As they walked down the stairs toward the still burning Chevy, they heard muttering, saw a few panicked faces and a few people shuffling back inside to get their things. Sherlock said, “I think some of them will make a run for it. This isn’t what you’d call a family sort of place.”
Two policemen ran up the stairs past them, broke into the room next to Blessed’s when no one opened the door. Thick smoke belched out. One of them looked in, covering his face. “There’s a dead man in there, looks like the manager, killed by the blast. The wall between the rooms is blown out.”
Savich said, “Blessed did that. He had the manager in his control, told him to set the bomb off when he heard the phone ring. Blessed knew we were in the room. He’s still got to be close by.”
Blessed watched Savich and Sherlock burst out of the motel room and press themselves against the concrete outer wall only a second before the bomb blast. It wasn’t fair. It was a fine blast, well nigh perfect, like wild orange lightning, spewing flames and black smoke. He watched it slam into the Chevy, igniting it like a torch. All it had managed to do was scare the crap out of the cheating couples with their quickies before going home to the spouse and kids. They burst out of their rooms, terrified, many in their underwear.
He cursed, then stopped. There was nothing he could do about blind luck. He realized he’d have been sorry to see them go up in the blast like that nasty-eyed manager he’d stymied into setting off the bomb when he called him. He’d hurried him along to his just reward, whatever that was. Luck wouldn’t be enough for any of them in the end. He would have to kill them himself.
He watched the cops drive up, sirens blaring. They scrambled out of their cars and scattered around the motel, not knowing what else to do until their boss, probably the chief of police in this Podunk town, drove up and they grouped around him, his thick rooster tail of white hair a kind of beacon to them. He watched Savich and Sherlock speak to all of them, warning them, no doubt, to be careful, not that any of them would believe what he could do—no one ever did until it was too late. He smiled. He couldn’t wait to get up close and personal to some of them. The cops fanned out, and Blessed knew they were going to search through the neighborhood for him. But they wouldn’t find him unless he let them, not here, looking out at them from behind an old lady’s lace curtain, where everything was quiet and under his own control.
He smiled. Before the sun set, some of those cops would be shooting one another.
He watched Savich and Sherlock walk into the motel office with the big white-haired guy. Even in the fading afternoon light, Sherlock’s red hair glistened—so beautiful, her hair. When the time came, he’d make sure she didn’t shoot herself in the head. He’d dreamed of the guardian again last night, whispering to him to strangle her like he’d always wanted to. He could do it, he could.
He watched a couple more cars pull into the motel parking lot and four more men pile out. No mistaking they were FBI, all formal and tough and ready to take on the world. He saw Savich come out of the motel reception area, beckon them inside. Now they had backup, but it wouldn’t do them any good. Would Savich allow Sherlock to come out looking for him? He’d see soon enough. He flexed his fingers.
He saw two cops walking down the street, watched them check behind every tree, every bush. They knocked on the first door and he saw a young mother with a kid in her arms answer the door. One cop checked out the house while the other went into the garage and skirted around the yard. They were coming here next, the second house in the line of middle-class boxes, the one with the best view of the motel.
Blessed looked over at Mrs. Amity Ransom, ninety if she was a day, sitting placidly in a rocking chair, knitting needles clacking, an ancient Remington Army caplock revolver, her long dead husband’s, he supposed, loaded with bullets she’d readily showed him hidden beneath some yellowed doilies in a cabinet drawer. The old dear was ready. She sneezed, once, then again.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s allergies,” Amity said, not looking up from her knitting, and sneezed again.
“Amity,” Blessed said, bringing her face toward him, her expression as blank as her eyes. “There are two police officers at the door. I want you to invite them in to search, all right? Be nice to them. Hide the revolver under your knitting.”
She did, then walked slowly and carefully to the front door, and she sneezed again.
Washington Memorial Hospital
Hooley’s eyes were closed. He was breathing deeply and easily. Natalie was standing beside his hospital bed, thinking how much better he looked, comfortably asleep. She lightly touched her fingers to his large, strong hand, and gently stroked so as not to wake him. She looked up when Davis and Perry walked in, and smiled.
She said quietly, “Connie said he’s much better, off the morphine and on oral meds now, getting down clear liquids. He nodded off just now. How did it go at the condo?”
Perry shook her head, nodded toward Davis. “We got everything I need for now, Mom,” she said. “And the bozo here seems to be calming down, finally.”
Davis snorted but let it go. He searched Natalie’s face, saw the strain, thought she needed some rest as much as Hooley, but knew she wouldn’t want to hear that from him. He walked over to the opposite side of Hooley’s bed. “Where’s Connie?”
“She went to the nurse’s station to ask a question. She didn’t want to leave him, even with the DS agents outside, so I’d guess she’ll be back in three minutes, tops. She’s reading him a Dashiell Hammett mystery. Ah, he’s waking up.” Natalie leaned close. “I know your brain’s swimming around a bit with the drugs, but don’t worry about it, Mark. Can I do anything for you?”
He whispered, “I keep falling asleep. Some water would be nice, Mrs. Black.”
Natalie poured him a glass and put a straw to his lips. “Slowly, that’s right, and Mark, sleep is good for you.”
When he finished, Hooley’s brain was straight enough for him to look around and turn his eyes to Davis. “Yeah, punk, I’m surprised they let you in here.”
“Gotta make sure you’re behaving, Beef. It’s Mrs. Black who’s worried about you even though your doctor’s bragging on you. I’m looking forward to your being up and ready for the gym in another week or two. Tell you what, I’ll even tie my hand behind my back for you until you’re a decent threat.”
Hooley grinned. “You’ll know I’m better when I kick your legs right out from under you, turkey brain.”
“Hi, Mark,” Perry said. “Trash-talking from your hospital bed? You must be feeling better.”
“I’m fine. Where’s Connie?”
Natalie patted his hand. “She’ll be right back. You need anything else?”
“No, no, I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Black. Any word on catching the man who’s trying to kill you?”
“More to the point, the man who tried to kill you,” Natalie said. “Not yet. Not since the FBI found the doctor who patched him up. You made that possible, Mark, you shot him in the side. You’re the one person who’s made us all safer.”
“But you’re not safe yet, Mrs. Black.”
“I have so many guards I can’t go to the bathroom without one coming in with me and another standing outside. I’m fine, Mark, please don’t worry about me.”
“Connie told me they think it’s George McCallum’s son, William.”
“It appears so,” Natalie said. “They say he—William Charles—holds me responsible for his father’s death. He and his father were close, but his father told me William refused to come home, that he’d made a new life for himself away from England, away from his family. The FBI thinks he’s hiding somewhere nearby.”
“Actually,” came a sharp, clipped, upper-class British voice, “he’s not hiding. He’s right here.”
Morganville, Virginia
Amity opened the door only a crack. “Officers? What’s wrong?”
“Ma’am, we’re looking for the man in this photo”—the cop must have held up his
cell phone, Blessed thought, standing against the wall of the living room. “Have you seen him?”
Amity studied the photo carefully, shook her head. “No, young man, I haven’t. What’s he done?”
One officer said, “He blew up the motel. Didn’t you hear the explosion, see the flames?”
“I thought I heard something, but I was watching my soap and didn’t pay attention.”
“Do you mind if we check your house and garage, ma’am?”
She gave them both a sweet smile and stepped back.
Blessed waited until they were inside and close, then stepped out of the living room. “Gentlemen,” he said, and looked first at one, then the other. Both stilled; both sets of eyes became blank slates. Both men belonged to him.
Blessed gave a rancid old laugh. “Well, now, here’s what we’re going to do. I want the two of you to go into the living room and sit down on the sofa. When the doorbell rings again, I want you both to answer the door. You will shoot whoever is standing there. Do you understand?”
Both cops nodded.
“What are your names?”
“Andrew Bibber.”
“Jeff Pilson.”
Boring names, Blessed thought. His mama had done better by him and Grace. Blessed watched them walk into the living room with no hesitation, sit down and look straight ahead, their faces expressionless.
“Amity, sit down and keep knitting. Keep your gun close.”
She hesitated for a moment, then said in her old lady’s whispery voice, “I need to use the bathroom.”
“Come back soon,” Blessed said, and watched her walk slowly and carefully out of the living room. He heard her soft footballs down the hallway, heard her sneeze a couple more times. He didn’t have a single doubt she’d do exactly as he told her.
She was a long time coming back. An ancient bladder, Blessed thought, and age made her move slow; still, he was at the point of going to look for her when she appeared in the living room doorway. He said, “Sit down in your rocker and knit, Amity.”
She sat, eased the old gun onto her lap, and began knitting. She rocked, back and forth. Blessed found it annoying but didn’t say anything. He wondered if the old bird would survive this. He’d never before stymied anyone so old. Let her rock, settle her ancient bones. He walked into the entrance hall, looked back at the three blank-faced human beings who were his.
It wouldn’t be long before someone else came. He would add them to his collection like a butterfly pinned to a board or he would let the cops with the boring names shoot them dead.
Washington Memorial Hospital
All of them stared at the tall, white-coated tech who stood behind Connie, the muzzle of his Beretta pointed in her ear.
Natalie said, “It’s you, William? It’s really you?”
“The same. And the big guy here is an FBI agent. I want you to drop your Glock on the floor and kick it over to me. Do it now or you’ll see this pretty young woman’s brains splatter.” Khalid was annoyed it hurt him so much to talk, the pain grinding, throbbing, and it wouldn’t let up. His head was starting to pound along with it. He tried not to let the FBI agent know, tried to keep upright. He had the gun, but he knew better than to take his eyes off him. He recognized what the man was capable of by looking at him, knew it from seeing other men like him, knew it to his bones. “I will not tell you again. Drop the gun now or I will put a bullet in you as well, and then into Mrs. Black.”
Davis carefully pulled his Glock from his waist clip and set it on the floor. He straightened and kicked it toward McCallum, never taking his eyes off his face. It stopped six inches from his foot. McCallum looked tough as leather, not that much older than him. All that was left of the white-skinned Englishman was the flash of his blue eyes in his deeply seamed face, weathered to dark brown by the desert sun. He was a man stripped of everything he’d been, of all the comforts and baggage of being rich.
Davis saw him run his tongue over his dry lips. McCallum was in pain, no doubt about it. Davis knew he would have stopped taking his pain pills hours ago because he couldn’t take the chance they would cloud his brain, slow him down. He was struggling, and that would give them a chance. He looked at Connie, knew she saw it, too. She was thinking, weighing the options just as he was.
Perry said, “William Charles, why are you trying to murder my mother?”
“I am not William Charles any longer. I am Khalid Al-Jabiri, and that is what you will call me.”
“Very well. So why are you trying to murder my mother?”
Connie tried to pull away from him and he tightened his hold around her neck until she gasped. Perry saw his gun hand shake against Connie’s neck. If Connie moved again, she could die. Perry added quickly, “And why did you try to kill me?”
He cocked his head to one side, distracted. “Kill you? I don’t even know you, only that you’re her daughter. You’re nobody to me. Whatever it is you mean, be quiet. If I wish to talk with anyone, it is with your mother, not you. It is your mother who is the murderer, who wantonly drove my father to kill himself. I am here to see she gets the justice she deserves.”
Natalie said, “Billy—Khalid—your father told you we were working through the scandal together, after your photo was published in the British press.”
“I am not here to debate you, Mrs. Black. Perhaps you should listen rather than speak.”
“Hooley spoke up from behind Natalie. “You’re a good soldier, Khalid. You’re the one who put me here.”
“That I am, and you’re the one who shot me. You see well in the dark. You were brave that night. What is your name?”
“Hooley. I didn’t see as well as you, since I’m the one lying here. As a soldier, you’ve got to see you’re flanked on all sides. Not only the people in this room, but you know there are the agents outside, downstairs. If you shoot anyone, you’ll never make it out of here alive.”
Connie tried to swing about to face him, and he dug the gun into her ear. “No, don’t move! Listen, all of you. You’ve got to know I’m well trained, an excellent shot. I could probably kill every one of you if you came at me, even Hooley lying there staring up at me. And Mrs. Black, you will be the first to die.”
He fanned his gun at them, looked back at Hooley. “I didn’t come here to escape again, Hooley. I came here to end it.”
Morganville, Virginia
Hello, Blessed.”
It was her voice. He couldn’t believe it. How could she be here? He whirled around, stared for all he was worth, but Sherlock was at least twelve feet away from him, and he knew she wasn’t about to come any closer.
“How?” he asked. “I never saw you. How?”
Sherlock said, “We made sure all the police and agents looking for you left their radios on transmit. We heard every word you said. And Mrs. Ransom was kind enough to help me fool you, Blessed. After I hit her hard enough to bring her back, that is. Isn’t that a lovely surprise?”
“No, she’s in the living room, rocking and knitting! There’s nothing at all on her face! Do you think I wouldn’t know? She’s mine as well as those two cops!” Again Blessed stared at her, stared as hard as he could, but she wasn’t close enough. He felt his knife in his left jacket pocket, felt the gun in the right that would do him no good. He had to get close enough to take her over, to make her his puppet like the others. He took a step toward her. Sherlock raised her Glock, pointed it center mass. “Don’t, Blessed. Step back, now. Mrs. Ransom fooled you, Blessed. She’s brave and she’s smart.”
He was breathing hard as he stepped back, but Sherlock could see him thinking, cursing that old biddy who’d taken him in, trying to figure out what to do. Sherlock looked at him dispassionately. His teeth looked discolored. He looked, she thought, much older than his fifty-six years. His graying brown hair was thin on his head, a gray stubble dotted his sagging jowls. He looked like a harmless old dude, except for his eyes. Even from twelve feet away, she saw madness in him, bursting to get out. His eyes looked li
ke a deep well of black, and behind those eyes crouched scary things.
It wasn’t safe to try to get handcuffs on him. She could wait. Dillon had to be coming through the front door any second. He’d insisted she come through the back because he thought it would be safer. And she’d run into Mrs. Ransom coming out of the bathroom.
“You killed poor Grace and Mama!”
“What’s wrong with you, Blessed? Can’t you remember what really happened? I had nothing to do with either Grace’s or your mother’s death. It was you who killed Grace, Blessed, he was badly wounded, dying, and you used the sheriff as your weapon.”
“Mama died in that miserable hospital because of you, no one else, only you and that husband of yours!”
Blessed started walking toward her, his knife clutched in his hand.
She raised the Glock. “Put down that knife, Blessed, or I’ll have to shoot you.”
He screamed, “Pilson, Bibber! Come here now! Get in front of me!”
She didn’t have time, because the two young men dashed out of the living room and made a wall in front of Blessed before she could react.
“Now walk toward her.”
Neither man hesitated; they walked side by side directly at her. She couldn’t shoot them, she couldn’t.
The front door burst open and she yelled, “Dillon!”
The two men were on her, and Blessed was right in front of her, looking into her eyes. It was the last thing she remembered.
Savich saw two police officers, Blessed, and Sherlock standing like a frozen tableau. It was Blessed who said, “Bibber, Pilson, draw your weapons and aim them at that man. If he fires his gun, shoot him.”
Savich looked at Sherlock, and what he saw stopped his heart. She wasn’t moving, and neither was Blessed. He looked away from her and back to Blessed—he was smiling. The two cops had their Berettas aimed at his chest. Sherlock still hadn’t moved, not a twitch, and she didn’t speak.
Power Play (An FBI Thriller) Page 28