Power Play (An FBI Thriller)

by Catherine Coulter

  “Mr. MacPherson?”

  There was no answer.

  Gladys was growling now. Was she coming closer? Why?

  Savich pressed his back against the wall and eased down the hall toward the living room, Glock raised.

  He saw a man’s shadow coming out of the living room, then he saw Gladys run out, leaping and barking wildly. The man’s arm was shaking as he raised a gun and fired at Savich, once, twice, three times. Wild shots, nowhere near him, but he’d already dropped and rolled back into the kitchen and hugged the refrigerator.

  He heard deep, steady breathing and Gladys still yipping, sounding like she was still jumping up and down, again and again.

  He heard the front door open. Sherlock. He felt his blood freeze. He wanted to yell at her to leave, but he knew she’d heard the gunshots, knew she’d be ready. Still, he rolled up onto his knees, saw the man’s shadow again. He was standing perfectly still, Gladys jumping up and down against his leg. Savich raised his Glock, shouted, “Blessed!”

  The man didn’t move at the sound of Savich’s yell, simply stood there.

  It was Sherlock who first realized what was happening. She yelled from the front hall, “Mr. MacPherson!”

  A familiar old voice said softly, “Who is that?”

  In the next instant, the man went down, a light switch went on, and Savich saw Sherlock fall to her knees beside Mr. MacPherson. Gladys was no longer barking, she was wildly licking Mr. MacPherson’s face, whimpering. Sherlock looked up. “He’ll be okay, Dillon. Blessed got to him. I knocked him out, and he won’t remember anything about this. Look at this. Blessed gave him my Glock so he could shoot us. I’ll see to Mr. MacPherson. Go get Blessed. He’s got to be close.”

  Savich had almost shot the precious old man who’d lived in this house since before Savich was born. He ran out the front door, looking for Blessed.

  Blessed didn’t slow until he’d run the four blocks to where he’d parked the Ford he’d stolen in Alexandria that afternoon. He had a violent stitch in his side, and his lungs were aching something fierce when he finally reached it. All the houses were quiet. Hadn’t anyone heard the gunshots? They’d sounded like cannon shots to him. Had the old man managed to shoot them? Even as he thought it he knew Savich wasn’t lying dead; the old man was no match for him. No, Savich was after him, even now that Porsche of his was screeching out of his driveway, but it wouldn’t do him any good. He had no idea which direction Blessed had run.

  He got himself together enough to climb into the car, still panting. He had to go now. Savich could get lucky enough to come his way. He coasted quietly forward without turning on the lights, happy for the bit of incline. He looked into his rearview mirror and saw only streetlights. He heard the roar of the Porsche in the distance, but it was moving away. He smiled.

  He heard the sirens approaching, and he smiled once more. He’d gotten away yet again. Then he saw his dying mother’s face, all gray, fanatic old eyes filming over, and her face was twisted in disappointment. At him, because he’d failed yet again? Didn’t Mama want him to live? He tasted something rancid and nasty in the back of his throat. He swallowed, wishing he had some water.

  How had that wretched little yapper gotten out of the closet?

  Savich gave up after fifteen minutes of cruising every street in a mile radius. When he drove into the neighborhood, he saw an ambulance and two Metro police cars in the MacPherson driveway. Neighbors had come out of their homes to see what the trouble was, and two officers were reassuring everyone. Good.

  He found Sherlock in the MacPherson living room, standing over Mr. MacPherson, who was lying on a gurney looking dazed, a paramedic holding his veiny wrist, taking his pulse.

  Sherlock said, “Did you get him?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t even see his car.”

  He stood over Mr. MacPherson. “I’m very sorry, sir. How are you feeling?”

  The old man’s eyes sharpened on his face. “I’ll live, boy, I’ll live. What happened? I woke up and there’s all this commotion going on and my head is fixing to burst. Can you hand me Gladys? She’s barking up a storm, all scared. I need to let her know I’m okay. I am okay, aren’t I?” he said to the paramedic standing over him.

  “You’ll be just fine, sir. Ah, here’s Gladys,” and the paramedic pressed the puppy against Mr. MacPherson’s chest. They watched Gladys licking Mr. MacPherson’s face frantically. Savich didn’t think she was going to calm down anytime soon. He spoke to one of the officers as Sherlock called a MacPherson daughter to come and take Gladys.

  Sherlock said, “I think Blessed tossed Gladys into the closet, only he didn’t shut the door well enough and she managed to poke her way out. And that’s when his plans were shot.” She petted the puppy’s head. “You saved the day, kiddo. All four and a half fluffy pounds of you.”

  They were stepping into their house when the Oak Ridge Boys belted out “Dream On.”

  “Yeah?” It was Dane Carver.

  Dane said, “We’ve got a solid lead on the assassin Hooley shot in the side last night. He broke into a doctor’s house in Annandale, a Dr. Marvin Kurtz, divorced and living alone. After the good doctor fixed him up, he clobbered him over the head, tied him up, and stuffed him in a closet. Here’s serendipity for you—the doc had bought one of those medical alert bracelets for his mom that day, and managed to press the button. When the cops arrived, he was still tied up and shouting his head off through the duct tape. The Annandale cops called us. The doc gave a description of the guy, and I’m betting we’ll find a lot of usable DNA.”

  Savich said, “I’ll wager he didn’t expect the doctor to be found anytime soon, for at least a day, enough time so he’d be out of the area.”

  “Yep. I’ve updated the BOLO out on him with the doctor’s description. Dr. Kurtz said he took codeine and antibiotics with him, enough to see him through, he said, that is, if he doesn’t move around too much in the next three days. Then he shrugged, said the man didn’t make a sound while he closed him up, he was tough. He also said he was lucky the bullet came close but didn’t hit anything vital, only muscle. The kind of wound that hurts like the devil but usually heals all right.

  “Dr. Kurtz is pretty wrung out, but hyped, you know? He won’t shut up, he’s too buzzed on adrenaline. Do you want to see him tonight?”

  Savich glanced down at his watch. It was late and the good doctor would probably crash soon now. “No, we’ll drive out to Annandale tomorrow morning. Let the good doctor have a nice night’s sleep.”

  He raised his head to look at Sherlock. She was still bundled up in her parka and gloves. He walked to her and pulled her into his arms.

  “What a night,” she said against his neck.

  Annandale, Virginia

  Sunday morning

  Savich pulled the Porsche into the driveway of a small 1950s faded gray clapboard cottage set amid a dozen oak trees on a cul-de-sac.

  Sherlock said, “Dr. Kurtz’s nurse told me he’s been renting this place for the past three months, since his wife caught him cheating and kicked him out.

  “I wonder how our assassin found him. Was it blind luck? What really scares me is what could have happened if he’d had his family here.”

  “Don’t make yourself crazy with what-ifs, sweetheart.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I’ve already done it enough for both of us.”

  As they walked up the ancient flagstone steps with weeds sprouting up happily between them to the weathered front door, Sherlock said, “I’m very relieved the good doctor is alive, Dillon.”

  Savich was, too. He knocked on the once red front door. The door opened on a tall, large-bosomed woman in her mid-thirties, her long blond hair curly around her pretty face. She stared at them from behind stylish aviator glasses, her eyes suspicious. Then she smiled. “Oh, you’re from the FBI, right?”

  Savich smiled back at her. “Yes, we are,” and he and Sherlock showed her their creds, introduced themselves.

  “And I’
m Linda Rafferty, Marvin’s—Dr. Kurtz’s—nurse. Come in, come in. Poor man, he’s lying down, a concussion, clearly, but he refused to go to the hospital last night. Doctors heal themselves, right? He’s a little better this morning, thank goodness. Please, follow me.”

  The master bedroom was painted a soft light brown, and not much larger than the king-size bed, with only a flat-screen TV on the wall across from it. Dr. Marvin Kurtz looked surprisingly well reclining on top of the big bed, wearing a stylish maroon bathrobe and matching slippers. He was looking over a pair of academic-looking glasses perched on his nose, watching ESPN. His only concession to his injury seemed to be the impressive white bandage wrapped around his head. He didn’t move to greet them, but he did smile at them, and then he smiled at his nurse.

  Aha, Sherlock thought, so Linda is why your wife booted you out. She shook Dr. Kurtz’s hand. “You were very lucky, sir. We won’t stay long. I imagine you’ve got a pretty bad headache.”

