Cutting Edge f-3

by Allison Brennan

  Lance grinned. “She knew it was us, but could never prove it. She couldn’t get the stink out for weeks.”

  “Thanks for driving me home,” Leif said, leaving the rest unspoken.

  “Do you want company for a while?” Lance offered.

  Leif almost took him up on it. Almost. Instead he shook his head. “I need time alone.”

  “Don’t drink too much.”

  “I won’t. I’m okay, I just need to think.” Leif got out and walked to his front door. He rarely came in this entrance, usually pulling into the garage and coming through the kitchen door. He fumbled for his keys, found the right one, and waved as the sheriff drove away.

  Leif stood on his porch for a minute and looked up at the stars. It was a beautiful night, a night that Anya would have appreciated. She loved the stars, the vast space, the entire earth. She cared about everyone and everything, with a sincere compassion that few people possessed. The world was worse off with Anya gone.

  He squeezed his burning eyes closed and rubbed the back of his neck. He’d loved her. Damn, he loved her. There was no bringing her back.

  He pushed the door open and slammed it closed. He’d promised Lance he wouldn’t drink much, but he needed something to dull the pain in his heart. Something to help him sleep. A triple shot of whiskey might help. A hot shower.

  Leif grabbed his sole bottle of whiskey, Chivas Regal that the dean had given him last year when he’d had an article published in a prestigious academic journal. He took it and a water glass to his bathroom, poured a near-full glass, and took a large sip. The liquid burned his throat the way his eyes burned from the pain of losing Anya. Spread the pain, he thought, and coughed out a sob.

  He turned on the shower, stripped, leaving his clothes in the middle of the bathroom floor. He took another long drink of whiskey, this one sliding down much easier.

  The water was still cold when he stepped into the shower, but he didn’t care. Physical discomfort was nothing compared with the pain inside.

  The water warmed and he sobbed, bawling like a little kid, and sank to the tile floor of his shower. He’d failed Anya in so many ways.

  It was a long time later before he emerged. Leif wrapped a towel around his waist and reached for his glass of Chivas. He drained the remainder and considered pouring another, but his stomach churned. He should never have drunk whiskey on an empty stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten … breakfast? Coffee and a scone. Hardly a meal.

  He rummaged through the kitchen cabinets looking for crackers or chips, light-headed and dizzy. He grabbed a box and stumbled into his bedroom, collapsing uneasily into his reading chair. He closed his eyes, head spinning. He knew better than to drink. He was such a lightweight.

  He drifted to sleep. Anya …

  A sharp pain in his arm startled him. Leif didn’t feel awake. His head was thick, as if he had a hangover. A bad hangover. From a couple shots of whiskey? Maybe. Had he drunk more and not remembered?

  He tried to stretch, to shake the cobwebs from his mind, but his limbs were heavy, he couldn’t move. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt plastered shut.

  A light, flowery scent consumed him.

  A woman. Perfume. Not a scent he was familiar with. Not Anya’s. Anya was dead.

  Someone was in his house.

  “What?” His tongue was thick.

  “Good fucking morning,” a female voice said, her breath on his face.

  He forced his eyes open, squinting, the lights too bright. He didn’t remember turning on any lights.

  “Who are you?” he asked. It sounded like he was hearing himself in a tunnel, complete with an echo. He tried to stand, but stumbled and sank heavily back into his seat. He couldn’t move his hands.

  “Don’t worry,” she said.

  The realization that someone had broken into his house while he was sleeping-or passed out-and tied him to his chair cleared his head a fraction. And there was something familiar about her voice.

  “What? What are you d-doing?” he said, trying to get the words out clearly. He opened his eyes again, slowly, adjusting to the too-bright light.

  “It’s your fault. You made me do it.”

  Maggie.

  Maggie O’Dell? He struggled against his restraints. Duct tape, long pieces over his wrists and taped down the sides of his upholstered chair. He pulled, but couldn’t break free. He looked down the side and saw that the tape had been crisscrossed to better restrain him.

