Split Second

  Alex Kava dedicated herself to writing in 1996, having had a successful career in PR and advertising. Praised by critics and fans alike, Alex Kava’s Maggie O’Dell novels have all been New York Times bestsellers, as well as appearing on bestseller lists around the world.

  Maggie O’Dell novels by Alex Kava

  SPLIT SECOND

  THE SOUL CATCHER

  AT THE STROKE OF MADNESS

  A NECESSARY EVIL

  ALEX KAVA

  SPLIT SECOND

  www.blackstarcrime.co.uk

  For Amy Moore-Benson, Dianne Moggy and

  Philip Spitzer, an incredible team that makes dreams

  come true. One book was a privilege; two, an honor.

  Prologue

  DEL Macomb wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. The stiff cotton of his uniform stuck to his back, and it was only nine in the morning. How could it be this hot and humid in October? Back home in Minnesota, ice would be forming at the edges of Silver Lake. His daddy would be writing his sermons, watching the snow geese pass overhead.

  “So who’s the fucking asshole we’re chaperoning today?”

  Del’s partner startled him. Benny Zeeks was somewhat of a legend at North Dade County Detention Center, not only because he was a twenty-five-year veteran, but because he had spent most of that time working on death row. Del had seen the scars from scuffles he’d won over prisoners trying to avoid solitary confinement.

  “Guys said his name is Albert Stucky.” Del wondered if Zeeks had heard him. He seemed preoccupied.

  Now his partner climbed into the armored truck’s passenger seat. He moved slower than usual, and Del immediately knew he had another hangover.

  “Hector said he’s not such a bad guy, pretty intelligent and friendly. He’s even accepted Christ as his savior.”

  Del turned the key in the ignition and let the truck vibrate, then rumble to a slow start while he braced himself for Benny’s sarcasm. He turned the air-conditioning on, blasting them with hot air. Benny reached over and punched it off.

  “Wait a minute. Albert Stucky? I’ve been reading about this guy in The Miami Herald. Feebies nicknamed him The Collector.”

  “Feebies?”

  “Yeah, FBI. Jesus, kid, don’t you know anything?”

  This time Del could feel the prickle of red at his ears. He turned his head and pretended to be checking the side mirror.

  “This Stucky guy,” Benny continued, “he carved up and slaughtered three or four women, and not just here in Florida. If he’s the guy I’m thinking of, he’s one badass motherfucker. And if he’s claiming he’s found Jesus, you can bet it’s because he wants to save his sorry ass from being fried.”

  “Don’t you believe people can change?”

  “Jesus, kid. I bet you still believe in Santa Claus, too. They don’t send guys to wait for their trial in close custody because they think he’s found Jesus-fucking-Christ.”

  Del slipped the travel log into the side pocket and shifted the truck into gear. He watched the concrete prison in his side-view mirror. The sun beat down on the yard where several prisoners milled around, enduring the morning heat. How could they enjoy being outside if there was no shade? He added it to his mental list of unfair treatment. Back in Minnesota, he had been quite the activist for prison reform.

  As they approached the final checkpoint he glanced in the mirror. He almost jumped, startled to find their prisoner staring back at him. All Del could see were the piercing black eyes, looking directly at him.

  He made himself look away and avoided the temptation to glance back. He pulled out from the last checkpoint and onto the highway. Once they got on the open road, he could relax. He enjoyed driving. It gave him time to think. But when he took a quick left, Benny, who had appeared to be lost in his thoughts, suddenly became agitated.

  “Where the hell you going? I-95’s the other direction.”

  “I thought we’d take a shortcut. Highway 45 has less traffic, and it’s a nicer drive.”

  “You think I fucking care about nice?”

  “It’s shorter by about thirty minutes. We get the prisoner delivered, and then we’ll have an extra half hour for lunch.”

  Benny rewarded Del with a rare smile.

  They had been on the road only thirty minutes when a thump rattled the truck. At first Del thought they had dropped a muffler, but the thumping continued. It came from the back but inside, not underneath.

  Benny slammed his fist against the partition. “Shut the fuck up.”