  “It’s not as bad now, thanks to some sleep and then pain meds.” He shook Savich’s hand. “I’ll tell you, Agents, if my mother hadn’t broken her hip I’d never have had that emergency alert bracelet in the house. What are the odds I’d use it myself? I’ve decided I’m going to have it bronzed. Linda, please turn off the television so we can talk.”

  Linda gave him another smile and turned off the TV.

  They took him through every moment of the previous evening, starting with the knock on his door announcing he had a package to sign for and he saw the gun pointed at his chest by a man whose clothes were stiff with dried blood.

  He said, “He knew I was a surgeon and could help him. He told me if I didn’t he would kill me and treat himself if he had to. So I did the best I could with what was here. Like many surgeons I know, I keep an emergency surgical kit at home.

  “He was in a lot of pain and looked quite ill, but he’d managed to stop the bleeding from his gunshot wound by applying a pressure dressing, as good a job as a medic could have done in the field. He was at the end of his rope, though, and smart enough to realize he could die if he didn’t get medical help.

  “I’ll tell you, while I worked on him, I kept hoping he’d pass out, but as I told Agent Carver, he looked like ex–hardline military, a Green Beret or a Ranger or something. He was fit and tough, and he dragged his left leg, probably from a war wound. Everything I did seemed quite natural to him, like he’d seen it before. Of course, he didn’t want me to give him anything intravenous that could knock him out. He had me only use lidocaine, and he took a couple of Vicodin, but he could still function, still hold it together. He was lucky the bullet didn’t penetrate his abdominal wall; it only tore though some muscle.

  “As I was treating his wound, picking out small foreign bodies, disinfecting and closing it, I kept thinking I could let the scalpel slip, maybe even stab him in the heart before he could bring up that gun and shoot me. But I couldn’t do it, couldn’t take his life, even though I knew in my gut there was a chance he was going to kill me.

  “But you know what it’s like, you keep hoping, keep doing what you’re doing, praying the guy will have a sliver of decency, show a bit of gratitude that you saved his life. I gave him the meds and antibiotics he needed, and helped him into one of my shirts.

  “Then he smiled at me and I knew that was it. Decision time. You know what he did? He said thank you, and as I helped walk him to the front door, he turned and hit me on the head hard, struck me down.

  “When I came around I’ll tell you I was so happy to be alive I didn’t care I was tied up in the living room closet. I don’t think I even realized I had blood running down my face. I was that relieved. Then I thought of the medic alert bracelet in my pocket I’d bought for my mother that very day, and wanted to sing the Hallelujah Chorus.” He beamed at them.

  “It’s all my fault,” Nurse Linda Rafferty said from the doorway. “I told Marvin, I mean Dr. Kurtz, that a man called me, asked if he could come in, that he’d had an accident, and I told him that Dr. Kurtz had been called to the hospital and he was off-call after that. I know he looked up Marvin’s—Dr. Kurtz’s—home address and that’s how he found him. I’m so sorry, if only I’d kept my mouth shut.”

  “Linda,” Dr. Kurtz said, “it’s over now, and I don’t think I’ve had an adventure like this one in years.” He paused. “Well, never, actually.”

  Sherlock marveled as she watched Linda Rafferty sit on the side of the bed, stroke Dr. Kurtz’s hand, and fondly call him a moron. She wondered if Linda would continue on as his nurse after they were married.

  By the time FBI sketch artist Jesse Griggs arrived to work with Dr. Kurtz, they’d managed to pry Linda away and sit with her in the living room. A nice spot, Savich thought, old furniture, faded rugs on the newly buffed oak floors, and chairs whose cushions sagged in the middle after cradling all comers over how many years?

  Linda Rafferty kept looking toward the bedroom. Finally, she jumped up, dashed off to the kitchen to make them coffee, and offered them apples with peanut butter, since it was nearly lunchtime.

  Twenty minutes later, Dr. Kurtz appeared in the doorway beside Jesse, looking like a raffish wounded RAF pilot. He said, “I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned it to you or Agent Carver. My head’s still foggy, I guess. The man had an accent. It wasn’t all that distinctive, like he’d lost most of it over the years, but I’m in London twice a year, you see, and I wondered about it. I think he’s a Brit.”