  “Maggie?”

  He saw her then, her brown hair and big brown eyes. She had always been a beautiful girl, but Leif had never liked her. He didn’t know why.

  She slapped him.

  “You made me kill her.”

  His head spun. “What?”

  She slapped him again, then started pacing. The violence cleared his head some and he stared at her. She looked both angry and panicked. When she reached his desk in the corner of his bedroom, she picked up the monitor and threw it against the wall with surprising strength from such a slender girl.

  Leif pulled at his restraints, but couldn’t loosen the tape. His fingers were numb.

  “Twenty minutes,” Maggie mumbled.

  “What?” Leif said, not knowing whether she was talking to him or not.

  She walked back to him, straddled him on the chair and that’s when he realized the towel around his waist had slipped off and he was completely naked. But there was nothing sexual in her expression.

  “It’s all your fault. Your fucking fault!” Her hand reached out and grabbed his neck and squeezed. “I hate you, hate you, you fucking prick. You messed up everything. Everything. I didn’t want to kill her. I loved her more than a sister. More than anything, but you made me do it!”

  She squeezed until his body tightened, fighting for air.

  Then she jumped off and started pacing again. “Fifteen minutes,” she said.

  She was crazy. Certifiable.

  I didn’t want to kill her.

  The truth of that statement hit Leif like a bullet. “You killed Anya.”

  “You! You killed Anya. You turned her against me. We had a good thing going, and you screwed with my plans. It was a major setback, you selfish prick, but you don’t care about anyone but yourself. You used her.”

  “I loved Anya.”

  She barked out a laugh. “You loved having a young girl to fuck, old man.”

  She walked back to him and straddled him again, this time grinding herself against his limp dick. “Just a pervert,” she said.

  “What do you want, Maggie?”

  “I want you dead. I want you to suffer like Anya. I didn’t want her to suffer, but I didn’t have much time.” She jumped up, then kicked him in the balls and he screeched. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “She called me and said that someone had died in the fire and we had to confess. Confess! Right, like I was going to admit that I’d killed a man. A man who deserved to die for all the pain and heartache he caused.”

  “You killed Jonah Payne.” Leif’s voice was a whisper. He shuddered in pain.

  “He thought he was so brilliant, and he wanted everyone to know how brilliant. He didn’t care who he hurt just to prove he was right.”

  “There are … other ways.” Leif took a deep breath.

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Payne was only one problem. Anya would have been with me for all of it, but you got to her. You corrupted her. You turned her against me. I hate you. I hate you!”

  She kicked him again and Leif’s vision darkened. He closed his eyes and held his breath. Everything hurt. His hands were numb, his groin throbbed, his head spun.

  “It was your idea,” he whispered.

  “Most of it was my idea. Scott came up with the arson. He got off on setting fires. Anya and I picked the locations. Well, I picked the first place because I needed something from Langlier.”

  “What?”

  She continued without answering his question. “We we
re good. We were a great team. Then you started fucking Anya, and she was so goo-goo about you, what a sucker. I told her you just wanted to screw around, but she didn’t believe me. I even told that wuss Holbrook and he didn’t care. Said he would look into it, but he didn’t.”

  Leif remembered last year when the dean came to him and asked if he was involved with a student. Leif had denied it, called Anya to warn her, and she’d also denied it when Holbrook called her in. Chris backed her up on it. It had never occured to Leif that it had been Maggie who’d turned on them.

  “I had to leave before I did something stupid. I wanted to kill you so bad, but I didn’t have a good plan. It’s all about the plan. I needed to think, to get my head clear. I knew …” Her voice trailed off.

  Leif couldn’t hear her, he couldn’t see her. Where had she gone? He fought the restraints. His vision sharpened and took on odd hues of color. Almost like when he’d dropped acid in college. He blinked rapidly and they disappeared, but his head again felt thick and he became nauseated. He had difficulty focusing, but when he closed his eyes the dizziness returned. He looked for Maggie, turned his head each way, but couldn’t see her. Where was she? What was she doing?

