The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  Not by so much as a flick of his eyelids did Reverend McCamy acknowledge his wife’s words. He then turned his attention to Sherlock. “I’ve never met an FBI agent before, Agent Sherlock. Why are you here?” He kept his eyes on Sherlock now, all his attention focused on her. When Sherlock purposefully nodded toward Elsbeth, he said, “You asked how services went this morning, Katie. I was pleased and gratified. I’d been counseling this couple for three weeks now. With encouragement and the endless love and understanding of God, they have found their way. By God’s grace, they gave their souls to Him this morning.”

  He sipped his coffee. He looked out of place in this lovely living room with its human beings drinking coffee. Rasputin, Sherlock thought, he was a twenty-first-century Rasputin.

  “Now, Agent Sherlock, Katie,” Reverend McCamy said, “tell me why you’re here. How may I help you?”

  “Actually,” Katie said, smiling toward Elsbeth, who was sitting demurely, her knees pressed together, her face utterly beautiful in the light shining in on her from the tall front windows, her Jesus earrings still and shiny, “we’re here because of Elsbeth.”

  Elsbeth McCamy flinched, and the dreamy look fell right off her face. Just an instant, so fast Katie wasn’t certain she’d even seen it. Fear. Her fingers fluttered. “Me? I don’t understand, Katie. What could I possibly know that would help you? Surely, Reverend McCamy—”

  Katie pulled out a fax with Clancy’s photo. “Is this your brother, Elsbeth?”

  Elsbeth shook her head, back and forth, sending the Jesus earrings dancing.

  “Is he, Elsbeth?”

  “Yes,” she said, “that’s Clancy. But I don’t understand—”

  “We’ve just found out this morning that one of the kidnappers is your brother, Elsbeth—Clancy Bird, now Clancy Edens. We found out he legally changed his name when he was younger. If you have any idea where he is, please tell us.”

  Elsbeth didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t betray anything at all. She seemed to be waiting for Reverend McCamy to speak.

  And he did. He took the photo from Katie and studied it. He nodded. “No one in Jessborough knows that Elsbeth is cursed with such a worthless brother,” Reverend McCamy said. “Naturally she hasn’t seen him in years now.”

  Katie said, “That’s too bad. We hoped you’d heard from him. He’s badly hurt. He could die if we don’t find him quickly.”

  “My husband is right, I haven’t seen my brother in a very long time, Katie. I know he turned away from God when he was young, but he was always a support to me when I was a little girl.”

  “He protected you from your father?”

  Elsbeth only nodded, looking down at her shoes. “He was a very bad man. Clancy protected me as best as he could. It was so many years ago.” She raised pale blue eyes to Sherlock’s face and touched her fingertips to a Jesus earring.

  Sherlock said, “When did you last see Clancy?”

  “He’d just been released from one of his stays in prison, some six years ago, I think. Naturally he was back in prison for something else after that. When I heard there were two men, one of them named Clancy, I never thought it could be my brother. Are you certain he kidnapped that little boy, Katie?”

  Katie nodded. “Yes. We are certain that your brother and a man named Beau Jones kidnapped Sam Kettering and brought him here. They kept him in Bleaker’s cabin until the boy managed to escape.”

  Elsbeth’s eyes dropped to her hands, now even more tightly clasped in her lap. “I heard about it, of course. Everyone in the congregation was talking about it. We stopped at the pharmacy this morning and Alice Hewett couldn’t talk of anything else, particularly since she’d sold that other man some bandages.”

  Katie said, “He hasn’t contacted either of you for help?”

  “Oh no,” Elsbeth said. “Why would he do that? Surely he must know that Reverend McCamy wouldn’t help him. Why, he’s a devout man of God. He feels deep pain at the actions of sinners.”

  Sherlock said, “All right, Mrs. McCamy. I can certainly understand wanting to help a brother just as I can understand a sister not wanting to help the police find him.”

  “Oh no! Lying is a sin. I wouldn’t do that, ever. Just ask Reverend McCamy. I don’t ever lie.”

  Reverend Sooner McCamy said, “I assure you, my wife doesn’t lie. Now, Agent Sherlock, Clancy hasn’t called either of us. If he’s guilty of kidnapping that little boy, both Elsbeth and I hope that you catch him and send him back to prison.”

