The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  “It sounds like a wonderful childhood.”

  “It was the best.” She took another sip of her coffee.

  “Are your parents still in Canada?”

  She shook her head, her lips pursed.

  He sat forward and asked quietly, “What happened, Joanna?”

  She didn’t look at him. He watched her long fingers pleat the afghan beside her. Finally, she said, “My mom passed away when I was fifteen. Then my father was killed trying to save some idiot hotdog French skiers from an avalanche. I swore on that day I never wanted to see another snow-covered mountain.”

  “Once again, I’m sorry. That’s tough.”

  She gave a half laugh. “I was in my freshman year at CSU in Fort Collins. I transferred the next year to Boston University. And became a business major. Then I met my husband in my junior year. Sheriff, it’s time for me and Autumn to hit the road.”

  “When did you begin skiing again?”

  “After I’d worked in an office for a week, it was time to head up to Loon Mountain Resort on White Mountain in New Hampshire. I skied for a week straight.”

  He wanted to ask her if her husband had gone skiing with her, but he let it go.

  He noticed that her mug of coffee said: GOOSE ME OR GIVE ME COFFEE. He pointed to it. “The mug was my grandpa’s, it’s forty years old if it’s a day, holds a good twenty-four ounces. If you chug that all down, Joanna, you’re going to be flying high. Why don’t you tell me why you ran here to Titusville? Other than its being the butt end of nowhere. An incredibly beautiful butt end, but still—”

  “Tollie lives here. We’ve known him since he was good friends with my dad’s older brother. My folks were close to him, and I was too. Tollie knows lots of people—he used to be in law enforcement—and I knew he’d help us.”

  Ethan said, “Yes, Autumn mentioned Tollie. You’re right about his knowing people, he’s former FBI. So you didn’t know about his yearly trek out to the Everglades? You came here without talking to him?”

  “We couldn’t reach him by phone, so we just drove here. We’ve been waiting for him. It doesn’t matter now, it’s too late. They’ve found us.”

  “Who is ‘they’? The Backmans?”

  She nodded. “There’s a nest of them, Sheriff. I thank you for all you’ve done, I really do, but Autumn and I are going to be leaving now. I will keep in touch.”

  “How many times did you rehearse that little departure speech?”

  “Three, four times, in front of the mirror. That doesn’t change the facts. Autumn’s in danger here. I want to take her away from the danger, it’s that simple.”

  “Blessed would have murdered you, probably me as well.”

  “Yes, I suppose so, through Ox.”

  “I’ll bet Ox feels really lousy that it was his finger on the trigger.”

  “Look, I’m really sorry about what happened to Ox.” She set the mug on the coffee table beside his and rose, smoothing down her creased jeans with her palms. He slowly rose to stand in front of her. He was big and barefoot, he hadn’t shaved, and his Beretta was clipped to his jeans. He imagined he looked like a thug who needed a shower. He hoped she might be intimidated, but he gave it up when she merely raised an eyebrow at him and looked amused. He said, “I don’t think it’d be too bright to ignore this. You know, running from trouble might save you for the short term, but trouble always catches up. Always.”

  She stared down at his grandpa’s mug.

  “Look, Joanna, I get that you’re afraid for your daughter.”

  “Yes, and myself.”

  “Tell me about Blessed and the ‘mad old woman.’ Tell me all about the Backmans. Blessed referred to his ma?”

  She sighed. “I could tell you, and maybe you could even talk the local police chief into going to see them, but trust me on this—nothing would be done, and that’s because everyone’s afraid of them, even that good-old-boy sheriff, Burris Cole.”

  “Where is this? Where do they live?”

  Since she ignored the question, he continued, “I can see being scared spitless of them, after seeing what Blessed can do to another human being. What makes you think when we find Blessed our charges won’t stick? After all, he’ll be here, not with his own local sheriff.”

  “Maybe because the judge would look at Blessed and dismiss the case, or the prosecutor would look at him and never bring a case, or, better yet, the cops sent to arrest him would look at him and they’d let him go, maybe even give him a lift to wherever he wanted to go—better yet, even forget why they were there in the first place. This is not what could be possible. This is exactly what would happen. Believe me, Sheriff.”