  Dead silence for a full minute. Longer. Had she left? He was sweating. Another minute slowly passed. He closed his eyes and tried to slow his racing heart.

  “It’s time.”

  He opened his eyes. She stood in front of him. Had he passed out for a minute? A second ago she wasn’t there.

  His eyes fell to the knife in Maggie’s hand. It wasn’t one of his. She’d brought it with her. She’d come to his house to kill him. His body shook and the more he tried to control it, the harder he vibrated.

  “Please,” he begged, his voice high and terrified. “Don’t.”

  She looked at the knife without emotion, then pressed it against his forearm. He felt only a mild sting, like a paper cut. He stared at his arm and saw blood seeping through the slit skin, dripping down his arm, sliding down the side of his chair. Little pain, but so much blood …

  The blade touched his skin again, an inch farther up his arm. More blood. Again, again, again. His arm was drenched in blood. Blood that dripped. It seemed to be pouring from his arm. He couldn’t stop watching, knowing that he was going to die.

  Calm down. Leif, calm down.

  Anya had stopped cooperating with Maggie’s plans, so Maggie killed her. Now she would kill him.

  “Why?” he asked, failing to keep rising terror out of his voice.

  “I told you why, you prick.”

  She cut him again, smiling. She enjoyed hurting him.

  “Maggie-Anya never hurt you. She was upset when you left last year. She missed you.” His vision began to fade. He saw little except his blood flowing out of shallow wounds.

  Maggie took the knife and made a stabbing motion, stopping as the tip of the knife pierced his chest. Though the blade went in not even a quarter of an inch, pain pulsated through his body, and more blood flowed from his wounds. She pulled out the knife and blood ran down his chest. A panicked cry escaped his throat.

  “You hurt me, Anya hurt me. She would have talked, and I couldn’t have that when my plan is not finished!” She started pacing again.

  Leif was dying and Maggie continued to rant.

  “You’re no better than any of them! You sound like you care, but it’s an act and you would have betrayed the cause just like she did!”

  Maggie came back and walked around to his other arm. Her face was feverish, her eyes wide, her mouth pursed as she cut his arm without comment, one, two, three times, the blood dripping down, sliding, Leif’s vision blackened from the outside in. He swallowed, but that simple act was laborious.

  Maggie had been Anya’s best friend, but she’d killed Anya. She was killing him. And she wasn’t going to stop.

  My plan is not finished!

  Play possum. Let her think he was dead. She’d leave him alone, right? Leave him for dead and someone would find him when he didn’t show up at the college in the morning. He could survive. Mind over matter. He would survive.

  Calm down. Close your eyes.

  So tired.

  Maggie stared at Professor Cole’s bloody body, her breathing rapid, her skin flushed. She dropped the knife, stepped backward, and tripped over a stack of papers, falling on her ass. She sat there, her head in her bloody hands, and breathed deeply.

  It’s over it’s over it’s over.

  She waited until she was calm, waiting until she could think again.

  Then she looked at the professor.

  He was dead, his entire body slick with blood. She didn’t remember cutting him so many times. His arms, his legs, his chest.

  “It’s your fault,” she accused the dead man.

  She rose from the floor, picked up the knife with her gloved hands, and walked into his bathroom. She stripped naked, the clothes she had bought at a secondhand store earlier that day falling on top of Leif Cole’s earlier discarded clothing.

  She turned the tap and stood under the icy cold water, watched as blood ran off her body in rivulets that soon came clear. She scrubbed her body with his soap, washed her hair with his shampoo.

  Maggie didn’t go back to the bedroom. She didn’t need to see him again, and she definitely didn’t want to get any more of his blood on her. Leif Cole was done. She wouldn’t think about him anymore.

  Anya missed you.

  Maggie knew that no one missed her. No one wanted her. Anya and the professor had been so wrapped up in each other, now they were gone. Jonah Payne had his work and now he and his research were gone, destroyed.

  But Maggie wasn’t done.

