The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  She shivered. It was getting colder. She turned up the heater again. The sky looked like it would snow much earlier than this evening.

  She parked her Silverado in the empty parking lot at the memorial, and looked around. There was no one here, no killers, no tourists, no workers, just her. She decided to walk through the memorial once again.

  One started at the beginning, since the memorial was organized chronologically, and divided into four rooms, which really weren’t rooms since it was all outside, each room representing one of Roosevelt’s terms in office. There were quotes, displays, and waterfalls everywhere. The place was so huge you could wander around until you dropped, but Katie didn’t browse. She found herself walking directly to the third room, depicting Roosevelt’s third term, where the waterfall was much larger and much louder. There, just to the left of the waterfall, was a large sculpture of FDR, and beside him sat his dog, Fala. Katie’s dad had loved Fala, loved all the stories told about the little black Scottish terrier, who’d even had his own comic strip. She stood looking at the huge sculptured cape that covered Roosevelt, listening to the hammering of the water crashing against huge loose chunks of granite. She’d heard that the waterfalls froze sometimes in the winter. With the way the temperature was plummeting, she imagined it wouldn’t be long before they were silent, frozen in place.

  Her mind flashed to her father lifting Keely in his arms, pointing to Fala, telling her a story about how he’d performed tricks on demand. How he’d wished he’d been old enough back then to go to Washington to see him in person. Oh Lord, she missed her father, wished he’d gone to a doctor earlier, but he hadn’t, just like a damned stubborn man, her mom had told her, and burst into tears. Not that it would have made much difference.

  There were memories, she thought, that touched you throughout your life. She had to keep hoping that all of Sam’s terrible memories would be tempered with the laughter and joy of experiences that were sweet and good.

  She looked at the statue of Roosevelt and said, “If you had lived any longer, would you have announced to the country that you were willing to be president for life? And would the people have elected you?”

  She half-expected an answer, and smiled at herself when the crashing water was the only thing she heard. Then there was something else, footsteps coming up behind her. She didn’t turn. She thought it was one of her bodyguards, come to check on her, and that was comforting. She stood there, wishing something made sense, wishing she was back in Jessborough, with Miles and Sam and Keely, all of them, in her house that had been magically rebuilt, her mother smiling as she came from the kitchen, carrying a tray of cinnamon buns. She craved another evening filled with tuna casserola and laughter.

  She nearly jumped straight into the air when a voice behind her said, “There you are, the little princess.”

  Katie froze.

  “That’s right, just stay right where you are. Don’t move a muscle.”

  Katie didn’t even consider a twitch.

  “All right. Turn around and face me.”

  Katie slowly turned.

  “Surprised to see me, Katie?”

  “Yes. Everyone believes you’re dead.”

  Elsbeth McCamy shook her head. “They won’t for much longer. I hear they’ve nearly dug all the way through the ruins of my beautiful house. They’ll soon find just one burned body, not two. Poor Reverend McCamy, not even buried yet, left under all that rubble, all that rain pouring down on him. No! Don’t you move, Katie Benedict!”

  Katie held utterly still.

  “I know I shot you on Saturday, but here you are, walking around this ridiculous memorial. I just couldn’t believe it when I saw you leave that big fancy house of yours this morning, looking all chipper, herding those children off to school like any good little mother.”

  Suddenly, she started shaking, and the gun jerked in her hand. “Dammit, I shot you! Why aren’t you dead like you’re supposed to be?”

  Katie heard hate and despair in her voice. And a bit of madness. She said, “It appears you’re not a very good shot.”

  “I practiced, dammit, practiced for a good week before I hunted you down in that park!”

  “People watch TV, see lots of violent movies, and think that when you fire a gun you kill someone, but it’s just not true. No matter how good a shot you are, it’s difficult to hit what you’re aiming at. Don’t feel too bad, you didn’t miss me. You shot me in the hip.” Katie lightly rested her hand against her upper thigh. “It aches a bit, but I’ll live.”

  “I’m only two feet away from you now, Katie. When I shoot you this time, you’ll die.”

  That was surely the truth. Where were her bodyguards?

  “I had to stay back in the park since you were with those other federal agents, and that new husband of yours. You really landed on your feet, didn’t you, Sheriff? Nice big house, husband kissing your feet, so much money you must think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  “Actually, I really didn’t think of it quite like that,” Katie said. Where were her bodyguards? Probably close, they surely couldn’t have lost her coming through the memorial. There wasn’t another soul around. Maybe they didn’t want to intrude on her when there was no one here to threaten her?

  “I wanted servants, but Reverend McCamy only wanted God, and me. Always God first, me second. He didn’t want servants to come into our home and intrude on his privacy. So I did everything myself, even made brownies. How he loved my brownies. I made them from scratch, stirred together all that chocolate and chocolate chips and pecans, but I didn’t eat any. He didn’t like any fat on me, said it would be a sacrilege.

  “Do you know that he studied his palms and his feet every single day? He prayed until his knees were raw, offered God everything he had, probably including me, if He would just bring back the sacred stigmata one more time. But God didn’t answer his prayers.”

  “The story from Homer Bean was that Reverend McCamy had experienced the stigmata when he was a child. Did you believe that?”

  Elsbeth McCamy nodded. “Of course. It’s all he could talk about, all he could think about. He would picture it, envision it happening again over and over in his mind, but it never did. He was furious with his parents for not recording it for posterity—to show to his congregation, to prove he wasn’t like those crooked loud-mouthed televangelists, that he was blessed by God himself.”

  “I’ve given it a lot of thought, Elsbeth, and do you know what I think?”

  “If I don’t shoot you dead right this minute, I guess you’ll tell me.”

  Katie stayed as still and small as she could. “I don’t think Sam suffered any holy stigmata. I think it was some sort of rash or exanthem, something brought on by his illness. I don’t think it was blood on his palms.”

  “His mother believed it was blood. For God’s sake, she videotaped it! She could probably smell the blood. You can, you know. Smell blood, that is.” She shook her head, bringing herself back from some memory. “She gave the tape to a senile old priest whose sister recognized its value and knew a member of the Reverend’s congregation. That’s how it came to Reverend McCamy. Who are you to question any of this? You’re just some hick sheriff.”

  “Let me ask you this, Elsbeth. Was Sam the only child like that Reverend McCamy had ever heard about, had ever tracked down?”

  Slowly, Elsbeth nodded her head. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t. I’m surprised and pleased that you managed to escape the fire, Elsbeth.”

  “I doubt you’ll be pleased much longer. If I’d burned to a crisp with Reverend McCamy, you wouldn’t be looking death in the eye.”

  “How did you get out?”

  Elsbeth McCamy shrugged. “We had a little . . . playroom at the back of the closet. There’s a door that leads down from there and out of the mud room. Reverend McCamy was dead, I knew it, and I didn’t want to die with him, and so I got out of there really fast.”

  �
�That little playroom, I saw it once.”

  “That’s impossible. No one ever saw it.”

  “Well, yes, I did. Agent Sherlock and I looked around your house once because we thought Clancy was there. I can understand why Reverend McCamy wouldn’t want servants hanging around to find it by accident. I’ll admit I was really surprised that Reverend McCamy was the sort of man who tied his wife down and whipped her.”

  Elsbeth McCamy looked blank a moment, then she threw back her head and let out a high wild laugh, and that laugh blended in with the crashing water and sent puffs of cold breath into the air. Katie was ready, only an instant from jumping at her, when Elsbeth’s head came back down, her laughter cut off like water from a spigot, and she whispered, “I want to kill you anyway, Sheriff, so please, come at me, please.”

  “Why did you laugh?”

