“I’m sucking,” she said from outside the living room. “It won’t need vacuuming for a week. I’m nearly to the staircase.”
Another shot rang out, this one shattering a lamp next to a big sofa. Then another, blasting obliquely through a side window, going wild.
Ben said. “Okay, everyone stay down. I’m going out to see if I can find Günter. See if he’d like to dance with me.”
“No!” Callie jumped to her feet and landed against him, knocking him back against the wall. She grabbed his shirt. “You’re not going anywhere. Are you crazy? We’re going to wait for help.” She actually pulled him tight against her, hanging on for dear life. “Do you want to get yourself killed?”
“For God’s sake, Callie, I’m a cop.” He grabbed her hands, trying to pull her off him, but she held on tight. “Stop trying to strangle me. Listen to me, it’s what I do for a living—serve and protect. Now get back down on the floor and crawl over to that staircase.”
Her fingers dug into his shirt. “If you want to be a damned hero, I’m coming with you.”
Sherlock gave Sean to her husband, and simply tackled Callie, took her down. Callie didn’t stand a chance, black belt in karate or no, and now she was helpless, couldn’t move. “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this to me,” she gasped, her face in the carpet. “You really shouldn’t be able to.”
“I learned from the best. Be quiet, Callie, and don’t move or I’ll hurt you. Ben, go, and be careful. As soon as I get Callie to listen to me, I’ll let her up. Dillon, you got Sean? Fleurette’s down?”
“Yeah, we’re fine. You keep Callie’s face in the floor.”
“Why did he try to kill me?” Fleurette whispered, coming up on her knees, clutching Savich, her breath hot against his neck, Sean trapped and crying between them. “I don’t know anything, but he fired into your house. To kill me. Why? I really don’t know anything that could harm him. Why would he come after me?”
“He obviously believes you do know something,” Sherlock said over Sean’s yells, “and it doesn’t look like he’s going to stop. Now, Callie, you got it together, or do you need to get more splinters in your face? Sean’s crying, in case you hadn’t noticed, and it really pisses me off that I’m not comforting him right now.”
“I’m okay,” Callie said, “or very nearly. I’m sorry. Ben’s already out the door, the idiot. I swear I won’t go after him. Go get Sean, Sherlock.”
“Fleurette and I have him,” Savich said. “Get yourself together, Callie. Don’t make me regret bringing you into this investigation.”
Callie drew a deep breath, hiccuped, and said, “I’m sorry, it’s just that Ben—”
“I know. But it’s his job. Let it go. Get yourself together.”
“Okay, okay, I’m trying but, he’s such a macho moron, saying he’s going to go out there and dance with that monster.”
“That particular macho moron is an excellent cop,” Sherlock said.
“That was just a touch of cop humor,” Savich said.
“He knows what he’s doing. Now, Callie, we’re going to glide slowly across the floor to sit next to Dillon and Fleurette. I’m going to hug Sean. We’re going to wait for the cavalry. You just stay down, you got that? Ready?”
They were both breathing hard by the time they could lean against the staircase. Sherlock pulled Sean from between Fleurette and Dillon, and pressed his small face against her shoulder. “It’s okay now, champ,” she whispered against his wet cheek, “don’t worry, it’s okay. Mommy’s right here. It was just a loud noise. You can yell louder than that.”
Not even a minute later sirens sounded loud, at least a half dozen of them. When the front door opened, both Sherlock and Savich had their guns aimed at it. Ben called out before he showed his face, “Jimmy Maitland is here along with lots of my guys and FBI agents. They’re already spreading out, searching for Günter, talking to every neighbor who’ll answer the door. You guys okay?”
“Yeah, we’re fine,” Sherlock said.
Ben made his way over to one of the living room side windows, pulled the drapes tight. Once the room was shrouded, Ben turned on the light switches. Everyone blinked. Savich said, “All of you, stay away from the windows. No telling what that maniac might try. Thing is, after that first shot, he knew he was shooting blind, knew we wouldn’t just stand in the middle of the living room. So why did he keep firing?”
“He thought he might get lucky,” Ben said.
“But the chance he’d hit Fleurette?”