  She pulled on a thin dress that she had stowed in a bathroom cabinet before Cole had come home. Slipping on her sneakers, she was about to leave the way she came through the side door and across the open field in the back to where she’d parked when she saw the cat door.

  Why hadn’t see noticed it before?

  She rummaged through the kitchen until she found cat food, then shook the box until a small, black cat slipped through the kitty door. She scooped him up and he purred loudly. “Aren’t you sweet?”

  She smiled and rubbed her face against his furry neck. Then she left with the cat and his food, with no thought of the dead man.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Jimsonweed,” Nora said when she walked into the FBI conference room five minutes late for the briefing she’d called.

  She dropped her briefcase and slid a stack of stapled papers to Rachel and motioned for her to take one set and pass the rest along.

  “Jimsonweed?” Pete asked from the back of the room.

  “Specifically, Datura stramonium. Commonly known as jimsonweed. It grows in warm, dry climates, particularly areas that are wet during the winter but completely dry in the summer. There are several areas in the valley where it can be found. It’s easily recognizable, and too often teenagers use it to get high since, in small doses, it causes hallucinogenic effects.”

  “So it was an accident?” Rachel asked. “They were trying to get high?” She frowned.

  “They left a suicide note,” Pete pointed out.

  Nora said, “Even in a fraction of the amount they consumed, they wouldn’t have survived. The boys had twice the level as Anya, which is why she held on a bit longer. But even if she’d been found immediately, chances of survival were next to none. The poison is deadly and paralyzing, which was why they couldn’t leave the room for help.”

  Pete said, “Why would they kill themselves with a drug that was going to cause such a violent reaction?”

  “Good question,” Nora said.

  Rachel was reading from the coroner’s notes. “The iced tea they drank was brewed with jimsonweed leaves? That’s insane. What’s this about orange peels?”

  “The iced tea was essentially liquid poison,” Nora explained. “It was heavily sweetened with liquid sugar and orange peels to disguise the bitter taste.”

&nbs
p; “Disguise? Because they didn’t want to taste it or because they didn’t know?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question,” Nora said.

  “You’re thinking this might be murder?” Pete asked.

  “Murder or murder-suicide,” Nora said. “I spoke with two witnesses yesterday relating to Anya Ballard’s demeanor in the hours leading up to her death.”

  The conference room door opened. Entering was Agent Steve Donovan from Violent Crimes, who doubled as the ERT team leader. Donovan nodded to Nora and sat down next to Pete.

  “Both witnesses who saw Anya within hours of her death,” she continued, “said that Anya was upset, but had made plans with them for that week. Highly unusual for someone contemplating suicide. We also learned that Anya had a roommate last year who may have been involved with the arsons. Maggie O’Dell. Rachel? What did you find on her?”

  “No California driver’s license. I called the college and they won’t release her records without a warrant. I called the U.S. attorney’s office with the information and they’re supposed to get back to me.”

  “Follow up in an hour if you don’t hear from them. Our probable cause is that she’s wanted as a person of interest in the ongoing domestic terrorism arson investigation. We need that information today.” Nora had another thought. “Hey, go down to Rose College and look through the yearbooks in the library, see if we can get a picture. Check the school newspapers as well. If that fails, ask around the dorm and see if anyone has a picture of her. Picture, address, any information about where she might be.”

  “I can go now, unless you need me here.” Rachel gathered her papers.

  “Great, go now. Finding O’Dell is a priority. And when you get a picture, send it to Sara Ralston in the Reno office. She’ll know what to do with it. Oh, and on your way out ask Jason to surf the Internet and look for any Rose College websites with captioned photos, if the three dead students had blogs or websites, anything that might yield information about Maggie O’Dell.”

  Rachel left and Pete said, “Is she a suspect?”

  “I’d say a person of interest,” Nora said. “At present, we have no physical evidence that Maggie O’Dell was involved with the arsons, or that she was involved with the poisoning, or that she is even in town. One witness implied Maggie was involved, but had no personal knowledge of her involvement. So I want to talk to her.”