  He said, “I gotta admit, you’ve hit a solid point there. We’ll get to that in a moment. I don’t want you to think I’m just this boondocks sheriff who doesn’t know his butt from his boots. I was this big law enforcement honcho back in Washington, a DEA agent.”

  That drew her up short. “DEA?”

  “You know, the Drug Enforcement Administration. Maybe I wasn’t a real big honcho, but I think I did some good.”

  “Then how did you get to be a sheriff in the boondocks?”

  He gave her a big grin. “Like you, I couldn’t stand being trapped inside a building, wearing a suit and wing tips. Don’t get me wrong, if they’d let me out in the field, I’d have been happy as a clam, but they wanted me in a Washington tactical desk job.”

  She picked up his grandfather’s mug. “I need a refill.”

  “No, you don’t. Step away from the mug, Joanna.”

  She laughed, couldn’t help it.

  “So tell me about Blessed. All he has to do to hypnotize someone is to look them straight in the eye, that’s it? Can he do it to anyone?”

  How had he gotten her off on this track, and talking? This was bad. She wasn’t amused at his macho show now, probably because he wasn’t playing at it any longer, that hard look on his face all too real. Because she’d known such fear in the last two weeks, felt so paralyzed, it almost hurt to say it, but she did.

  “I don’t know. I guess so. I only saw him do it to one other person besides Ox. It was instant, what he did.”

  Ethan said slowly, “I’ve always heard you can’t hypnotize another person into acting contrary to their wishes. But here’s the thing, Joanna. Last night, it seemed to me that Ox would have killed you, killed me, killed anyone who happened to get in his way of nabbing Autumn. You don’t know Ox, but I do, and that guy last night wasn’t the man I know. He didn’t even sound like himself, exactly—manic, excited, quite mad, really. It was more than hypnosis, I’m thinking. It’s scary, Joanna, what he did to Ox.”

  “Sheriff, I appreciate your wanting to protect us, but Blessed is out there, mending his arm, making his plans. Autumn and I must leave. We’ve got to stop at the B-and-B and pack our things. I do thank you for what you’ve done for us, Sheriff.”

  “You’re welcome, but I’ve just begun to fight. Now, I’ll take you to the B-and-B. While you’re getting your stuff together, I’ll make some calls. We’re staying together, Joanna, get used to it.”

  15

  NORTHEAST WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Sunday, late afternoon

  Buzz Riley looked one last time at the bed he and his wife, Eloise, had shared for more than thirty-six years. He’d never been gone from home for long since she died of ovarian cancer the year before. He missed her every single day, a steady ache. Was the ache less than it had been six months ago? He didn’t know. His three kids worried about him, and hovered. At first it was good, but soon it was driving him nuts. He figured out they’d made a schedule to see him, especially on the weekends, and that drove him nuts too. He tried to tell them he needed time alone, to reflect, to remember, to enjoy fishing in his new fifteen-foot Blue Fin Dory, but they wouldn’t pay any attention. One of his kids and some of his grandkids were always with him, the kids pressed against his back at the center console.

  He fastened his ancient army duffel bag
, checked to see that all the kitchen appliances were turned off, something Eloise had trained him to do, locked the front door, and carefully set the house alarm. He walked to his 2007 blue Chrysler Sebring, the first convertible he’d ever owned. They’d bought it from their mail carrier—only nine thousand miles on it—a year before Eloise died. She loved to ride around with him with the top down, laughing like a teenager sometimes, until one day she stuck her head out the side and an insect hit her front teeth. Buzz grinned at the memory of her shriek. He could still see her scrubbing her fingers manically over her teeth, trying to find a Kleenex.

  He tossed his duffel into the passenger seat and slid across the soft black leather, closed the door. He patted the dashboard, still looking good as new, since he kept his baby cleaned and polished inside and out. He loved this car, only wondered in that moment if the damned thing had taken some of Eloise’s place in his affections.

  “Nah,” he said aloud, and turned the key in the ignition.

  Nothing happened. The engine didn’t even turn over.

  He centered the steering wheel and turned the key again.

  There was a small grinding noise that didn’t sound good, but then the engine roared to life, hummed smooth, and happy. He gave it some gas, listened to the sweet music. “Ah, there you go, beautiful.”

  Buzz backed out of his driveway slowly because the neighborhood was always hopping, kids playing in the street, riding bikes. Didn’t matter if it was nearly seven o’clock in the evening, if it was still light there was action.

  He waved to a couple of teenage boys who looked like they were going to smoke dope the minute he was out of sight, and they waved back. He was a retired cop, seven years now, but still a cop, and they knew it. His fingers itched sometimes to grab the little yahoos by the scruffs of their necks and shake some sense into their buzzed teenage heads.

  He took a last look at his house, wondered how long it would be until he was home again. He knew he had no choice but to leave, with those crazy loons from the bank out for his hide—that young girl, Lissy, especially. Mr. Maitland had told him Lissy was probably sprung by the guy driving the getaway car, and confided that Dillon Savich would be taking over the case. Buzz liked him. Mr. Maitland treated Buzz like he was still a cop, even thanked him for saving Savich’s life.

  Buzz had been to the Caribbean only once, with Eloise, on a cruise they’d hated, what with all his fellow cruisers running like pigs to the trough, and the threat of a hurricane, which, thankfully, hadn’t materialized.

  He figured if he got bored on Aruba, he could always island-hop—after all, he was on leave with pay. Island-hopping, that might be good, but not if it meant being stuck on a rocking boat for seven days. At least he’d get a break from his kids cluttering around him all the time, trying to feed him, siccing his grandkids on him. It had been a zoo with them since he’d nearly bought the big one in the bank robbery. Buzz hadn’t called any of them to tell them he was leaving. Nope, he’d sent a blanket e-mail, and hadn’t answered any phone calls. He’d send everybody postcards.

  The Sebring wasn’t running right. He had noticed some sputtering earlier, and now it was skipping, running rough. Whatever it was, it was getting worse. Maybe he shouldn’t drive the car to the airport. He had time to leave it at Jimmy’s—yeah, that’s what he’d do. He pulled out his cell phone and called Jimmy at home, told him he was going to leave it, and called a taxi.

  Buzz switched lanes and drove over to Pepper Street, down a couple of blocks, and pulled into his friend Jimmy Turly’s auto shop, Honest Abe’s Repairs. Buzz once asked him if there really was an Abe, but Jimmy said his mom told him it had a good sound to it, trustworthy and all.

  Buzz left his convertible at the tail of a row of other broken-down cars, left the keys on top of the front driver’s-side tire, and climbed into the taxi that had pulled up sooner than he expected. They made it to Reagan Airport in under an hour. His plane wasn’t late—a miracle—and he checked his bag and made it through security without having to strip to his shorts or empty his carry-on. He boarded his 737 to Aruba, a flat island, he’d heard, with lots of casinos and white beaches. He didn’t like to gamble, but he did like to lie in the sun. No one could ever tell he had a tan, he was already so dark, but he liked the idea of just lying in the sand and listening to the waves break. He could still feel the mad rush of adrenaline and the pounding fear when that maniac stuck his .38 into his ear, and the leap of joy and excitement when he could finally fight back. And he’d made it, with Dillon Savich’s help, even managed to shoot that woman who was leading the gang. In thirty years as a cop he’d never come that close to dying, and had never had to kill someone. The Washington Post had called him a hero, run his picture with Savich standing next to him, looking like one mean dude, despite his grin. At least he was alive, and although Eloise was gone, it felt wonderful.

  He smiled. What an experience. It had changed something in him, he thought, made him feel more involved again in what people were doing around him, what they thought, how they felt. He liked it. He realized it felt vaguely familiar.

