Riptide

by Catherine Coulter

  She said with a sneer in her voice, “Hey, I liked the slap better than you licking me. You’re really brave, aren’t you? Would you like to let my hands free, just for a minute, and then we’ll see how brave you are?”

  “Shut up!”

  He was standing beside her, leaning down, breathing hard. She couldn’t see his hands, but she imagined they were fists, ready to bash her.

  She said very quietly, “Why did you kill Linda Cartwright?”

  “That fat bitch? She was bothering me, always begging, pleading, whining when she was thirsty or she wanted to pee or she wanted to lie down. I got tired of it.”

  She said nothing at all, beyond words, wondering what had made him into a madman or had he been born like this? Born evil, nothing to blame but screwed-up genes.

  She could hear him tapping his fingers, tap, tap, tap. He wanted her to say something, wanted it badly, but she held quiet.

  “Did you like my present to you, Rebecca?”

  “No.”

  “I saw you puking your guts out.”

  “I thought you probably did. God, you’re sick. You get off on that?”

  “Then I saw that big guy, Adam Carruthers, there with you. He was holding you. Why did you let him hold you like that?”

  “I probably would have even leaned against you if I didn’t know who you were.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t let him kiss you.”

  “I had just vomited. That wouldn’t be fun for anyone, now would it?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  He didn’t sound old, not the age of this Krimakov character. But was he young? She just couldn’t tell. “Who are you? Are you Krimakov?”

  He was silent but just for a moment. Then he laughed softly, deeply, and it froze her. He lightly ran his palm over her cheek, squeezed just a bit, made her flinch. “I’m your boyfriend, Rebecca. I saw you and I knew that I would have to be closer to you than your skin. I thought about actually getting under your skin, but that would mean I’d have to skin you and then cover myself, and you’re just not big enough.

  “Then I thought I wanted to be next to your heart, but again, there’d be so much blood, fountains of it. Too many hands ruin the stew, too much blood ruins the clothes. I’m a fastidious man.

  “No, don’t say it or think it. I’m not crazy, not like that Hannibal character. I just said that to make you so afraid you’d start begging and pleading. Already the drug’s wearing off. I can see how afraid you are. All I have to do is talk and you’re scared shitless.”

  He was right about that, but she’d give about anything not to show him, not to let him see that she was boiling white hot inside, nearly burned to ashes with fear. “But then when you’re all done talking, you’ll strangle me like you did Linda Cartwright?”

  “Oh no. She wasn’t important. She wasn’t anything.”

  “I’ll bet she disagreed with that.”

  “Probably, but who cares?”

  “Why me?”

  He laughed, and she bet that if she could see his face, he’d be smirking, so pleased with himself. “Not just yet, Rebecca. You and I have got lots of things to do before you know who I am and why I chose you.”

  “There’s a reason, naturally, at least in your mind. Why won’t you tell me?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough, or not. We’ll see. Now, I’m going to give you another little shot and you’ll sleep again.”

  “No,” she said. “I have to go to the bathroom. Let me go to the bathroom.”

  He cursed—American curses mixed with English-sounding curses, and an odd language thrown in that she didn’t recognize.

  “You try anything and I’ll knock you silly. I’ll strip the skin off your arm and make it into a pair of gloves. You hear me?”

  “Yes, I hear you. I thought you were fastidious.”

  “I am, about blood. There wouldn’t be all those fountains of blood if I just peeled the skin off your arm.”

  She felt him untie her hands, slowly, and she supposed that the knots must have been complicated. Finally she was free. She brought her arms down and rubbed her wrists. They burned, then eased. She was very stiff. Slowly, she sat up and swung her legs off the bed.

  “You try anything and I’ll put a knife into your leg, high up on your thigh. I know just the place that won’t show much, but the pain will make you wish you were dead it’s so bad. There wouldn’t be hardly any blood at all. Yeah, forget about skinning your arm. Don’t try to see me, Rebecca, or I’ll have to kill you right now, and that’s the end of it.”

  She didn’t know how she managed to walk, but she did. Then, as the strength came back to her feet and legs, she wanted to run, run so fast she’d be a blur and he’d never catch her, never, never.

