Maggie imagined him in his office behind the stacks on his desk. She could hear him rustling through papers. Knowing Director Kyle Cunningham, he already had Jeffreys’ entire file spread out in front of him. Long before Maggie started working under him in the Behavioral Science Unit, he had been affectionately nicknamed the Hawk because nothing got past him. Lately, however, it looked as though the sharp vision came at the expense of puffy eyes, swollen from too little sleep.
“So this might be a copycat.” She stopped and opened several drawers looking for a pen and paper to jot down notes, only to find carefully folded kitchen towels, sterile utensils lined up in annoyingly neat rows. Even the odd utensils, a corkscrew and can opener, lay flat in their respective corners, not touching or overlapping. She picked up a shiny serving spoon and turned it in the wrong direction, making sure it crossed over several others. Satisfied, she closed the drawer and began pacing again.
“It could be a copycat,” Cunningham said in a distracted tone. She knew he was reading the file while he talked, that worried indent between his brows, his glasses low on his nose. “It could be a one-time thing. The point is, they requested a profiler. Matter of fact, Bob Weston requested you specifically.”
“So I’m a celebrity even in Nebraska?” She ignored the annoyance in his voice. A month ago, it wouldn’t have been there. A month ago, he would have been proud that a protégé of his had been requested. “When do I leave?”
“Not so fast, O’Dell.” She clutched the phone and waited for the lecture. “I’m sure Weston’s pile of glowing reports about you didn’t include the last case file.”
Maggie stopped and leaned against the counter. She pressed the palm of her hand against her stomach, waiting, preparing for the nausea. “I certainly hope you’re not going to hold the Stucky case over my head every time I go out into the field.” The quiver in her voice sounded angry. That was good—anger was good, better than weakness.
“You know that’s not what I’m doing, Maggie.”
Oh, God. He had used her first name. This would be a serious lecture. She stayed put and dug her nails into a nearby hand towel.
“I’m simply concerned,” he continued. “You never took a break after Stucky. You didn’t even see the bureau psychologist.”
“Kyle, I’m okay,” she lied, irritated with the sudden tremor invading her hand. “It’s not like it was the first time. I’ve seen plenty of blood and guts in the past eight years. There’s not much that shocks me anymore.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Maggie, you were in the middle of that bloodbath. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed. I don’t care how tough you think you are, when the blood and guts get sprayed all over you, it’s a little different than walking in on it.”
She didn’t need the reminder. Fact was, it didn’t take much to conjure up the image of Albert Stucky hacking those women to death—his bloody death play performed just for Maggie. His voice still came to her in the middle of the night: “I want you to watch. If you close your eyes, I’ll just kill another one and another and another.”
She had a degree in psychology. She didn’t need a psychologist to tell her why she couldn’t sleep at night, why the images still haunted her. She hadn’t even been able to tell Greg about that night; how could she tell a complete stranger?
Of course, Greg hadn’t been around when she had staggered back to her hotel room. He’d been miles away when she tore pieces of Lydia Barnett’s brain out of her hair and scrubbed Melissa Stonekey’s blood and skin out of her pores. When she had dressed her own wound, an unsightly slit across her abdomen. And it wasn’t the kind of thing you talked about over the phone.
“How was your day, dear? Mine? Oh, nothing too exciting. I just watched two women get gutted and bludgeoned to
“So this might be a copycat.” She stopped and opened several drawers looking for a pen and paper to jot down notes, only to find carefully folded kitchen towels, sterile utensils lined up in annoyingly neat rows. Even the odd utensils, a corkscrew and can opener, lay flat in their respective corners, not touching or overlapping. She picked up a shiny serving spoon and turned it in the wrong direction, making sure it crossed over several others. Satisfied, she closed the drawer and began pacing again.
“It could be a copycat,” Cunningham said in a distracted tone. She knew he was reading the file while he talked, that worried indent between his brows, his glasses low on his nose. “It could be a one-time thing. The point is, they requested a profiler. Matter of fact, Bob Weston requested you specifically.”
“So I’m a celebrity even in Nebraska?” She ignored the annoyance in his voice. A month ago, it wouldn’t have been there. A month ago, he would have been proud that a protégé of his had been requested. “When do I leave?”
“Not so fast, O’Dell.” She clutched the phone and waited for the lecture. “I’m sure Weston’s pile of glowing reports about you didn’t include the last case file.”
Maggie stopped and leaned against the counter. She pressed the palm of her hand against her stomach, waiting, preparing for the nausea. “I certainly hope you’re not going to hold the Stucky case over my head every time I go out into the field.” The quiver in her voice sounded angry. That was good—anger was good, better than weakness.
“You know that’s not what I’m doing, Maggie.”
Oh, God. He had used her first name. This would be a serious lecture. She stayed put and dug her nails into a nearby hand towel.
“I’m simply concerned,” he continued. “You never took a break after Stucky. You didn’t even see the bureau psychologist.”
“Kyle, I’m okay,” she lied, irritated with the sudden tremor invading her hand. “It’s not like it was the first time. I’ve seen plenty of blood and guts in the past eight years. There’s not much that shocks me anymore.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Maggie, you were in the middle of that bloodbath. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed. I don’t care how tough you think you are, when the blood and guts get sprayed all over you, it’s a little different than walking in on it.”
She didn’t need the reminder. Fact was, it didn’t take much to conjure up the image of Albert Stucky hacking those women to death—his bloody death play performed just for Maggie. His voice still came to her in the middle of the night: “I want you to watch. If you close your eyes, I’ll just kill another one and another and another.”
She had a degree in psychology. She didn’t need a psychologist to tell her why she couldn’t sleep at night, why the images still haunted her. She hadn’t even been able to tell Greg about that night; how could she tell a complete stranger?
Of course, Greg hadn’t been around when she had staggered back to her hotel room. He’d been miles away when she tore pieces of Lydia Barnett’s brain out of her hair and scrubbed Melissa Stonekey’s blood and skin out of her pores. When she had dressed her own wound, an unsightly slit across her abdomen. And it wasn’t the kind of thing you talked about over the phone.
“How was your day, dear? Mine? Oh, nothing too exciting. I just watched two women get gutted and bludgeoned to
Similar Books
