Split Second (40 page)

T
ess McGowan tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were too heavy. She managed a flutter, seeing a flash of light, then darkness. She was sitting up, but the earth was moving beneath her in a low rumble and steady vibration. Somewhere a soft, deep voice with a country twang was singing about hurting the ones you love.

Why couldn’t she move? Her arms were limp, her legs like concrete. But the only restraint was across her shoulder, across her lap. A car. Yes, she was buckled into a car. That explained the movement, the vibration, the muffled sounds. It didn’t explain why she couldn’t open her eyes.

She tried again. Another flutter. Headlights flickered before her heavy eyelids fell closed. It was night. How could it be night? It had just been morning. Hadn’t it?

She leaned against the headrest. She smelled jasmine, just a hint, soft and subtle. Yes, she remembered a few days ago she had bought a new sachet and stuck it under the passenger seat. So she was in her own car. The scent, the notion calmed her until she realized that if she wasn’t driving, someone else was here with her. Was it Daniel? Why couldn’t she remember? Why did her mind feel as though it was filled with cobwebs? Had she gone out drinking again? Oh dear God! Had she picked up another stranger?

She turned her head slightly to the side without removing it from the headrest. It took such effort to move, each inch as if in slow motion. One more time she attempted to open her eyes. Too dark, but there was movement. The eyelids dropped shut again.

She listened. She could hear someone breathing. She opened her mouth to speak. She would ask where they were going. It was a simple question, but nothing came out. There was a slight groan but even that hadn’t come from her. Then the car began to slow, followed by a faint electric buzz. Tess felt a draft, smelled fresh tar and knew the window had opened. The car stopped, but the engine continued to hum. Gas fumes told her they were stalled in traffic. She tried once again to open her eyes.

“Good evening, Officer,” a deep voice said from the seat next to her.

Was it Daniel? The voice sounded familiar.

“Good evening,” another voice bellowed. “Oh, sorry,” came a whisper. “Didn’t see your wife sleeping.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

Yes, Tess wanted to know, too. What was the problem? Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she open her eyes? What wife was sleeping? Did the officer mean her?

“We’ve got an accident we’re cleaning up on the other side of the toll bridge. A leftover from the rush-hour traffic. Be just a minute or two. Then we’ll let you through.”

“No hurry.” the voice said much too calmly.

No. It wasn’t Daniel. Daniel was always in a hurry. He’d be making the officer understand how important he was. He’d be causing a scene. Oh, how she hated when he did that. But if it wasn’t Daniel beside her, then who?

A flutter of panic crawled over her. “No hurry?” Yes, the voice was familiar.

She began to remember.

“You smell quite lovely,” that same voice had told her. It came to her in pieces. The house on Archer Drive. He wanted to see the master bedroom. “I hope you’re not offended.”

He wanted to see her face. “It’s really quite painless.” No, he wanted to feel her face. His hands, his fingers on her hair, her cheeks, her neck. Then wrapping those hands around her throat, tight and hard, the muscles squeezing. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Dark eyes. And a smile. Yes, he had smiled while his fingers squeezed and wrung her neck. It hurt. Stop it. It hurt so bad. Her head hurt, and she could hear the smack of it hitting against the wall. She fought with fists and fingernails. God, he was strong.

Then she had felt it. A prick of the needle as it sunk deep into her arm. She remembered the rush of heat that flowed through her veins. She remembered the room spinning.

Now she tried to raise that same arm. It wouldn’t move, but it ached. What had he given her? Who the hell was he? Where was he taking her? Even the fear felt trapped, a lump caught deep inside her throat, straining to be set free. She couldn’t wave or swing her arms. She couldn’t kick or run. My God, she couldn’t even scream.

M
aggie had passed the exit for Quantico without a glance and had gone straight home after her meeting with Kernan. Meeting? That was a joke. She shook her head and now continued to pace in her living room. The hour-long drive from D.C. hadn’t even begun to cool off her anger. What kind of psychologist left his patients wanting to slam fists through walls?

She noticed her bags at the bottom of the staircase, still packed from her Kansas City trip. Boxes remained stacked in the corners. Her nerves felt as if they had been rubbed raw. A knot tightened at the base of her neck and her head throbbed. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten. It had probably been on the flight last night.

