THE FBI THRILLERS COLLECTION Books 1-5 (147 page)

He searched every damned room in the house. He saw his carryall lying on top of his bed. It looked like she’d started unzipping it and then, for whatever reason, had just walked out of the room, leaving it there for him to see.

Why? Where had she gone? Her car was in the driveway, so she couldn’t have gone far . . . unless someone took her.

Don’t panic.
She’d gotten a call, something of an emergency. She’d gone to Tyler’s house. It had to do with Sam. The kid was sick, yeah, that was it.

But she wasn’t there, no one was home. He drove by the Food Fort, the gas station, the hospital but he didn’t see her. Jesus, he could drive all over this damn town and not find her.

He drove slowly back to the house. He cut the engine and sat in his black Jeep, his forehead against the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

Where are you, Becca
?

He didn’t know why he raised his head and twisted around to look toward the woods. He just did it. And in that
instant he knew she was there. But why? It took him three minutes to find her.

She was asleep. He came up on her very quietly. She didn’t stir. She was leaning against the tree trunk, her right hand in her lap. She was holding the Coonan, its polished silver stock gleaming from the slashes of sun through the tree branches.

Had he seen that flash of silver? He didn’t know how he could have, yet he’d known she was there. Why couldn’t he have had this marvelous intuition before he’d scared himself spitless?

He came down on his haunches. He looked at her, wondering what had made her come out here. He saw dried tear streaks down her cheeks. Everything had gotten to be too much for her, and no wonder. She looked pale, too thin. He looked at her fingers curled around the trigger of the Coonan, at her nails, short and ragged. He touched his fingertips to her cheek. Her flesh was soft to the touch. He lightly stroked her cheek. Then, slowly, he shook her shoulder.

“Becca. Come on, wake up.”

She came awake instantly at the sound of a man’s voice, the Coonan up and ready to fire. She heard him curse, then felt the gun fly out of her hand. Her wrist was instantly numb. “Not again.”

“Shit, you nearly shot me.”

It was Adam. She looked up at him and smiled. “I thought it was him. Sorry.”

His heart began to slow. He eased down beside her. “What’s up?”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. I couldn’t find you and I nearly lost my mind trying to figure out where you were. You scared me, Becca. I thought he’d taken you.”

“No, I’m here. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. So how’d you find me?”

He shrugged. He didn’t want to tell her that he just knew very suddenly exactly where she was. He would
sound nuts. She didn’t need anyone else around her sounding nuts.

“How long will my wrist be numb this time?”

“Not more than five minutes. Don’t whine. Did you expect me to let you shoot me?”

“No, I guess not.”

“You look tired. Better if you’d taken a nap in your bed than come out here to snore beneath the tree. It just might not be all that safe.” That was one of the best understatements out of his mouth yet.

“Why? The only one who was ever lurking outside here was you, and you’re not lurking out here anymore. You’ve moved right into the house.” She sighed. “I don’t know why I came out here. I just couldn’t stand to stay in the house alone anymore.”

He said again, “You scared me, Becca. Please don’t take off again without leaving me a note.”

She looked up at him, her face so pale now it was nearly as white as winter sleet, and said in a dead voice, “He’s found me. He called.”

“He?” But he knew. Oh yeah, the stalker had found her and he hated it, had dreaded it, but he’d known it would happen. This guy was good. Too good. He had contacts. Whoever he was, he knew people, knew how to use them to get what he wanted. Adam was sure he’d been on her the minute she’d left New York. Still, it surprised him. More than that it scared him to his soul. He hated that surge of fear, deep and corroding. He could almost smell the flames. The fire was coming closer.

“All right, so he called. Get a grip.” He stopped, grinned at her. “Oh yeah, I’m talking to myself, not you. Now, what did he say? Did he tell you how he found you? Did he say anything that would help us pinpoint him?”

He’d said “us.” She had felt utterly frozen inside, then he’d said “us.” Slowly, she began to feel a shift deep inside her. She wasn’t alone anymore.

She looked up at him and smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Adam.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”

“Even though you’re gay?”

He looked at her mouth, then jumped fast to his feet. A man did better when temptation wasn’t one inch from his face. He looked down at her, then offered his hand. “Yeah, right. Now come on back to the house. I want you to write down everything you can remember him saying. Okay?”