  “Because you’re so wrong about us,” she said. “Just like his damned aunt Elizabeth. I know that she snuck in there when we were building the room, looking, poking about. She believed Reverend McCamy was crazy, that he abused me and that I loved it, that I was a pathetic victim. But you’re all wrong. Before I shoved that old busybody down the stairs, I told her what we were going to use that room for. I told her why Reverend McCamy was having it built, and how much he needed it. He gave himself over to me when we were in that room, and he forgave himself for his faults for a few moments at least, when he was strapped down on his belly over that fur-covered block of wood and I whipped him, whipped him until sometimes the whip cut through and brought blood. And I could smell it. He dedicated that blood to God, and prayed that God would reward him with the return of the sacred stigmata.”

  “Those vials in that cabinet. What did you use those for?”

  “Reverend McCamy used them to help him mortify his flesh, help him transcend the pain of giving himself over to God, pain that was both corporeal and spiritual. He cried in that room, not from the pain, but from how exalted he felt in those moments when the whip split his flesh and his blood flowed off his body onto that beautiful marble altar.

  “But you ruined our life, Sheriff, destroyed everything. I’ve thought of nothing else but killing you since my husband died.”

  Now! Katie dived and rolled, hoping that Roosevelt’s sculpted cloak covered her, and jerked her derringer out of its ankle holster the instant she stopped rolling. It was nearly worthless at any distance at all, that little gun, but if you got close enough, it could kill.

  Elsbeth fired, one shot, then another and another, all three of them striking the sculpture, ricocheting off, sending stone shards flying. Katie stayed down, protecting her face.

  Elsbeth yelled, “Come out of there, Katie Benedict! You deserve to die for what you did! That statue won’t help you!”

  Katie stuffed herself tighter against the sculpture. “Don’t come any closer, Elsbeth, I have a gun. Do you hear me? I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if you force me to. Give it up. Toss the gun over here. There are bodyguards here, two of them, FBI agents. They heard the shots. You don’t have a prayer, just give it up!”

  Elsbeth suddenly appeared around FDR’s huge cloak. She stopped not three feet from Katie, smiled down at her. She didn’t see the small derringer. “You’re lying to me again, Katie. You don’t have a gun. You’re expecting your precious bodyguards to ride up like the cavalry and save you. But there won’t be time for that.” And she laughed again. It made Katie’s skin crawl, that laugh.

  “You know something?” Elsbeth said, nearly choking. “I wish Reverend McCamy could see me now.”

  “I could tell he was proud of you, Elsbeth.”

  Those beautiful blue eyes lightened a moment with pleasure. Thank God, Katie thought. Maybe she’d bought herself some time. That big Beretta was pointed right at her head.

  Elsbeth McCamy blinked, looked momentarily confused, then shook her head so hard her ski cap fell off. “He was my dearest mentor, a great man who had God’s ear and made me scream with pleasure when he made love to me. And you sent him to his death.”

  As she flexed her finger around the trigger of the Beretta, Katie brought up her derringer and fired its two shots point-blank into Elsbeth’s chest.

  Elsbeth stumbled backward, but she didn’t go down. “My God, you shot me! You miserable bitch, I won’t let you kill me like you did my husband!”

  Katie threw herself at Elsbeth’s knees. She heard a gunshot close to her head. She could smell her singed hair burning as she used all her strength to shove Elsbeth down.

  The front of Elsbeth’s coat was drenched with blood now. She raised the gun and fired toward Katie again, wildly now. Katie rolled into Elsbeth, pushing hard against her legs, throwing her arms up to dislodge the Beretta. She knew that at any moment a bullet would smash through her flesh.

  There was a single shot, only one. Katie, her arms still pressing against Elsbeth’s knees, looked up and saw a frown of faint surprise on Elsbeth’s face. The frown was frozen in death. Slowly, she fell backward, landing hard. Katie jerked back and leaped to her feet. Her hip burned, and her heart was pounding.