  He twisted around to look through the rectangle of glass that separated the cab from the back. “Can’t see a damned thing.”

  The noise grew louder, sending vibrations under the seat. It felt to Del as though a baseball bat were being swung against the truck’s metal sides. Each blast sent Benny reeling, grabbing at his temples.

  Obviously, the prisoner had not been completely restrained and was ramming himself against the walls of the truck. Even if it didn’t drive them crazy during the rest of the trip, it could cause some serious damage to the prisoner. Del certainly didn’t want to be responsible for delivering a battered prisoner. He pulled the truck to the side of the road and stopped.

  “What the hell you doing?”

  “We can’t have this going on for the rest of the trip. The guys obviously didn’t completely restrain him.”

  “Why would they? He’s found Jesus.”

  As Del climbed out of the truck it occurred to him that he had no idea what to do with a prisoner who had gotten an arm or leg loose from one of the restraints.

  “Now hold on, kid,” Benny yelled after him, scrambling out from the passenger side. “I’ll take care of this bastard.”

  It took Benny too long to come around the truck. When he did, Del noticed a stagger in his walk.

  “You’re still drunk!”

  “The hell I am.”

  The banging continued, louder, now rocking the truck.

  “You think you’re up for this?” Del asked.

  “Hell, yes. I was shutting up assholes like this when you were still suckin’ at your momma’s tit.” Benny grabbed at his revolver, fumbling with the holster’s snap before pulling the gun free.

  Del wondered how much alcohol Zeeks had in his system. Could he still aim? Was the gun even loaded? Del unbuckled the strap on his holster, his hand shaking, the butt of his gun feeling awkward and unfamiliar.

  The noise stopped as soon as he started sliding the locks open on the rear door. He looked to Benny, who stood with his revolver drawn. Immediately, Del noticed the slight tremor in Benny’s hand. It sent a wave of nausea loose in Del’s stomach. His heart pounded against his rib cage, and in the silence he wondered if Benny could hear it.

  He took a deep breath and flung the door open, jumping aside and letting Benny have a full view of the dark inside. Benny stood, legs apart, arms extended, both hands gripping the gun as he tilted his head, ready to take aim.

  Nothing happened. The door slammed against the side of the truck. The sound of metal against metal was amplified by the peaceful surroundings and the deserted highway. Del and Benny stared into the darkness, squinting to see the bench where the prisoner usually sat.

  “What on earth?” Del could see the leather restraints, cut and hanging from the wall.

  “What the fuck?” Benny mumbled as he approached the truck.

  Without warning, a dark figure flew out at Benny, knocking him to the ground. Albert Stucky clamped his teeth on to Benny’s ear like a rabid dog. Benny’s scream dismantled Del. He stood paralyzed. His heart knocked against his chest. By the time he pulled out his revolver, the prisoner was on his feet. He ran straight at Del, colliding with him and shoving something sharp and hard into his stomach.

  Pai
n exploded throughout his body. The gun slid from his fingers like water. He forced himself to look into Stucky’s eyes, and instantly he saw the evil staring back at him, cold and black, an entity of its own. When he glanced down, he saw the large hand still gripping the dagger. He looked up just in time to see Stucky’s smile as he shoved the dagger deeper.

  Del slipped to his knees. His eyes blurred as he watched the tall stranger split into several images. Everything began to spin and blur. Then he slammed hard against the pavement. A wildfire spread through his stomach, catching each of his organs on fire. Now he saw nothing but the clouds swirling above him, brilliant white against solid blue. Why hadn’t he noticed before how beautiful the sky was?

  Behind him a gunshot blasted the silence. Del managed a weak smile. Finally. Good ole Benny, the legend, had come through. The alcohol had just slowed him down a bit.

  Del pulled himself up, just enough to look at the damage to his stomach. He was startled to find himself staring down at the bloody carved image of Jesus. The dagger causing his insides to spill onto the highway was a mahogany crucifix. Suddenly, he couldn’t feel the pain anymore. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it?