  Buzz sat in a window seat, glad the seat next to him was still unoccupied, and looked out into the dying day when he noticed a closed utility door next to their gate slowly open. A young man, dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt, stuck out his head. To Buzz’s experienced eye, he looked furtive, like he was somewhere he shouldn’t be, wanting to do something he shouldn’t be doing. What was this all about? The young man looked straight up at the plane, and Buzz would swear the young guy looked straight at him, although Buzz doubted that was possible. He saw something change in the boy’s expression. He turned to speak to someone still inside, and suddenly Buzz clearly saw Lissy Smiley come out from behind him. He’d seen her up close the day of the robbery when Savich had pulled her ski mask off, stared at her for some time. No doubt in his mind it was her, even though he couldn’t see her crazy dark eyes from here.

  He knew why the two of them were here. They’d come to kill him. But they were too late.

  He wanted to wave his fist at them, yell and laugh at them that he was safe. Then Buzz wondered how they followed him here, remembered the trouble with his car. Had they rigged it to break down on the side of the road? Or to blow up? Had that taxi arriving early saved his life? He quickly turned his cell back on and dialed Dillon Savich, but there was no answer. He left a message.

  Buzz watched the two young people fade back into the terminal, watched the utility door automatically close. He continued to ignore the flight attendant and dialed Mr. Maitland. He didn’t want to take a chance of Honest Abe’s blowing up, Jimmy along with it.

  16

  TITUSVILLE, VIRGINIA

  Sunday evening

  Joanna and Autumn wore clean jeans and T-shirts, and probably clean socks on their feet. Ethan thanked the Lord he had convinced them to unpack, to stay with him at least while his deputies were out searching for Blessed. But he hated waiting. He hated not knowing what he was up against.

  After a dinner of macaroni and cheese with a side of peas and a salad Joanna made without anyone asking for one, he set Autumn in front of the TV in his bedroom and took Joanna to the living room. “Sit down.”

  She said, “Why don’t you throw that sweatshirt away? It’s got a hole under the right arm and it’s all frayed around the neck. I know, I know, you’re a guy and you’ve worn that sweatshirt since you were sixteen.”

  “Seventeen, actually.”

  “And why don’t you have shoes and socks on? You’ll get splinters.”

  Ethan put his feet up on the coffee table, arched an eyebrow at her.

  She said, “I finally tossed a Fort Lauderdale T-shirt last year a boy bought me when I was eighteen.”

  “There you go. Tell you what, I’ll be strong and toss my sweatshirt if you tell me everything you know about these people.”

  “That’s a beautiful piano. Do you play?”

  Anything to divert him. He nodded. “Thank you. It was
my grandmother’s piano. I’ll play some jazz for you later if you like. You know, Joanna, I’ve been patient with you, but now it’s time. I’m worried about my deputies as much as I’m worried about you and Autumn. What if they get close to Blessed? What will he do to them? Tell them to run off a cliff? You have to tell me what you know about him. I think you owe it to us, don’t you?”

  She chewed on her lip, studied the inch of cold coffee at the bottom of the mug, then said, “I don’t want anyone to be hurt, I really don’t.”

  He nodded. “Go on, then. Talk to me. Please.”

  She put her feet up on the coffee table next to his, frowned at those two pairs of feet, put hers back on the floor, and said finally, “We were in the cemetery at my husband’s funeral, just a week ago. Blessed caught a young man hiding behind a gravestone. He had a camera and was taking pictures, like a Jimmy Olsen cub reporter. Blessed went into a rage, screamed at the kid, ‘Well, if it isn’t little snotty-nosed Nat Hodges,’ and jerked him to his feet, looked into his eyes—the young man never said a word. Blessed told him to drop his camera and stomp on it. Nat Hodges did it, no hesitation at all. At first I thought he was just scared to death, but then he simply stood there, all still and quiet. Blessed laughed at him and started making him do things, like elbow-crawl on his chest, rip off his shirt, rub dirt in his hair, humiliating things. The boy didn’t seem to be there anymore. He was completely in Blessed’s control, just like Ox was last night.

  “Then Grace said, ‘Stop it, Blessed, we’ve got guests and we’re burying Martin,’ and Blessed huffed out in a pissed voice, ‘Can’t have the little scheiss taking pictures.’ Then he shook the kid until his head snapped back. I remember I took a step toward them, but Grace said in my ear not to worry, that Blessed was just bringing the boy back, something I really didn’t understand. But the boy seemed to wake up.