The FBI Thrillers Collection (22 page)

Savich threw back the covers and jumped to his feet. He grabbed a pair of jeans as an afterthought and pulled them on. “I’m going to do some research on this with MAX.”

He walked back to the bed, grinned down at his wife, pulled her up tightly against him, and kissed her until she would have just as soon he waited until morning to visit MAX. But she knew that brain of his was working again, asking questions, wanting to know everything, and fast.

“I won’t be gone too long.”

She lay back down in bed, shut off the table lamp, pulled the covers to her chin, and smiled into the darkness when she heard Dillon speaking to MAX down the hall in his study. She heard him laugh.

There weren’t any caves, not even
one indentation in the rock where she could squeeze in and wait them out. Just a beach that went on and on, driftwood piled all over it, and slimy trails of kelp, dangerous when you were running.

But she had a gun. It was small and ugly, but she wasn’t defenseless. From what she knew about guns, which wasn’t much, it was a close-range gun, useless at a distance, but if you got near enough, it could kill a person quite easily.

The temperature dropped as the sun went behind gathering clouds, whirling rain clouds. Any minute now rain would pour down. Would that help her or not? She didn’t know.

Had there been three men? One staying with Simon and the other two after her? Maybe there were just two men and Simon could get away and call for help. They’d been idiots—telling their FBI protectors that since they were just going to the cemetery and they wanted to be private, they’d meet them back in Hemlock Bay.

She stopped, bending over, her hands on her thighs, so tired her breath was catching and she was wheezing with the effort to breathe. She flattened herself in the shadow of the cliff and looked back.

Then, suddenly, she heard one of the men cup his hands around his mouth and shout, “Lily Frasier! We have Simon Russo. Come out now or we will kill him. That is a promise. Then we will call our friends to come at you from the other end of the beach. We will trap you, and you won’t like what will happen to you then.”

The man’s words brought her breath back, straightened her right up. The man’s voice was also thick with an accent—stilted, unnatural. Swedish. Well, damn, it seemed that Olaf Jorgenson himself had come, or sent his friends. She ran again, until she rounded a slight promontory and looked up. She had found her way out. Another narrow trail snaked up the cliff, much like the one she’d taken down. Two miles back up the beach? Three miles? She didn’t make a sound, just shot up that trail, using her hands on rocks and scrubs, anything to keep her steady, knowing they couldn’t see her until they came around the promontory themselves.

They couldn’t kill Simon. They’d left him alone in the car. If there was a third man watching him, well then, they couldn’t contact him. Unless they had a cell phone. Everybody had a cell phone. Oh, God, please, no. It had to be a bluff, it just had to be.

She slipped once, saw pebbles and small rocks gushing out from the cliff and pounding their way back down to the beach. She held still, then started up again. She was up to the top of the cliff in no time and running. The men would realize soon enough where she’d gone.

Hurry, she had to hurry. She hurt, really bad, but she thought of Simon, of his hair curling at his neck, and she knew nothing could happen to him. She wouldn’t let it. Too much loss in her life, she couldn’t bear any more. She came into the back of the cemetery, climbed the wrought-iron fence, and ran down the path toward the visitors’ parking lot.

The horn wasn’t blaring anymore.

Nearly there, she was nearly there. She saw their rental car, but didn’t see Simon. She got to the car. He was stretched out on the front seat, unconscious. Or dead.

She pulled the driver’s side door open. “Simon! Wake up, dammit! Wake up!”

He moaned, struggled to a sitting position. He blinked, finally focusing on her face.

“They’re after us, two men, both with guns. I got away from them but we don’t have much time. Scoot over, we’re getting out of here. I’m going to drive us right to jail and have Lieutenant Dobbs lock us in. It’s the only safe place in the world. No lawyers allowed. Just Lieutenant Dobbs. He can bring our food. We’ll get Dillon and Sherlock out here. They’ll figure this all out, and we can get the hell out of here.”

As she spoke, she managed to shove his feet off the seat and push him toward the passenger door. “It will be all right. You don’t have to do anything, see, I can drive now. Just rest, Simon.”

“No, Lily, no more driving. You’re not going anywhere, not anymore.”

