by Alex Kava
It was difficult to concentrate with the buzz of flies. Despite putting distance between herself and the hanging victim, the smell was strong in the kitchen, too. But it was different. Less metallic. More like rotting fruit.
Cunningham was already at the table when Maggie turned to take a closer look at what held the flies’ interest.
“Did he interrupt lunch or dinner?” Cunningham asked.
There was a takeout container and two small plates with forks. Each plate had crumbs and the gooey remains of what Maggie guessed may have been cream or ice cream.
“Maybe dessert,” Maggie said, pointing to the bakery box on the counter.
Cunningham glanced behind him. “Looks like pie. So what’s in the takeout container?”
That’s where the flies were piling together, bypassing the plates.
Cunningham pushed his eyeglasses up and bent over the container. He took one of the forks in his gloved hand and used it to flop open the lid.
Maggie joined him despite the increasing smell he had just released. She was nauseated again. It didn’t help matters that the buzzing was even louder now.
“Melted ice cream?” Cunningham asked waving off a couple of flies not pleased with his presence.
“Pie à la mode,” she said just as she realized there was something added on top, something that definitely didn’t belong.
This time there was no pushing back the bile. She covered her mouth with her hand and raced out the door, barely getting down the steps. The retching seemed to last forever until there was nothing left in her stomach. She felt a hand on the back of her neck, the soft swipe to remove a strand of hair from her cheek and then she saw Cunningham’s polished shoes peeking out from the protective covers. As much as her stomach hurt, the embarrassment hurt more.
All of that was short-lived. Still on her knees, she had a perfect view of the storm cellar about fifty feet away. At this angle she could see the heavy wood door was tilted. It was opened several inches.
Just enough for someone inside to be watching them.
11
Maggie eased herself up, grateful that Cunningham didn’t offer to help. He was pretending this was no big deal, and yet, she could see concern in his furrowed brow.
She waited until her back was turned to the storm cellar. Waited for Cunningham’s eyes to meet hers. Then she said as quietly and slowly as she could, “We’re being watched.”
He didn’t flinch. Kept his eyes on hers. Slowly he shifted his weight, spreading his feet a little farther apart. All of this done casually as though they were simply chatting. He crossed his arms and she saw his fingers tuck in close to his shoulder holster.
Maggie’s mind was racing, trying to remember if she had noticed another door to the trailer. There had to be one. The clothesline was in the backyard. She remembered a small utility room—sink, washer and dryer. No windows. Dark. She pictured Turner coming out announcing the back door hadn’t been kicked in.
“Ready to go back inside?” Cunningham asked.
His eyes darted around, but his head stayed tilted as if he were listening intently to her.
She nodded.
His arms stayed crossed. To anyone watching, it was a casual, almost bored stance unless you noticed his right hand tucked and grasping his weapon. He gestured for her to go first, but he wasn’t just being polite. He was covering her, following behind, keeping his body between her and the front yard. Even as she stepped up into the trailer she noticed that he was moving sideways, arms still crossed, hand still gripped and ready to draw. He never turned his back until the very last step inside.
“Where?” he asked as soon as the door was closed.
“The storm cellar.”
Maggie was already walking past Turner and Delaney to where she remembered the utility room.
“What’s going on?” Turner asked.
“Agent O’Dell thinks we might have company in the cellar.”
“Crap!”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a killer came back to watch,” Cunningham said. “But would he choose a place where he could get trapped?”
Maggie’s pulse was racing. With her stomach empty the smell didn’t affect her as much. The buzzing flies still set her on edge. It took a second to realize Cunningham was asking her and waiting for a response.
“Except they never believe they’ll get caught,” she said. “Edmund Kemper met with his psychiatrist while he had a body in the trunk of his car. Berkowitz started fires then stood and watched with other bystanders.”
Her husband Greg hated that she could conjure up this kind of trivia with little effort. But here and now, it could justify their next move.
“Then we proceed like it’s him,” Cunningham told them.
“If we can approach from the backyard he won’t be able to see us.” Maggie headed for the utility room and the others followed.
“He’ll hear us,” Delaney said.
“Not if it’s only one of us. And not if there’s a distraction in the front yard,” she said. Glancing into the room she saw a plain wood-paneled door to the outside.
“Agent O’Dell.” Cunningham’s voice stopped her. “This is your first time in the field—sorry, but you’re not going to be the one opening that storm cellar.”
He didn’t wait for an argument. To Turner he said, “Give us a little time. I’ll send Sheriff Geller and Deputy Steele away. Make it look like we’re all getting ready to leave.” Then he waved for Turner to move around Maggie to get to the back door.
“The clothesline is between here and the cellar,” she told Turner.
He stared at her, waiting for an explanation.
“Bed sheets,” she said as though that should be enough. When she saw that he still didn’t understand, she added, “They were whipping around in the breeze. Should provide some cover.”
Turner nodded.
“The bedroom at the end looks out that direction,” Cunningham told Delaney.
“Good idea.” And Delaney started down the hall to take up his post.
