with her. The anticipation aroused him so intensely he needed to stifle what sounded like panting. Yes, this would be well worth the effort.
71
MAGGIE sat in the dark corner. Her back pressed against the wall of the bedroom, her outstretched arms leaning on her knees. Her hands gripped her Smith & Wesson, her finger on the trigger. She was ready for him. She knew he had been watching. She knew he would come. Yet, when she heard him at the foot of the trellis, her heart slammed against her chest. Sweat trickled down her back.
In a matter of minutes, he was at the window. She saw his shadow hovering, a black vulture. Then his face was at the glass. Don’t flinch. Stay calm. Steady. Yet the terror hammered away at her, raw and unyielding to any of her mental commands. A slight tremor threatened her aim. She knew she was safe in the dark corner. Besides, he would be looking at the curled-up bundle of pillows he would mistake for his sleeping victim.
Would he be disappointed that she could predict his moves? Certainly he wouldn’t expect that they had already discovered the second body was not his. He must have realized they would, because he was wasting no time coming after his ultimate victim. This would be his grand finale, his final scar to leave Maggie with before the diabetes left him completely blind.
She tightened her grip. Instead of the terror, she concentrated on the faces of his victims, the litany of names, now adding Jessica, Rita and Rachel to the list. How dared he make her an accomplice to his evil?
He eased the window up, gently, quietly, and before he stepped into the room she could smell him, the scent of smoke and sweat. She waited for him to draw the scalpel from his boot.
“You won’t be needing that,” she said calmly, not moving a muscle.
He spun around, holding the scalpel. With his free hand he stripped off the bedcovers, then grabbed for the lamp on the nightstand. The yellow glow filled the room, and when he turned toward her she thought she saw a flash of surprise in his colorless eyes. He quickly composed himself, standing straight and tall, replacing the surprise with one of his twisted smiles.
“Why, Maggie O’Dell. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Gwen isn’t here. In fact, she’s back at my house. I hope you don’t mind me taking her place?” Stucky hadn’t dared come for her. That would have been too easy. Just like in that Miami warehouse eight months ago. It would have been easier to kill her. Instead, he had left her with a scar, a constant reminder of him. No, Stucky didn’t intend to kill her. He simply wanted to destroy her. It would be his ultimate blow, to hurt a woman Maggie knew, one she cared about and loved.
“You’re good at our little game.” He seemed pleased.
Without warning, she squeezed the trigger, and his hand flew back, the scalpel clinking to the floor. He stared at his bloodied hand. His eyes met hers. This time she saw more than alarm. Was that the beginning of fear?
“How does it feel?” she asked, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. “How does it feel to have me beating you at your own game?”
There was that smile again, a cocky smirk that she wanted to shoot off his face.
“No, I should be asking you, Maggie. How does it feel to play at my game?”
She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
“It’s over,” she managed to say. Could he see her hand tremble?
“You like seeing me bleeding. Admit it.” He raised his hand to show her the blood dripping down his sleeve. “It’s a powerful feeling, isn’t it, Maggie?”
“Is it a powerful feeling to kill your best friend, Stucky? Is that why you did it?”
She thought she saw him grimace. Maybe she had finally found his Achilles’ heel.
“Why did you do it? Why did you kill the one man, the only person who could stomach being your friend?”
“He had something I needed. Something I couldn’t get anywhere else,” he said, looking away from the light.
“What could a blind Walker Harding possibly have that was worth killing him for?”
“You already know the answer to that. His identity. I needed to become him.” Now he laughed.
Maggie watched his eyes. The light was bothering him. Yes, she was right. Whether it was diabetes or something else, Stucky was losing his eyesight.
“Not like Walker was doing much with his identity anyway,” Stucky continued. “Sitting in that house with his cyberlife. Jacking off to porn videos instead of enjoying the real thing.” His lips curled into a snarl. “He was pathetic. Never would I become what he was, at least, not without a fight.”
He reached for the lamp again to turn it off. Maggie pulled the trigger. This time the bullet shattered his wrist. He grabbed at his hand, the anger distorting his face while he tried to keep it composed.
