Labyrinth

by Catherine Coulter

  Besserman stood tall and squared his shoulders, but still looked rather ridiculous with his mussed hair and rumpled suit. “We’re still checking, but it doesn’t matter, I will not believe Justice Cummings would ever contact a foreign government, would ever turn traitor. Absolutely no way, but if a Russian counterpart tracked his access back to him specifically?” He shook his head. “Still, there’d be no reason to kill him. The information was already in our hands, at least that’s what they’d think.”

  He paused, looked pained to even say the words. “All right, let’s assume he contacted someone outside channels, see where it takes us.”

  Farriger merely looked at him and waited. Besserman cursed under his breath. He said slowly, “If he believed the people he saw were ours and that’s why he ran, he thought he’d been busted.” He paused, ran his tongue over his lips. “But they weren’t our people. The people he saw outside, it’s possible they had nothing to do with him and he ran because—” He shook his head. “No, wait. I may be going far afield here, but there’s another possible scenario. He was cheating on his wife, meeting a woman after work at the café. It’s possible he ran from the people he saw outside because—” He looked frustrated because no good reason popped into his brain, except “Maybe he believed she’d found him out and thought his wife had hired a P.I. He got spooked.”

  She tried not to laugh. “Say you’re right, then we’re back to why wouldn’t he call you after he got hurt? You’re not only his friend, you’re his chief. Or call some other friend? Why, Alan?”

  “Because he’s dead, that’s why. He managed to get himself hidden and he died.”

  Farriger smiled, a tight smile, rarely seen, but it was there, showing white teeth. It was disappointing Besserman and his crew were taking so long to find the trail of sensitive documents she herself had copied from his workstation—documents they would have to believe he’d copied, something never allowed, an act to trigger a major alarm. Those copied files would incriminate, and Cummings would have no choice but to cooperate with Nikki—at least Nikki believed he’d have to, or be branded a traitor. But what Claire really wanted was Cummings dead. She hoped Besserman was right—Justice’s body would turn up somewhere in Alexandria. It would solve all their problems.

  Besserman stared at his boss, found her smile alarming.

  Farriger said, “If he were dead, it would be sad, but at least it would mean Justice can’t hurt us. But here’s the thing, Alan, I don’t believe he’s dead, not for a New York minute. Cummings is a chess player. I’ve seen him play. He’s an excellent strategist, his mind razor sharp. He thinks six moves ahead. So, it only follows that if he’s hurt, he’s still in the Washington area, somewhere smart, somewhere off our radar.”

  Besserman said, “Obviously he’s not at home, and he hasn’t been there. He hasn’t used his credit cards. One of our agents did spot a black SUV idling in Cummings’s neighborhood, maybe half a block from his house. When our agent finally went to talk to the woman—yes, it was a woman—she gunned the SUV and got out of there fast. Of course, he got the license plate, ran it. The vehicle belongs to a fleet run by the Bexholt Group, the big communications security company. We’ve had dealings with them.”

  He’d surprised her, he saw it, but only for a moment, then her face smoothed out again. Had he imagined it?

  She said, her voice clipped, hard, “Yes, I know who they are, and yes, the CIA has been involved with them before, on a firewall installation. Do sit down, Alan. Long day, long night. A woman, you say?”

  He nodded. “Was she watching Cummings’s house? I’ll call Bexholt in the morning, find out who had that SUV yesterday. Haul her in here and find out why she was there.”

  Alan hadn’t moved toward the gray leather sofa. He still stood watching his boss. Farriger said, “No, don’t call them, don’t go see her. I want to handle this. The last thing I want is for the FBI and Metro to find out we brought someone here to question. No, I’ll deal with it. Any more pertinent info you waited until the bitter end to tell me?”

  “There is one other thing, ma’am, but I doubt it has anything to do with any of this, whatever this is. There’s talk in his group he and his wife haven’t been getting along. Bottom line appears to be she wants him to quit the agency, go private where he could earn a lot more money. But that’s not unusual.”

  She shook her head. “Still, if there is real conflict at home, it could be a red flag.”

  “Justice told Pamela Snow in our office that his wife and daughters left for the Poconos a couple of days ago. I suppose her leaving could mean something.”

  “It’s late, Alan. Go ahead and send your people home. We’ll pick this up in the morning. But keep me posted. He shows up, call me.”

  “I will. Good night, ma’am.”

  Farriger watched Besserman walk across the shined oak floor. She turned back to the window, heard the door quietly open and close. It started to rain, thick fat drops striking hard against the glass. It was mesmerizing. She would wait another day until she knew more, then she would decide what the FBI had to know.

  But now she had to deal with a more pressing problem—the woman their agent had spotted watching Cummings’s house. She looked out at the heavy rainfall for several more minutes, then picked up her cell phone.

  40

  * * *

  GAFFER'S RIDGE

  JENNY'S CAFE

  THURSDAY EVENING

  Carson groaned as she ate the meat off a barbecue sparerib. She set the bone down in a growing pile next to the mashed potatoes, leaned back, and rubbed her stomach. She looked sadly at her plate. “Two ribs left and I can’t, just can’t eat them, or I’ll explode. Wait, there’s no substance to tomatoes, is there?” And she ate the one lone tomato slice on her plate. She waved at Jenny, gave her a thumbs-up, sat back, and sighed. “The good Lord can take me now.”

  No one disagreed with her. Savich sipped on his favorite oolong tea, hot and strong and black as sin. On Savich’s plate were the carcasses of two corncobs, stripped clean.

  Jenny and Aimée Rose had kept the café open for dinner, a first, and the place was packed. Jenny and Alfredo Smith, her sous chef in training, were in the open kitchen, Aimée Rose and two college-age servers running their sneakers off to take care of customers. The four visitors were seated at one of the best tables, by a large window looking out onto Winchester Street. Aimée Rose came bustling back, grinning widely. “You liked? Any more seconds? Sherlock? You ate well, too. Excellent.”

  “Everything was perfect,” Griffin said for all of them. “We thank you for keeping the place open for us.”

  “Yep. Only look what happened.” She waved at the crowded room. “We weren’t expecting all these folks, but what could we do but feed them?” She rubbed her fingers together. “If things keep going like they are, I might have to buy myself a red Porsche like yours, Dillon.”

  Savich grinned up at her. “Nah, not red. I see you in a kick-butt black Porsche, extra-turbo-charged engine. Maybe a sign on the back: FEAR ME, all caps.”

  Aimée Rose’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, maybe me in black leather. Maybe a whip attached to my belt. Now, who’s up for fresh peach pie? It’s Alfredo’s specialty.”

  She was met with a chorus of groans. Sherlock said, “The spirit’s willing but the stomach’s stuffed.”

  When Aimée Rose took herself off, Carson leaned toward Sherlock across the table. She took her hand. “I still can’t believe what Cyndia Bodine did to you. I didn’t know anyone could do that. How do you feel now, really?”

  Sherlock gave her hand a squeeze. “Once Dillon realized what she was doing—from across the room—he stopped her and the pain was suddenly gone. Really, I’m fine now.”

  Griffin said, “Tell us exactly what happened.”

  Sherlock looked at the three of them, smiled, and said, “Okay, we’ve had our break, I guess it’s time to get back to it. Here’s what happened. I’d walked around the garage, made mental notes on measureme
nts, realized they were off, and then suddenly, they weren’t. I’d stepped onto the front porch when this awful pain ripped into my head. I finally blacked out.”

  Savich said, “I’m thinking Mrs. Bodine didn’t want Sherlock to remember. But she didn’t know Sherlock. She remembers what Mrs. Bodine said to her. ‘You couldn’t see what you couldn’t see.’ We all know what that could mean.”

  Griffin said, “The girls, if they’re still alive, are very probably being kept in that garage, or below it in underground rooms.”

  Savich said, “Agreed. However, if we try to get a warrant, you know we’ll be turned down flat. We’ve got to think of another way.”

  Carson was staring at Sherlock. She couldn’t get her head around it. “And I thought it was weird I can sometimes tell what people are thinking. But this is way weirder, it’s very scary.” She paused, then said slowly, “Sherlock, you may be having trouble with your memory because of your accident, but I can see you’re smart, you’re insightful, and no matter what Mrs. Bodine did to you, you still remembered what she said.”

  Sherlock wondered if she’d ever again see herself as insightful. She said, “I don’t know if I’ll agree with you when I finally remember who and what I am. All right, Dillon, you’ve been holding out on us. Come on, spill.”

  Savich gave them a huge grin. “Okay, here it is. When I supposedly went to the bathroom, I found Quint Bodine’s office.” He pulled his jump drive out of his pants pocket. “I installed a worm on his computer. When he boots it up with his password, I’ll have remote access to his hard drive without his knowing it.”

  Griffin could only shake his head. “Amazing, good going, Savich. Of course, nothing we find is admissible in court, but who cares? Now, about this worm you installed. It’s your own design?”

  Savich only smiled. “Mostly, yes. I’ll take a look at it later, let you know if I find anything important. Griffin, we know Slick and DeAndre can stay to help you after Rafer’s released from the hospital tomorrow. You could have them check for more missing teenagers in a wider area.”

  Griffin nodded. “Good idea. I’ll pick up Sheriff Bodine’s files tonight, read them over, see what’s missing, and what information we still need. But the way I see it, Savich, it’s most likely the girls are at Eagle’s Nest.”

  “And if they’re not?” Carson asked.

  “Then we check records to see what other properties Quint Bodine owns. Or Rafer owns. If the girls are still alive, they have to be somewhere close.”

  Sherlock said, “And that’s the question—why take the girls in the first place?” She raised her near-empty glass of iced tea. “Let’s end this soon.”

  41

  * * *

  GAFFER'S RIDGE INN

  THURSDAY NIGHT

  Savich paused at the bathroom door, his hair still damp from the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, and watched Sherlock. She’d changed into her tiger-striped boxers and flowy top, his favorites he’d packed without thinking. Now he realized she might think they were too sexy, which they were, and it might make her uncomfortable. She was standing by the bed, her hand on the covers, unmoving, staring down.

  He said quietly, not wanting to startle her, “Sherlock, please don’t be concerned. I’m not going to jump you.”

  She slowly turned to look at him, head to toe. He said, his voice calm, trying for a bit of humor, “Usually I don’t wear anything to bed, but maybe it would be best if you handed me a pair of boxers and a T-shirt from my go bag.”

  His black go bag was open on the bed. She picked out a pair of royal-blue boxer shorts, held them up, and suddenly saw herself laughing, watching Dillon walk away from her, a rip in his pants, his royal-blue boxer shorts on display, and she was responsible. She blinked. She held up the boxer shorts again. “Did you ever rip your pants? And you were wearing blue boxers?”

  He gave her a huge grin. “When you were in the FBI Academy, I role-played a bank robber in Hogan’s Alley and your job was to spot me and bring me down. During our scuffle, I ripped my pants. Believe me, you weren’t the only one laughing her head off. I had to toss the pants.”

  “I saw you walking away in my mind, even heard myself laughing. I know you’re not going to jump me. You’re not that kind of man.”

  She stopped, walked over and handed him the T-shirt and boxers. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” he said, and closed the bathroom door.

  Sherlock paused in front of a photo of a beautiful golden retriever framed on the wall beside the bed. His name was Carl, printed in gold leaf on a plaque beneath the photo. He was leaping high, catching a Frisbee in the air. She touched her fingertips to the photo. “That was an excellent catch, Carl. I’ll bet you were a great dog. So, can you help me out? I’m not eighteen anymore, and that superbly built man in the bathroom is my husband. I have a child with him. What do you think, Carl? Should I consider taking him as a lover? A stranger with benefits? Or is that too wicked?” She began to laugh at herself.