She considered changing and going for a run. It was getting dark but that had never stopped her before. No, what did stop her was knowing Stucky could be watching. Had he returned from Kansas City? Was he out there somewhere hiding, waiting, watching? She paced from window to window, examining the street and then the woods behind her house, squinting to study the twilight shadows dancing behind the trees. She searched for anything out of the ordinary, anything that moved, but in the light breeze every rustle of a bush, every sway of a branch made her uneasy. She could already feel her muscles tightening, her nerves unraveling.

Earlier she had noticed a construction worker at the end of her street inspecting sewage grates and setting up pylons. His coveralls had been too clean, his shoes too polished. Maggie knew immediately that he had to be one of Cunningham’s surveillance crew. How the hell did Cunningham expect to catch Stucky with such amateurish strategies? If Maggie had been able to see through the impostor, certainly Stucky, a professional chameleon, would find it laughable. Stucky took on identities and roles with such ease that surely he would spot someone doing the same thing, only doing it poorly.

She hated feeling like a caged animal in her own home. To make matters worse, the house was deathly quiet. Other than the clicking of her heels on the polished wood floor, Maggie heard nothing. No lawn mowers, no car engines, no children playing. But wasn’t the peace and quiet, a piece of seclusion, exactly what she longed for when she bought this house? Hadn’t that been her intention? What was that old saying—be careful what you wish for?

She unearthed her CD player, an inexpensive oversize boom box. She dug through the overflowing box of CDs. Some were in sealed wrappers, gifts from friends she hadn’t taken time to open, let alone enjoy. Finally she decided on an early Jim Brickman, hoping the piano solos would soothe her agitated insides. The music barely began when Maggie noticed Susan Lyndell making her way up the circular drive. It looked as though there would be no stress relief.

She opened the door before Susan made it up the steps to the portico. Her eyes darted everywhere but at Susan, checking, double-checking.

“How was your trip?” Susan asked as though they were old friends.

“It was fine.” Maggie grabbed the woman’s elbow gently and quickly urged her into the foyer.

Susan stared at her, surprised. On her first visit Maggie had barely let the woman through the door, and now she was pulling her in.

“I got back late last night,” Maggie continued, closing the door. All she could think about was Stucky watching. Stucky choosing his next victim.

“I tried to call but you’re not listed yet.”

“No, I’m not,” she said with finality in case Susan expected she might tell her. “Did you speak with Detective Manx?”

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to tell you. I think I was mistaken about what we discussed the other day.”

“Why do think you were mistaken?” Maggie waited while her neighbor glanced around at her stacked cartons, taking in Maggie’s living room and probably wondering how Maggie could ever afford such a house.

“I spoke with Sid,” Susan told her, finally looking at Maggie, though she still seemed distracted by Maggie’s things, or rather her lack of things.

“Mr. Endicott? What exactly did you speak to him about?”

“Sid’s a good man. I hate to see him going through this all alone. I felt he had a right to know. Well, you know…about Rachel and that man.”

“The telephone repairman?”

“Yes.” Now Susan wouldn’t meet Maggie’s eyes, but it had nothing to do with the surroundings.

“What did you tell him?”

“Just that quite possibly she may have left with him.”

“I see.” She wondered why Susan Lyndell could so easily betray her friend. And why was it suddenly so easy to believe Rachel had left with some stranger who, only days ago, Susan thought might hurt her friend? “And what did Mr. Endicott say?”

“Oh, maybe you haven’t heard. Rachel’s car was not in the garage. The police initially saw Sid’s Mercedes and didn’t realize that Rachel’s was gone. See, she usually drives Sid to the airport when he goes out of town so he won’t need to leave the car in airport parking. Sid’s always worried about his car. Anyway, I think Rachel must have taken off with this guy. She was certainly infatuated by him.”

“What about the dog?”

“The dog?”

“We found her dog stabbed…injured under the bed.”

Susan shrugged. “I have no idea about that,” she said as if she couldn’t be expected to figure out everything.

Maggie’s cellular phone started ringing from inside her jacket pocket. She hesitated. Susan waved a birdlike hand at her to go ahead and get it as she backed away. “I won’t keep you. Just wanted to fill you in.” Before Maggie could protest, her neighbor was out the door and walking down the driveway in what Maggie thought looked almost like a skip. She definitely didn’t seem like the same nervous, anxious woman she had met a few days ago.

Maggie quickly closed the door and took time to activate the alarm system while the phone continued to ring. Finished, she twisted the contraption out of her pocket.

“Maggie O’Dell.”

“Jesus, finally. You need a better cell phone, Maggie. I think your battery must be low again.”