Lily turned slowly at that syrupy voice and stared up at Charlotte Frasier, who was pointing a long-barreled gun at her. “You’ve given us too much trouble. If I hadn’t decided to oversee this myself, you would have escaped yet again. I always believed three times was a charm, and so it is. Get out of the car, Lily. Now.”

Lily wasn’t surprised, not really. Not Elcott, but Charlotte. Then she almost smiled. Charlotte didn’t know she had a gun, too. Would Charlotte take the chance of killing them here, in the cemetery parking lot? She believed all the way to her gut that Charlotte was capable of anything. She was still free, and Mr. Monk had been dead for three days now.

Then she saw the men running toward them. She had to hurry, had to do something. She opened the door, lifting one arm, hiding the other hand slightly behind her.

“Where’s Elcott?” she said, wanting to distract Charlotte, just for an instant. “And that marvelous son of yours? Who loves me so much he’d like nothing more than to bury me? Aren’t they hanging back there, waiting for you to tell them what to do?”

“Don’t you dare speak of my husband and my son like that—”

Lily was clear. She raised the gun and fired.

Washington, D.C.
FBI Headquarters

Ollie Hamish came running into Savich’s office. “We got him! We got Anthony Carpelli, a. k. a. Wilbur Wright. He was right there in Kitty Hawk on the Outer Banks. He was kneeling in front of the monument at Kitty Hawk and we came up on him and he just folded down like a tent and gave it all up.”

For an instant, Savich was so distracted he didn’t know what Ollie was talking about. Then he remembered, the guru from Texas who’d had his followers murder the two deputies and the sheriff, the Sicilian Canadian who’d attended McGill University and had an advanced degree in cellular biology. Savich said slowly, “Sit down, Ollie. You said he was kneeling at the monument? As in worshiping?”

“Maybe so. All the agents were so relieved at how easily it went down, they were celebrating, drinking beers at eleven o’clock in the morning. We got him, Savich. He’ll go back to Texas and fry, probably.”

“Probably not,” Savich said. “Remember that he isn’t tied directly to those killings, just hearsay from a woman who was pissed off.”

“Yes, Lureen. Evidently they’re holding her as a material witness. They’ve also picked up two more of Wilbur’s people who were in the cult. Everyone thinks his own people will finally nail his ass. At least we got him and he’s not going to be killing anybody else.

“Hey, Savich, you should be really pleased. After all, it was you and MAX who predicted he’d probably go back to Kitty Hawk.”

Savich realized he was so caught up with Tammy Tuttle that he didn’t feel much of anything about Wilbur Wright. And it was a victory, a very clean win. Everyone would be very pleased. He smiled at Ollie. “I am pleased. MAX discovered sixteen more killings throughout the Southwestern U.S. that sound like the work of Wilbur. So there’s lots of other crimes to tie in to this one; local law enforcement should be brought up to speed and get with the program. Dane Carver is heading that up. Now that you’ve got Wilbur Wright, you can get our doctors on him and see what makes him tick.”

“I really don’t want to know.”

“Unfortunately a jury will demand to know. Meet with Dane and go over all the other cases, then head down to interview Wilbur.”

“When we caught him, I looked at him, Savich. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such dead eyes, and I’ve seen lots of bad folk up close and personal; but Wilber, he was just flat-out scary. You wonder what exactly he’s seeing with those dead eyes. It won’t be long before they extradite him back to Texas with more than enough evidence to fry his butt.”

“You can bet the lawyers will fight extradition.”

“Yeah, they’d prefer a state where there’s no death penalty, but if we get enough evidence, it won’t matter.”

“We done good, Ollie. Now you and Dane sew it up, okay?”

“You got it.” Agent Ollie Hamish leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands between his legs. “I’ve heard all sorts of things, Savich, about what happened in Antigua. How’s that going?”

Savich told him all of it. “We’ve got people working on where she learned her illusion skills so we can get a better handle on what she’s capable of. There are more people scouring the airport in Antigua trying to find out how she managed to get away, questioning everyone in the area, searching all boats, all private charters.”

Ollie said, “She’s still got only one arm and, physically, she’s in bad shape, right?”

“I don’t know how bad it still is. Her surgeon said if she has an infection, she could be dead within a week without antibiotics. But if she doesn’t have an infection, she could make it through just fine. He said she responded superbly to the surgery. I asked the doctor if anyone had ever reported seeing someone other than Tammy Tuttle or seeing her where she shouldn’t be.”

