Twice Dead

by Catherine Coulter

  Agents grabbed tourists who were still standing and pushed them to the floor, clearing the way to get to the man and his hostage.

  A local police officer, a very young man with a mustache, closed with them first. He shouted at the man to stop and fired a warning shot in the air.

  The man calmly turned in the officer’s direction, pulled a SIG from his pocket so fast it was a blur, and shot him in the forehead. Then he turned around and it seemed he saw Savich, who was at least fifty feet from him. He yelled, “Hey, it’s me, Timmy Tuttle! Hell-ooooo, everyone!”

  Savich tuned him out. He had to or he couldn’t function. He knew that the marksmen stationed inside the terminal had Tuttle in their sights. Soon now, very soon, it would be over.

  He moved around the perimeter, slid behind the Caribbean Airlines counter with half a dozen agents behind him, and kept moving toward Timmy Tuttle.

  Three shots rang out simultaneously. Loud, clear, sharp. It was the marksmen, and they wouldn’t have fired without a clear shot at Timmy Tuttle.

  Savich raised his head. He knew he couldn’t be more than twenty feet from Timmy Tuttle. He couldn’t see him. Could they have missed?

  Then there were half a dozen more shots, screaming, and deep and ugly moans wrung out of people’s throats from terror.

  Savich felt something, something strong and sour, and he turned quickly. He saw Sherlock some ten feet away, just off to his left, with three other agents, rising from her kneeling position, her SIG aimed toward where Timmy Tuttle and Marilyn had been moments before. She looked as confused as he felt. It took everything in him not to shout for her to stay back, please God, just stay back, he didn’t want her hurt. And what would hurt her? A man who really wasn’t a man, but an image in whole cloth spun from Tammy Tuttle’s crazy brain?

  Savich saw a flash of cloth, smelled the scent of blood, and he simply knew it was Timmy Tuttle. He ran as fast as he could toward a conference room, the only place Timmy could have taken Marilyn. He kicked open the door.

  He stopped cold, his gun steady, ready to fire. There was a big rectangular table in the center and twelve chairs, an overhead projector, a fax, and two or three telephones.

  There wasn’t anyone in the room. It was empty. But even in here he smelled Virginia’s blood; he could swear that he smelled her blood, rich, coppery, sickening. He swallowed convulsively as he took in every inch of the room.

  So Timmy hadn’t come in here. Another room then. Agents on his heels, he ran across the hall to see his wife, gun held in front of her, pushing open a door with SECURITY stenciled on the glass.

  He was across that hall and into the room in an instant. He saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, the three agents fanned out behind her, all of them searching the room. But Sherlock wasn’t doing anything. She was standing there staring silently at the single large window that gave onto the outside.

  She turned slowly to see him in the open doorway, agents at his back, staring at her, shock and panic alive in his eyes. She cocked her head to one side in silent question, then simply closed her eyes and fell over onto the floor.

  “Sherlock!”

  “Is she shot?”

  “What happened?”

  The other three agents converged.

  Savich knew he couldn’t stop, but it was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. He yelled, “Make sure she’s all right! Conners, check everyone out! Deevers, Conlin, Marks, Abrams, you’re with me!”

  He heard one of the agents shout after him, “She’s breathing, can’t see anything wrong with her. The guy wasn’t in here, Savich. We don’t know where he went.”

  The window, he thought, Sherlock had been staring at that window. He picked up a chair and smashed it into the huge glass window.

  When they managed to climb out the window they’d cleared of glass, they knew, logically, that Timmy Tuttle and Marilyn Warluski couldn’t have come this way since the glass hadn’t been broken. But it didn’t matter. Where else could Timmy Tuttle have gone? They covered every inch of ground, looked into all the buildings, even went onto the tarmac where one American 757 sat waiting, calling up to the pilot. But Tammy or Timmy Tuttle was gone, and Marilyn as well. As if they’d just vanished into thin air, with nothing left to prove they’d even been there except for Virginia Cosgrove’s body, bloodless now, lying on her side, covered with several blankets, local technicians working over her. And the one local officer Timmy Tuttle had shot through the head.

