Split Second Read Online Free Page B

Benny, the legend, had come through, after all. The alcohol had just slowed him down a bit.
    Del pulled himself up, just enough to look at the damage to his stomach. He was startled to find himself staring down at the bloody carved image of Jesus. The dagger causing his insides to spill onto the deserted highway was actually a mahogany crucifix. Suddenly, he couldn’t feel the pain anymore. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it? Maybe he’d be okay.
    “Hey, Benny,” he called out, laying his head on the pavement. He still wasn’t able to see his partner behind him. “My daddy’s gonna make a sermon out of this when I tell him I was stabbed with a crucifix.”
    A long, black shadow blocked the sky.
    Once again Del found himself looking into those empty, dark eyes. Albert Stucky loomed above him, tall and straight, a lean, muscular man with sharp features. He reminded Del of a vulture, perched with black wings pressed patiently against its sides, cocking its head, staring, waiting for its prey to stop struggling, to give in to the inevitable. Then, Stucky smiled as though pleased with what he saw. He raised and pointed Benny’s service revolver at Del’s head.
    “You won’t be telling your daddy anything,” Albert Stucky promised in a deep, calm voice. “Tell it to Saint Peter, instead.”
    The metal slammed into Del’s skull. A blast of brilliant light swirled together with oceans of blue and yellow and white and then finally…black.

CHAPTER 1
    Northeast Virginia
(just outside Washington, D.C.)
Five months later—Friday, March 27
    M aggie O’Dell jerked and twisted, trying to make herself more comfortable, only now realizing she had fallen asleep in the recliner again. Her skin felt damp with perspiration and her ribs ached. The air in the room was stale and warm, making it difficult to breathe. She fumbled in the dark, reaching for the brass floor lamp, clicking the switch but getting no light. Damn! She hated waking to complete darkness. Usually she took precautions to prevent it.
    Her eyes adjusted slowly, squinting and searching behind and around the stacks of boxes she had spent the day packing. Evidently Greg had not bothered to come home. She couldn’t have slept through one of his noisy entrances. It was just as well he didn’t come home. His temper tantrums would only annoy the movers.
    She tried to get out of the recliner but stopped when a sharp pain raced along her abdomen. She grabbed at it, as if she could catch the pain and keep it from spreading. Her fingers felt something warm and sticky soaking through her T-shirt. Jesus! What the hell was going on? Carefully, she pulled up the hem and even in the dark she could see it. A chill slipped down her back and the nausea washed over her. A slit in her skin ran from below her left breast across her abdomen. It was bleeding, soaking into her T-shirt and dripping down into the fabric of the recliner.
    Maggie bolted from the chair. She covered the wound and pressed her shirt against it, hoping to stop the bleeding. She needed to call 911. Where the hell was the phone? How could this have happened? The scar was over eight months old, and yet it was bleeding as profusely as the day Albert Stucky had cut her.
    She knocked over boxes, searching. Lids popped open as cartons fell, scattering crime scene photos, toiletries, newspaper clippings, underwear and socks and sending pieces of her life bouncing off the floor and walls. Everything she had taken such care to pack suddenly flew, rolled, skidded and crashed around her.
    Then, she heard a whimpering sound.
    She stopped and listened, trying to hold her breath. Already her pulse beat too rapidly. Steady. She needed to stay calm. She turned slowly, cocking her head and straining to hear. She checked the desktop, the surface of the coffee table, the bookshelf. Oh dear God! Where the hell had she left her gun?
    Finally, she saw the holster lying at the foot of the recliner. Of course, she would have kept