No, his imagination was going nuts on him, but there it was again. Aaron forgot to fall to the floor so Savich could have his shot. He grabbed his SIG from beneath the counter, brought it up fast, just like he knew Possner and Lowell were doing, and whipped around. The photo envelope was suddenly in her hand; he didn’t know how she’d gotten it, but there it was, and then both Tammy Tuttle and the envelope were gone. Just gone.
He heard Savich yell, “Get out of the way, Aaron! Move!”
But he couldn’t. It was like he was nailed to the spot. Savich was trying to shove him aside, but he resisted, he simply had to resist, not let him by. He saw a harsh, bright glow of fire in the corner of the shop, smelled burning plastic, harsh and foul, and heard Agent Possner scream. Oh God, the place was on fire; no, it was mainly Agent Possner. She was on fire—her hair, her eyebrows, her jacket, and she was screaming, slapping at herself. Flames filled her hair, bright and hot and orange as a summer sun.
Agent Aaron Briggs shoved Savich aside and started running, yelling as he ran toward Possner.
Agent Lowell was turning to Possner, not understanding, and when he saw the flames, he tackled her. They fell to the floor of the shop, knocking over a big frame display, and he was slapping at her burning hair with his hands. Aaron jerked off his sweater as he ran toward them, knocking frame and album displays out of the way.
Savich was around the counter, running toward the door, his gun drawn. Aaron saw him but didn’t understand. Didn’t he care that Possner was on fire? He heard a gunshot, a high, single pop, then nothing. Suddenly the flames were out. Possner was sobbing, in the fetal position on the floor, Lowell’s shirt wrapped around her head, and Aaron saw Lowell was all right, no burns that Aaron could see. He had his cell phone out, calling for backup, calling for an ambulance. And Aaron realized that his fingers looked normal. He thought he’d seen them burned, just like he’d seen Possner burned.
SAVICH was running, searching through the streets. There weren’t that many folk around, no tourists at all, it being fall and much too chilly for beach walks in Bar Harbor. He held his SIG at his side and made a grid in his mind. He’d studied the street layout. Where would she go? Where had she come from?
Then he saw her long, dark blue wool coat, thick and heavy, flapping around a corner half a block up Wescott. He nearly ran down an old man, apologized but didn’t slow. He ran, holding his SIG against his side, hearing only his own breathing. He ran around the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. The alley was empty except for that thick wool coat. It lay in a collapsed pile against a brick wall at the back of the alley.
Where was she? He saw the narrow, wooden door, nearly invisible along the alley wall. When he got to it, he realized it was locked. He raised his SIG and fired into the lock. Two bullets dead on and the lock shattered. He was inside, crouched low, his gun steady, sweeping the space. It was very dim, one of the naked bulbs overhead, burned out. He blinked to adjust his vision and knew he was in grave danger. If Tammy was hidden in here, she could easily see his silhouette against the streetlight behind him and nail him.
He realized he was in a storeroom. There were barrels lining the walls, shelves filled with boxes and cans, paper goods. The floor was wooden and it creaked. The place was really old. It was dead quiet, not even any rats around. He swept over the room, hurrying because he didn’t believe she’d stayed in here, no, she’d go through the door at the far end of the storeroom. It wasn’t in Tammy’s nature to hide and wait.
He opened the door and stared into a bright, sunlit dining room filled with a late-lunch crowd. He saw a kitchen behind a tall counter on the far side of the dining room, smoke from the range rising into the vents, exits to the left leading to bathrooms, and a single front door that led out to the sidewalk. He stepped into the room. He smelled roast beef and garlic. And fresh bread.
Slowly the conversations thinned out, then stopped completely, everyone gaping at the man who was in a cop stance, swinging a gun slowly around the room, looking desperate, looking like he wanted to kill someone. A woman screamed. A man yelled, “Here, now!”
“What’s going on here?”
This last was from a huge man with crew-cut white hair, a white apron stained with spaghetti sauce, coming around the kitchen counter to Savich’s left, carrying a long, curved knife. The smell of onions wafted off the knife blade.