She got a look on her face that was hard and cold and determined. Good, he thought, she wasn’t going to lie down and let this guy kick her like a dog.

“Let’s do it, Adam.”

They walked side by side up the steps to the veranda. They were nearly to the front door, and he was thinking that he needed to show her again that he wasn’t gay, when a shot rang out, and a knife-sharp chunk of wood flew off the door frame not two inches from Becca’s head and slammed into Adam’s bare arm.

A
dam twisted the doorknob, pushed the door in, and shoved Becca into the entrance hall in an instant, and still it seemed too slow. Another bullet struck the lintel right over his head, spewing splinters in all directions. None struck him this time. He twisted about and slammed the front door, then grabbed Becca’s arm and dragged her out of the line of fire.

He came down on his knees beside her. “Sorry to throw you around. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. That bastard, that horrible man. He’s a monster, crazy. It’s got to stop, Adam. It’s got to.” He watched her jerk her Coonan out of her jacket pocket and crawl to one of the front windows. He was right behind her. “Becca, no, wait a minute. I want you to stay down. This is my job.”

“He’s after me, not you,” she said calmly and, slowly, very cautiously, leaned up to look out of the corner of the window. He thought he’d collapse of fright right then.

Another two shots came at heart level through the front door, spewing shards of wood into the entrance hall. Another shot. Becca saw the flash of light. She didn’t hesitate,
just fired off all seven rounds. He heard the
click click click
when there were no more bullets in the clip.

There was dead silence. Adam was on his knees right behind her, furious with himself because his Delta Elite was in his carryall in the guest bedroom. “Becca? I want you to stay right here. Don’t move. I’ve got to get my gun. Stay down.”

She gave him a quick look. “Go ahead and don’t worry. We’re not helpless. I hit him, I know it, Adam.”

“Just stay down.”

“It’s okay.” He watched her pull another magazine out of her jacket pocket. He stared at her as she slowly, calmly shoved it into the Coonan.

“Go get your gun,” she said, looking out the window, her back to him. “If I didn’t hit him, I can at least keep him away from the house.”

He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He was up the stairs and to the bedroom in three seconds flat. When he came back downstairs, his pistol in his hand, Becca hadn’t moved. “I haven’t seen a thing,” she called out. “Do you think maybe I was lucky enough to hit him?”

“I plan to find out. Keep a sharp lookout. And don’t shoot me.”

And then he was gone before she could draw a breath. She heard him walk quickly through the kitchen, then the back door opened and closed very quietly. She prayed she’d hit him. Maybe right in his throat, where he’d hit the governor. Or in the gut. He deserved that for killing that poor old bag lady. She waited, waited, not moving, watching for Adam, for his shadow, anything to show her he was all right.

Time passed so slowly she thought it would become night before anything more happened. Suddenly, she heard a shout.

“Come on out, Becca!”

Adam. It was Adam and he sounded all right. She was through the front door like a shot, her hair tangling in her face, realizing only then that she was sweating and cold at
the same time, and laughing. Yes, she was laughing because they were safe. They’d beaten the monster. This time.

Adam was standing at the edge of the woods, waving toward her. It was in the exact same direction where she’d fired off all seven rounds. He waited until she was right in front of him. He smiled down at her, then wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her hard. “You got the bastard, Becca. Come take a look.”

Blood on fallen leaves. Like Christmas decorations—rich dark red on deep green.

“I got him,” she whispered. “I really got him.”

“You sure did. I’ve looked but I can’t find a trail because once he realized he was out of the game, he stanched the wound and carefully brushed ground cover over his tracks so he wouldn’t leave any kind of a trail.”

“I got him,” she said again, and she was smiling. “Oh God, Adam, no!”

“What is it?”

“Your arm.” She dropped her Coonan back into her jacket pocket and grabbed his hand. “Don’t move. Look, this splinter of wood is stuck in you like a knife. Come back to the house and let me get it out. Oh God, does it hurt really bad?”

He looked down at the shard of wood sticking like a crude knife out of his upper arm. He hadn’t even felt it. “It didn’t hurt before I knew about it. Now it hurts like the very devil. Well, shit.”

