The FBI Thrillers Collection (57 page)

“You were brave to confront him,” Nick said. “Very brave.”

“Turns out I was a coward, turns out when I was old enough to kill the old monster, I didn’t. I just wanted to scare him to keep him quiet. But I knew he wouldn’t. This time I was going to strangle him. Would I have gone all the way until I knew that his heart was no longer beating?” Weldon shook his head, looked down at his bandaged foot, winced. He said finally, “What are you going to do?”

He looked at each of them in turn. From Inspector
Delion to Detective Flynn, to the FBI agents, in a circle around him. The pain meds had finally kicked in completely and there was only a dull throb in his foot. He looked at Nick. “I don’t blame you for trying to protect an old man. You didn’t know.”

“I wish I had shot him instead,” Nick said. “But if I had, we wouldn’t have learned the truth.”

Weldon was shaking his head, back and forth, his eyes on each of their faces in turn. “I left home on the day I turned eighteen. I came to LA because I was a good writer and I wanted to write TV and movie scripts. I met a girl, Georgia, and we fell in love. I got her pregnant. We got married. A drunk driver killed her when our son was only three years old.”

“You raised your son alone just like your father did you?”

“Of course, but I wasn’t like my father, I really loved my boy. I would have done anything for him. It wasn’t long before I got work writing for a TV sitcom and started making enough money so I didn’t have to worry about it all the time.” He paused a moment. “I kept up with the old man. Do you know that long after he was in his sixties, the people still wanted him to stay on as sheriff?”

“Why?” Dane asked.

“The old man was so mean he could face down drunk bikers. Once, I heard he’d pistol-whipped a man for hassling a woman, all the while yelling at him, ‘No one fucks with my town!’ That’s what he always loved to say, and then he’d spit out a wad of tobacco.

“I’ll bet you’re all wondering why I’ve kept him in such a nice place for the last ten years.”

No one had actually really thought about it yet, but Nick knew they would have, sooner or later.

She said, “Why did you?”

Weldon said simply, “He told me if I didn’t keep him sitting real pretty until he kicked off, he’d contact the press and tell them where bodies were buried that no one even
knew about, tell them where his gun was hidden, tell them all about the bundles he’d buried beneath that elm tree. There’d be so much proof, they’d have to believe him.

“I agreed. What else could I do? There was my own growing career to think about, but most important, there was my boy, my own innocent boy.”

Nick said slowly, “I guess I can understand that, but was he still killing people? Didn’t you realize you had to do something once you were an adult and out from under his thumb?”

Weldon said, “I tried never to think about it. He’s right. I was a coward, and he knew I wouldn’t say anything once I had my boy. He was still the sheriff thirteen years ago when something went wrong with an arrest, and a car ran over him, smashing his legs. He’s been confined to a wheelchair ever since. So I knew the world was safe from him.”

Savich started to say something, but Nick shook her head, said, “He started his threats recently, didn’t he? He knew he was getting close to the end and he wanted recognition for what he’d done. He wanted the world to know just what had walked among them for years and years.”

Weldon nodded, his hands clasped, so pale, so deadened, that it broke her heart. “Yes. After he told me what he was planning to do—you know, make his announcement to the press, tell everyone everything—I didn’t know what to do. I reminded him that he’d sworn to keep quiet for as long as I kept him in that home. He just laughed, said he was going to croak pretty soon so it didn’t matter. I knew his madness was beyond control then.”

Weldon stopped cold. Then he seemed to look deeply inside himself, drew a deep breath, and said, “That’s when he told me he’d had a nice little visit with his grandson. And that’s when I hit him and knocked his chair over. I should have killed him then but I just couldn’t do it. I threatened him, hoped to scare him into silence like I already told you, but I knew that wouldn’t work. After I left, I thought about
it and knew I had to kill him, there was just no other way. I failed.”

Dane said very gently, “Weldon, your father visited with your boy and confessed what he was to him?”

“Yes.”

“Weldon, who is your son?”

Weldon shook his head. “Listen, Agent Savich, my son isn’t a murderer, he isn’t.”

“But you believe he is,” Sherlock said, “and it’s eating you alive. You think your son killed the people in San Francisco and in Pasadena, copying the scripts you wrote.”

Finally, Weldon DeLoach said, “I just couldn’t make myself accept that he was like his grandfather, that his head wasn’t right, that something was missing in him.”

Dane said, “We’ve got to bring him in, Weldon, you must know that. You can’t let him continue doing what your own father did for so many years.”