“Are your eyes giving you a little trouble?” she taunted him, despite the panic sliding down into her legs. She couldn’t run. She needed to stay put. She couldn’t let him see her fear.
He managed another smile, and started walking toward her. Maggie pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger again. This time the bullet ripped into his kneecap, knocking him to the floor. He st
ared at his knee in disbelief, but didn’t wince or cry out.
“You like this, don’t you? Have you ever felt such power before, Maggie?”
What was he doing? If she wasn’t mistaken, he was the one taunting her.
“It’s over, Stucky. This is where it ends.” But she heard the quiver in her voice. Then a new fear rushed through her when she realized that he had heard it, too.
He crawled back to his feet. As he started toward her again, she wondered if it was possible to even destroy him. He barely limped from his shattered kneecap, and now she could see that he had retrieved the scalpel while he had been down on the floor. How many bullets did she have left in the chamber? Had she fired twice or three times?
He held up the scalpel for her to see, flipping it around and getting a better grip on it.
“I was hoping to leave your good friend Gwen’s heart on your doorstep. Seemed kind of poetic, don’t you think? But now I guess I’ll have to settle for taking out yours instead.”
“Put it down, Stucky. It’s over.” But even she wasn’t convinced by her words.
“The game ends only when I say it ends,” he hissed.
She took aim, trying to steady her hands, concentrating on her target—that space between his eyes. Her finger twitched as she kept it pressed against the trigger. He wouldn’t win this time. She forced herself to stare into his black eyes, the evil holding her there, pinning her against the wall. She felt the wall of fear blocking her, the raw hysteria strangling her and blurring her vision. Before she could squeeze the trigger, the door to the room flew open.
“Agent O’Dell,” Cunningham yelled, rushing in with his revolver drawn.
Maggie was startled, looking away for a split second. Just long enough for Stucky to dive at her, the scalpel plunging down. Gunfire exploded in the small bedroom, in rapid succession—the echoes bouncing off the walls.
Finally, the sound stopped as suddenly as it had started.
Albert Stucky lay slumped over Maggie’s knees, his body jerking, blood spraying her. She wasn’t sure whether some of it was hers. The scalpel stuck into the wall, so close she felt it against her side, so close it had ripped the side of her shirt open. She couldn’t move. Was he dead? Her hand shook uncontrollably as she gripped the warm revolver. She knew without checking that its cylinder was empty.
Cunningham shoved Stucky’s body off her, a thud with no sound of life. Suddenly Maggie grabbed Stucky’s shoulder, desperate to see his face. She rolled him over. His lifeless eyes stared up at her, but she wanted to cry out in relief. With all the holes in his body, there was not a single one between his eyes.
72
TESS leaned against the glass. Now she realized she should have taken the wheelchair. Her feet burned and the stitches pinched and pulled with little provocation. Her chest ached, and it was still difficult to breathe. She had been wrong about the ribs, two cracked, two bruised. The other cuts and bruises would heal. In time she would forget about the madman they called Albert Stucky. She would forget his cold black eyes pinning her to the table like the leather shackles that had held her wrists and ankles. She would forget his hot breath on her face, his hands and body violating her in ways she had thought were not possible.
She gathered the front of the thin robe in her fist, warding off the shiver. Why fool herself? She knew she would never forget. It was one more chapter to try to erase. She was so tired of rewriting her past in order to survive her future. Now she struggled to find a reason why she should even bother. Perhaps that was what had brought her here.
She looked past her battered reflection in the window and watched the wrinkled red faces. Little chunky fists batted at the air. She listened to the newborns’ persistent cries and coos. Tess smiled. What a cliché to come here looking for the answers.
“Girlfriend, what are you doing out of bed?”
Tess glanced over her shoulder to find Delores Heston in a bright red suit, lighting up the sterile white corridor. She wrapped her arms around Tess, gently hugging her. When she pulled away, the hard-nosed business owner had tears in her eyes.
“Oh, mercy, I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.” Delores swiped at her running mascara. “How are you feeling, Tess?”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
Delores lifted Tess’s chin, taking a closer look at the bite marks on her neck, examining for herself whether she was fine. Tess didn’t want to see the horror and pity in Delores’s face so she looked away. Without a word, Delores wrapped her arms around her again, stroking her hair and rubbing her back.
