The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  Savich nodded as he carefully turned over the tinfoiled potatoes buried in the coals. He looked at Ethan. “It surprised me but good. At the time I was racing Lance in the Alps, both exciting and scary, since my bike was maybe three inches from a cliff, when there she was, right in front of me. I tell you, at first I thought I’d crashed my bike right over that cliff. I remember it was midnight on the dot.”

  “She…just appeared? Like that?” He snapped his fingers. “In your head?”

  Savich smiled at him. “Yes. Her voice was clear as a bell, but I couldn’t see her clearly. I asked her to bring her head up so I could see her face. She’s a precious little girl, all that dark brown hair, her blue eyes and the line of freckles across her nose; she’s the image of her mother. She’ll be as beautiful as her mother someday. It’s quite a gift she’s got.”

  “But that means you’ve got it too,” Ethan said, and he felt weirded out all the way to his boots saying such a thing. “Has this happened to you before?”

  “Yes, several times. Once we were chasing a killer as dangerous as Blessed, called Tammy Tuttle. She was a horror, and if Blessed is anything like her, we’ll have to focus on him like a target on a shooting range. Look, I know getting your mind around what Autumn can do is tough. But it isn’t as important now—getting Blessed is.”

  “Fair enough,” Ethan said.

  Savich nodded as he turned the zucchini and squash slices and the mound of onion rings on the tinfoil, all coated lightly with olive oil. The smells were incredible, and he breathed in deeply. “I love summer,” he said. “Even when it’s so hot in Washington you feel like you’re frying, there’s something in the air, something sweet and alive.

  “You’ve got a nice setup here. You use the grill a lot?”

  “At least twice a week in the summer. Friends I haven’t seen all winter show up.”

  “Well, I suppose smells this good travel fast.”

  Ethan fidgeted with the bottle of barbecue sauce. “But you were surprised when she suddenly popped up, right?”

  “Sure. Look, Sheriff—”

  “Call me Ethan.”

  Savich grinned, which didn’t make him look like any less of an ass-kicker. “Ethan. The last sheriff who asked me to call him by his first name was Dougie.”

  “Did you ask him why his parents hated him?”

  Savich laughed. “He was sporting bib overalls at the time, his gun belted on top.”

  Throughout the afternoon Ethan’s deputies were in and out, drinking a couple of gallons of iced tea Sherlock and Joanna made, with Autumn’s help, all of them eager to meet the two feds and trying not to act impressed or intimidated. When Glenda came into the kitchen with Larch just before dinner, Joanna walked right up to her, studied her face, and said, “I’m sorry I hit you, but I had to.”

  Glenda nodded. “I know. You had to get him out of me, so you’re forgiven. Thank you.”

  Ethan introduced Savich and Sherlock. Savich said as he shook Glenda’s hand, “You knew someone was there, in your head?”

  Glenda frowned. Her head still ached, although the pain pills Dr. Spitz had given her had reduced it to a dull throb. She knew what she’d said had sounded like she’d been taken over by an alien. The pain in her head spiked, and she closed her eyes.

  “Here,” Joanna said, “drink some iced tea and relax. Stop thinking about it.”

  Glenda drank, took a few slow, light breaths.

  Ethan said, “That’s right, try to throttle down, Glen. Take it easy, don’t think so hard about it. Look, when Blessed put the whammy on Ox, he still hasn’t remembered.”

  Thankfully the pain eased off again.

  “I can’t believe Jeff let you come over.”

  “He didn’t want to, but I told him it was my job and I didn’t want to get fired.” She gave Ethan a big grin and looked over at a big rope bone in the corner of the living room, chewed to grimy bits by Big Louie. “You’re right, I don’t remember, but the thing is, Ethan, I do know I wasn’t there inside my head until Joanna hit me in the jaw. Her first punch didn’t knock me out, but I remember the lightning slap of pain, and shaking my head, and for a moment I felt something inside my head slip, like a slippery hand losing its grip on a doorknob, off balance and trying hard to regain control.”

