Damaged

CHAPTER 8

SUNDAY MORNING

HARTSFIELD-JACKSON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

ATLANTA, GEORGIA

Maggie's 6:00 AM flight put her in Atlanta just before eight. Under two hours and it was still enough to rattle her composure. She hated flying--not the crowds, not the inconvenience, not even a fear of heights, but rather being trapped at thirty-eight thousand feet without any control. Even the upgrade to first class that Wurth managed to snag for her had done little to help.

He was waiting in baggage claim. For a small man he could deliver a body-crushing hug.

"Easy," Maggie told him. "What will people think?"

"Oh, it's okay here in Atlanta," Wurth countered. "But don't touch me once we leave the city and head into the South. You may even have to sit in the backseat so I can pretend I'm driving you."

She rolled her eyes. She knew he was joking, but at the same time she knew there were still pockets in the South where a black man and a white woman in a vehicle together might draw some looks. But it couldn't be anything close to what they had already been through.

Maggie and Wurth had shared a terror-filled weekend last November. On the Friday following Thanksgiving, three young college students carrying backpacks loaded with explosives had blown up a section of Mall of America. Maggie and Wurth were dispatched to sort through the rubble and had tried to stop a second attack. In the end they had bonded against an unexpected and powerful enemy. It had been the beginning of Maggie's tumultuous relationship with her new boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, and Charlie Wurth ended up becoming her ally, stepping in to defend her when Kunze would not.

"That's it?" Wurth said when she showed him her small Pullman. Dragging it behind her, she started leading him to the claims office to retrieve her firearm. "O'Dell, for most women I know, that teeny thing would be their handbag."

"Guess I'm not most women."

"You're what we men call low maintenance. I've heard stories about low-maintenance women but I've never known one until now."

With her gun safely holstered, Maggie followed Wurth outside to a black Escalade parked at the curb. An airport security officer had been watching over it and now opened the back while Wurth took Maggie's Pullman and lifted it in.

"Thanks, man." Wurth reached up to pat the officer on his shoulder. He was at least a head taller than Wurth.

"You be safe," the officer said as he opened the passenger door for Maggie.

Inside, the vehicle was spotless except for a pile of CD covers scattered in the console between them.

"I didn't realize rental places had these luxury SUVs anymore."

"Oh, they probably don't." Wurth turned the engine and blasted the AC. "This one's not a rental. It's mine."

"You're driving your personal vehicle down into a hurricane?"

"It's not about that." He smiled and shook his head. "We goin' down South, cherie. Into the middle of hurricane frenzy. A scrawny black man with a beautiful white woman--I'm packing all my necessary documents: registration, license, and proof of insurance, along with my badge."

She laughed but Wurth wasn't laughing.

"You're serious."

"As a heart attack." He punched a couple of buttons on the dashboard and the sound of soft jazz filled the interior. "We've got about five hours of interstate. How 'bout we hit Mickey D's drive-through for a couple of sausage biscuits?"

"In an Escalade with soft jazz? Sounds perfect."

"Low, low maintenance," he said. "I'm liking this."

She let him maneuver his way out of Hartfield-Jackson before she started prodding him.

"Have you learned anything since last night?"

"They have already unwrapped everything." He glanced at her over his sunglasses. "Sorry. I should have thought of it sooner. I'm not accustomed to dealing in body parts."

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure they followed protocol."

Maggie remembered what Tully had said about her becoming an expert. It wasn't the kind of thing she wished to add to her resume.

"Turns out there were five packages: one male torso, one foot, and three hands."

"Left or right?"

"Excuse me?"

"The hands and the foot. Were they left or right?"

This time he flashed an embarrassed grin. "Again, sorry O'Dell. I didn't think to ask." He shook his head. "I thought my job had some interesting variables, but you got me beat."

"Three hands? It's more than one victim."

"So did we stumble on his trophies or his disposables?"

Maggie shrugged and leaned back in the leather captain seat. The car's AC was noiseless, chilling the interior as smoothly as the jazz filled it.

"A cooler this size could act as sort of a floating coffin, taking it farther out to sea. If the lid isn't locked predators would take care of the remains, get rid of all the evidence. But the plastic wrapping suggests this guy didn't intend for the cooler to get away from him. I should be able to tell more once I see everything firsthand. Will I be able to visit the crime scene?"

"I was told that wouldn't be a problem."

"And the cooler?"

"Waiting for you. The packages, however, are already with the ME. He'll take a look at them tomorrow morning. And yes, he's expecting your presence. You won't find much resistance. If anything, you might find a lack of interest. With this hurricane coming, the local law enforcement has more important things to worry about."

"A storm is more important than a killer on the loose?"

Wurth glanced over at her as he turned into the parking lot of a McDonald's. "You've never been in a hurricane before, huh?"

"That obvious?"

"Your killers carve up, what? Six bodies? A dozen over several months? Maybe several years? Isaac has already killed sixty-seven in forty-eight hours. This time, O'Dell, I think my killer trumps your killer."