He knelt down again beside Connie Ashley. “We’ll get him, Connie, don’t you worry about that.”
Sirens sounded in the distance. The snow began to fall more heavily.
Savich watched his wife wipe Connie’s blood off her hands on the fresh-fallen snow.
Tourists were gathering closer now. He knew the media would be there in force at any moment. He hoped the ambulance would get there first.
He watched his wife as she held Connie’s hand until they arrived.
CHAPTER 7
MAESTRO, VIRGINIA
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
RAFE CHUGGED DOWN half a glass of iced tea, swiped his hand over his mouth, and said to his father, “Madonna told me about this woman Rosalind Franklin who did a lot of the work on DNA and they gave her research away and she didn’t even get recognized or win a Nobel Prize.”
“Hmm.”
“She died when she was a little bit older than Mom when she left. Isn’t that something, Dad?”
“Yeah, Rafe, it sure is. You wonder what she would have done if she’d lived longer.”
“That’s what Madonna said. She said Rosalind Franklin was the one who actually took the first blurry picture of what the double helix molecule looks like.”
Dix wondered why he’d never heard of Rosalind Franklin, but didn’t say anything. He set a bowl of chicken noodle soup on the table in front of his son, then set another on a tray and took it to the living room. Madonna was propped up with three cushion pillows, Brewster on her chest, his face on his front paws. His eyes fluttered closed as she stroked his head. Dix would swear her eyes were brighter than an hour before.
He moved Brewster to the coffee table, set the tray on her lap, pulled up a chair, and sat beside the sofa. “This is Campbell’s best. I hope you like it, my boys sure do. How many miles do you run a week?”
“Not more than fifteen miles a week, you don’t want to blow your knees out and—” She slapped her spoon on the tray. “I’m a runner and my name is Madonna. Just great. Swell. Hey, maybe I’m even rich since it looks like I own a Beemer, you think?”
“Could be. I try not to run more than fifteen miles a week either.”
She ate some soup, set her spoon down. “Sheriff, is there anything of interest around here? You know, tourist interest? I guess I’m the outdoorsy type. Is there something I could have come to see?”
“Beautiful scenery, which means you could have come to hike, or camp out, or maybe you came to go antiquing in some of the towns around here. If you do drive one of those SAV Beemers it’s got lots of room to lug stuff around in it. The only thing is, this snowstorm has been forecast for a while now. I can’t see you wanting to hike in a blinding snowstorm.”
“No, I suppose not. So that’s not why I was here.” She finished her soup, sighed, and set down her spoon again. Dix put the tray on the coffee table and patted his knee. Brewster jumped up on his lap and nuzzled against his hand. Madonna turned to look out the wide window across the front of the living room. “I don’t think it’s going to snow anymore.”
“Don’t bet the Beemer on it. I was just outside and the clouds to the east are nearly black, really fat, and rolling this way. I think it might actually be pretty bad later on tonight. You warm enough?”
“Yes, I’m fine. How long have you been sheriff here in Maestro?”
“Nearly eleven years now. I was elected when I was twenty-six.”
An eyebrow went up. “Oh? And how did that miracle come about?”
He laughed. “Actually, I married the mayor’s daughter when I was twenty-two and newly assigned to the Twenty-seventh Precinct in Manhattan. After five years in New York, we decided to move back here. Christie’s father, Chapman Holcombe, or Chappy as he’s called by everyone, offered the best inducement by backing me as sheriff. He owns half of Maestro, along with fistfuls of other business interests in Virginia, so winning wasn’t that hard.”
“So you call your father-in-law Chappy?”
He looked down at his low-heeled black boots for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure. The boys call him Grandpa Chappy.”
Sounded like there was something going on there, something beneath the surface the sheriff didn’t want to talk about. Maybe something to do with his wife, Christie?
“Chappy has a brother he calls Twister, the only person who does.”
She laughed. “Twister, that’s a good one. However did he get that name?”
