This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by S. M. Kava
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.doubleday.com
DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Jacket design by Michael Windsor
Jacket photograph © Bruce Rolff/Shutterstock
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kava, Alex.
Stranded / Alex Kava. —First Edition.
pages cm
1. O’Dell, Maggie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Criminal profilers—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.A8682F57 2012
813′.54—dc23 2013003001
eISBN: 978-0-385-53555-7
v3.1
FOR MY MOM, PATRICIA KAVA
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Tuesday, March 19
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Wednesday, March 20
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Thursday, March 21
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Friday, March 22
Chapter 52
Saturday, March 23
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Sunday, March 24
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Tuesday, March 26
Chapter 75
Author’s Note
A Note About the Author
Other Books by This Author
He seemed to be a genuinely kind man—when he wasn’t killing.
—Helen Morrison, M.D.,
referring to Ed Gein in her book
My Life Among the Serial Killers
CHAPTER 1
OUTSIDE MANHATTAN, KANSAS
OFF INTERSTATE 70
MONDAY, MARCH 18
He was still alive.
That was all he needed to think about. That, and to keep on running.
Noah could smell his own sweat, pungent and sour … and urine. He still couldn’t believe he’d pissed himself.
Stop thinking. Just run. Run!
And vomit. He’d thrown up, splattering the front of his shirt. He had the taste in his mouth. His stomach threatened more but he couldn’t afford to slow down. How could he slow down with Ethan’s screams echoing inside his head?
Stop screaming. Please stop.
“I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell.”
Noah’s lips were moving even as he ran. Without realizing it, he was chanting the words in rhythm with the pounding of his feet.
“Won’t tell, won’t tell. I promise.”
Pathetic. So very pathetic.
How could he just run away and leave his friend? He was such a coward. But that admission didn’t slow him down. Nor did it make him glimpse over his shoulder. Right this minute he was too scared to care how pathetic he was.
Suddenly his forehead slammed into a branch. A whop and thump.
Noah staggered but stayed on his feet. His vision blurred. His head pulsed with pain.
Don’t fall down, damn it! Keep moving. Run, just run.
His feet obeyed despite the dizzy spiral swimming inside his head threatening to throw him off balance. It was so dark, too dark to see anything other than shades of gray and black. Moonlight flickered patches of light. It only contributed to the feeling of vertigo. This time he ran with his hands and arms thrashing in front of him, trying to clear the path. He used them as battering rams, making sure he didn’t slam into another low-hanging branch.
Twigs continued to whip and slash at him. Noah felt new trickles down his face and elbows and knew it was blood. It mixed with sweat and stung his eyes. His tongue could taste it on his lips. And his stomach lurched again because he knew some of the blood was not his own.
Oh God, oh God. Ethan, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t stop.
Don’t look back. Can’t help Ethan. It’s too late. Just run.
But still, his mind replayed the events in short choppy fragments. They should never have rolled down the car window. Too much beer. Too cocky.
Too frickin’ stupid!
They’d spent the first weekend of spring break partying before they went home. They hadn’t been on the road long and Ethan had to take a piss. Now Ethan was dead. If he wasn’t dead, he’d soon be wishing he was.
Noah’s lungs burned. His legs ached. He had no clue what direction he was running. Nothing mattered except to run away as far and as fast as he could. But the woods were thick with knee-high brush. The canopy above swallowed the sky, except for those rare streaks of moonlight showing him glimpses of the rocky ground beneath his feet, jagged mounds that threatened to make him stumble.
And then he did trip.
Can’t fall, can’t fall. Please don’t let me fall.
He tried to catch himself, arms flailing like an out of control windmill. He went down hard. His knees thudded against a rock. Elbows were next. Skin scraping. Pain shot through his limbs and still his mind was screaming at him to get up. But his legs wouldn’t obey this time. And suddenly he heard a snap and rustle, soft and subtle.
No, it wasn’t possible. It was just his imagination.
Now footsteps. Someone coming behind him. The crunch of leaves. More twigs and branches snapped and crackled.
No. Not possible.
He had told Noah that if he didn’t tell, he’d let him go. Noah had promised. And so had the madman.
Footsteps. Close now. Too close to be his imagination.
Why isn’t he letting me go? He promised.
And why in the world did he ever believe a madman?
But he seemed so ordinary when he knocked on their car window.