  She clammed up and looked terrified. “I can’t believe I said that. I’m crazy, aren’t I?”

  “If you’re crazy,” Ethan said matter-of-factly, “then we all are.”

  His words did the trick. Glenda’s eyes cleared. “It’s true. He was there, inside me, but I didn’t know it, not until she hit me. Thank God you hit me again, Joanna. That second whack must have knocked him right out of me. I don’t remember anything until I woke staring up at Ethan’s face.”

  Larch said, “You scared the crap out of me, Glen. Would you look at that mouse. What did Jeff say?”

  “He thought it was cute once I convinced him I wasn’t going to croak.”

  32

  ETHAN SAID TO SHERLOCK and Savich, “Jeff Bauer, Glenda’s husband, is a ranger with the Glenwood District, a real hardnose—I’ve seen him stare down a bear that was stealing food. He and Glen have only been married—what? Six months? He’s one of the many out looking for Blessed. I’m surprised he isn’t here hovering.”

  Glenda smiled. “I told him I was okay, but you know Jeff. Don’t be surprised, Ethan, if he comes charging in here any time now. He did freak when I called him, since he knew about what happened to Ox. He came running over to Dr. Spitz’s.”

  Savich said, “Glenda, at any point, did you hear Blessed speaking in your head, telling you what to do?”

  She shook her head. “It was like I was gone, or buried so deep I might as well have been gone. I was only there after Joanna hit me that first time. And there was Big Louie biting my leg, and then Autumn was hitting me in the back with a pan.” Glenda patted Autumn’s cheek. “You and your mom mounted a full-blown attack on him. Really, thank you. You too, Big Louie.” She leaned down and scratched behind Big Louie’s ears.

  Sherlock felt her own shoulders tighten at the overflowing tension she heard in Glenda’s voice, even as she’d tried to joke about what had happened to her. She asked Ethan, “Where did Big Louie get his name?”

  Ethan laughed. “My grandfather’s old hound dog was called Big Louie. I remember my folks called him Saint Louie, since my grandfather was such a piece of work and they figured the hound had to be a real saint to put up with him. But the truth is, the two were closer than ham and rye.

  “Big Louie was ancient when he died, and he died a couple hours after my grandfather passed. My dad had them buried together. Believe me, no one told the authorities about that. Big Louie was my constant companion when I was a little kid. I guess I didn’t want to let him go. Big Louie doesn’t mind being Louie the Second, do you, boy?”

  Big Louie woofed and butted Ethan’s hand with his nose.

  Glenda’s husband, Jeff, came striding into the room at that moment looking like a wild man until he heard his wife laugh. He sucked down a deep breath, looked at his wife, winced at the black eye. “Oh, babe, I told you not to mix it up with Cloris over at Ty Harper’s bar.”

  Glenda laughed. The headache was nearly gone. “I could take big-mouthed Cloris, trust me.”

  Some of the tension leaked out of the room. Thank God, Sherlock thought.

  Twelve people ate outside on a long picnic table covered with two red-and-white checkered tablecloths and what seemed like enough food to feed them twice over.

  Sherlock saw one barbecued rib left on the huge platter, a couple of pieces of zucchini, and that was it. She was so full that the single lonely rib dripping with barbecue sauce didn’t even tempt her. They drank coffee and tea and soft drinks under the slowly darkening sky. The air was cooling, and Joanna put her own sweater around her daughter’s shoulders. It was turning into a fine evening, what with the beautiful mountains hunkered around them, changing colors every minute in the fading light.
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  Jeff took Glenda’s hand and rose from the large picnic table. “I need to get my princess to bed, maybe put another ice pack on her eye.”

  Slowly, everyone got themselves together, and the mood changed. For a while there, it was sharing a meal with friends, the conversation light, but now, as night was closing in, Blessed loomed large again.

  Two deputies would remain, keeping watch.