“Seems he was feet first in the birth canal. The doctor had to grab his feet together, turn him around, and then pull him out. Hard going, nearly killed his mother before they got him out of her. She was the one who gave him the nickname. Only his brother and mother ever call him that. She lived with Twister until last year when she died in her sleep at the age of ninety-six. Chappy still calls him that. He hates it.”
“Do you ever regret coming here?”
“As in leaving New York? Sometimes. I loved the Mets games at Shea Stadium, always saw myself taking my boys to the games. I took Rob once to the Garden when the Knicks played the Boston Celtics, but he was only two. He threw up all over the guy sitting next to me.
“For the most part, though, I think this is a great place for the boys to grow up. We’ve got only a smattering of drugs, no gang stuff to speak of. Teenage boys drinking and joyriding and keeping the kids away from Lovers Lane are usually the biggest teen problems we’ve got. Fact is, we don’t get a whole lot of crime out here in the boonies, but there’s enough to keep our department busy and me on my toes. With Stanislaus here, we get a fair number of out-of-town visitors.”
“What’s Stanislaus?”
“Stanislaus School of Music, a university with about four hundred music students in attendance, nearly year around. It’s known as the Juilliard of the South. If you drive anywhere near the campus, you can hear singing and musical instruments blending together, so beautiful you think you’ve died and gone to heaven. The director of Stanislaus is Twister—real name, Dr. Gordon Holcombe, Chappy’s younger brother.”
“Hmm. Two Holcombes and they appear to run lots of things around here. Stanislaus—something makes me think I recognize the name.”
“It’s pretty famous. Maybe you read about it before you came here.”
She shrugged, reached her hand out to Brewster, who was lying on Dix’s legs on his back with his paws in the air, and scratched his belly. “You’ve got what? Twenty deputies?”
He looked at her closely as he nodded.
“How many women?”
“Nine.”
“Not bad, Sheriff.”
“You’re on the pale side again. Your head hurting?”
“Not enough for another pill.”
“Fair enough. I know it’s hard, but try not to worry. Dr. Crocker said your memory should right itself soon enough, and in the meantime, our deputies are showing your photo around everywhere. It makes sense you were staying somewhere around here, and chances are you had to buy gas. We’ll know pretty soon who you are. Or maybe I’ll know by tomorrow morning, if your fingerprints are in IAFIS.”
She sighed. “I can’t stop wondering what I was doing here. Maybe it was to hike, camp out, and I ran into the wrong people at some campsite.”
“We’re checking all the campsites out as well. But again, there’s the weather, not at all conducive to anything outdoors, except for snowmobiling or cross-country skiing. Do you ski?”
She paused for a moment, frowned down at her hands. “I don’t know. Maybe. But you know, I doubt that’s it.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure, really, but I feel like there are lots of people in my life, that the last thing I’d ever do is go off somewhere alone.” She shrugged, smiled at him. “I guess I could be wrong though.”
“Probably not. Why don’t you rest, nap a bit. Dream about dinner—I’ve got really good stew left over from last night.”
“Lots of catsup?”
“You and my boys,” he said, and laughed.
MADONNA FELL
ASLEEP at nine o’clock Saturday night in Rob’s bedroom, wearing a pair of his pajamas. They looked brand-new, which Rob told her was true because neither he nor his brother wore pajamas, for the simple reason that their father didn’t, even in the dead of winter.
The pain pills put her into a deep sleep where dreams came in hard and fast. She was standing in a dark place, so dark she couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face. Wherever she was, she couldn’t get out, though oddly, it didn’t seem to bother her. She stood cocooned in blackness, waiting for a man who was going to give her a million dollars. Why in the dark? she wondered, but again, it didn’t seem to matter. She waited patiently, wondering idly if the sheriff wore boxers or jockeys, an interesting question, but then the image was gone, and she was still standing in the middle of nowhere, wondering where the man was. She couldn’t see her watch so she didn’t know what time it was.
She heard something and felt her heart speed up because he was finally here, the man with her money, a million bucks in gold bars, and it was all hers, she’d earned it, worked her tail off. She wondered how she was going to carry the gold bars, but she knew she’d manage it. She had a plan, didn’t she? Otherwise why was she so happy and excited in the middle of a black pit?
