Wednesday, October 29

Maggie had offered to go to Michelle Tanner’s with Nick, but he insisted on going alone. Instead, he dropped her off at the hotel. Despite their intimacy—or perhaps because of it—she found herself relieved to be away from him. It had been a mistake getting so close. She was angry and disappointed in herself, and this morning during the drive into town, she punished Nick with her silence.

She had to maintain her focus, and in order to do that, she needed to maintain her distance. As an agent, it was stupid to get personally involved, not just with one individual, but with a community. An agent could quickly lose his or her edge and objectivity. She had seen it happen to other agents. And, as a woman, it was dangerous to get involved with Nick Morrelli, a man who rigged his house with romantic booby traps for his one-night stands. Besides, she was married—degrees of happiness didn’t count. She told herself all this to justify her sudden aloofness and to absolve herself of her guilt.

Her damp clothes still reeked of muddy river and dried blood. The ripped sleeves of her jacket and blouse exposed her wounded shoulder. As she entered the hotel, the pimple-faced desk clerk looked up, and his expression immediately changed from a “good morning” nod to an “oh, my God” stare.

“Wow, Agent O’Dell, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Do I have any messages?”

He turned with the gawkiness of a teenager—all arms and legs—almost spilling his cappuccino. The sweet aroma drifted in the steam, and despite being a fast-food imitation of the real thing, it smelled wonderful.

The snow—almost six inches and still falling—clung to her pant legs and dripped inside her shoes. She was cold and tired and sore.

He handed her a half-dozen pink message slips and a small sealed envelope with SPECIAL AGENT O’DELL carefully printed in blue ink.

“What’s this?” She held up the envelope.

“I dunno. It came in the mail slot sometime during the night. I found it on the floor with the morning mail.”

She pretended it didn’t matter. “Is there someplace here in town I can buy a coat and boots?”

“Not really. There’s a John Deere implement store about a mile north of town, but they just have men’s stuff.”

“Would you mind doing me a favor?” She peeled a damp five-dollar bill from the folded emergency bills she kept stuffed in the slot behind her badge. The kid seemed more interested in the badge than the five. “Would you call the store and ask them to deliver a jacket? I don’t care what it looks like, as long as it’s warm and a size small.”

“What about boots?” He jotted down instructions on a desk pad already filled with doodles and notes.

“Yes, see if they have something close to a woman’s size six. Again, I don’t care about style. I just need to get around in the snow.”

“Got it. They probably don’t open until eight or nine.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be in my room all morning. Call me when they’re here, and I’ll take care of the bill.”

“Anything else?” Suddenly, he seemed eager to earn his five dollars.

“Do you have room service?”

“No, but I can get you just about anything from Wanda’s. They deliver for free, and we can put it on your hotel tab.”

“Great. I’d like a real breakfast—scrambled eggs, sausage, toast, orange juice. Oh, and see if they have cappuccino.”

“You got it.” He was pleased, taking his tasks all very seriously as if she had given him an official FBI assignment.

She started sloshing down the hall, but something made her stop. “Hey, what’s your name?”

He looked up, surprised, a bit worried. “Calvin. Calvin Tate.”

“Thanks, Calvin.”

Back in her room, she kicked off the snow-caked shoes and wrestled out of her trousers. She turned up the thermostat to seventy-five, then peeled off her jacket and blouse. This morning her muscles ached from her neck to her calves. She tried rolling the wounded shoulder, stopped, waited for the streak of pain to pass, then continued.

In the bathroom, she turned on the shower and sat on the edge of the bathtub in her underwear while she waited for hot water. She flipped through the messages recorded in two different handwritings. One was from Director Cunningham at eleven o’clock, no a.m. or p.m., no message. Why hadn’t he called her cellular? Damn, she had forgotten. She needed to report it missing and get a replacement.

Three messages were from Darcy McManus at Channel Five. The desk clerk, obviously impressed, had recorded the exact times on all three. Each message had a new set of detailed instructions telling when and where to call McManus back. They included her work, cellular and home numbers and an e-mail address. Two messages were from Dr. Avery, her mother’s therapist, both late last night with instructions to call when possible.

She was guessing the sealed envelope was from the persistent Ms. McManus. Steam rolled in over the shower curtain. Usually, hotel showers barely reached lukewarm. She got up to adjust the water, then stopped at her reflection in the mirror. It was quickly disappearing behind the gauze of steam. She wiped an open palm across the surface until she could examine her shoulder. The triangular punctures looked red and raw against her white skin. She yanked off Nick’s homemade bandage, revealing a two-to-three-inch gash, puckered and smeared with blood. It would leave a scar. Wonderful. It would match her others.

She turned and twisted, lifting the lower section of her bra. Under her left breast was the beginning of another puckered red scar, recently healed. It trailed four inches down and across her abdomen—a present from Albert Stucky.

“You’re lucky I don’t gut you,” she remembered him telling her as the knife blade sliced through her skin, carefully cutting just the top layer of skin, ensuring a scar. At the time, she hadn’t felt anything, too numb and drained. Perhaps she had already resigned herself to die.

“You’ll still be alive,” he had promised, “when I start eating your intestines.”

By then, nothing could shock her. She had just watched him slice and dice two women, cutting off nipples and clitorises despite the women’s horrible, ear-piercing screams. Then came the gutting, followed by the smashing of skulls. No, there was nothing more he could have done to shock her. So, instead, he left her with a constant reminder of himself.

She hated that her body was becoming a scrapbook. It was bad enough that her mind had been stamped and tattooed with the images.

She rubbed her hands over her face and up through her hair, watching her reflection. It startled her how small and vulnerable she looked. Yet, nothing had changed. She was still the same determined, gutsy woman she had been when she had entered the Academy eight years ago. Maybe a little battle-fatigued and scarred, but that same restless determination existed in her eyes. She could still see it behind the steam, behind the horrors she had witnessed. Albert Stucky was a temporary setback—a roadblock she needed to plow through or go around, but never retreat from.

She unhooked her bra and let it fall to the floor. She started slipping out of her underpants when she remembered the unopened envelope on top of the other messages spread across the sink’s counter. She ripped it open and pulled out the three-by-five index card. It took only one glance at the boxy lettering, and her heart began racing. Her pulse quickened. She grabbed the countertop to steady herself, gave up and slid to the damp, tiled floor. Not again. It couldn’t happen again. She wouldn’t allow it. She hugged her knees to her chest, trying to silence the panic rising inside her.

Then she read the card again: