Just as Tammy leaped at her, the knife raised, the blade gleaming cold, Lily pulled the trigger.
Tammy yelled and kept coming. Lily pulled the trigger again and again, and Tammy Tuttle was kicked off her feet and hurled a good six feet by the force of the bullets. She sprawled on her back, gaping holes in her chest. Her one arm was flung out, the empty sleeve flat on the ground.
But Lily didn’t trust her. She ran to her, breathing hard and fast, nearly beyond herself, and she aimed and fired the last bullet not a foot from Tammy’s body. Her body lurched up with the bullet’s impact. She fired again, but there was only a click. The gun was empty, but Tammy was still alive, her eyes on Lily’s face, and Lily couldn’t stop. She pulled the trigger, like an automaton, again and again, until, finally, only hollow clicks filled the silence.
Tammy lay on her back, covered with blood, her one hand still clenched at her side. Even her throat was ripped through by a bullet. Lily had fired six shots into her. Lily dropped to her knees, put her fingertips to Tammy’s bloody neck.
No pulse.
But her eyes were looking up at Lily, looking into her. Tammy was still there, still clinging to what she was. Her lips moved, but there was no sound. Slowly, ever so slowly, her eyes went blank. She was dead now, her eyes no longer wild and mad, no longer seeing anything at all.
There was utter silence.
Lily looked up, but the Ghouls were gone. They were gone with Tammy.
THIRTY
Washington, D.C.
FBI specialists from the evidence labs went over every inch of the barn at the Plum River in Maryland.
They found candy wrappers—more than three dozen—but no clothing, no bedding, no sign that Tammy Tuttle had been there for any time at all.
There was no sign of Marilyn Warluski.
“She’s dead,” Savich said, and Sherlock hated the deadening guilt in his voice.
“We can’t be sure of anything when it comes to that family,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, but she’d moved closer, put her hand on his shoulder.
Two Days Later
It was late afternoon, and the snow had stopped falling. Washington was covered with a blanket of pristine white, and a brilliant sun was overhead. People were out and about on this cold, crystalline Sunday even as the national media announced the shooting death of the fugitive killer Tammy Tuttle in a barn in Maryland.
Lily came into the living room, a cup of hot tea in her hand. “I called Agent Clark Hoyt in Eureka. He said Hemlock Bay was rife with gossip over the deaths of Elcott and Charlotte. The mayor, the city council, and the local Methodist church are holding meetings to plan a big memorial service. No one, he said, really wants to delve too deeply into why they were killed, but it’s possible the floating rumors could even exceed the truth.”
Lily paused for a moment, then added, “I also called Tennyson. He’s very saddened by his parents’ death. It’s difficult for him to accept what they did, that they used him—used both of us—to gain their ends. He said he knows now his parents were feeding me depressants all those months and they had been the ones to arrange for my brakes to fail when I was driving to Ferndale.”
“But how did they know what you would be doing?” Sherlock asked.
“Tennyson said he called them from Chicago, just happened to mention that he’d asked me to drive to Ferndale, and when. I feel very bad for him, but I wonder how he could have been so blind to what his own parents were.”
“They fooled you as well,” Savich said. “At least enough. No one wants to see evil; no one wants to admit it exists.”
Lily said, “I’ve decided to fly to California for the memorial service. I’m going for Tennyson. He’s been hurt terribly. I feel that I must show him my support now, show everyone that I believe he was innocent of everything that happened. He knows I’m not coming back to him, as his wife, and he accepts it.” She sighed. “He said he was leaving Hemlock Bay. He never wants to see the place again.”
“I can’t say I blame him,” Simon said.
Savich said, “Please tell Tennyson for us that we are very sorry about what happened.”
“I will.” Lily raised her head, listened, and smiled. “Sean’s awake from his nap.”
Both Savich and Sherlock were up the stairs, side by side, their hands clasped.
Simon smiled at Lily, sipped his coffee. Savich had made it, so it was excellent. He sighed with pleasure.
“So, Lily, as your new consultant, I think it’s very good for you to go back for his parents’ memorial service. It will put closure on things. It will be over. Then you will begin to move forward. Now, I’ve been thinking hard about this.”
“And what did you decide, Mr. Russo?”
“I think the first step is for you to move to New York. It’s never wise for a client to be any distance at all from her consultant.”
Lily walked across the living room, gently placed her teacup on an end table, and sat down on Simon’s lap. She took his face between her hands and kissed him.
Simon sighed, set down his own cup, and pulled her close. “That’s very nice, Lily.”
“Yes, it is. Actually it’s better than just nice.” She kissed his neck, then settled herself against him. “I want to tell you you’re the best, Simon. I can’t believe it’s all really over—that I’m even going to get all my paintings back. But you know what? I want to stay in Washington for a while. I want to settle down, let the past sort itself out, and when I’m ready for the future, I want it to be with a clean slate, no excess baggage dragging along with me. I want to launch No Wrinkles Remus again. I want to be my own boss for a while.”
She thought for a moment he’d argue with her, but he didn’t. He rubbed his hands up and down her back and said, “Our time together hasn’t had many normal moments, like this. I think the consultant will need frequent visits, lots of contact, and both of us can think about things looking forward, not back.”
She kissed him again, pressed her forehead to his. “Deal,” she said.
Simon settled back and wrapped his arms around her, her cheek pressed against his neck. He said, “I forgot to tell you. An art dealer friend e-mailed me, said Abe Turkle is in Las Vegas gambling, and winning. He said Abe looked and acted like some big lumberjack; no one would believe for an instant he’s one of the top forgers in the world.”
“I wish I could remember what happened to that painting he gave me at his cottage.”
The doorbell rang.
Dillon and Sherlock were still upstairs playing with Sean. Lily pulled herself off Simon’s lap and went to answer the door. When she opened it, a FedEx man stood there, holding out an envelope. “For Dillon Savich,” he said. Lily signed the overnight receipt and brought the envelope back into the living room.
She called out to Dillon. Shortly, Savich, carrying Sean over his shoulder, Sherlock at his side, came downstairs.
Dillon patted his sister’s cheek. “What have you got, babe?”
“An overnight envelope for you, Dillon.”
Savich handed Sean to Sherlock and took the envelope. He looked down at it, bemused, and said, “It’s from the Beach Hotel in Aruba.” He opened the envelope, pulled out a sheaf of color photos. Slowly, he looked at each of them.
“Come on, Dillon, what is it?”
He raised his head and said to Sherlock, “These are the photos that Tammy took in the Caribbean to show to Marilyn.” There was a white sheet of paper behind the last photo, a few lines written on it. He read aloud.
“Mr. Savich, Tammy was right, the beaches here are very beautiful. I’m glad she didn’t kill you.”
MARILYN WARLUSKI
Don’t Miss Catherine Coulter’s FBI Thriller Series
THE COVE (1996)
THE MAZE (1997)
THE TARGET (1998)
THE EDGE (1999)
RIPTIDE (2000)
HEMLOCK BAY (2001)
ELEVENTH HOUR (2002)
BLINDSIDE (2003)
BLOWOUT (2004)
POINT BLANK (2005)
DOUBLE TAKE (2007)
TAILSPIN (2008)
KNOCKOUT (2009)
WHIPLASH (2010)
THE BEGINNING (2005)
(includes The Cove and The Maze)
DOUBLE JEOPARDY (2008)
(includes The Target and The Edge)
TWICE DEAD (2011)
(includes Riptide and Hemlock Bay)
Twice Dead Page 64