Weldon was shaking his head. “Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t figure it out until just a couple of days ago. And even then I didn’t figure it out for myself. The old man actually bragged about how he’d finally gotten a real man in the family, how he didn’t have much to teach his grandson, because—like his granddaddy—he was born knowing what to do and how to do it. He told me that his grandson came to see him, brought a Christmas present, a nice tie with red dots on it. And how perfect that was, and so he told the boy he was going to die soon and he wanted to tell him all about himself. And he laughed and laughed at how stupid everyone was, the cops especially.”

Weldon fell silent, looked at them again. He said at last, “I haven’t known what to do. I just knew I had to kill that obscene old man, get him buried, and gone.”

Sherlock said very gently, “But what were you going to do about your son?”

“Get him help. Stop him from doing any more harm. Turn him over to the police if I had to.”

Sherlock said, “We’re the cops. What’s his name, Weldon?”

But Weldon just shook his head. “I couldn’t let him continue, not like my father had done. He was a good boy, really. I know something must have happened to make him snap, to turn him into a monster like his grandfather. I don’t know what it was, but there just had to have been something. He was doing so well. He’s very smart, you know, extraordinarily talented. But then there were some signs—he struggled when he was in high school, didn’t like his teachers, couldn’t make friends—it was enough to make me pay attention. He was violent once, when he accidentally killed a girl in college, but it could have happened to any guy, you know? Things just got out of hand. It was involuntary manslaughter. I got him help. They made him well. My son promised me he was just fine, and I wanted desperately to believe him.

“Something happened. The old man did this to him, somehow.”

He looked up at each of them in turn. “Do you know I still don’t know how many people that old monster killed? There were people he killed that were never found by anyone. Oh Jesus.”

He put his head in his hands and sobbed very quietly.

“Wait!
You can’t go in there!”

As she pushed past him, Sherlock said, “Jay, it’s time for you to go away now. It’s time to take your custom suits from Armani, get another job, and pay off your credit cards.”

“But he’s meditating! He specifically told me he didn’t want to be bothered. And I love Armani. When I wear Armani everyone knows it’s Armani.”

Suddenly Arnold Loftus came roaring forward. He didn’t try to bar their way, he rounded on Jay Smith. “Shut up, Jay. They’re here for a reason. Don’t try to stop them.”

“You’re the damned bodyguard. Don’t let them go in there, you moron, you’ve—”

Arnold very gently picked up Jay Smith beneath his armpits and simply walked away with him. He said over his shoulder, “The Little Shit fired me. Whatever it is, go for it.”

Dane gently turned the handle. The door was locked. He turned to Jay, still held up by his armpits, and held out his hand. “Key,” was all he said.

Arnold let Jay down, watched him like a hawk as he went to his desk, got down on his knees, and untaped a key beneath the center drawer. He handed it to Dane.

“Thank you,” Dane said.

Dane quietly unlocked the door, slowly pushed it open. The huge office was dark, like a movie theater, and indeed, there was a movie showing, on the far white wall. Linus Wolfinger was seated in the chair behind his desk, his chin propped up in his hands, watching.

It was an episode of
The Consultant,
one they hadn’t seen. He didn’t look away from the screen even after all six of the people who’d come into his office were standing around his desk.

He said in a calm, conversational voice, “My dear old dad blew the whistle, I take it?”

“No,” Delion said. “Your dad told us about how he’d found out that his son was a murderer, but no, he didn’t tell us your name.”

“That crazy old pile of bones told you then.”

Savich said, “Actually, we managed to figure it out. MAX, my computer, verified for us that you were born Robert Allen DeLoach, and you attended Garrett High School here in LA. Here’s a photo of you.”

Savich laid the photo faceup on Wolfinger’s desk. Linus didn’t bother to look at it.

Sherlock said, “We also found the real Michael Linus Wolfinger. Here’s his photo. He isn’t you.”

Linus waved a hand. “The guy died in a skiing accident, nothing more. He was an orphan. Taking his identity wasn’t a problem. I wanted to work in the studio. With the year in that institution, I knew no one would hire me.” Linus shrugged. “Who the hell cares?”

“Tell us about the girl in college,” Dane said.

Linus shrugged again, his fingers were tapping on the
desktop. He couldn’t seem to keep himself still. “Silly little twit, told me she wouldn’t go out with a nerd. I twisted her neck until it broke. Unfortunately my father came in before I could get rid of her body. But he helped me, told me that I wasn’t like my grandfather, that he was going to get me help. I argued with him but he told me I had no choice. For my own good, he was putting me in an institution. If I didn’t agree, he’d turn me over to the police.”