  “Hey, Benny,” he called out, laying his head on the pavement. “My daddy’s gonna make a sermon out of this when I tell him I was stabbed with a crucifix.”

  A black shadow blocked the sky.

  Once again Del found himself looking into those empty eyes. Stucky loomed above him, lean and muscular. He reminded Del of a vulture, perched patiently, waiting for its prey to stop struggling, to give in to the inevitable. Then, Stucky smiled. He raised and pointed Benny’s revolver at Del’s head.

  “You won’t be telling your daddy anything,” he promised in a deep, calm voice. “Tell it to Saint Peter.”

  The metal slammed into Del’s skull. A blast of light swirled together with oceans of blue and yellow and white and then finally…black.

  1

  MAGGIE O’Dell jerked and twisted, trying to make herself more comfortable, only now realizing she had fallen asleep in the recliner again. The air was stale and warm, making it difficult to breathe. She fumbled in the dark, reaching for the lamp switch but getting no light. Damn!

  Her eyes adjusted slowly, squinting around the boxes she had spent the day packing. Evidently Greg had not bothered to come home. She couldn’t have slept through one of his noisy entrances.

  She tried to get out of the recliner but stopped when a sharp pain raced along her abdomen. Her fingers felt something warm and sticky soaking through her T-shirt. Jesus! What the hell was going on? Carefully, she pulled up the hem and even in the dark she could see it. A slit in her skin ran from below her left breast across her abdomen. It was bleeding, dripping down into the fabric of the recliner.

  Maggie pressed her shirt against the wound, hoping to stop the bleeding. She needed to call 911. Where the hell was the phone? How could this have happened? The scar was eight months old, yet it was bleeding as profusely as the day Albert Stucky had cut her.

  She knocked over boxes, searching. Lids popped open as cartons fell, scattering crime scene photos, toiletries, newspaper clippings and underwear and sending pieces of her life bouncing off the floor. Everything she had taken such care to pack suddenly flew, rolled, skidded and crashed around her.

  Then, she heard a whimpering sound.

  She stopped and listened, trying to hold her breath. Already her pulse beat too rapidly. Steady. She needed to stay calm. She turned slowly, cocking her head and straining to hear. She checked the desktop, the coffee table, the bookshelf. Where had she left her gun?

  Finally, she saw the holster lying at the foot of the recliner. Of course, she would have kept it close by as she slept.

  The whimpering grew louder, a high-pitched whine like a wounded animal’s. Or was it a trick?

  Maggie edged her way back to the recliner, eyes darting. The sound came from the kitchen. And now she could smell a foul odor seeping in from that direction, too. The closer she got, the easier it was to recognize the smell. The acrid scent stung her nostrils. It was the kind of stench that came only from massive amounts of blood.

  She crouched low and eased through the doorway. Despite the warning smell, Maggie gasped at the sight of it. Blood was everywhere. It had sprayed the white walls, splattered across the countertops and was dripping down the appliances. In the far corner of the room stood Albert Stucky. His tall shadow hovered over a whimpering woman who was on her knees.

  Maggie felt the prickling start at the back of her neck. Dear God, how had he been able to get inside her house? And yet, she wasn’t surprised to see him. Hadn’t she been waiting for this?

  Stucky yanked the woman’s hair in one hand and held a butcher knife to her throat. Maggie pressed herself against the wall, into the shadows.

  Steady. She had prepared herself for this moment, had dreaded it for months. Now was not a time to let panic unravel her nerve. From this angle, she could get a clean shot. But she knew she’d be allowed only one. One was all she needed.

  Maggie reached for her gun. The holster was empty. How could it be? She spun around, searching the floor. Had the gun dropped out?

  Suddenly, she realized her startled reaction had blown her cover. When she looked up, the woman was reaching out to her, pleading with her. But Maggie looked past the woman, her eyes meeting Stucky’s. He smiled. Then, in one swift motion, he slit the woman’s throat.

  “No!”

  Maggie woke up with a jolt, nearly falling out of the recliner. Her heart pounded. She was drenched in sweat. She found her holster and this time ripped the gun out, jumping to her feet, ready to spray the stacked cartons with bullets. Sunlight had only begun to seep into the room, but it was enough to show that she was alone.

