Kill Her Again (A Thriller) (18 page)

“A few bruises, and a pretty nasty concussion.”

“Were you out for any length of time?”

She nodded. “Several hours.” “And these visions. When did they start? Before or after the incident?”

“After. One of them woke me up in the hospital.”

Pope thought about this. “I’m no expert,” he said, “but I’ve heard that sometimes when people are victims of severe head trauma, certain doors can be opened.”

“Doors?”

“Doors that normally stay closed.”

“You think the concussion somehow linked me psychically to this little girl?”

“Based on what you’ve told me, the link may have been there already. All the concussion did was trigger the memories.”

McBride frowned. “Memories?”

“You aren’t psychic,” Pope said. “What you’re seeing is not something that’s
about
to happen. It’s something that already has.”

The frown deepened. “What exactly are you telling me?”

“That the little girl in your visions is you.”

2
2

T
O POPE’S SURPRISE
, the idea angered McBride.

“Are you saying that what I’ve been experiencing is some sort of repressed memory?”

“More or less,” he told her.

“That’s absurd.”

“This whole subject is absurd, but we both know that something’s going on here that defies rational thinking.”

“Then why do you seem to be looking for a rational explanation? I think I would’ve remembered if some fruitcake had kidnapped me. And not in bits and pieces.”

Pope held his hands up. “Before you go getting a snake up your butt, calm down a minute and let me finish.”

“If this is the kind of bullshit you’re shoveling, I’m not sure I want you to.”

Pope shook his head. “You haven’t even
heard
the bullshit yet.”

“Meaning?”

Pope sighed. This topic was fine for late-night poker games with psychopathic computer nerds, but this woman was truly hurting. She needed an explanation for what was happening to her, and the one he was about to provide would undoubtedly provoke more questions than it answered.

But he plowed ahead anyway. “Have you ever heard of something called PLR?”

She thought about it a moment. “Not that I remember. But maybe I’ve been blocking that out, too.”

He ignored the sarcasm. “PLR stands for Past Life Regression. It’s a form of hypnotherapy that explores memories of our previous lives.”

She flinched slightly, as if she’d just been pinched. “
Reincarnation
? That’s what you’re selling?”

“Look,” he said. “I know how it sounds.”

“I’m not sure you do.”

“A couple minutes ago you were asking me about fate and telling me you think you might be psychic. Is the idea that our souls have been around for a few thousand years really that much of a stretch?”

She took another moment to think about that, allowing herself to calm down. Then she said, “Maybe you have a point. But like I told you, I’m not a falafel and whole grains kind of girl.”

“This isn’t restricted to New Age wack jobs,” Pope said. “Eastern religions teach it. I have colleagues who believe in reincarnation as fervently as some people believe Christ rose from the dead. There are highly educated psychiatrists who think past-life trauma may have a direct causal relationship to nightmares and anxiety attacks.”

“None of which tells me what
you
think.”

Pope saw no reason to lie to her. “I’ve done a bit of past-life therapy in my time, but nothing that really swayed me one way or another.”

“So why push it now?”

“Because, based on what you’ve told me, it seems to fit. What you’ve described sounds more like memories than psychic visions.”

McBride shook her head. “There’s a flaw in your theory.”

“What?”

“If I’m tuning in on memories from some past life, how could the perp be the same guy? One creep in a red baseball cap is bad enough. But two? I don’t think so.”

“How old are you?” Pope asked.

The question threw her. “Twenty-eight. Why?”

“Twenty-eight years isn’t all that long. Maybe you were born the moment that little girl died.”

McBride seemed stunned by this possibility, but remained unconvinced. “So this guy kills me once, then tries again nearly three decades later?”

“Crazier things have happened.”

“But why?” she asked. “Unless this is the mother of all coincidences, how would he even know who I am?”

“I don’t know. But he called you Chavi, remember? ‘Is it you, Chavi?’ ”

“He was hallucinating.”

“That may well be, but it sounds to me like this Chavi person is the key to this little mystery. You and your attacker are somehow connected to her.” He nodded to the sleeping boy. “Maybe Evan, too.”

McBride looked as if a long, dark shadow had just fallen across her grave.

“This is insane.”

“Maybe. But for whatever reason, he seems fixated on you. And unless we can stop him, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried . . .”

Pope paused, his gaze shifting to the view outside the living room window.

Ronnie had just pulled up in the Worthington Suburban and was unloading a couple plastic bags full of groceries. Beyond the truck, another car pulled up across the street.

A Lincoln Town Car.

Two large figures in the front seat.

The twin defenders.

“Shit,” Pope said, getting to his feet.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I underestimated the stupidity of those morons.”

McBride turned, saw the Town Car. “Your friends from the Oasis?”

“The B-Team,” Pope said. “Help Ronnie with those groceries, then get Evan, get to the truck, and have her get you the hell out of here. And make it look natural. No need to tip our hand.”

“And what hand is that? Look, I’m a federal agent. I think I can—”

“You’re in no condition to be playing tag with these assholes. Take care of Evan.”

“And what do you plan to do?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t want anybody else in the line of fire. So, hurry up.”

McBride glanced at Evan, weighing a decision, then quickly nodded and headed toward the door.

Jake’s office was down the hallway. Pope went inside and moved around the desk to the painting that hung above the credenza. A Robert Knudson reproduction.
Sunrise at Zuni Mission.
 