Immediately, Maggie felt the tension return to her neck and shoulders. Greg’s greetings always sounded like scoldings.

“My phone’s been off. I’ve been out of town. You got my message.” She went directly to the point, not wanting to encourage his attempt to chastise her for being unreachable.

“You should have some sort of messaging service,” he persisted. “Your mother called me a couple of days ago. She didn’t even know you moved. For Christ’s sake, Maggie, you could at least call your mother and give her your new number.”

“I did call her. Is she okay?”

“She sounded great. Said she was in Las Vegas.”

“Las Vegas?” Her mother never left Richmond. And what a choice. Yes, LasVegas was the perfect place for a suicidal alcoholic.

“She said she was with a Reverend Everett. You need to keep better tabs on her, Maggie. She is your mother.”

Maggie leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. Greg had never understood the dynamics between Maggie and her mother. How could he? He came from a family that looked as if it had been special-ordered from a 1950s family catalog.

“Greg, did I leave a carton at the condo?”

“No, there’s nothing here. You do realize that none of this would have happened if you had used United?”

Maggie ignored his I-told-you-so. “Are you sure? Look, I don’t care if you’ve opened it or if you’ve gone through it.”

“Listen to you. You don’t trust or believe anybody anymore. Can’t you see what this goddamn job is doing to you?”

She rubbed her neck and squeezed at the knot. Why did he have to make this so difficult?

“Did you check in the basement?” she asked, knowing there was no way it had ended up there, but giving him one last chance for a way out if he had, indeed, opened the box.

“No, there’s nothing. What was in it? One of your precious guns? Are you not able to sleep at night without all three or four or however many of those things you have?”

“I have two, Greg. It’s not unusual for an agent to have a backup.”

“Right. Well, that’s one too many for me.”

“Would you just call me if the carton shows up?”

“It’s not here.”

“Okay, fine. Goodbye.”

“Call your mom sometime soon,” he said in place of a closing and hung up.

She leaned her head against the wall and shut her eyes. She tried to calm the throbbing in her head and neck and shoulders. The doorbell chimed, and she was grabbing for her revolver before she even realized it. Jesus! Maybe Greg was right. She did live in a crazy paranoid world.

Beside a lamppost in her driveway, she could see a van with Riley’s Veterinary Clinic imprinted on the side. A man in white overalls and a baseball cap stood on the portico. Sitting patiently beside him with a blue collar and leash was a white Labrador retriever. Despite there being no massive bandage around the dog’s chest and shoulder, Maggie recognized it as the dog she had helped rescue from the Endicotts’ house. Nevertheless, she examined the man, making certain this wasn’t a disguise. Finally she decided he was too short to be Stucky.

“The Endicotts live farther down the street,” she said as soon as she opened the door.

“I know that,” the man snapped. His jaw was taut, his face red, his forehead glistening with sweat as though he had run here instead of driving. “Mr. Endicott refuses to take the dog.”

“He what?”

“He won’t take the dog.”

“Is that what he said?” Maggie thought the idea incredible after what the dog had been through.

“Well, his exact words were, it’s his wife’s frickin’ dog—excuse my language, I’m just repeating what he said, but let me tell you, he didn’t use ‘frickin’,’okay? Anyway, he said it’s his wife’s frickin’ dog and if she took off and left the stupid dog, then he doesn’t want him either.”

Maggie glanced at the dog who cowered close to the ground, either from the man’s raised voice or because he knew they were talking about him.

“I’m not sure what you expect me to do. I don’t think my talking to Mr. Endicott will change his mind. I don’t even know the man.”

“Your name and address is on the release form you signed when you brought in the dog. Detective Manx told us to leave the dog with you.”

“He did, did he?” Of all the nerve. It was Manx’s one last dig. “And what if I refuse to take him? What will you do with him?”

“I have orders from Mr. Endicott to take him to the pound.”

Maggie looked at the dog again, and as if on cue he stared up at her with sad, pathetic brown eyes. Damn it! What did she know about taking care of a dog? She wasn’t home enough to take care of a dog. She couldn’t have a dog. Her mother had never allowed her to have one while she was growing up. Greg was allergic to dogs and cats, or so he had said once when she had brought home a stray she had found while out running. Allergic or not, she knew he would never have been able to tolerate anything with four paws climbing on his precious leather furniture. Suddenly Maggie realized that seemed like a good enough reason.

“What’s his name,” she asked as she took the dog’s leash from the man’s hand.

“It’s Harvey.”