  She slumped into the chair. Still not convinced it was a dream, she clawed at the hem of her T-shirt, pulling it up and twisting to see the bloody cut across her abdomen. Yes, the scar was there, a slight pucker of skin. But it was not bleeding.

  She leaned back and raked her fingers through her tangled, short hair. Dear God! How much longer could she put up with the nightmares? It had been eight months since Stucky had trapped her in an abandoned Miami warehouse. She had chased him for almost two years, studying his depraved habits, performing autopsies on the corpses he left behind and deciphering the bizarre messages for the game he, alone, had decided the two of them would play. But that hot evening, he had won, trapping her and making her watch. He’d had no intention of killing her. He’d simply wanted her to watch.

  Maggie shook her head, willing the images to stay away. She knew she’d be successful as long as she remained awake. They had captured Stucky that bloody night in August, only to have him escape from prison on Halloween. Her boss, Assistant Director Cunningham, had immediately taken her out of the field. She was one of the FBI’s top criminal profilers, and yet Cunningham had stuck her behind a desk. He had exiled her to teaching at law enforcement conferences, as if boredom would be some sort of protection.

  Just then she heard a high-pitched whine coming from the kitchen. Jesus! She dug her fingernails into her arm, feeling the sting and finding no comfort in the fact that she was, indeed, awake. She grabbed her gun and slid against the wall, making her way to the kitchen, trying to listen and sniffing the air. The whining stopped as she got to the doorway.

  Her finger pressed against the trigger. This time she was ready. She took a deep breath and swung into the kitchen, her gun pointed directly at Greg’s back. He spun around, dropping the freshly opened can of coffee, jumping backward as it crashed to the floor.

  “Damn it, Maggie!” He wore only silk boxers, and looked as if he had just gotten out of bed.

  “Sorry,” Maggie said. “I didn’t hear you come in last night.” She tucked the .38 into the waistband of her jeans in a casual motion, as if this was part of her morning routine.

  “I didn’t want to wake you,” he snapped through gritted teeth. Already he had a dustpan and was
sweeping up the mess. “One of these days, Maggie, you’re gonna shoot me by mistake.” He stopped and looked up at her. “Or maybe it wouldn’t be a mistake.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “This would never happen if we had gotten a security system.”

  “And we would never need a security system if you’d quit your job.”

  She was so tired of this old argument. She found a dishcloth and wiped the coffee grounds from the counter. “I’d never ask you to quit being a lawyer, Greg.”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Being a lawyer means just as much to you as being an FBI agent means to me.”

  “But being a lawyer doesn’t get me cut up and almost killed. It doesn’t have me stalking around my own house and almost shooting my spouse.” He returned the broom, slamming it into the utility closet.

  “Well, after today I guess it won’t be an issue,” she said quietly.

  His gray eyes met hers and for a brief moment he looked sad, almost apologetic. Then he looked away, snatching the dishcloth Maggie had set aside. He wiped the counter again in careful swipes as though she had disappointed him even in this small task.

  “So when are the guys from United getting here?” he wanted to know, as if it were a move they had planned together.

  “They’ll be here at eight. But I didn’t hire United.”

  “Maggie, you have to be careful about movers. They’ll rip you off…” He stopped, as if reminding himself it was no longer any of his business. “Suit yourself.”

  Maggie turned and went back to the spare room, waiting, but hoping he wouldn’t follow her. Not this time. She wouldn’t get through this day if he continued to scold and pout or, worse, if he resorted to telling her he still loved her. Those words should have been a comfort; instead, they had come to feel like a knife, especially when he followed them with, “And if you loved me you would quit your job.”

  She glanced around the room. How could this stack of cartons be the sum of her life? She rubbed a hand over her face, feeling the exhaustion as though it had taken up permanent residence in her bones. How long had it been since she had slept through an entire night? When was the last time she had felt safe? She was so tired of feeling as though she were trapped on a ledge, coming closer and closer to falling.