“Give us a chance to get in position,” Cunningham reminded them.
12
Kyle Cunningham had started to regret bringing O’Dell as soon as he smelled the insides of that trailer. He didn’t blame an agent for giving in to a weak stomach, especially in a case like this. Besides, O’Dell had great instincts, a special talent in itself. He liked that she bounced right back. Maybe bounced back a bit too cocky, but he could control that. What he regretted more than anything else was that he had brought her to a crime scene that had now become an active threat.
Turner and Delaney were pros. Sheriff Geller and his deputy? Cunningham suspected, not so much. No way would he risk his agents’ lives by giving Geller and his deputy the benefit of the doubt.
Truth was, he didn’t trust the sheriff. There was something the man wasn’t sharing. Cunningham wasn’t sure what it was, but in a situation like this, he didn’t appreciate the locals holding back information. Knowing whether these murders might be a drug bust gone bad or a family feud or even a vengeful lover—that information could be paramount, especially now when Cunningham had to guess what threat lurked down in that storm cellar.
Because he didn’t trust the man, he simply wanted him gone.
Sheriff Geller’s cruiser was parked alongside Cunningham’s SUV, about a hundred feet from the front door of the double-wide. Cunningham walked out casually to the men, his back to the storm cellar the entire time, leaving O’Dell to cover him. He wasn’t worried. He’d seen her at the firing range. If a weapon poked up out of that storm door he knew O’Dell would fill the planked wood with lead in a matter of seconds.
“It’s a mess, huh?” Geller asked, shaking his head before Cunningham had a chance to say anything.
“I have a CSU team on their way,” Cunningham said. �
�I’m hoping you and your deputy could meet them back at the interstate exit. Make sure they find this place.”
“Oh sure, we can do that.”
The man couldn’t hide his relief. But Cunningham noticed the deputy almost looked disappointed, like he expected more information.
He watched them leave and stopped himself from glancing over his shoulder. Earlier, he’d noticed that there were spaces between the wood planks that made up the storm cellar door. Impossible for them to see down into the dark, but someone on the steps looking out into the light would be able to see slivers of what was going on out here. At least that’s what he hoped. He wanted that someone to think they were all leaving.
Cunningham continued to their black SUV. He opened the passenger door and waved to O’Dell. Then he went around the back of the vehicle and opened the driver’s door. It would be a distraction, but at the same time, he wanted to put some metal between them and that cellar door just in case the killer was armed with more than a kitchen knife.
By the time O’Dell reached the SUV, Turner had made his way across the backyard. The storm cellar looked like a mound of dirt. The wooden door was on this side of the mound. Although someone might be able to see through the thin slants, he wouldn’t be able to see Turner sneaking around the back. Once he was able to position himself above the door, the intruder still wouldn’t be able to see him. Opening the door would be heavy and awkward from that angle, but Turner was probably strong enough to rip the door off its hinges, let alone open it.
Now in position, Turner stood silently in place waiting for Cunningham’s signal. Cunningham took off his jacket, allowing easier access to his weapon. He tossed the jacket into the SUV. That was the signal.
Turner grabbed the edge of the wood door and heaved it open. Even from where Cunningham stood he could see was a flash of movement.
“FBI,” Turner yelled.
Too quick. Someone retreated down the hole.
Cunningham raced toward the cellar’s entrance, his weapon gripped firmly in both hands. O’Dell followed, matching his movements. They joined Delaney who rushed out of the trailer. Cunningham was close enough now that he could see the concrete steps that disappeared into darkness.
“FBI. We’ve got you surrounded,” he yelled. “You just as well come out. Or we’ll start throwing down tear gas.”
They waited.
He didn’t dare look away. Not even for a second. Underneath his button-down, his T-shirt stuck to his back like a second skin. He resisted the urge to wipe at the perspiration on his forehead.
Suddenly there was more movement.
He felt his agents tense beside him, all weapons in position.
Then slowly emerging out of the darkness, a young girl peered up at them through a tangled mop of hair.
“Please don’t shoot me.”
13
Stucky watched from his hiding place. He’d found a new one. This one closer. With the aid of binoculars he could see the surprise in the investigators’ gestures. And he had to admit, he was as surprised to the see the girl as they were.
He pressed the binoculars against his eyes, squinted and adjusted the focus.
Stupid trees were blocking the view.
He repositioned himself. A branch poked into the small of his back and his boots sunk into the mud. He wanted to see the woman’s face and her reaction. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of her ever since she arrived. It thrilled him the whole time she had been inside the trailer, knowing that she was about to discover his contribution. And when she raced out the front door, it thrilled Stucky even more. He smiled as he watched her vomit, down on her hands and knees.
There was no bigger compliment.
Her windbreaker matched her male counterparts—navy blue with white FBI letters on the back. Hers was slightly too large. So were her trousers.
My dear, are you trying to hide a lovely figure underneath that uniform?
