“Agent Maggie O’Dell, what a lovely surprise.”

Maggie didn’t recognize the muffled voice in her ear. The knife’s razor-sharp point pressed into the softness of her neck. It pushed with a steady pressure, forcing her head back until her neck lay completely exposed, completely vulnerable. She felt a trickle of blood run down inside the collar of her jacket.

“Why a surprise? I thought you’d be expecting me. You seem to know so much about me.” With every syllable she felt the knife dig deeper.

“Drop the steel rod.” He pulled her against him, wrapping his free arm around the front of her, squeezing harder than necessary to emphasize his strength.

She dropped the rod while he dug inside her jacket. He carefully grabbed the butt of the gun, his hand jerking away when he accidentally grazed her breast. He tossed the gun into a dark corner where she heard it knock against the crate. Of course, she wasn’t surprised he would be much more comfortable using the knife.

She tried to concentrate on his voice and the feel of him. He was strong and four to six inches taller than her. The rest of himself, he disguised. A brush of rubber against her ear and the muffled sound told her he wore a mask. Even his hands were camouflaged in plain black gloves. They were made of cheap department store leather, sold by the hundreds.

“I wasn’t expecting you. I thought perhaps you might have gone back home to your safe condo and your lawyer husband and your sick mother. How is your mother, by the way?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

The blade pushed up. Maggie sucked in air and resisted the urge to swallow while another trickle of blood found its way down her neck, traveling between her breasts.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he scolded.

“Sorry,” she said carefully, not moving her mouth or chin. She could do this. She could play his game. She needed to stay calm, level the playing field somehow. “The smell is getting to me. Maybe we could discuss this outside.”

“No, sorry. You see that’s a bit of a problem. I’m afraid you won’t be leaving here at all. What do you think of your new home?” He made her turn around to examine the area with her penlight while the knife scraped her flesh. “Or should I say your tomb?”

The ice shot through her veins again. Calm, she needed to remain calm. If only she could remove the image of Albert Stucky carving her abdomen. If only she could get this madman to ease the pressure. One small jerk and she’d be tasting the knife’s metal in her mouth.

“It won’t matter…getting rid of me.” She talked slowly. “The entire sheriff’s department knows who you are. About a dozen deputies will be here in a few minutes.”

“Now, Agent O’Dell, you can’t bluff me. I know you like to be on your own. That’s what got you in trouble with Mr. Stucky, isn’t it? And all you have on me is your little psychological profile. I bet I even know what it says. My mother abused me as a child, right? She turned me into a fag, so I murder little boys now.” The attempt at laughter sounded like a manic cackle.

“Actually, I don’t think your mother abused you.” She tried frantically to remember what little family history she had found on Father Keller. Of course, his mother had been a single parent just like the victims’ mothers. But she had died when Keller was young—a fatal accident. Why couldn’t she remember the details? Why was it so hard to think? It was the smell, the pressure of the knife, the feel of her own blood.

“I think she loved you,” Maggie continued when he remained silent. “And you loved her. But you were abused.” A twitch told her she was right. “By a relative…perhaps a friend of your mother’s…no, a stepfather,” she remembered suddenly.

The knife slipped, only a quarter of an inch, but she could breathe again. He was quiet, waiting, listening. She had his attention. It was her move.

“No, you’re not homosexual, but he made you doubt yourself, didn’t he? He made you think that maybe you could be.”

The arm around her waist loosened. She felt his breathing grow rapid, a steady movement against her back as his chest moved laboriously.

“You don’t kill little boys for kicks. You try to save them because they remind you of that scared, vulnerable little boy from your past. They remind you of yourself. Do you think that by saving them, you might be able to save yourself?”

His silence continued. Had she gone too far? She tried to concentrate on his hand with the knife. If she jabbed her elbow into his chest, perhaps she could grab the knife before it cut her. She needed to keep him distracted.

She continued. “You deliver these poor boys from evil, is that it? By inflicting your own evil, you transform them into martyrs. You’re quite a hero. You might even say yours is a perfect evil.”

His arm squeezed tight and jerked her back against him. She had gone too far. The knife shot up to her throat, this time lengthwise so that the sharp blade pressed full against her skin. In one quick motion, he could slit her throat.

“That’s a bunch of psychological bullshit. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The low guttural sound came from someplace deep inside him. “Albert Stucky should have gutted you when he had a chance. Now, I guess, I’ll have to finish the job. We need more light.” He dragged her to the tunnel’s entrance and extracted a lantern. “Light it.” He shoved her to her knees, keeping the knife at her throat and throwing a matchbook into the dirt. “Light it so that you can watch.”

“I want you to watch,” she heard Albert Stucky say, as if he stood in the dark corner, waiting. “I want you to see how I do it.”

Her fingers felt as though they belonged to someone else. There was no feeling in them, but she lit the lantern on the first attempt. The yellow glow filled the small space. Her entire body felt numb. All the blood had drained from her veins. Her mind was paralyzed, preparing for the pain by disconnecting. She recognized all the familiar signs. It was Albert Stucky all over again. Her body responded to the overwhelming terror by simply shutting down.

It was hard to breathe the thick air, now filled with the smell of spoiled meat. Even her lungs refused to work. The knife blade continued to press against her throat. There was a slight tremble in his hand. Was it from anger or fear? Did it matter?

“Why aren’t you crying or screaming?” It was anger.

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Even her voice had abandoned her. She thought of her father, those warm brown eyes smiling at her while he put the chain with the medallion around her neck. “Wherever you go, it’ll protect you. Don’t ever take it off, okay, Mag-pie?” But it didn’t protect you, Daddy, she wanted to tell him. And it didn’t protect Danny Alverez.

The stranger grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back to her feet, the knife a permanent fixture at her throat. More blood trickled down between her breasts.

“Say something,” he screamed at the back of her head. “Plead with me. Pray.”

“Just do it,” Maggie finally said, quietly and with much effort, having to coax her voice, her lips, her bruised and cut throat to cooperate just for those three simple words.

“What?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Just do it,” she managed to repeat, this time louder, more forceful.

“Maggie?” Nick’s voice sifted in from the top of the stairs.

The stranger spun around, startled and swinging Maggie along with him. As if watching from the corner, she saw her hand grab at the knife, snatching the stranger’s wrist. She twisted out from his hold just as he jerked his hand away and slashed at her, the metal disappearing into her jacket, ripping fabric and flesh on the way out. He shoved her hard, sending her into the dirt wall with a loud thump.

Nick’s stream of light came racing down the steps just as the black shadow grabbed the lantern and plunged into the hole. The wooden shelf teetered then crashed to the floor, almost hitting Nick.

“Maggie?” His light blinded her.

“In the tunnel.” She pointed while struggling to her knees. A flash of pain set her back down again. “Don’t let him get away.”

Nick disappeared into the hole, leaving her in total darkness. She didn’t need light to know she was bleeding. Her fingers easily found the sticky wound in her side. She dug deep in her pocket, pulled out the chain and medallion, rubbing her fingers over the smooth cross shape. In many ways the cool metal reminded her of the knife blade. Good and evil—was there really that fine a line between the two? Then she slipped the chain over her head and around her bleeding neck.