  But she didn’t, of course.

  The bathroom was just off the bedroom. He’d removed the doorknob. When she was through, she paused to look at herself in the mirror. She looked pale and drawn and gaunt, her hair tangled around her head and down to her shoulders. She looked vague and on the edge, like a woman who had been drugged, knew it, and also realized, at last, that she might very well die.

  “Come out now, Rebecca. I know you’re through. Come out or you’ll regret it.”

  “I just got here. Give me some time.”

  There was nothing in the bathroom to use as a weapon, nothing at all. He’d even removed the towel racks, cleared everything from beneath the sink. Nothing.

  “Just a moment,” she called out. She raced back to the toilet and fell onto her knees. It was old. If the big screw that held the toilet down had ever had a cap on it, it was long gone. She tried to twist it, and to her utter surprise, it actually moved, just a bit. It was thick, the grooves deep and sharp. She was choking, sobbing deep in her throat, praying.

  She heard him, just outside the door. Was he touching the door? Was he going to push it inward? Oh, Jesus. “Just a second,” she yelled. “I’m not feeling too well. That drug you shot into me, it’s making me nauseous. Give me just another minute. I don’t want to vomit all over myself.” Turn, damn you, turn. Finally, finally, it came free in her hand. It was thick, about an inch and a half long, deeply grooved, and those grooves were sharp. What to do with it? Where to hide it?

  “I’m coming,” she called out as she gently pulled some thread loose in the hem of her nightgown. “I feel a bit better. I just don’t want to vomit, particularly if you’re going to tie my hands again.”

  If he’d been standing by the bathroom door, he wasn’t now. He was back in the shadows when she came out. She couldn’t make out a thing about him. He said, his voice deep, ageless, “Lie back down on the bed.”

  She did.

  He didn’t tie her hands over her head.

  “Don’t move.”

  She felt the sting in her left arm, right above her elbow again, before she could even react. “Coward,” she said, her voice already becoming slurred.

  “Filthy coward.”

  She heard him laugh. And again, he licked her, her ear this time, his tongue slow, lapping, and she wanted to gag, but she didn’t because her mind was beginning to float now, and it was easy and smooth and the fear disappeared as she just fell away from herself.

  No time, she thought, as what she was and what she thought were slipping away, like grains of sand scattering in a wind. No time, no time to stab him with that screw. No time to ask him again if he was this Krimakov who’d been cremated. No time for anything.

  Adam stood there in her open bedroom door way. She was gone, simply gone. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. Oh God, no! Savich!”

  But she was gone, no sign of her, nothing at all.

  It was Sherlock who said as she sipped a cup of black coffee, “He used the tear gas as a diversion. While we were all outside looking for him, he simply slipped into the house and hid in Becca’s bedroom closet. Then he probably drugged her. How did he get her out? Our guys were back in position by the time we came back inside. Oh, no, get everyone
together! We weren’t exactly organized when we were looking for him outside. Dillon, who was assigned to the back of the house?”

  “Jesus,” Adam said. “No, damnation, no!”

  They found Chuck Ainsley in the bushes twenty feet from the back of the house. He wasn’t dead. He’d been struck down from behind, bound and gagged. When they peeled the tape off his mouth, he said, “I let him creep up on me. I didn’t hear a thing. He was fast, too fast. Oh God, what the hell happened? Is everyone all right?”

  Savich said matter-of-factly, “He took Becca. Thank God you’re not dead. I wonder why he didn’t just slit your throat, Chuck? Why waste time tying you up?”

  Sherlock said, as she hunkered down next to Chuck and untied both his wrists and ankles, “He doesn’t want the police here yet. He realized that if he killed one of us, that’s what would happen. It would force his hand. He would lose control. We’re really glad you’re okay, Chuck.”

  Adam said, “He must have knocked you out before he shot tear gas into the house. We came roaring out, everyone trying to find him, and we didn’t miss you. There was too much confusion. Damnation.”

  Sherlock gave Chuck a drink of cold water and a couple of aspirin once they got him into the kitchen. “If you don’t have a headache, you should,” she told him, then hugged him. “Thank God you’re all right. Since you weren’t at the back of the house watching for him, he must have just slipped out with Becca over his shoulder.”