“I’m making it my job to take care of you,” she said emphatically as she pulled away. “And I don’t want a single argument, you hear me?”
Tess had never had anyone make her such an offer. She wasn’t sure what the correct response was. Delores took out a tissue and dabbed at Tess’s cheeks, smiling at her like a mother preparing her child for school.
“You have a handsome visitor waiting for you in your room.”
Tess’s insides clenched. Oh, God, she couldn’t handle facing Daniel. Not like this.
“Could you tell him I’ll call later and thank him for the roses?”
“Roses?” Delores looked confused. “Looked like a bunch of purple violets he was clutching. He’s squeezing those flowers so tight, they’re probably potpourri by now.”
“Violets?”
She looked over Delores’s shoulder, and Tess could see Will Finley, watching, hesitating at the end of the corridor. He looked incredibly handsome in dark trousers, a blue shirt and, if her blurred vision served her correctly, a bunch of violets in his left hand.
Maybe there were a few new chapters in her life that needed writing, after all.
EPILOGUE
MAGGIE wasn’t sure why she had come. Perhaps she simply needed to see him lowered into the ground. Maybe she needed to be certain that this time Albert Stucky would not escape.
She stood back, close to the trees, looking at the few mourners and recognizing most of them as reporters. The entourage from St. Patrick’s outnumbered the mourners. There were several priests and just as many altar boys carrying incense and candles. How could they justify sending off someone like Stucky with the same ceremony given an ordinary sinner? It didn’t seem fair.
But it didn’t matter. She was finally free. And in more ways than one. Stucky had not won. And neither had her own shadow side. In a split second, she had chosen to defend herself, but had not given in to true evil.
Harvey nudged her hand, probably wondering what use it was to be out in the open if they were not going to walk and enjoy it. She watched the procession make its way from the grave down the hill.
Albert Stucky was finally gone, soon to be buried six feet under like his victims.
Maggie petted Harvey’s soft fur and felt an incredible sense of relief. They could go home. She could feel safe again. The first thing she wanted to do was sleep.
THANKS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to:
Patricia Sierra, fellow author and friend—I’m not sure this one would have been completed without your tender, gentle nagging. Thanks for seeing me through all the anxiety attacks.
The amazing crew at MIRA Books for their enthusiasm, hard work and dedication, especially Valerie Gray, Craig Swinwood, Krystyna de Duleba, Alex Osuszek and the best sales force in the business. Perhaps there’s a reason we call them publishing houses—you’ve certainly made me feel as if I’ve found a home.
Megan Underwood and the gang at Goldberg McDuffie Communications, Inc. for their expertise and hard work.
Annie Belati, the only person I know who gets excited about describing gunshot wounds over dinner. Thanks for your patience, medical expertise and friendship.
Sharon Car, fellow writer and friend, who listens and encourages through the good and the bad.
Marilyn and John Cooney and Mary Means for taking such loving care of my kids when I need to be on the road.
Patti El-Kachouti fo
r your unconditional friendship and encouragement.
Nicole Friend, who has often been my sounding board and voice of reason.
Tony Friend for sharing information, images and ideas that only you can provide.
Ellen Jacobs for telling the truth, first as a reader, then as a friend. LaDonna Tworek for reminding me that some friendships are forever.
For their inspiration, enthusiasm and loving support, many thanks to Kenny and Connie Kava, Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, Natalie and Rich Cummings, Marlene Haney, Sandy Rockwood, my mom and dad—Patricia and Edward Kava—Mac Payne and the Movie Club group: Lyn Belitz, Mary Michaelsen, Jo Ellen Shoemaker and Becky Thomson.
Also, I want to thank the many book buyers and booksellers for making room on your lists and on your shelves for a new voice.
And to the readers. With all the wonderful fiction available, thank you for choosing mine to be a part of your escape and entertainment.
Finally, thanks to Philip Spitzer, Amy Moore-Benson and Dianne Moggy. None of this would be possible without Philip taking a chance on me, without Amy being my personal crusader and without Dianne’s patient, steady guidance and support. Together the three of you are truly a writer’s dream team.
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II BV/S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