She heard something again. Was it footsteps? The man carrying all those gold bars? But she realized in that instant that it wasn’t a man’s footsteps, it sounded indistinct, too hollow for that. She jerked awake, shot straight up in bed, and looked toward the window. All she saw was a veil of white snow falling thick and straight down. She looked closely at it.
The house was cool, but not uncomfortably so. She was wearing a pair of Rafer’s socks, his donation to her, nice thick wool socks, so she didn’t feel the cold of the oak planks beneath her feet as she walked to the window and looked out, thinking about the dream. She heard a scratching sound coming from below the window. She tried to look down but couldn’t get a good angle. Curious, she opened the window and leaned out. Straight below her window she saw two men hunkering down over something, both of them swathed in heavy coats over jeans tucked into big army boots. Ski caps covered their heads, heavy gloves on their hands. They were nearly white with snow. She must have made a noise because one of them suddenly looked up to see her leaning out.
He said something, then moved so fast she barely managed to jerk back into the bedroom before a bullet splintered wood not six inches from her head.
Another two, then three rounds came through the window. It was a silenced pistol, the muffled sound quite distinctive.
She looked around for her gun, but didn’t see it. Where was her gun? She always had her gun nearby. Another bullet shattered what was left of the window. She ran to the bedroom door, flung it open, and yelled, “Sheriff!”
He was out of his bedroom at the end of the hall in seconds, his Beretta in his right hand, his left hand jerking up the zipper in his jeans.
“What is it? You all right?”
“Two men, on the ground outside my window with a ladder. I heard them and when I looked down, one of them fired four, five rounds up at me.”
Dix was past her in a moment, racing to the open window. He kept out of the line of fire, eased himself to the corner of the window, looked down. The men weren’t there now, no one was there, but there were lots of footprints in the snow, and a ladder lay on its side.
As he pulled the window down carefully in the shattered frame, yanked the curtains closed, he said, “I want you to stay right behind me, Madonna. Rob, Rafe, both of you, get back in your room and lock the door. Now!”
They obeyed him instantly.
Dix raced to his bedroom, picked up his cell from its charger, and called his night dispatcher. “Curtis, two men are at my house, fired at Madonna. Round up everybody you can find and get them out here, fast. These guys are dangerous. Tell everyone to be real careful.”
Dix hooked his cell on his belt, yanked on the rest of his clothes. While he was pulling on his boots, she told him what she could. He nodded. “Good. The first car will be here within four minutes. I want you to stay right here, don’t even think of leaving this room, you got that?”
“But I—Give me a gun, Sheriff, I know how to use one.”
CHAPTER 8
“FORGET ABOUT IT, Madonna. Just do as I say and get down over there behind the dresser.”
She knew way deep that crouching beside a dresser for protection wasn’t something she would do or anyone would ask her to do, but her head was pounding, and images of her dreams, of the man coming toward her in the blackness, were still scoring through her. She fell to her knees and pressed her palms against her head.
Downstairs, Dix lifted the edge of the living room curtain and looked outside. It looked like an Impressionistic postcard out there, pure white snow cascading down, blurring what was real, softening everything, but still menacing because it was hiding the men who didn’t want to be seen. He saw nothing moving, but knew it would be foolhardy to venture outside and let one of those clowns pick him off. Dix knew the boys would do exactly what he’d told them to, but he didn’t know about her, about Madonna. One minute later he heard sirens, then saw lights flashing through the snow.
He was in his coat and gloves by the time five cop cars pulled up along his street almost at the same time and overflowed his driveway.
“Everyone stay down!” he shouted, and then slowly, his Beretta sweeping the area, he walked out onto the front porch. He heard Brewster yapping hysterically and knew he’d pee, no way around it.
Penny shouted, “Sheriff, any idea where they are?”
He shook his head, then quickly told the deputies what had happened. “You’re looking for two men. Listen to me now. They’re armed and they’ve already shot to kill, so be very careful. We can follow their footprints in the snow until they reach the woods. If we lose them in the trees, we’ll split up. I’m hoping we’ll find them before they get out of the woods. Let’s hurry before the tracks fill in with snow.”