“Did he even understand what you meant?”

“Yes,” Savich said slowly, “he did. He said that an orderly told him he’d just seen Tammy up and walking to the bathroom the day after surgery. When he went to check her, she was lying strapped down to the bed. Nobody believed the orderly. Then she escaped and no one could figure that out, either. Anyway, Ollie, how are Maria and Josh? He just turned two, right?”

“Yeah. He’s running all over the house, opening every drawer, banging every pot. He yells ‘no’ at least fifty times a day, and he’s cuter than the new puppy we just got, who peed on the shirt I was going to wear this morning.”

Savich laughed. It felt good. He nodded Ollie out, then turned back to MAX.

A call came in an hour later. Tammy Tuttle had been spotted in Bar Harbor, Maine, where agents had showed her photo all over town, along with Marilyn’s, and left phone numbers. A local photo shop owner had called the Bar Harbor police department to say she’d left film and was going to come back.

“I’ve got to get close to her,” Savich said to Sherlock. He kissed her nose and left the unit, nearly on a run, shouting over his shoulder, “I’ve got to see Tammy with one arm, and not something she wants me to see.”

“Please, not too close,” Sherlock called out, but she didn’t think he heard her.

It took very little time for Savich and six other agents to board a Sabreliner at Andrews Air Force Base for a flight to Bar Harbor.

He spent the entire flight telling the agents everything he could think of. It was time, Savich decided, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders, to let everyone know exactly what they were dealing with.

A psychopathic killer who is an illusionist, possibly a telepath. He had never seen anything like it, and he hoped he never would again.

He’d just finished telling all the agents about the Ghouls, detailing what Marilyn had told him and what he himself had seen. If they didn’t believe him, they were cool enough to keep it to themselves.

One agent, a friend of Virginia Cosgrove’s, didn’t doubt a single word. As they were debarking from the jet in Bar Harbor, she said, “Virginia told me some things Marilyn Warluski had told her. It was terrifying, Mr. Savich.”

“Just Savich, Ms. Rodriguez. I’m very sorry about Agent Cosgrove.”

“We all are, sir.” Then she managed a grin. “Just Lois, Savich.”

“You got it.”

“The thing is, guys,” he said to all of them, “if you see her or him again”—he waved the artist’s drawing under all their noses—“don’t play any games. Don’t even think about trying to take her alive. Don’t trust anything you see happen, fire without hesitation, and shoot to kill. Now, I’m going to the photo shop, make sure there’s no confusion. Then we’ll get together at the local police department and get everything set up.”

He wondered if the Ghouls would be with her, with Tammy as their head acolyte, their priestess of death.

He was becoming melodramatic. All he really knew as he walked into the photo shop, Hamlet’s Pics, on Wescott Avenue, was that he was glad to his soul that Sherlock wasn’t here, that she was at home, safe with Sean.

He spoke to the photo shop employee, Teddi Tyler—spelled with an “i” he was told—to verify what he’d said to the local police. Teddi repeated that the woman whose photo Savich was showing him had indeed been in the shop, just yesterday, late afternoon. He’d called the police right away.

“What did she want?”

“She had some film she wanted developed.”

Savich felt his heart pound, deep and slow, and it was all he could do to remain calm and smooth. They were so close now. “Did you develop the film, Mr. Tyler?”

“Yes, sir, Agent Savich. The police told me to go ahead and develop it and hold the photos for the FBI.”

“When did she say she wanted to pick the photos up?”

“This afternoon, at two o’clock. I told her that would be just fine.”

“Did she look like she was in good health, Mr. Tyler?”

“She was sort of pale, but looked good other than that. It was pretty cold yesterday so she was all bundled up in a thick coat, a big scarf around her neck and a wool ski cap, but I still recognized her, no problem.”

“Did you make any comment to her about how she looked familiar?”

“Oh, no, Agent Savich. I was really cool.”

Yeah, I bet, Savich thought, praying that he’d been cool enough not to alert Tammy that he was on to her. One thing—Teddi Tyler was still alive, and that meant Tammy hadn’t felt threatened, he hoped. Everything he’d told Savich so far was exactly what he’d told the local cops.