“Premed,” he continued while riffling through the list of porn sites. Several times he stopped, smacking his lips together or hissing out a “tis, tis.” “Sat in the back left corner of my classroom, taking very few notes. B student. Asked questions only about criminal behavior and hereditary traits.”

Maggie hid her surprise. These could easily be odd little facts he may have noted and kept in a student file. And of course, he would have reviewed her file before she arrived, so as to have an advantage. Not that he needed an advantage. She waited, forcing her hands to keep still when they wanted to grip the arms of her chair. She wanted to dig her fingernails into the leather to steady herself and prevent her from storming out of this ridiculous inquisition.

“Got a master’s in behavioral psychology,” he went on in his droll tone. “Managed to land a forensic fellowship at Quantico.” Finally he looked up at her, his pale blue eyes magnified and swimming behind the thick square glasses. Bushy white eyebrows stuck out in every direction. He rubbed his jaw and said, “Wonder what the hell you would have done if you’d been an A student.” Then he stared at her, waiting.

As usual, he caught her off guard. She didn’t know what to say. He had a talent for disarming people by making them feel invisible. Then suddenly he expected a response to what was never a question. Maggie remained silent and returned his steady gaze, vowing not to flinch. She hated that he could reduce her to an unsure, speechless teenager with only a few words and that goddamn look of his. This was certainly not her idea of therapy. Assistant Director Cunningham was way off base on this one. Sending her to see anyone was a waste of time. Sending her to see Kernan would only challenge her sanity further and would certainly not be a remedy.

“So, Margaret O’Dell, the quiet little bird in the corner, the B student who was so interested in criminals but didn’t think she belonged in my classroom, is now Special Agent Margaret O’Dell, who wears a gun and a shiny badge and now doesn’t think she belongs in my office.”

He stared at her again, waiting for a response, still not asking a question. His elbows leaned on the wobbly stacks of paper as he laced his fingers together.

“That’s true, isn’t it? You don’t think you should be here?”

“No, I don’t,” she answered, her voice strong and defiant despite the man’s ability to intimidate the hell out of her.

“So your superiors are wrong? All those years of training. All that experience, and they’re flat out wrong. Is that right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Really? That wasn’t what you said?”

Word games, mind games, confusion—Kernan was a master. Maggie needed to concentrate. She couldn’t let him twist her words. She wouldn’t let him trap her.

“You asked me if I thought I should be here,” she explained calmly. “I simply said no, I don’t think that I should be here.”

“Awwww,” he said, drawing it out into a sigh as he sank back in his chair. He rested his hands on his thick chest, letting his wrinkled jacket fall open. “I’m so glad you clarified that for me, Margaret O’Dell.”

She remembered that her one-on-one encounters with the man had always felt like an interrogation. It was disconcerting that this befuddled, little old man who looked as if he slept in his clothes, still possessed that same power. She refused to let him unnerve her. Instead, she stared at him and waited.

“So, tell me, Margaret O’Dell, who doesn’t think she belongs in my office, do you enjoy this obsession you have with Albert Stucky?”

Suddenly she felt a knot in her stomach. Damn it! Leave it to Kernan to cut to the chase, to strike without warning.

“Of course I don’t enjoy it.” She kept her voice steady, her eyes level with his. She mustn’t blink too many times. He would be counting the blinks. Despite those Coke-bottle glasses, Kernan wouldn’t miss a twitch or a grimace.

“Then why do you continue to obsess?”

“Because I want him caught.”

“And you’re the only one who can catch him?”

“I know him better than anyone else.”

“Oh yes, of course. Because he shared his little hobby with you. That’s right. He left you with a little tattoo, a sort of brand to remember him by.”

She had forgotten how cruel Kernan could be. Yet she forced herself to stay calm. She couldn’t let him see the anger. That was exactly what he wanted.

“I spent two years tracking him. That’s why I know him better than anyone else.”

“I see,” he said, tilting his head as if necessary to do so. “Then your obsession will end after you catch him?”

“Yes.”

“And after he’s punished?”

“Yes.”

“Because he must be punished, right?”

“There is no punishment great enough for someone like Albert Stucky.”

“Really? Putting him to death won’t be punishment enough?”

She hesitated, well aware of his biting sarcasm and anticipating his trap. She proceeded anyway.

“No matter how many victims, no matter how many women Stucky kills, he can die only once.”

“Ah yes, I see. And that wouldn’t be a fitting punishment. What would be?”

She didn’t answer. She wouldn’t take his bait.

“You’d like to see him suffer, wouldn’t you, Margaret O’Dell?”

She held his gaze. Don’t flinch, she told herself. He was waiting for her to slip. He was setting her up, pushing her, forcing her to expose her anger.

“How would you choose to make him suffer? Pain? Excruciating, drawn-out pain?” He stared at her, waiting. She stared back, refusing to give him what he wanted.

“No, not pain,” he said finally, as if her eyes had answered for her. “No. You prefer fear, don’t you? You want him to suffer by feeling fear,” he continued in a casual voice with neither accusation nor confrontation, inviting her to confide in him.

Her hands stayed in her lap. She continued to sit up straight, eyes never leaving his while the anger began churning in her stomach.

“You want him to experience the same fear, that same sense of helplessness that each of his victims felt.” He sat forward in his chair, the creak amplified in the silence. “The same fear that you felt when he had you trapped. When he was cutting you. When his knife was slicing into your skin.”

He paused, and she felt him examining her. The room had become hot, with very little air. Yet she kept her hands from wiping the strands of hair that had become damp on her forehead. She resisted the urge to bite down on her lower lip. Instead, she simply returned his stare.

“Is that it, Margaret O’Dell? You want to see Mr. Albert Stucky squirm, just like he made you squirm.”

She hated that he referred to Stucky with the respect of using mister. How dare he?

“Seeing him squirm in the electric chair isn’t enough for you, is it?” he continued to push.

Maggie’s fingers started wringing in her lap. Her palms were sweaty. Why was it so damn hot in the room? Her cheeks were flushed. Her head began to throb.

“No, the electric chair isn’t a punishment appropriate for his crimes, is it? You have a better punishment in mind, don’t you? And how do you propose to administer this punishment, Margaret O’Dell?”

“By making him look directly at me when I shoot the goddamn bastard between his eyes,” she blasted, no longer caring that she had just allowed herself to be swallowed whole into Dr. James Kernan’s psychological trap.

CHAPTER 32

The minute Maggie walked into Dr. James Kernan’s office she felt like a nineteen-year-old college student again. The feelings of confusion, wonder and intimidation all came back to her in a rush of sights and smells. His office, set in the Wilmington Towers in Washington, D.C., and no longer on the University of Virginia’s campus, still looked and smelled the same.