  He’d used his right hand when he’d shot that officer.

  Savich had shot Tammy Tuttle through her right arm in that barn in Maryland, near the Plum River.

  At the hospital, they’d amputated her right arm.

  He wondered if they were all going mad.

  No, no, there was an explanation.

  Somehow a man had gotten into the airport, killed Virginia Cosgrove, and grabbed Marilyn. And no one had seen him until he had Marilyn by the neck and was dragging her away.

  No one much wanted to talk. Everyone who had been in the airport appeared confused and looked, strangely, hungover.

  Savich and his team went back to the security room. Sherlock was still unconscious, covered with blankets, a local physician sitting on the floor beside her.

  No one had much to say. Jimmy Maitland was sitting in a chair near Sherlock.

  Savich picked up his wife, carried her to a chair, and sat down with her in his arms. He rocked her, never looking away from her face.

  “It’s as if she’s asleep,” the physician said, standing now beside him. “Just asleep. She should wake up soon and tell us what happened.”

  Jimmy Maitland said, “We’ve put out an island-wide alert for Timmy Tuttle, with description, and Marilyn Warluski, with description. The three agents with Sherlock didn’t see a single blessed thing. Nada.”

  Savich nodded, touched his wife’s hair. He didn’t think he’d be surprised by anything ever again.

  A few minutes later, Sherlock opened her eyes. She looked up and, surprisingly, smiled. “You’re holding me, Dillon. Why? What happened?”

  “You don’t remember?” He spoke very slowly, the words not really wanting to speak themselves, probably because he didn’t want an answer.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, frowned, then said, “I remember I ran into this room, three other agents behind me. No one was here.” She frowned. “No, I’m not sure. There was something—a light maybe—something. I can’t remember.”

  “When I came in, you were standing perfectly still, staring out that big window. The other agents were searching the room. But you didn’t move, didn’t twitch or anything, and then you just fell over.”

  Jimmy Maitland said, “Did you see anything of Timmy Tuttle or Marilyn?”

  Sherlock said, “Timmy Tuttle—yes, that crazy-looking guy who was as pale as an apocalypse horseman—yes, I remember. He was holding Marilyn around her neck—a knife, yes, he had a knife. I was terrified when I saw Dillon go in after him into that conference room.”

  “You saw Timmy go into the conference room?”

  “I think so. But that can’t be right. Didn’t he come in here?”

  “We don’t know. None of the agents saw him in here,” Savich said. “No, Sherlock, that’s okay. You rest now. You’ll probably remember more once you get yourself together. Does your head ache?”

  “A bit, why?”

  “You feel maybe a bit like you’re hungover?”

  “Well, yes, that’s right.”

  Savich looked up at Jimmy Maitland and nodded. “Everyone I’ve spoken to, agents and civilians alike, everyone feels like that.”

  “Sherlock,” Maitland said, crouching down beside her. “Why was it you who collapsed? You must have seen something.”

  “I’m thinking, sir, as hard as I can.”

  Dillon slowly eased her up until she was sitting on his lap. She started shaking. Savich nearly lost it. He pulled her hard against him, protecting her, from what, he didn’t kn
ow. He didn’t want her hurt, no more hurt, no more monsters from the unknown.

  Then she said, pulling away from him, her voice firm and steady, “Dillon, I’m all right. I promise. I’ve got stuff to think about. Something really weird happened, didn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s there, in the back of my brain, and I’ll get it out.”

  TWENTY

  Eureka, California

  Morrie Jones stared at the young woman who had taken him down, hurt him, curse her eyes, before he could get away from her. He couldn’t believe it. She was skinny, looked like a damned little debutante with her blond hair and blue eyes and innocent face, like the prototypical little WASP. That idiot lawyer of his had even told him that she’d been recovering from surgery and she’d still stomped his ass. He really wanted to hurt her. He’d even do it for free, this time.

  He said to Simon, “You claimed I didn’t need my lawyer, that you only wanted to talk to me, that you had something to offer that I couldn’t refuse. You from the DA’s office?”

  Simon said, “No, but I have her approval. I see you remember Ms. Savich.”

  “Nah, I heard her name was Frasier. I know that’s right because that’s the name of the broad I’m going to sue for attacking me.”

  Lily gave him a big smile. “You go ahead and sue me, boyo, and I’ll just smack your face off again. What do you think?” She cracked her knuckles, a sound Morrie Jones had hated since he was a kid and his old man did it whenever he was drunk.

  “Stop that,” Morrie said, staring at her hands. “Why’d the cops let you two in here?”

  She cracked her knuckles again, something she’d rarely done since she was a bookie and some kid from another neighborhood had threatened to horn in on her territory. “What’s the matter, Morrie? I still scare you?”

  “Shut up, you bitch.”

  “Call me a bitch again and I’ll make you eat your tongue.” She gave him a sweet smile, with one dimple.

  Simon said, “All right, Lily, don’t scare the boy. Listen up, Morrie. We want you to tell us who hired you. It could save your life.”

  Morrie started whistling “Old Man River.”

  Lily laughed. “Come on, Morrie, spare us. You got a brain? Use it. Herman Monk is dead, shot three times in the back.”

  “I don’t know no Herman Monk. Sounds like a geek. Don’t know him.”

  That could be true. Simon said, “Monk was a loose end. He’s dead. You’re a loose end, too, Morrie. Think about your lawyer for a moment. Who is he? Who sent him? Who’s paying his bill? Do you really think he’s going to try to get you off?”

  “I hired him. He’s a real good friend, a drinking buddy. We watch the fights together down at Sam’s Sports Bar, you know, over on Cliff Street.”

  Lily said, as she tapped her fingers on the Formica surface, split down the middle by bars, with Simon and Lily on one side, Morrie on the other, “He’s setting you up, Morrie. You too stupid to use your brain? You know he told the sheriff that he took your case pro bono?”

  “I want a cigarette.”

  “Don’t be a moron. You want to die, hacking up your lungs? He said he took you on for free, out of the goodness of his heart. I want you to think about all this. What did your lawyer promise you?”

  “He said I was getting out of here, today.”

  “Yeah, we heard,” Simon said, and it was true, according to Lieutenant Dobbs. The judge had called and was prepared to set bail. “You know what’s going to happen then?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to go get me a beer.”

  “That’s possible,” Lily said. “I hope you really enjoy it, Morrie, because you’re going to be dead by morning. These people really hate loose ends.”

  Morrie said, “Who did you say this Monk geek was?”

  Lily said, “He was the curator of the museum where my grandmother’s paintings were displayed. He was part of the group who had four of the paintings copied, the originals replaced with the fakes. When it all came out, when it was obvious that things were unraveling, he was shot in the back. That’s why they wanted you to kill me. They want my paintings and here I am doing what they knew I’d do—stirring things up until I find out who stole my paintings. I wonder how long before they shoot you, Morrie.”

  “I’m leaving town, first thing.”

  “Good idea,” Simon said. “But I see two big problems for you. The first is that you’re still in jail. Your lawyer said he was going to get you out? Who’s going to pay the bail, Morrie, and that’s your second problem. Your pro bono lawyer? That’s possible, what with all the money from the people who hired you in the first place. So, let’s say you walk out of here, what are you going to do? Hide out in an alley and wait for them to kill you?”

  Morrie believed him, Simon knew it in that moment. Simon waited a beat, then said, “Turns out I can solve both problems for you.”

  “How?”

  “Ms. Savich here will drop charges against you, we’ll get you out of here without your lawyer knowing about it. To sweeten the deal, I’ll give you five hundred bucks. That’ll get you far away from these creeps, give you a new start. In return you give me the name of who hired you.”

  Morrie said, “Look, I’m going to sue her the minute I get out of here. Five hundred bucks? I’m gonna gag.”

  Simon’s gut was good. He knew he was going to get Morrie. One more nudge. He turned on the recorder in his jacket pocket. “You know, Morrie, Lieutenant Dobbs and the DA don’t really want me to cut any deal with you. I had to talk them into it. They want to take you to trial and throw your butt in jail for a long time. Since Lily hurt you pretty good, it’s more than your word against hers. You’d be dead meat, Morrie.”

  It took only three more minutes of negotiation. Simon agreed to give Morrie Jones eight hundred dollars, Lily agreed to drop the charges, and Morrie agreed to give them a name.

  “I want to see her sign papers and I want to see the money before I do anything.”

  Lieutenant Dobbs and the DA weren’t pleased, but knew that Morrie was incidental compared to the person who’d hired him.

  Lily, in the presence of Lieutenant Dobbs, an assistant DA, a detective, and two officers, signed that she was dropping the charges against one Morrie Jones, age twenty.

  Once they were alone again, Morrie said, slouching back in his chair, “Now, big shot, give me the money before I say another word.”

  Simon rose, pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and laid out the entire wad. There were eight one-hundred-dollar bills and a single twenty. “Glad you didn’t wipe me out completely, Morrie. I appreciate it. That twenty will buy Lily and me a couple of tacos.”

  Morrie smirked as Simon started to slide the hundred-dollar bills through the space beneath the bars. “Tell me a story, Morrie.”

  “I don’t exactly have a name. Hey, no, don’t take the money back. I got as good as a name. Look, she called me. It was this woman and she had this real thick accent, real Southern, you know? Smooth and real slow. She didn’t give me her name, just Lily Frasier’s name. She described her, told me where she was staying and to get it done fast.

  “I went right over to the bank, picked up the money, then I went to work.” He slid his eyes toward Lily. “It didn’t quite work out the way I wanted.”

  “That’s because you’re a wimp, Morrie.”

  Morrie half rose out of his chair. The jail guard standing against the wall immediately straightened. Simon raised a hand. “How much did this woman pay you to kill Lily?”

  “She gave me a thousand for a down payment. Then she was to have five thousand to me when it was done and on the news.”

  “This is not a good business, Simon.” She stared at Morrie. “I was only worth six thousand dollars?”

  Morrie actually smiled. “That’s all. You know, I would have done it for less if I’d known you then.”

  Simon realized that Lily was enjoying herself. She was having a really fine pissing contest with this young t
hug. He pressed his knee against her leg.

  But she had one more line. “What I did to you I did for nothing.”

  Simon shook his head at her. “Morrie, which bank?”

  “Give me the money first.”

  Simon slid the money all the way through. Morrie’s hand slid over it, presto. He closed his young eyes for a moment, feeling the money like it was a lover’s flesh. “Wells Fargo,” he said, “the one over on First Street and Pine. The money was there in my name.”

  “You didn’t ask who had left the money waiting there for you?”

  Morrie shook his head.

  “Thanks, Morrie,” Lily said as she rose. “Lieutenant Dobbs thinks you’ll be out sometime this afternoon. He’s agreed not to tell your lawyer. My advice to you—get out of Dodge. This time you don’t have to be afraid of me. The woman who hired you—chances are good she wants you dead, and she’s capable of doing it herself.”

  “You know who she is?”

  Lily said, “Oh yeah, we know. She’d eat you with her poached eggs for breakfast. Hey, what happened to the thousand bucks she gave you?”

  Morrie’s eyes slid away. “None of your business.”

  Lily laughed, shook her finger at him. “You pissed it away in a poker game, didn’t you?”

  “No, dammit. It was pool.”

  Clark Hoyt was waiting for them in Lieutenant Dobbs’s office. His arms were folded over his chest. He looked very odd. “I got a call from Savich. He was calling from Saint John’s, in Antigua, of all places, said to tell you that all hell will break loose in the media really soon now, but that he and Sherlock are okay. It seems Tammy Tuttle got ahold of Marilyn Warluski and they’re gone. There was a big situation there at the airport. Savich called it a fiasco.”

  “Antigua?” Simon said. “I guess he couldn’t tell us he was there.”