Thirty minutes later, they were arguing. “No, I’m not going to a doctor. The first thing the doctor would do is call Sheriff Gaffney. You don’t want that, Becca. I’m fine. You’ve disinfected me and bandaged me up. You did a great job. No problem. Let it go. You even pushed three aspirin down my gullet. Now, how about a big jigger of brandy and I’ll be ready to sing opera.”

She thought of Sheriff Gaffney coming here and asking questions about a guy who shot at them.
“My my, who’d want to do that, folks?”

She gave him another aspirin for good measure, and since she had no brandy, she gave him a diet Dr Pepper.

“Close,” he said and downed a huge drink.

They both froze when there was a knock on the front door.

Then they heard the front door slam open, voices low and muffled.

Becca grabbed her Coonan and crept toward the kitchen door. “Stay put, Adam. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“Becca, I’ll be all right. Just hold it a second.” Adam was right on her heels, his voice low, his hand on her gun arm.

“Who is it?” he called out.

A man yelled, “You guys all right? This door looks like an army tried to shoot its way in.”

“I don’t know who it is,” Adam said. “Do you recognize his voice?”

She shook her head.

“Who the hell is out there? What are your damned names? Tell me or I’ll blow your heads off. We’re a bit on the cautious side here.”

“I’m Savich.”

“I’m Sherlock. Thomas sent us. Said we needed to meet Adam and Becca, talk to them, get all the facts straight and together. Then maybe we can nail this stalker.”

“I told him not to,” Adam said and slipped his gun back onto the kitchen table and walked out into the hallway. A big man stood there, a 9mm SIG pistol held snug in his hand. A woman stood just behind him, as if shoved there for protection. She stepped around the man and said, “Don’t be alarmed. We’re the good guys. As Dillon said, Thomas sent us. I’m Sherlock and this is my husband, Dillon Savich. We’re FBI.”

It was the man Thomas wanted to save his daughter’s butt. His friend’s son, the computer hotshot at the Bureau. Adam didn’t like it, any of it. He stood there frowning at the two of them. A man brought his wife to a possible dangerous situation? What kind of an idiot was he?

Becca stepped forward. “You’ve got a neat name,
Sherlock. You’re Mr. Savich? Hello. Now, I don’t know who this Thomas is, but he’s probably Adam’s boss, only Adam refuses to tell me anything about who hired him and why. I’m Becca Matlock. The man who’s been stalking me and shot the governor, he was just here. He called me and then he tried to kill us. I hit him, I know it. Adam found some blood, but he’s gone, covered his trail, and I had to bandage Adam up and so—”

“Now we understand everything,” Sherlock said and smiled at the young woman facing her. Sherlock thought she was pretty, but she looked like she’d been ground under for a long time now. She’d been pushed over the line. She said to the big man, Adam, who was standing beside Becca, “Dillon here is great with wounds. Do you want to have him look at your arm?”

Adam was pissed and he felt like a jerk for feeling pissed. If the guy really was a genius with computer tracking programs, or whatever it was he did, maybe it could help. He shook his head. “No, I’m fine. I hope to heaven the sheriff doesn’t show up here, what with all that gunfire.”

“This place is set way back from its neighbors,” Savich said. “And all those thick trees, it’s doubtful anyone heard the shots unless he was real close.”

Becca blinked up at him, then said, “I hope you’re right. This is Adam Carruthers. He’s here as my cousin. He’s here to help clean up this mess, and to protect me. As I said, I guess he works for this Thomas character. I told the guy down the street that he’s gay because I’m afraid he’s jealous of Adam, but he’s really not.”

Sherlock said, “He’s really not jealous?”

“No, Adam really isn’t gay.”

Savich, that big guy who’d been standing very still until this instant, looking solemn and mean, began to laugh. And laugh.

The woman with the beautiful bright red curly hair looked up at her husband, cocked her head to one side, sending all that hair to bouncing around her head, and began laughing herself.

“I’m glad you’re not gay,” Savich said. “What? You really think this other guy is jealous of Adam here?”

Becca nodded. “Yes, and it’s so stupid really. This is a life-and-death situation. Who would ever think of jealousy or sex at a time like this? That’s just nuts.”

“That’s right,” Sherlock said. “No one would. Right, Dillon?”