  Sherlock said, “If he wouldn’t call you, Mrs. McCamy, then do you have any idea whom he might contact? Does he have any friends close by? Family?”

  Elsbeth shook her head. “Clancy doesn’t know anyone in these parts.”

  Except you, Sherlock thought. Only you.

  “How do you think he knew about Bleaker’s cabin?”

  “I don’t know, Katie.”

  Katie said, “Thank you for speaking with us. If Clancy does contact you, Elsbeth, if he does ask you to hide him, if he does ask you for money, I hope you will call me immediately. You heard, I know, that his partner, Beau Jones, died last night.”

  “We heard that you shot him, Katie,” Reverend McCamy said. “You killed him.”

  Sherlock heard the cold disapproval in his voice, no chance of missing it. Why?

  “Hurting a man, actually killing a man, it’s very bad,” Elsbeth said, clearly distressed.

  Katie said, “There wasn’t a choice, Elsbeth. He would have killed someone else if I hadn’t stopped him. Now it’s Clancy who’s in danger. There’s a huge manhunt going on right now for him, as I’m sure both of you know. I really don’t see this ending well for Clancy if you don’t help us find him.”

  Elsbeth said, her voice shaking, nearly on the verge of tears, “I’m sorry, Katie. I don’t have any idea where Clancy could be. I don’t understand why he would kidnap a little boy and bring him here to Jessborough.”

  Sherlock said, “Obviously Bleaker’s cabin is a good out-of-the-way place to store a kidnap victim. But it has to be more than that. Most likely someone locally wanted Sam Kettering brought here.”

  Katie said, “It’s all quite a mystery. There was no ransom note left, no calls made in the two days he was gone from his home in Virginia.”

  Sherlock said, “Do you have any idea at all why your brother would bring Sam here, Mrs. McCamy? Other than to use Bleaker’s cabin?”

  Elsbeth looked from Katie to Sherlock. Then she said to her husband, “Reverend McCamy, you know that I know nothing about any of this. Could you make them believe me, please?”

  “Well, the thing is, Elsbeth,” Katie said before the reverend could jump in, although, truth be told, he didn’t look like he was even very interested. No, fact was, he looked like he wasn’t really here. “You’re the only one Clancy knows in the area. Someone also reported seeing a man who looked like him near your house. I think that’s enough to have a judge issue a warrant to search your house, unless, of course, you give us permission to look around right now?”

  Sherlock saw that Reverend McCamy was back, all of his focus, all of his brain was back in the living room, and he knew he had a problem. He stood, looking like an avenging prophet. “You may not search my house, Agent, Sheriff. Get your godless warrant, but I really doubt you’ll be able to talk a judge into it.” Of course, he realized that any search would turn up his party room, and the good Lord knew that would never do.

  Their chances were about nil for getting a warrant and the good reverend knew it.

  For just an instant, Katie was reminded of Carlo Silvestri, her ex-husband, standing there all arrogant and righteous, just like Reverend McCamy, looking at her like she wasn’t worthy to polish his shoes.

  “You mean,” Katie said, rising as well, “that Benson Carlysle won’t grant a warrant. His brother’s a member of your church, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. He’s a good man, a fair man. He and his wife are devout members. His brother won’t allow you t
o harass my wife and me just because someone thought he saw her brother near here.”

  Elsbeth said, every muscle tensed, desperate to convince them, “Even if Clancy was here, hiding, naturally, he’s certainly not here now, and we knew nothing about it in any case. He’s got to know that I can’t have anything to do with him.”

  “I see,” Sherlock said, and rose to stand beside Katie.

  Reverend McCamy said, “Good day, Agent Sherlock, Sheriff Benedict. You do not believe what I believe. You do not behave as women should behave. I would like you to leave. I don’t want my wife tainted with your presence, your suspicions, your lack of grace. However, if Clancy does contact Elsbeth, rest assured that I will call you.”

  Katie dug a card out of her shirt pocket and gave it to Elsbeth. “Good. Understand, Elsbeth, if Clancy does call you, you might be able to save his life. If he doesn’t turn himself in he probably won’t survive. You don’t want him dead.”

  Elsbeth’s eyes filled with tears, beautiful sparkling tears. She began to moan and rock back and forth on her chair. “Of course I don’t want him dead. It’s a sin to want somebody dead. And he’s my brother.”

  Katie fanned her hands in front of her, so impatient she snapped out, “Elsbeth, I’m not planning on gunning for Clancy at high noon, but I’ll do what I have to do to bring him in. Now, thank you for the coffee. Remember, the chances of Clancy living through this decrease by the minute.”

  Sherlock and Katie walked themselves to the door, Elsbeth’s sobs echoing behind them. Sherlock couldn’t help herself. She turned a moment to see Reverend Sooner McCamy standing in the middle of the light-filled living room, a portrait in black and white, his face impassive, his dark eyes burning.

  Sherlock said to Katie as she started up her truck, “He never asked who it was claiming to see Clancy near his house.”

  “No, he didn’t, did he?”

  17

  He’s Rasputin.”

  Savich had popped a pain pill ten minutes before so he was easily able to smile at his wife.

  “Yes, but what did you really think?”

  “He’s scary.”

  “In what way?”

  “He’s not quite here. It’s like he’s into an inner self where there’s only his God and what he owes his God and what he can do to get other people to worship his God. The thing is, I’m not sure he includes women or if it’s just men’s souls that interest him.”

  Savich said, “An otherworldly sexist. He sounds too preoccupied with himself to be a kidnapper.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, he does. But I haven’t heard much condemnation about his ideas out of you yet.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why don’t you yell and holler that it isn’t fair, that you denounce it, that you spit upon such notions?”

  “It’s not fair,” Savich said. “I can’t spit because it would hurt my back. This guy sounds very strange, sweetheart.”

  “Yes, he is. He’s very intense, as I said, like Rasputin or, more to the point, some descendant of Rasputin. Now, since Katie and I didn’t have a warrant, we just sort of wandered around outside their big Victorian house, which is really quite beautiful, and would you just look at what fell out of a window.”

  “Fell out of a window? Yes, if I close my eyes I can see it falling right at your feet. Come on, what have you got?”

  Sherlock tossed him a vial and told him about the hidden room off the small bedroom closet.

  He read the label. Salvation. He blinked, unscrewed the top and sniffed the liquid, which had a faint almond scent. “Sex with a religious theme? Are you planning on drinking this, Sherlock? Have things gotten this bad?”

  She laughed, hugged him very carefully, kissed his mouth. He fastened the cap back on the vial and handed it back to her. “When all this dies down, let’s send it to the lab and see what’s in this salvation stuff.”

  “Maybe we can find out if it’s manufactured or if the reverend makes it himself. There were about a dozen other vials, all with charming names like this one. I know I shouldn’t have taken it but I just couldn’t resist.” When she finished telling him about the whips and the green marble altar and the wooden block, he said as he looked down at his fingernails, “You wonder what that wooden block with the fur on top is for?”

  “Well, I’m not going to chew off my fingernails if I don’t find out, but yeah, I’d like to know.”

  “It’s to pad your stomach.”

  “What? To pad . . . oh goodness, I see now. You know, Dillon, big hair rollers are one thing, but being propped up on a wooden block is quite another. No, I don’t think so. Has Dr. Able been around to see you? I want to get you out of here.”

  “Yes, he has. I’m fine, just need to sit forward for the next year or so. Stitches come out next week. You ready to break me out of this place? I was just waiting for you to get here.”

  Sherlock said over her shoulder as she fetched him the clothes she’d brought from home, “Yes, but we’re in a bit of a pickle, aren’t we? We have no idea why Sam was brought to Jessborough and we don’t know yet who hired Clancy and Beau to bring him here. The investigation is just starting. Clancy’s still out there and we need to help. I think, too, that Sam and Miles probably need to remain with us. It’s dangerous for Sam and Miles to go back home alone, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, we’ll stay,” Savich said, and got himself dressed. “Don’t worry about a few more days. Mr. Maitland called a little while ago, told me to take it easy, not to worry about the math teacher killings.”

  He looked big and tough, much more like himself with his leather jacket slung over his arm. Sherlock beamed him a brilliant smile. “Can I kiss you?”