  She looked down at Elsbeth McCamy, surely dead this time, her eyes open, staring at nothing at all. Her beautiful hair spilled around her face. She looked very young, innocent even, without any evil or madness about her, just lying there on the ground, the front of her coat soaked with blood and the back of her head ruined.

  She heard the sound of the cascading water and the wind whipping between the monuments. She heard the water running fast in the tidal basin, not fifty feet away. And her own harsh breathing, so deadened with relief that she couldn’t move.

  She heard running feet. Katie turned to see the two FBI agents, panting, their guns still drawn. “You okay, Katie?”

  “Yes, I am, Ollie. I’m very glad you came when you did. That was an excellent shot. I’m also very glad that you’re both all right. I didn’t know if she’d killed you.”

  Agent Ollie Hamish shook his head, looking embarrassed and angry at himself.

  Agent Ruth Warnecki patted his arm. She said to Katie even as she nodded over at Elsbeth, “She did something much smarter than try to kill us. She came right up to us, knocked on the window, and when Ollie here rolled it down, his hand on his gun, mind you, she told us she was your sister-in-law, that she had to speak to you about Sam, and she promised to keep a sharp eye out for anyone suspicious. We didn’t think anything of it. You’d think after all our years of being suspicious of anything that walked on two feet—but she was so believable, so young and nice-looking. We bolted out of the car when we heard the shots.”

  Ollie Hamish pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Hello, Savich? We’re here at the FDR Memorial. You’ll want to get down here real fast. You’ll want to call Detective Raven, too.”

  “And Miles Kettering, please,” Katie said. She looked again at Elsbeth, then slowly sank down to the ground, clasped her hands around her knees, and bowed her head.

  43

  Detective Raven rose. “You guys like to live on the wild side, don’t you?”

  Katie couldn’t move because Miles was holding her so tightly against his side she could barely breathe. “Oh yeah,” Katie said. “I live for excitement. This time though, I think I’d like to just lie in the sun for a good long while and not think about anything but my husband’s beautiful body.”

  “Hmm,” Detective Raven said, startled. “Not just yet, okay? There’ll be more questions, more discussions, particularly with the D.A., so check with me before you go off to find a nice white beach.”

  When he was out the door, whistling, Katie realized that Miles was holding her even more tightly and he was shaking. She was surprised, somehow, despite everything that had happened. She lightly touched her fingers to his face. “I made a small joke, Miles, just for you. It’s over now, really, it’s all over.”

  He pulled her so close she could hear his heart pounding against hers. She raised her face and kissed him, and was kissing him a second time when he said
into her mouth, “When I got that call from Savich I was so afraid I nearly passed out. Here we’ve been worried about the kids, and I guess—”

  “I know. We’ve been so worried about them that we didn’t stop to think about how all this was affecting us.” He was still shaking. She kept holding him tight, kissing him until she felt him relax a bit. She smiled. “Do you want to know something, Miles?”

  “No, not unless it’ll make me want to sing and dance. I can’t take any more bad stuff for a while.” He pressed his face against her neck. “Don’t tell me, Keely wants Sam’s room.”

  “Oh no, we’ve made hers even more girlie girl now and I don’t think we could get her out if we tried. Just maybe, I hope, it is something that will make you want to dance and maybe hum a tune.”

  She could feel his mouth grinning against her. “Okay, Cracker’s found a boyfriend and is moving out this afternoon?”

  “Could be, but she hasn’t said anything to me about finding a guy and moving. Nope, it’s something else entirely.”

  “All right, tell me.”

  She said slowly, her voice dead serious now, “When I was facing Elsbeth and I knew she could raise that Beretta and shoot me just like that”—Katie snapped her fingers—“I knew for sure the last thing I wanted was to never see you or Sam or Keely again. I guess the bottom line here is that I love the kids and I love you, Miles.”

  He was silent as a tomb, didn’t so much as flinch. He didn’t do anything at all. She couldn’t even feel his heart against her chest any longer.