Sherlock said, “You know, I don’t think he cared. I think he wanted to terrify us, let us know he was close. I don’t know about the rest of you, but it worked for me.”
Callie came up on her hands and knees, and stared at Ben. Then she was on her feet, running at him. She grabbed him close and held on, her face buried in his shoulder. “I should kill you, you macho asshole, running out there like that and this madman with a gun, shooting like crazy. He’s a good shot, and he would be really happy to see you dead, even if you aren’t Fleurette. Dillon is right, he didn’t care who he hit, and here you were making that lame joke about dancing with him—if that’s an example of cop humor, you need a new writer.”
He holstered his gun in his belt, put his arms around her and hugged her. “Well, he wasn’t all that good a shot this time, was he? And he tried six times. If you start crying, I’m going to throw you out the front door.”
“I’m not crying, you jerk.”
Ben grinned down at her. “Good. I’m all right. He’s long gone. One thing Günter isn’t, is stupid. He knew cops would swarm here within minutes after he fired those shots. He had to know too that it would be a miracle if he got to Fleurette after the first miss. Maybe they’ll find his car, or one of the people who lives a couple of blocks over saw him running to his car, got the make. Maybe someone actually got a look at him.”
Sherlock said, looking around the shattered living room and at each of them in turn, “Günter took his shot, missed, but all of you know he’ll be back. He wants Fleurette dead and he’s not going to stop until it’s done or we get him first.”
Savich said, “We were lucky your parents weren’t here, Fleurette.”
Fleurette, still plastered against him, shuddered. “If they’d still been here, he might have shot one of them. I can’t stand this. I don’t understand why he’s doing this. I don’t know anything!”
Sean began humming, the sound very loud in the entrance hall. It made everyone smile, which was a good thing. Sherlock was standing to the side, close to the staircase, rocking him from one leg to the other. She said, between kisses on Sean’s cheek, “We’re all okay, but this was way too close. I’m thinking that to keep you completely safe, Fleurette, we need to take you to Quantico. No one could get near you there. Security could catch a runaway flea there. Little sucker could end up on the firing range.”
Fleurette looked shell-shocked, but she straightened, her eyes blinking as if waking from a dream. She looked toward Sherlock. “That was funny. You guys are so amazing, so—what if he’d hit Sean? I couldn’t take that. It would have been my fault.”
Sherlock’s voice was calm. “You know something, Fleurette? You’re right about one thing. I’m thinking about our boy too. He’ll be safer with you out at Quantico. This is the second time violence has come into our home. If it were just Dillon and me, that would be different, but Sean’s the important one, and we’re supposed to protect him. Now, no more angst from any of you. It’s done. I’ve got to clean up that coffee before it stains the floor, and then you’re going to Quantico, Fleurette. You can call your parents from there. They can visit you there for as long as they’re in town.”
Savich rose, took Sean from Sherlock, and began rocking him in exactly the same way she had, one large hand going up and down on his son’s back. “I really wish we didn’t have to tell your parents about this, Fleurette.”
“No choice, Dillon,” Callie said. “It was on the police radio, and s
oon it will be all over the news. I don’t see any choice. The media will descend any moment. And they’ll be all over us if we’re still here.”
Sherlock muttered under her breath at the coffee and tea spreading over the floor. She walked into the kitchen to get paper towels to clean it up. “Callie’s right, Dillon,” she said as she came back into the living room. “This is Georgetown. If the chef at Pamplona’s cuts his thumb chopping a carrot, it’s front page in the Post. Worse, this is an FBI agent’s house, who also happens to be the lead investigator on Justice Califano and Danny O’Malley and Eliza—” Her voice caught in her throat and she dropped to her knees and viciously wiped up the coffee and tea, in wide, heavy strokes, her pain palpable to Savich. Savich handed Sean to Ben, who nestled him into the crook of his arm, gathered up some more paper towels and helped her.
Fleurette and Callie stood silent, watching Ben rock Sean, and Savich and Sherlock clean up the spreading spill. The creamer ran into the seam where the wide oak planks met. “It’s a beautiful oak floor,” Fleurette said, and grabbed some paper towels and went after the creamer. “My mom said it was the prettiest floor she’d ever seen and she wondered how you kept it so nice what with Sean running all over the place. Will it stain?”
