CHAPTER 33

Tess 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.

CHAPTER 34

Maggie 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.