  “Yeah, but don’t tease me, Sherlock.” He carefully put his arms around her, nuzzled her neck. “You know, I just might be ready for some hair rollers tonight. I wish we had time to check out what’s in that vial, just maybe it’s something we can use.”

  At five minutes after three o’clock that afternoon, five FBI agents, one former FBI agent, one sheriff, and two children congregated in Sheriff Benedict’s living room.

  If Butch Ashburn wondered why two young children were present during a meeting, he didn’t say anything, just watched the little girl for a moment—the sheriff’s kid—playing with a big-eared rabbit named Oscar. His own kid was now nearly twenty, but he could remember when she’d have been on the floor playing with a stuffed animal. The years just swept over you too fast, he thought, leaving you older and slower, and your little kid a grown-up.

  “I’m thinking,” Savich said, “that I want to go to church. Does Reverend McCamy have a service this evening, Katie?”

  “Yes, he goes all day on Sunday. The church is really nice, sort of like Paul Revere’s church in Boston. Sooner also does tent revivals—every June, out in Grossley’s pasture, about three miles west of Jessborough.”

  Katie glanced over at Miles, who still looked dead on his feet. All his attention was on his boy. After she’d dropped Sherlock off at the hospital a couple of hours before, she’d taken Miles and the kids out to Kmart to buy some clothes. Miles was wearing the black jeans, boots, and plaid flannel shirt he’d bought. He looked, she realized, really good. As for Sam, he looked like a miniature copy of his father, down to the black boots.

  “Papa forgot to pack clothes for us,” Sam had confided to her earlier in the truck. “He didn’t think about anything else, he just wanted to get to me as fast as he could.”

  “I wouldn’t have packed anything either,” Katie said, smiling at Miles. “Not with a Kmart in the neighborhood.”

  Of course, Keely had to have black jeans and black boots, and her mother, knowing when to throw in the towel, had given in.

  Butch Ashburn said to Savich, “If you and Sherlock plan on staying in Jessborough for a while, I think Jody and I will head back to Washington. We’re still running checks and interviewing all neighbors and employees, and I want to check Beau Jones’s apartment myself. Also, since Miles
is former FBI, we’re checking particularly violent cases he was involved in. I don’t buy the idea of revenge myself, but we’re checking everything.” He looked over at Sam, who’d just taken a big bite of fried chicken. “I’m more pleased than I can say, Miles, that you’ve got such a brave, smart boy.”

  Miles swallowed, then nodded, and said sharply, “Sam, don’t wipe your greasy fingers on your new jeans. Use the napkin.”

  Life, Butch thought, was always unexpected and even, sometimes, like now, not bad at all. He said, “You guys work on Clancy’s connection from this end and, like I said, I’ll work the other end. Hopefully, we’ll meet in the middle real soon.”

  Katie smiled at Special Agent Butch Ashburn—no wing tips on my neck from this guy.

  Fifteen minutes after a telephone call, Katie’s mother, Minna Bushnell Benedict, arrived to take charge of the children. She won Sam over with a chocolate chip cookie the size of Manhattan, and assured both Miles and Katie that she’d keep both Sam and Keely safe, with the help of the two deputies seated in their cruiser just outside the house.

  “Butch, you have a safe trip back to Washington. Miles, Katie, we’re off to meet the Sinful Children of God,” Savich said, and took Sherlock’s hand. “Maybe we can talk to some of the congregation before the service starts.”

  “Find Fatso,” Sam called after his father as they went out the front door. “Shoot him.”

  The church of the Sinful Children of God was on Sycamore Road. Katie was right, it looked like the Old North Church in Boston—a tall wooden spire, painted all white, the roof sharply raked with shingles, the windows small and traditional.

  There were maybe twenty cars parked in the paved lot behind the church, which was set back from the road, at the edge of a thick stand of maple and oak trees. And Miles found himself marveling yet again at how many trees there were in this part of the country.

  The church was nearly full, maybe as many as fifty, sixty people. Men were in suits, women in dresses, hats on their heads. Children sat quietly beside their parents. The four of them sat down in the back. A couple Katie didn’t recognize scooted farther down the bench, not speaking to them.