“That’s exactly what I would have said,” Savich said.

Adam watched Savich slip the SIG back into its shoulder holster. Well, shit. All right, maybe the two of them could help. He’d wait and see what they did before he said anything more.

Becca said, “Adam is drinking a diet Dr Pepper since I don’t have any brandy to help him get over the shock of being wounded. Ice or lime in yours?”

Savich grinned at her. “Give me a goodly amount of lime and then Sherlock and I will go out and buy some brandy.” He then looked long at her. He wanted to tell her that her father was worried sick about her, that she looked a lot like him, that, when this was all over, he would come into her life for the very first time. But for now, Savich couldn’t say anything at all. They’d promised Thomas Matlock that they’d keep him in the shadows until the mess was all cleared up. Thomas had said, “Until I can be certain that Krimakov is really dead, I just can’t take the chance. And for me to believe that, really believe it all the way to my gut, I’ve got to see a photo of him lying on a slab in a Greek morgue.”

Sherlock had said, “But if he’s not dead, sir, and he is orchestrating all this, then he already knows about Becca and is trying to terrorize her with the ultimate goal of getting to you through her.”

Thomas had said, “I know only enough to scare myself spitless, Sherlock. I just want to keep a lid on all of this until I’m certain. In the meantime, I want to keep her hidden from all the cops and the FBI because I’m certain that they can’t protect her from this stalker.”

Becca said over her shoulder as she led them into the
kitchen, “Before anyone comes over, you’ve got to tell me who you are and why you’re here. As I told you, Adam’s cover is that he’s my gay cousin.”

Adam said as he cocked the soda can at Savich, “You want to be her other gay cousin?”

“Then what would that make me?” Sherlock said. “I can’t keep my hands off him. That would blow the cover right off.”

“Maybe we’ll be your friends, Adam. I know quite a bit about you and your background. You and I went to school together, how about that?” Savich said.

“Then what the hell are you doing in Riptide, Maine?”

Sherlock took a glass of soda from Becca, sipped it, and said, “We’re here because of that skeleton that fell out of your basement wall, Becca. You guys wanted some help, and since we live in Portsmouth, it wasn’t tough for us to get up here.”

“How do you know where I went to school?” Adam said, his eyes dark and hard on Savich’s face.

“MAX gave me most of your particulars. It took him a while longer to find out about all your other activities. You went to Yale. No problem. Did we crew?”

Well, damn, Adam thought, it was a good idea. “Yeah,” he said. “We did crew. We also beat Harvard, that bunch of pissy little wimps.”

Sherlock wondered why Adam Carruthers didn’t want her or Dillon there. Didn’t he realize that they could help? The stalker was here in Riptide, he’d tried to kill them.

Sherlock gave Adam a sunny smile. “Why don’t we go look in the woods and try to uncover a trail for this guy?”

“Yeah,” Savich said, rising. “Then we need to figure out why he would want to kill Becca like this. It doesn’t make sense. He’s into terrorizing her. Why just shoot her and end it all? He’d have no more fun.”

“Good question,” Becca said. “We haven’t had time to think about anything since it happened. Me, I don’t think he wanted to kill either of us, just scare us real bad, just announce that he was here and ready to play again.”

Becca sucked in her breath. “Oh dear, we need to get the front door repaired before our neighbor, Tyler McBride, or the sheriff come to visit. I don’t want to try to explain bullet holes in the door.”

“Let’s check for a trail first,” Sherlock said. “Then, Becca, you can tell us what the stalker said to you this time while we all repair the door.”

“You’re good,” Savich said some thirty minutes later to Adam. “You said there was no trail and there isn’t.”

Adam grunted. “Let’s go out a bit farther. Maybe we’ll see some tire tracks.”

“No way,” Sherlock said. “The stalker is a pro, which means that he isn’t really a stalker. That’s just a cover. A misdirection.”

Savich nodded. “I agree. He isn’t a stalker.”

Becca said, “What do you mean, exactly?”

Adam said, as he slowly lifted leaves some ten feet away, “It doesn’t make sense, Becca. Usually stalkers are sick guys who, for whatever strange reason, latch on to someone. It’s an obsession. They’re not pros. This guy’s a pro. This was well thought out.”