Table Of ContentAlex 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.
Pain 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