  “We didn’t miss you,” Adam said slowly. “I can’t believe we didn’t have the brains to get everyone together and count heads before we settled back into the house for the night. Hell, we didn’t even think to search the damned house.”

  Everyone was rattled as what happened sank in. There was nothing to say, no excuses to make. He’d made fools of them all.

  An hour later, Sherlock and Savich found Adam in the kitchen, his head in his hands. Savich lightly laid his hand on his shoulder. “It happened. We’ve all flagellated ourselves. No thanks to us, Chuck is all right. Now we’ve got to fix it. Adam, we’ll find her.”

  “I was supposed to keep her safe,” Adam said, staring at his clasped hands. “I’ve got to be the biggest fuckup in this damned world. He’s got her, Savich. He’s got her and we have no idea where.”

  “Yes, he’s got her,” Savich said, “and he’s probably going to take her to Washington. That’s it, isn’t it? He wants her with him when he confronts Thomas? She’s his leverage. Thomas would do anything to save her, including giving himself up to this maniac.”

  “We’re talking like Krimakov is alive, like we don’t have any doubts about it at all,” Sherlock said.

  Adam said slowly, “Forget the reports, forget what the operatives said. The body was cremated. That’s all I need to know. It’s Krimakov. Now, he must not have found out where Thomas is. Thomas owns a house in Chevy Chase, but it’s a well-kept secret. The location of his condo in Georgetown is also a secret, but anyone could discover its location if they really wanted to. MAX could probably ferret it out in ten minutes flat. But not the Chevy Chase house. He’s very careful. I kid you not, I don’t even think the president knows where his house is. So then Krimakov wouldn’t know, either. That’s why he got Becca. She’s his leverage. He’ll take her to Washington, to the condo.” Adam stopped cold. “We’ve got to leave now.”

  Savich said, “I think you should call Thomas first, tell him what’s happened. We’ve put it off long enough, don’t you think? He’s got to know.”

  Adam cursed under his breath at the sound of Tyler McBride’s angry voice. Tyler came into the kitchen, three agents right behind him, one holding his arm, and yelled, “What the hell is going on here? Every light in the place is on? Who are these guys? Let me go, dammit. Where’s Becca?”

  “Let him go, Tommy,” Savich said, nodding to one of Thomas’s men who was guarding the front of the house. “He’s a neighbor and a friend of Becca’s.”

  “What the hell is going on here, Adam?”

  “He took her,” Adam said. “We think he’s heading to Washington, D.C., with her. We’re going to have to clear out soon.”

  Tyler paled, then yelled, “You were supposed to protect her, you bastard! You really screwed up big-time, didn’t you? I wanted to help but you just kissed me off, I was a civilian, of no use at all. What about you? All these big Fed cops, none of you could protect her. None of you were of any help at all!”

  Savich said as he closed his fingers around Tyler’s arm, “I understand your anger. But all these accusations aren’t going to help anyone, particularly Becca. Believe me, we all know what’s at stake here.”

  “You’re damned incompetent bastards,” Tyler yelled even louder, “all of you.” He jerked away from Savich.

  “Tyler,” Adam said quietly, “don’t go to Sheriff Gaffney. That would be the worst thing you could do.”

  “Why? How much more could things be fucked up?”

  “He might kill her,” Adam said. “Don’t tell anyone anything.”

  After Tyler McBride was escorted from the house by three agents, Sherlock said, “Why not tell everyone now?”

  Adam shoved his hand through his hair. “Dammit, because if some cop happens to see them, then you know our guy would kill her and take off. We can’t take the chance. No, we’ve got to get to Washington, fast.”

  “First you’ve got to call Thomas, Adam.”

  Adam didn’t want to, he really didn’t.

  Savich and Sherlock listened to Adam flail himself on the speakerphone.

  There was silence on the other end. Finally, Thomas said, “Get over it, Adam. We’ve been dealt new cards now, we’ll play them. I’m very relieved that Chuck is all right. His wife would roast me alive if he’d been killed. Now, if this is Krimakov, then he at least knows I’m in Washington, probably knows about the condo. I’ll stay here. I’ll be ready for him. Get back here as quickly as you can, Adam. Savich? Can you and Sherlock stick with us?”