“Hey, fellow, is this a holdup?”
Savich slowly lowered his gun. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, couldn’t believe he’d come through a dank storeroom into a café and scared a good twenty people nearly to death. Slowly, he reholstered his gun. He pulled out his FBI shield, walked to the man with the knife, stopped three feet away, and showed it to him. He said in a loud voice, “I’m sorry to frighten everyone. I’m looking for a woman.” He raised his voice so every diner in the big room could hear. “She’s mid-twenties, tall, light hair, very pale. She has only one arm. Did she come in here? Through the storeroom door, like I did?”
There were no takers. Savich checked the bathrooms, then realized Tammy was long gone. She might have remained hidden in the storeroom, knowing he’d feel such urgency he’d burst into the café. He apologized to the owner and walked out the front door.
In that moment, standing on the Bar Harbor sidewalk, Savich could swear that he heard a laugh—a low, vicious laugh that made the hair on his arms stand up. There was no one there, naturally. He felt so impotent, so completely lost that he was hearing her in his mind.
Savich walked slowly back to Hamlet’s Pics. When he got there, he stood a moment outside the shop, incredulous. There’d been mayhem when he’d burst out of there. But now there were no cop cars, no ambulance, no fire engines. Everything was quiet, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.
He walked into the photo shop. There were three agents standing on the far side of the shop talking quietly among themselves.
Agent Possner wasn’t burned. There was no sign that there had ever been a fire in Hamlet’s Pics. Agents Briggs, Lowell, and Possner stared back at him.
Savich walked out. He sat down on a wooden bench on the sidewalk just outside the photo shop and put his head in his hands.
For the first time, he thought the FBI needed to assign someone else to catch this monster. He’d failed. Twice now, he’d failed.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and slowly raised his head to see Teddi Tyler standing over him. “I’m sorry, man. She must really be something to get past you guys.”
“Yeah,” Savich said, and he felt a shade better. “She’s something. We’ll get her, Teddi. I just don’t know how as of yet.”
She was still somewhere in Bar Harbor with Marilyn, she had to be. He got slowly to his feet. He had to get a huge manhunt organized.
In that instant, he realized that even if they didn’t find her, she had every intention of finding him. She would hunt him down, not the other way around. And the good Lord knew, he was much easier to find.
Gothenburg, Sweden
It was cold, so bloody cold Lily didn’t think she could stand it. Strange thing was that she knew she wasn’t really conscious, that she didn’t really know what was happening or where she was, but her body just kept shuddering, convulsing with the cold. The cold was penetrating her bones, and she felt every shake, every shudder.
Then, suddenly, she felt Simon near her, no doubt it was him because she knew his scent. She already knew his damned scent, a good scent, as sexy as his hair curling at his neck. His arms were suddenly around her, and he hugged her hard against him, pulling her so close she was breathing against his neck, feeling his heart beat steady and strong against hers.
He was breathing deeply, and cursing. Really bad words that Savich had never said even when he was pissed off, which had been quite often when they were growing up. What a long time ago. Sometimes, like now, she thought as she shivered, being an adult really sucked. She pressed closer, feeling his warmth all the way to her belly. The convulsive jerks lessened, her brai
n began to function again.
She said against his collarbone, “Where are we, Simon? Why is it so cold? Did they leave us beside a fjord?”
His hands were going up and down her back, big hands that covered a lot of territory, and he rolled her under him so he could cover more of her.
“I guess we’re in Sweden. It’s sure too cold in this room for us to be in the Mediterranean near Ian’s yacht. I woke up a while ago. They drugged us. Do you remember?”
“Yes, Nikki forced something down my throat. I guess you were already under. How much time has passed?”
“A couple of hours. We’re in a bedroom, and there isn’t even a heater working. The door is locked, and the bed is stripped, so we have no blankets or sheets. I didn’t realize you were so cold until just a minute ago. Are you warming up now?”
“Oh yes,” she said, against his neck, “definitely better.”