“No, it’ll be fine,” Sherlock said, took a final swipe and rose to her feet. “Callie, we don’t need you down here on your knees too. Thank you, Fleurette. There, all done. Hey, Ben, you’re a natural. Sean’s nearly out.”
Ben paused in his rocking and looked at her. Sherlock wanted to laugh, the expression on his face was so priceless. Then he said slowly, “Yeah, I guess I am a natural. Thing is, I’d be a natural too with a red Porsche.”
Callie laughed, got up, and walked to him. She punched him in the arm. “You are such a guy.” Then she cocked her head to one side as she looked at Sean, asleep in his arms. “Yeah, I guess you are a natural.”
A moment later there was pounding on the door. “Let’s get it over with,” Savich said and went to let in Jimmy Maitland and a half dozen FBI agents and Metro cops.
CHAPTER
32
JEFFERSON DORMITORY
QUANTICO
SUNDAYMORNING
DR. HICKS WAS flummoxed, and Savich knew why. Martin Thornton wasn’t going under. Something inside him was fighting the loss of control. Martin wasn’t going anywhere.
Savich wondered if this was Dr. Hicks’s first failure. It was just the three of them in Dr. Hicks’s small office; Janet was in the Quantico gym, working out with some students, who’d been assigned to keep an eye on her.
Dr. Hicks tried again. “Martin, listen to me carefully. I want you to relax, I want you to let yourself go. You’re safe, you do understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“No one’s going to hurt you. I know you want to remember. I know you want to know the truth about what happened on your sixth birthday. I’m here to help you do it, but you have to help me, you have to let go. Now, let’s try again. Concentrate on this bright silver dollar, keep your eyes on it, watch it swing back and forth and try to focus that brain of yours.”
Martin stared at the blur of silver as it swung back and forth several dozen times, until his eyes nearly glazed over. He finally shook his head, rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “I’m sorry, Dr. Hicks. Nothing’s happening and believe me, you’re right, I want it to. I want to remember. I want to know what happened to my mother that day. You know what else? I want to remember what she looked like, what she smelled like. I know she wore a perfume like flowers, but I can’t smell it anymore. I’m beginning to believe I do know what happened that day. I want to see the man who killed my mom.”
“I agree you might have seen your mother murdered,” Savich said. “Martin, do you remember hiding in the attic? Martin—Austin. Which do you prefer?”
“I’m Martin Thornton now, Dillon, have been for more years than I was Austin.”
“All right, then, Martin. I’ve described the house to you, described the attic, described your mother. Do you remember the attic? Can you see it in your mind at all? Do you remember ever being in an attic?”
“No, I don’t. There’s nothing there.”
Dr. Hicks put the watch away, sat back in his leather chair, and crossed his hands over his skinny belly. “I’m thinking that when Agent Savich is through with this current case, you need to go back to Blessed Creek, see the house where you spent the first six years of your life. You need to climb up that ladder into the attic, go into the bathroom where they found your mom. I’m thinking that might break that dam in your memory, help everything flood back.”
Martin’s eyes lit up. “I could go back now, with Janet.”
“No way are you going anywhere, Martin,” Savich said, his voice sharp. “You’re going to promise me that you’ll stay right here. Promise me.”
“But—”
“Promise me.”
“All right, I promise.”
“I don’t want you going anywhere. You’re in a safe place, and right now, that’s exactly what you need—to feel safe. You need to know that if something happens in your brain, you’ll have help to deal with it. Forget the frustration of not remembering. It will all come back when it’s ready to. Now, Dr. Hicks has the name of an excellent psychiatrist, and you’ll want to tell him or her everything you know, everything you’ve felt, in great detail. Who do you have in mind, Dr. Hicks?”
“Dr. Lynette Foster. She works regularly with the FBI. She’s very good with memory issues, cases of trauma. You can trust her, Martin.”
Slowly, Martin Thornton nodded.