  Savich came out of the bathroom, heard her speaking to the lab in the photo. And waited, saying nothing, listening.

  “On the other hand,” she said to Carl, “I don’t believe in cheating. At least I don’t think I do. It’s strange, but I know about some things, about how to do my hair and my makeup, what I like to eat, how to drive, even my ankle Glock 380—it’s familiar to me. Ah, but people—it’s people mostly who are gone. I wouldn’t recognize my parents. I haven’t even had a glimpse of them. And Gabriella? I know she’s Sean’s nanny, but nothing else. I have these brief snapbacks, I guess you’d call them, but mostly they don’t mean much to me. Are people in a specific part of the brain? And that’s the part that’s wonky?” She sighed. “What’s a girl to do, Carl? That’s the question, isn’t it? Would sleeping with him really be like cheating, since I don’t know him? Would I feel like doing the walk of shame tomorrow morning?” She turned away from the picture. “I know so much and so little.”

  Savich walked to her, very gently took her arms in his hands. He hadn’t touched her bare arms in too long a time, because the bruises were still vivid and had to hurt. He studied the bruises on her shoulders from the seat belt, managed to smile down at her. “I love the tiger stripes.”

  She started, froze, then, finally, eased. “I thought you did like the tiger stripes, well, on some level I did. I see you looking at the bruises on my arms and shoulders. They’re not so bad now, Dillon. They don’t hurt much and they’re fading, too. Oh dear, did you hear my conversation with Carl the golden retriever?”

  “Your end of it, yes. Carl didn’t add much of anything.”

  She laid her palms on his chest, felt the warmth of his flesh through the black T-shirt. She leaned up, breathed him in, then jerked back. “Do I do this often after you shower?”

  “Sniff me to make sure I’ve washed behind my ears? Yes, usually.”

  “Somehow I don’t think checking to see if you’re clean has anything to do with my sniffing you.”

  Savich cupped her beloved face between his hands. She’d loosed her hair from the clips and now it was a wild nimbus around her head. He fingered a bright corkscrew curl, wrapped it around his finger. “I think the first time I saw you, I fell in love with your hair. The amazing color—it’s not red, more titian. I wanted to bury my face in all those curls.” That was only the beginning of what he’d wanted when he’d first laid eyes on her at Quantico more than six years before, but it was best to stop.

  She took a step back from him, pressed her palms against her head. “I hate this. I try to act normal, like I’m here and tuned in to everything, only I’m not. You probably heard me tell Carl I know how to do things, like when I saw the piano at Eagle’s Nest, I knew I could play. I know who the president is, how to use my cell phone, my iPad. It’s people, Dillon, it’s people who are hidden away. How can I know things and yet not know people? Even you, the most important person in my life, and you’re a stranger to me.” She poked a finger ag
ainst her chest. “All I know about who I am or what I am is what you tell me.” She began to cry, silently, tears running down her face. “I’ve lost you and me. I’ve lost what we are.”

  He wanted to weep with her, but instead he drew her in. She didn’t resist. “It’s okay to cry, baby. I know everything’s hard. It’ll be okay, you’ll see.” Stupid, meaningless words. He felt her shaking with the force of her tears. He stroked his hands up and down her back. He said against her hair, his voice steady, “The truth is I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I do know that here”—he laid her hand against his heart—“you’ll remember. You’ll come back to you and to me. Carson said you’re intuitive and she’s right. I’ve seen you shine with it. But for now you’ll have to trust me to have your back. Can you do that? Can you trust me?”

  She raised her face, tears still wet on her cheeks, swallowed. “I’ve watched how you act with other people, how you treat them. I’ve seen how kind you are. But I heard you tell Mrs. Bodine you’d kill her if she hurt me again, and she believed you and I believed you. You’re a warrior, Dillon, and you protected me. Do I trust you?”

  Her palm was still against his chest and she felt the steady beat of his heart. “I’d be an idiot if I didn’t. So yes, I trust you.” She gave him a crooked grin. “I look at that bed and know it shouldn’t worry me. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help it.”