  “Yes, Thomas.”

  “Now, I’ve got to get myself ready for Krimakov. It’s been so many years. Many times I thought he’d finally given it up, but it appears that he’s just been biding his time.”

  “He could really be dead,” Sherlock said.

  “No,” Thomas said. “Adam, you, Savich, and Sherlock hang around there for a while. Try to get a line on this guy. He’s got to be somewhere. He’s got to be traceable. Find him. Oh, and Adam?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Stop beating yourself up. Guilt just slows down your brain. I want that brain of yours sharp. Get it together and find my daughter.”

  They finally rang off. Thomas Matlock looked at the phone for a very long time before he slowly eased it back down. Then he leaned his head back against the soft leather of his chair. He closed his eyes to blot out the feeling of helplessness, for just a moment, an instant, but instead, he felt a deep, soul-corroding fear that a man should never have to feel in his damned life. It was fear for his child, and the knowledge that he was helpless to save her.

  It was Krimakov, he knew it, deep in his gut, he knew, and they had cremated the body. No, Krimakov wasn’t dead—maybe he’d staged his death, murdered another man who resembled him. He’d somehow found out about Becca and he had begun his reign of terror. There was no doubt at all in Thomas’s mind now. Krimakov, a man who had sworn to cut Thomas’s heart out even if he had to chase Thomas to hell to do it, had his Becca.

  He lowered his face in his hands.

  20

  She was aware of ear-splitting noise—men’s and women’s voices yelling loudly, car tire s screeching, horns blasting, and movement, she could feel the blur of movement everywhere, pounding feet, running fast. She was moving as well, no, she was flying, then she hit hard and the pain ripped through her. She lay on her side, smelling the hot tar of the street, a light overlay of urine, hot and sour, whiffs of food, of too many bodies, feeling the unforgiving cement beneath her. Cement?

  People were yelling,
coming closer now, and there were men and women shouting, “Stay back! Let us through!”

  She tried to open her eyes, but her muscles were too weak, wouldn’t obey her, and the pain was boiling up inside her. She was so very tired, nearly blown under with it. Then she felt a hideously sharp stab of pain somewhere in her body, fierce, unrelenting, and she knew tears were leaking out of her eyes.

  “Miss! Can you hear me?”

  She felt his hand on her shoulder, felt the sun beating down on her, hot on her bare skin—what bare skin? Her legs were bare, that was it. But he was over her, a shadow blocking the sun.

  “Miss? Can you hear me? Are you conscious?”

  She opened her eyes then because he sounded so very afraid. “Yes,” she whispered, “I can hear you. I can see you. Not clearly, but I can see you.”

  “My God, it’s her! It’s that Matlock woman!”

  More shouting, yelling, some curses, and so much heat, the press of bodies, the running thuds of shoes and boots.

  A woman lightly tapped her cheek. “Open your eyes for me. Yes, that’s right. Do you know who you are?”

  She looked up into Letitia Gordon’s grim, incredulous face.

  Maybe there was also a touch of worry in those unforgiving eyes. Becca whispered to that hard face over her, “You’re the cop who hates me. How can you be here, right over me, speaking to me? You’re in New York, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, and so are you.”

  “No, that’s not possible. I was in Riptide. You know, I never could figure out why you hated me and believed I was a liar.”

  The woman’s face contorted. Into anger? What?

  “He drugged me,” she whispered, her mouth so dry she nearly swallowed her tongue. “He drugged me. I hurt so much but I just can’t tell where.”

  “All right. You’ll be all right. Hey, Dobbson, is the ambulance here yet? Get off your butt, usher them through. Now!”

  Letitia Gordon’s face was really close to hers now, her breath minty on her cheek. “We’ll find out what’s happening here, Ms. Matlock. You just rest now.”

  She felt hands pulling cloth down over her legs. Why were her legs bare? She realized then that there was pain in her legs. But it wasn’t as bad as the other pain. Where was she? In New York? But that made no sense. Nothing made sense. Her brain nestled back into the shadows. The pain faded away. Becca sighed deeply and closed down.