Pope took the painting off the wall and quickly dialed the combination to Jake’s safe, hoping he hadn’t changed it in the last couple years.

It clicked open and he reached inside, pulling out the Glock 9 that Jake always kept there.

If you were raised in Ludlow, chances were pretty good that you knew your way around firearms. Pope’s father, who had died of emphysema when Pope was barely out of his teens, was a former Army staff sergeant who had trained him well.

Pope checked the magazine, saw that it was full. When he got back to the living room, McBride, Evan, Ronnie, and the truck were gone, leaving only the Town Car.

The twin defenders were watching the house. Waiting.

Pope kept out of sight. He needed to talk to them, but he knew they weren’t here for conversation.

Cursing Anderson Troy—and himself for ever picking up a deck of cards—he headed toward the rear of the house.

H
E APPROACHED THEM
from the rear driver’s side, keeping the Glock raised in case he was spotted in the side mirror.

Before they knew what hit them, he threw open the rear passenger door, slid onto the seat, and touched the muzzle of Jake’s Glock to the back of Jonah’s head.

“Easy now, I come in peace.”

Both Jonah and Joshua froze.

“Sure as hell don’t feel that way,” Jonah said. “Come on, Danny. Put the weapon down.”

“Unless you’re here on a diplomatic mission, I don’t think so. Get your hands on your head.”

They both did as they were told.

“What are you doing?” Joshua said. “You ain’t no Rambo.”

“You’re right. I’m just a guy who wants to be left alone. Especially when I’m with family and friends. So tell Troy that he’s got nothing to worry about. Half of what I know about him is forgotten and the rest is locked away forever.”

“We don’t tell him what to do,” Jonah said.

“I’m not asking you to. Just pass along the message. Think you can manage that?”

“Won’t do you a lick of good,” Joshua said. “The man makes up his mind, it takes an act of Congress to change it.”

“Fine,” Pope told him, then gestured with the Glock. “Give me your phone.”

“What for?”

“Just reach into your pocket—slowly—and hand it across.”

Joshua sighed, took his phone out, and gave it to Pope. “Sharkey’s right. You
do
have a screw loose.”

“What’s Troy’s direct line?”

“Hit three.”

Pope smiled. “Not one? He finds out, he won’t be happy.”

“Fuck you,” Joshua said.

Pope thumbed the third keypad. The line rang twice in his ear, then clicked on.

“Is it done?”

Troy. Up close and personal. Pope wished he could reach through the phone and wring his neck.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Andy, but the boys and I have been having a discussion about how stubborn you are, and they thought I should give you a call.”

Troy was silent a moment and Pope knew he was seething. “We’re beyond disappointment, Daniel. I’m about ready to kill you myself.”

“You might want to reconsider,” Pope said. “Because if you or any of your lackeys come near me again, I may have to remember all these things I’ve forgotten about you. And I’ll be sure to do it in the presence of law enforcement.”

“You think I’m afraid of that redneck cousin of yours?”

“A couple hours ago, you were about to piss your pants over the FBI. You don’t call these guys off, you’ll be wearing a diaper twenty-four/seven.”

Troy chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “This is a new side of you, Daniel.”

“No,” Pope said. “Just the old one paying a visit. So are we clear about this? Or do I have to—”

The hand came out of nowhere, moving at hyperspeed. Joshua slammed a palm against Pope’s face and sent the phone flying, a jolt of intense pain shooting through his skull.

Reaching across the seat, Joshua ripped the Glock out of Pope’s hand, then jerked him around and pulled him into a choke hold, the massive arm squeezing against Pope’s neck, cutting off his air.

“Uuhhhh,” Pope said, arms flailing, hammering against the offending chunk of ham as everything around him started to grow hazy. He couldn’t believe how quickly the tables had turned. Jonah was right; he wasn’t any Rambo, he was the goddamn comedy relief—only what was happening to him wasn’t the least bit funny.

His blows were about as lethal as gnat bites and there was nothing he could do to stop the vice from tightening. The interior of the car grew dimmer and all he wanted to do was breathe, but that wasn’t possible right now and might never be again.

He twisted and turned anyway, trying desperately to shake himself loose, his heart pounding violently as darkness closed in on him.

Then suddenly, just as he thought he was going to pass out, the arm went slack and Pope felt Joshua’s entire body go stiff.

“That’s right,” a sharp voice said. “Let him go.”

It was McBride. Anna McBride—the most beautiful goddamn federal agent in the world. And Pope knew by the way that Joshua had stopped moving that she had a weapon pointed at him.

“I won’t ask again. Let him go. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

Joshua hesitated, then did as he was told, and Pope collapsed to the floor between the seats, sucking in precious air, his throat on fire, his neck feeling like a deflated inner tube.

“You, over there,” McBride said. “Put yours on the wheel, where I can see them.”

Pope heard movement up front and could only assume that Jonah had complied. Then a door opened.

“Okay now. Step outside, one at a time, then turn and face the car. You boys just bought yourselves a ticket to the Ludlow County jail.”

Thank God for small miracles, Pope thought.

And stubborn women.

2
3

D
EPUTY CHAVEZ DID
the honors.

Anna watched as he guided the two handcuffed hulks into the backseat of his cruiser. They were barely able to squeeze in.