That thought alone was enough to captivate him. He couldn’t look away. Immediately, he became obsessed with her every movement even as she swiped the damp hair off her forehead. Just a few minutes ago, right before they flung open the cellar door, he noticed as she tucked her hand into the front of her jacket. Her legs spread farther apart as she took up a shooter’s stance, and Stucky felt a tingle throughout his body.
What would it be like to hunt this woman?
The need, the urgency distracted him when he should be focused on the pale little girl who had immerged like a ghost from a dark grave.
How the hell had he had missed her?
Stucky had meant to go in and out lickety-split. He simply wanted to see what the asshole had done. But what he found stunned him, which wasn’t an easy feat. Mr. Officer of the Law had managed to do much more than Stucky had ever imagined. And yet, he really shouldn’t have been surprised.
Stucky had seen the flash of anger in the guy’s eyes as the pickup passed them on the road. Maybe he even recognized it. Anger like that could boil over if not tended to. And then it explodes. The insides of that trailer certainly looked like an explosion had gone off. Stucky used to feel those kinds of rages. But that was before he learned how to control them.
So the guy had killer instincts. Stucky should have felt a sense of camaraderie, but in fact, the asshole disgusted him. He was an amateur. He allowed his rage to overpower him. The result was a slaughterhouse. Still, it seemed the perfect place for Stucky to leave his package—his contribution. A gift for the investigators to appreciate.
He had gone back to the car, back to get the takeout container from the small ice chest he kept with him for opportunities just like the one inside the double-wide trailer. But even doing all that, he’d spent less than ten minutes.
No, it may have been fifteen minutes, because he ended up having a slice of that apple pie. No sense in wasting all of it.
Still, he’d been careful. He was always careful. He would have sensed if someone was watching him. So how the hell did he miss seeing this girl?
Had she been inside the trailer? Was that possible? Could she have seen what happened? Watched it from some hiding place? Or had she already been down in the cellar?
Thinking about the container made him regret that he couldn’t see the investigators opening it. Those damned curtains. Now he realized he could have pushed them open when he was inside. He needed to perfect the placement of his containers, so he could watch the initial reactions. Each time he learned something.
Humans were curious by nature. An abandoned container, a paper bag left where it didn’t belong—it was so interesting to see who would stop first and look inside. There would be a casual glance usually followed by a double take, like they couldn’t believe their eyes. Then the sheer horror came across their faces.
Priceless.
The discovery made it a shared experience. What artist didn’t enjoy sharing his masterpieces? And now he had that in common with this lovely, shapely investigator—yes, he was sure the body beneath those baggy clothes was shapely. Strong, independent—he loved them that way. They had so much fight in them. They were a worthy prey. And this one—who just wanted to be one of the boys—what a challenge she would be.
But the little girl . . . What to do about her?
It bothered him that he missed seeing her. What was more interesting was that the asshole had missed her, too.
Stucky checked his watch and groaned. He wanted to stay and watch, but he needed to get back. He had the evening shift. Actually he didn’t need the money, but jobs were great alibis and often presented remarkable opportunities. The discipline provided yet another level to his games. He’d shed one identity and crawl into another. He’d gotten quite good at it.
And besides it would be easy to keep track of what was going on here. He’d even be able to track where the girl was. All he had to do was make another anonymous phone
call, this time to someone in the media.
Stucky shook his head at the irony of it all. He’d taken a detour from his plans just for a little fun and in the hopes of tripping up this bastard. But as it turned out, this ghost of a girl might trip up both of them.
14
Maggie shivered even as sweat slid down her back. The weather had been erratic that last several weeks. Now the sky had turned to gray with heavy rain clouds rolling in and threatening to burst. With them came a damp and cool breeze.
Delaney took off his jacket and attempted to wrap it around the girl’s bare shoulders. She flinched and he stopped short. The girl kept blinking and wiping at her eyes as if the gray sky seemed too bright. Delaney continued talking to her, gentle and slow and without taking another step. Instead, he explained to her who they were, that they were there to help.
“No one will hurt you. I promise.”
Maggie watched, mesmerized by him, lulled by the tone of his voice, and she could see the girl was, too. Delaney specialized in hostage negotiations. He knew how to convince criminals that he was on their side, that he was willing to listen and help, but Maggie realized this wasn’t just the hostage negotiator talking. This was a father talking to a child. A cold, hungry and scared child who was also in shock from what she had seen.
Obviously the girl had not witnessed the murders or she wouldn’t be alive. But there was no doubt in Maggie’s mind that she had seen the dead bodies. One look at the girl’s bloody bare feet and she knew the footprints on the carpet were not the killer’s.
“My name’s Richard,” Delaney was telling the girl. “What should I call you?”
The girl batted at her hair but didn’t answer. She wore a T-shirt and cropped jeans. Maggie remembered that the weather had been warmer the day before.
She was guessing the murders had taken place twenty-four to thirty-six hours ago from the condition of the bodies and from the presence of maggots. A housefly maggot usually took fourteen to thirty-six hours to pass through all the larvae stages, but environmental conditions could change that. Turning up the heat in the trailer would definitely speed up the process.