His deputies fanned out around the footprints where the ladder lay. They headed straight for the woods, still easily visible, but not for long in the snowfall.
“They were running at a good clip, Sheriff,” Penny said. She and Dix waved all the deputies forward at a dead run into the woods.
They met up with B.B. and Claus, already in the trees, and the four of them followed what was left of the men’s tracks. Instead of snow tracks, they soon saw small clumps of snow that had fallen off the men’s boots, and lots of broken and partially naked tree branches the men had run into in their hurry to escape. It took time, with their four flashlights trained, as the obvious signs of passage faded away. The trail passed through to the western edge of the woods, then back in for about twenty more feet, then out again. “Listen,” Dix said.
They heard an engine fire up, and broke into a run. They cleared a stand of oak trees to see a dark truck fishtailing its way onto Wolf Trap Road, one road over from Dix’s house. Snow and gravel fantailed, spraying a huge arc. They were too far away, the snow too thick, to make out the license plate.
“It’s a Tacoma,” Penny said. “Tommy’s got one. I’ve washed that sucker more times than I can count. It’s black, or really dark blue.”
Dix spoke quickly on his cell, then stuffed it back in his jeans pocket. “Emory will be here in a minute with a cruiser. We’re going after that damned truck. B.B., you head back to the house and post a few of us there. You have enough cruisers to set up a perimeter. These guys are playing for keeps. Hey, keep my boys safe.”
In under three minutes, Dix, Penny, Claus, and Emory were piled into Emory’s squad car, Dix driving. Penny was leaning out the passenger-side window, trying to make out the truck’s tire tracks.
“Straight down Wolf Trap Road, Sheriff,” she yelled. “These tracks are a giveaway.”
They skidded and slid from one side of the road to the other because they were moving so fast, but Dix managed for the most part to keep them on the pavement. They came
up to Lone Tree Road.
“Left, Sheriff!”
He spun into the turn, nearly into a ditch. Dix, cursing a blue streak, managed to get the cruiser heading down the road again.
Dix heard Claus say over and over in the backseat, “We’re gonna get ’em and skin ’em and fry their livers—”
“Good images, Claus,” Dix called out. “Too bad it’s not that kind of hunt. Penny, are you freezing out there?”
“I’m okay, Sheriff. Not good—we’re nearing the highway. You know that Doppler Lane on-ramp to Seventy East. If they get on that, we can put in a call to the Highway Patrol.”
“Nah, we’ll get them,” Dix said, and sped up. “Hey, that may be them ahead of us.” Dix pressed his foot on the accelerator. His deputies’ cruisers were well built with new winter tires and lots of power under the hood, but he knew he was pushing the envelope at the speed he was going in the middle of a snowstorm. He doubted the men in the truck were doing as well. He looked over at Penny, who grinned at him as she tugged her wool cap down to her eyes, her face nearly covered with ice. “Hallelujah, I see the truck, not more than fifty yards ahead! We’re going to get them, Sheriff!”
Claus stuck his head out the back window. “I can’t see the license plate yet, but the truck does look like Tommy’s Tacoma. For sure it’s black.”
The truck skidded around the eastbound on-ramp and leaped forward when it hit Highway 70 East, its rear end swerving violently to the right, then sliding nearly off the road. Finally the driver managed to straighten.
There would be few cars on the highway in this storm at one in the morning, a good thing, Dix thought, as he fought to keep the cruiser in the middle of the on-ramp, through the curve, and onto the interstate. “Emory, Penny was right. Call the Highway Patrol in, maybe they can cut these guys off ahead. Stumptree exit’s four miles up.”
Dix knew his speed was crazy in these conditions, but he didn’t care. He wanted these men badly. They’d attacked his home, put his boys in harm’s way, tried to kill Madonna, for God’s sake. Who was she? What had she done, or seen? He should never have brought her to his house, to his boys. But how could he have known two killers would come after her?
The FBI Thrillers Collection Page 130