He was silent for a long time, listening to her breathe, feeling her relax as she grew warmer. He cleared his throat and said, “Lily, I know this is an awfully unusual place and perhaps even a somewhat strange time to mention this, but I have to be honest here. You didn’t do well picking your first two husbands. I’m thinking that you need a sort of consultant who could help you develop a whole new set of criteria before you try a third husband.”
She raised her head, saw his bristly chin in the dim light, and said only, “Maybe, but I’m still married to the second one.”
“Not for much longer. Tennyson is soon to be only another very bad chapter in your history. Then he’ll be a memory, and you’ll be ready to begin work with your consultant.”
“He’s scary, Simon. He married me to get to my paintings. He fed me depressants. He probably tried to kill me by cutting the brake lines in the Explorer. He’s a very bad chapter, maybe the biggest, baddest yet, and my history isn’t all that long. It’s not particularly good for the soul to have both Jack Crane and Tennyson Frasier in your life.”
“You’ll divorce Tennyson just like you did Jack Crane. Then we’ll figure out these new criteria together.”
“You want to be my marriage consultant?”
“Well, why not?”
“I don’t even know your educational background or your experience in this area.”
“We can discuss that later. Tell me about your first husband.”
“All right. His name is Jack Crane. He knocked me around when I was pregnant with Beth. The first and last time. I called Dillon and he was there in a flash, and he beat Jack senseless. Loosened three of his perfect white teeth. Cracked two ribs. Two black eyes and a swollen jaw. Then Dillon taught me how to fight so if he ever came around again, I could take care of him myself.”
“Did he ever come around after you divorced him so you could beat him up?”
“No, dammit, he didn’t. I don’t think he was scared of me. He was scared Dillon would get every FBI agent in Chicago on him and he’d be dead meat. You know, Simon, I don’t think having a consultant to select new criteria would help. You can be sure I thought long and hard about Tennyson, given Jack was a wife beater.”
“You didn’t think long enough or hard enough. You have trouble with criteria, Lily, and that’s why you need a consultant, to keep your head screwed on straight, to see things properly.”
“Nope, it’s more than that. I’m simply rotten at picking men. Your counseling me wouldn’t work, Simon. Besides that, I don’t need you. I’ve decided that I’m never going to get married again. So I don’t need to consult you or anyone else about it.”
“A whole lot of men aren’t anything like your first or second husbands. Look at Savich. Do you think Sherlock ever has any doubts about him?”
He felt her shrug. “Dillon is rare. There are no criteria that fit him. He’s just wonderful, and that’s all there is to it. He was born that way. Sherlock is the luckiest woman in the world. She knows it; she told me so.”
She was quiet for a moment, and he could feel her relaxing, warming up, and it was driving him nuts. He couldn’t believe what he was saying to her.
She said into his neck, “You know, I’m beginning to think that once I marry a man, he turns into Mr. Hyde. He sinks real low real fast. But I guess you’ll tell me it’s because of my lousy criteria, again.”
“Are you saying that all guys would turn into a Mr. Hyde?”
“Could be, all except for Dillon. But you see my point here, Simon. Don’t be obtuse. With both Jack and Tennyson, I didn’t believe either of them was anything but what I believed them to be when I married them. I loved them, I believed they loved me, admired me, even admired my Remus cartoons. Both Jack and Tennyson would go on and on about how talented I was, how proud they were of me. And so I married them. I was happy, at least for maybe a month or two. About Jack—he did give me Beth, and because of that I will never regret marrying him.” Her voice caught over her daughter’s name. Just saying her name brought back horrible memories, painful memories she’d lived with for so very long. It had been so needless, so quick, and then her little girl was gone. She had to stop it, cut it off. It was in the past, it had to stay there. She pictured Beth in her mind, decked out in her Easter dress of the year before, and she’d been so cute. She’d just met Tennyson. She sighed. So much had happened and now poor Simon was caught up in all of it. And he suddenly wanted her?
She said, “You can’t possibly want to consult with me on this, Simon. I think you could say we’ve got a situation here; we might die at any minute—no, don’t try to reassure me, don’t try it. You know it’s very possible, and you’re trying to take my mind off it, but talking about Jack and Tennyson isn’t helping.”
He kept holding her and said finally, nodding against her hair, “I understand.”
“Stop using that soothing voice on me. You know you’re not thinking straight. You know what? I think God created me, decided He’d let me screw up twice, and then He’d keep me safe from further humiliations and mistakes.”
“Lily, you may look like a princess—well, usually—but what you just said, that was nuts. I intend to make use of some proper criteria. You’ll choose really well next time.”
“Forget it, Simon. I’m the worst matrimonial bet on the planet. I’m warm now, so you can get off me.”
He didn’t really want to, but he rolled off and came up on his elbow beside her. “This bare mattress smells new. I can make out more of the room now. It’s nice, Lily, very nice.”
“We’re at Olaf’s house, somewhere in Sweden.”
“Probably.”
“Why did ...”
She let the words die in her mouth when the bedroom door opened, sending in a thick slice of bright sunlight. Alpo walked in, Nikki behind him. “You are awake now?”
“Yes,” Simon said, coming up to sit on the side of the bed. “Don’t you guys believe in heat? Is Olaf trying to economize?”
“You are soft. Shut up.”
Lily said, “Well, we don’t have your body fat; maybe that’s the difference.”
Nikki shouldered Alpo out of the way and strode to where Simon was sitting. “You get up now. You, too,” he said to Lily. “A woman does not speak like that. I am not fat; I am strong. Mr. Jorgenson is waiting for you.”
“Ah,” Lily said, “at last we get to meet the Grand Pooh-Bah.”
“What is that?” Nikki asked as he stepped back so they could get up.
“The guy who controls everything, the one who believes he’s the big cheese,” Simon said.
Alpo looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “We will go see the Grand Pooh-Bah now.” He said to Lily, “He will like you. He may want to paint you before he kills you.”
Not a happy thought.
TWENTY-FIVE
Bar Harbor, Maine
It had been nearly a whole day, and there was no sign of Tammy Tuttle or Marilyn Warluski. There’d been dozens of calls about possible sightings, all of which had to be investigated, but so far, nothing. It was the biggest manhunt in Maine�
��s history, with more than two hundred law enforcement people involved. And always there in Savich’s mind was Lily and where she was. Whether she was alive. He couldn’t bear it and there was nothing he could do.
He was nearly ready to shoot himself when Jimmy Maitland called from Washington.
“Come home, Savich,” he said. “You’re needed here in Washington. We’ll get word on Tammy sooner or later. There’s nothing more you can do up there.”
“She’ll kill again, sir, you know it, I know it, and that’s when we’ll get word. She’s probably already killed Marilyn.”
Jimmy Maitland was silent, a thick, depressed silence. Then he said, “Yes, you’re right. I also know that for the moment there’s nothing more we can do about it. As for you, Savich, you’re too close now. Come home.”
“Is that an order, sir?”
“Yes.” He didn’t add that he was calling from Savich’s house in Georgetown, sitting in Savich’s favorite chair, bouncing Sean on his knee, Sherlock not two feet away, holding out a whiskey, neat, in one hand and a graham cracker in the other. Jimmy hoped the cracker wasn’t intended for him. He needed the whiskey.
Savich sighed. “All right. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
If Sean had decided to talk while his father was on the phone, Jimmy would have been busted, but the kid had been quiet, just grinning at him and rubbing his knuckles over his gums. Jimmy hung up the phone, handed Sean to Sherlock, and said as she handed him the whiskey, “This is a royal mess, but at least Savich will be home sometime this evening. He’s really upset, Sherlock.”
“I know, I know. We’ll think of something. We always do.” She gave Sean the graham cracker.
Jimmy said, “Savich feels guilty, like he’s the one who’s failed, like the murders of all those people, including our own Virginia Cosgrove, are his fault.”
“He always will. It’s the way he is.”
Twice Dead Page 59