Savich said, “I’ve already spoken to Janet. Believe me, she’s not worried about your girls or anyone but you. You’re here for the near future. Hey, the food in The Boardroom is pretty good, and you have the PX with plenty of FBI souvenirs to buy, pretty cool stuff you can give for presents. Best of all, you can spend some time with Janet. You’re staying, Martin, until I’m through with this case.”
Dr. Hicks smiled when Martin nodded.
“Excellent. Now, Janet’s in the gym, getting started on losing fifteen pounds she said, and it’s been over an hour. Dr. Hicks will show you the gym, then you and Janet can have lunch, wander the grounds if you like.
“I’m going to head out to the Hoover Building. By the way, can you do any of your work remotely if you have access to a computer?”
“Yeah, sure. I spend most of my time on the computer.”
When Savich left, he saw Martin standing tall, his shoulders no longer slumped. He heard him say to Dr. Hicks, “I’ve got lots of work to do. You said this Boardroom place has some good food?”
Savich would swear as he walked down the hall of the Jefferson Dormitory that he heard Martin Thornton whistling.
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
EARLY SUNDAY AFTERNOON
SAVICH LOOKED OUT over the thirty-plus agents and cops in the conference room. “Last night, as most of you already know, Günter fired six shots into my living room, his primary target Fleurette. His performance last night shows he’s becoming increasingly less controlled, more desperate, but given what he did in the middle of Georgetown, I certainly can’t say he’s any less daring. So long as he continues, our chances of finding him improve. So far the only physical evidence we have are ballistics from the recovered bullets—probably a plain old thirty-eight. We’ve located Günter’s approximate range and position, but apart from a few broken branches, some partial footprints in the snow, he left nothing behind.
“But we may have a lead. Two Metro policemen found a witness, an older man who was walking his dog two blocks over. They’re not convinced he’s reliable, but let me report what Mr. Avery told them. He said he saw a man running toward a car. He thinks it was a light gray, or maybe white, late-model Toyota. Said the guy was fast, ran easily, was tall and well-built. He was wearing a Burberry coat, black gloves on his hands.
“Now the thing is, the t
wo policemen had major doubts about Mr. Avery’s mental acuity. They thought he might be embellishing, even creating, all these excellent details to impress them. Evidently Mr. Avery also told him that the car fishtailed as it drove away, headed east. He thinks it was a Virginia plate, the first two letters RT or BT. There’s no match for that plate to a late model Toyota, so we’re checking for recently stolen Toyotas and reports of stolen plates with those letters. Mr. Avery did not hear any shots.
“As I said, the police weren’t sure we could believe much of anything he said, that he wandered all over the lot—even asked his dog’s opinion—seemed a little too, well, old and odd is how they put it. Oh yeah, the police officers said when he asked his dog’s opinion, the little sucker actually barked.
“It’s clear we have no unified, specific theory for these latest crimes, the murder of Eliza Vickers and the attempted murder of Elaine LaFleurette last night. In Danny O’Malley’s case, there are strong indications he made contact with the perpetrators. For the two women, the connection to Justice Califano is of course clear, but the killer’s specific motives are not.”
He paused, looking out over the group. “All right, I want every idea, every speculation you’ve come up with on why Eliza Vickers was murdered, and why Fleurette was shot at. Ollie, you’re nearly busting out of your vest, so you lead off.”
Ollie Hamish, Savich’s second-in-command in the Criminal Apprehension Unit, cleared his throat. “Okay,” Ollie said, “let’s start with Eliza Vickers.” He sat forward, his hands clasped in front of him on the conference table. “Ben told us about last Friday when he and Callie were in Justice Califano’s office looking for Fleurette, but only Eliza was there, cleaning up things. He said that when he asked her if there was anything he could do, she hesitated. I can’t get that out of my mind.” He paused a moment, focusing his thoughts. “She knew something. Maybe she didn’t realize how important it was, but you know, that’s not very likely. What was it? Was she involved in Justice Califano’s murder? Did she turn on him because he wasn’t about to leave his wife for her?” Ollie shot an apologetic look at Callie. “Rage can do terrible things to people, we’ve all seen it. Eliza Vickers could have found out who Günter was, maybe she’d dated him or met him some other way and hired him or persuaded him to murder Justice Califano—”
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