  Jessie walked across the room and showed them the sketch. They looked at William Charles McCallum, estranged son of the late George McCallum, Viscount Lockerby.

  Savich’s house

  Sunday afternoon

  They took a detour for lunch with Sean and his grandmother, featuring hot dogs and chips, and a nice homemade veggie burrito for Savich. Savich needed sleep, but what he got was a basketball game with Sean at the newly installed hoop in his mother’s driveway, with his mother cheering Sean on. They went through two video games and fetch with the tireless Astro before Savich and Sherlock left for the day. They arrived home to see Perry and Davis sitting in his Jeep in their driveway.

  Davis started talking even before he got out of his Jeep. “What’s with all the crime scene tape across the street? What happened here? You’re both okay?”

  Sherlock said, “Hi, Davis, Perry. Yep, we’re fine. We had a visit from Blessed last night, but, alas, he managed to get away and is still in the wind. As for Mr. MacPherson, our elderly neighbor, he had a stressful night, but he’s fine now, home and resting. The crime scene tape should be coming down tomorrow. Now, what’s up with you guys?”

  “I didn’t call because I knew you were at your mother’s with Sean. Maybe Blessed won’t be in the wind for much longer; we had a sighting of him this morning.”

  Savich said, “Come on in. I’ll make some coffee and you can tell us all about it.”

  Once everyone had a cup of Savich’s special dark roast, Davis said, “A kid in a pawn shop—Best Deal in Town in Arlington—was robbed at gunpoint. Name’s Allen Purcell, age twenty-one, son of the owner. Allen described Blessed Backman, no question it was him—an old guy with gray hair who needed a shave, ill-fitting clothes that looked too big for him, and this really pretty camel wool coat. Turned out later they got Blessed on camera, too, nice sharp black-and-white. I guess Blessed didn’t think about that, or didn’t care.

  “Allen said Blessed wanted the forty-caliber Glock he had in the display case; he told Allen he’d given his to a friend last night and wanted to replace it. When he leaned down to show the Glock, Blessed pointed a revolver at him. Allen said he thought he was going to die right there. But Blessed didn’t shoot him, only waved the gun at the ammunition in the case. While Allen was reaching for the magazine for the Glock, Blessed asked him about some rifles he had displayed over the counter, really expensive and high-quality, but he said Blessed didn’t take them. After Allen gave him the boxed ammo for the Glock, Blessed thanked him, locked him in the s
toreroom, and walked out. Of course, Allen had his cell phone in his pocket and called the cops. They were there in under four minutes, but Blessed was gone. Metro put it together that it was Blessed right away and called us. Ollie said you and Sherlock were out in Annandale this morning with Dr. Kurtz, who fixed up the guy Hooley shot, so we handled it ourselves.” He smiled at Perry, who was sipping at the wonderful coffee. “Since I wasn’t letting Perry out of my sight, I schlepped her with me to speak to Allen. Our football writer asked Allen a good question.”

  Perry shrugged. “Well, Davis told me all about Blessed and what he can do, and so I asked Allen if the man stared at him or if anything strange happened while Blessed was there.”

  Davis said, “Allen thought about it, then said the old guy did stare at him, kind of gave him the creeps, but apart from being scared to death, nothing strange happened, like what was supposed to happen.”

  Savich said, “Looks like Blessed was tired, or maybe his ability still doesn’t necessarily come when he calls. About Allen’s cell, Blessed’s not used to them, so I bet he didn’t even think about it.”

  Sherlock said, “Would you guys like me to make some sandwiches? I think Dillon could use a veggie wrap after his basketball workout with Sean.”

  Savich thought about that for a moment, then said, “How about grilled cheese?”

  When they were seated around the kitchen table with the requested hot grilled sandwiches on their plates, Savich gave them the news about William Charles McCallum as they’d heard it from Dr. Kurtz and Nurse Linda.

  As Davis lifted the top of his grilled cheese and added more mustard, he said, “Can you imagine? Natalie’s almost stepson, and the heir to an English peer turned Muslim, maybe a terrorist, and she’s never met him?”

  Perry was shaking her head, her toasted cheese sandwich untouched on her plate. “But why? I mean, according to my mom, he’d abandoned his father, his whole family. So why in heaven’s name would he try to kill the woman his father was going to marry? Why would he suddenly care about what happened to his father?”