Linus looked at them again, shrugged. “I am very smart, you know. In fact, I’m more than smart. I’m a genius. That year in the Mountain Peak Institution, in the butt-end of nowhere—well, I used that year to plan out what I wanted to do with my life. It was right after that that Wolfinger died and I took on his name and his past. Dear old dad got me a job here at the studio. Then I met Miles Burdock and impressed the hell out of him, which was tough, but I told you, I’m a genius. I’ve proved it. I’ve made lots and lots of money for the studio. That’s why all the old duffers around here call me Little Shit. They’re all jealous. Hey, I’m the crown prince, the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to this place.”

He paused a moment, looked at Savich. “I don’t suppose my daddy knocked off my grandfather?”

“No,” Dane said, “but he really wanted to. He still does. How did you find out about your grandfather? How did you even know where he is?”

Linus laughed. “I was at my dad’s house last month and came across a paid invoice to the old folks’ home. I had never met my grandfather, but I did know that my dad hated him. He told me several times that he’d never put that old man in my life, never. I suppose my dad told you that?”

Dane nodded.

“I wanted to meet him, maybe find out why my dad hated him so much. I even took him a Christmas present. Do you know what I found out from that pathetic old man?”

No one said anything, just waited.

“He told me about what he’d done. At first I just didn’t believe him, it was too fantastic. But he told me stuff that sounded too real to be made up. He called my dad a coward and a wuss. Then he asked me if I was really of his blood, if I’d ever killed anyone. I told him I had. I thought the old man would crawl out of his wheelchair and dance he was so pleased.

“He cackled, blood and spittle hanging off his chin. He wagged his finger at me, told me it was in my blood, told me I had the look of him when he was young, and the good Lord knew it was so deep in his blood that now it was coming out of him. He coughed again and more blood came out of his mouth.

“I realized then that I was just like him. I told him that I’d gotten bored, and then my dad had come up with this terrific idea for a series. As I listened to him, everything came together in my mind. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I added my own ideas to the first two or three scripts, and my dad was really pleased that I was so interested and that my ideas worked so well.

“When I told my grandfather what I was going to do, he wanted all the details. He even helped me refine some of my plans. When I left, he laughed and wished me luck, said he wanted to hear how things actually went down because, he said, things never go exactly as planned, and that just makes it all the more fun. I told him he could read all about it in the newspaper.” Linus shook his head, tapped his fingers some more on the desktop.

“Jesus, it was fun, particularly that priest in San Francisco, your twin brother, Agent Carver. He surprised the hell out of me. It gave me quite a start when you first came in here.”

Dane wanted to kill the little bastard. He felt Savich’s hand on his arm, squeezing very lightly. He fought for control, managed to keep it. He said, “It’s over now, Linus, all over. You’re dead meat.”

Linus said, “You do know I’m the one who sent that
picture of you and Miss Nick to the media. All I had to do was make a couple of calls to the SFPD to find out who she was. And now she was here, sniffing around, looking at everyone, but I knew she wouldn’t recognize me.”

Dane said, “But you hired Milton to kill her. You were afraid that she might recognize you eventually.”

Linus shrugged yet again, his fingertips tapping a mad tattoo. “Why take a chance? Too bad Milton was such a lousy shot.” He looked at Nick. “Pity he missed you. Just a graze. Bummer. But I would have gotten you, Miss Nick, oh yes, I would have killed you dead.” He gave a short laugh, then turned back to the show. He pressed a button, lowering the volume even more. He said, never looking away from the episode playing on the wall, “Father Michael Joseph was my first big challenge. He told me he was going to blow the whistle on me, leave the priesthood if he had to. I was going to kill him anyway, but I had to speed things up.” He looked at Dane and smiled. “It was a beautiful shot. But you know what? The damned priest looked happy, like maybe he realized that he’d saved some lives with his sacrifice. Who can say?”

Dane was breathing hard now, struggling to keep his hands at his sides, to keep himself from wrapping his hands around Linus Wolfinger’s neck and choking the life out of him. He was a monster, maybe even more of a monster than his grandfather, but that would really be saying something.

“What did you do with the gun?” Sherlock asked.

He grinned at her. “Who knows?”

Dane smiled at him. “You’re going to pay now, Linus. You’re going into a cage and you’re never going to come out except when they walk you down to the execution room to send you to hell.”

“I don’t think so,” Linus said, lifted his hand, and in it was a gun, a derringer, small and deadly. He aimed it at each of them in turn.

“Don’t even think about it, Linus,” Savich said. “It’s too late. We don’t want to have to kill you. Don’t make us.”

Linus Wolfinger laughed. “Do you know running this studio isn’t even much fun anymore? Nothing’s much fun anymore.” He said, in a very good imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger, “
Hasta la vista,
baby.” He stuck the derringer in his mouth and pulled the trigger.