  Savich and Sherlock remained seated. Joanna knew there would be more discussion. She thanked each of the deputies, watched her daughter solemnly shake their hands. When only the five of them remained, Autumn leaned up and whispered to her mother, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “I’ll take you,” Ethan said immediately, and started to get up.

  “No, no, I’ll go with her,” Joanna said. “We’ll be right back.”

  They walked into the cottage through the kitchen, Autumn’s hand in her mother’s. Big Louie, so full he could barely move, followed them, tail at half-mast.

  Joanna was opening the door to the half bath off the kitchen when she heard Lula hiss. She had been sleeping on the rocking chair in the guest bedroom. Joanna didn’t hesitate. She shoved Autumn inside the bathroom and whispered, “Stay put, Autumn. Don’t you move, you hear me?” She quietly closed the door. She nearly yelled Ethan’s name at the top of her lungs, then stopped. If Blessed was here, it meant she could kill him, then it would be over. She’d had to give Ox back his Beretta. She raced to the gun cabinet she’d seen tucked away just inside Ethan’s bedroom and pulled out a small Smith & Wesson, checked the clip. It was full.

  She heard a man curse softly. He was in the guest bedroom. She crouched down and listened. Joanna knew to her soul it was Blessed this time, not some poor soul he’d hypnotized and sent after them. She wanted to end it right this minute, end it once and for all. Joanna ran down the hallway. She heard Lula hiss again, then saw her come flying out of the guest bedroom, tail bushed out, growling deep in her throat, more indignant than afraid.

  Joanna was terrified, but it didn’t matter. She crouched and ran toward the bedroom. She knew he was in there, waiting for what? Autumn to come strolling in? Or her? Don’t look at him. Just shoot him. She went in low, like she’d seen on TV, saw him standing beside the bed, Autumn’s blue pajamas in his hands. He’d pulled them out from under her pillow.

  Joanna knew he was looking at her; she felt the weight of his will pulling at her to look back at him, to look at his eyes, but she kept her head down, stared hard at his hands holding Autumn’s pajamas. They were rough hands with thick purple veins standing out on the back.

  Shoot him! Now!

  “Hello, Joanna.”

  She aimed her gun straight at where she knew he stood. She stood too close to miss. All she had to do was pull the trigger and he’d be dead, but her finger wouldn’t move.

  His voice was soft and deep, mesmerizing, almost singsong. “You were a surprise, Joanna, you and Martin’s daughter. Did you know he changed his name when he was twelve, said he couldn’t stand his real name? Do you want to know what his real name was? His name was Harmony. Mother loved his name, but he hated it, said it sounded like he was a New Age dip, and he wouldn’t back down.

  “Mother thought you were a good mother, Joanna, but I didn’t. I saw through you to the selfish twisting rot in you right away.”

  His words nearly made her jerk her head up. Nearly. Why wouldn’t her finger pull the damned trigger? “Turn around, Blessed. I won’t look at your face, you hear me? Turn around! Now, or I’ll shoot you!”

  “No, you won’t, Joanna; you really don’t want to.” His voice continued, soft and soothing, deeper now. In her mind she felt his voice turn to thick liquid that was flowing warm into her blood, then racing through her veins to her heart. As if from a great distance, she saw him raise Autumn’s pajamas in his hands and rub them against his cheek, and her heart pounded, filled to overflowing with revulsion, and something else. He said, his voice making her blood boil inside, “You can’t, and you know it.”

  Joanna couldn’t help herself; she jerked her head up, met his eyes for only a fraction of time, and fired.

  33

  THE EXPLOSION WAS HUGE in the small room. It deafened her instantly, and the recoil made her stumble back a step to keep her balance. The room was spinning around her, and she felt nausea roil up into her throat. She wanted to fall down, but she didn’t, she just stood there, weaving like a drunk, the gun now hanging loosely at her side.

  The world stopped, simply came to a halt and left her standing alone with nothing on her mind, her only focus Blessed, standing directly in front of her, closer now, his eyes, hazy and deep, like fingers, lightly feathering her face, and his mind flowed in her blood, smooth and sweet. No, that couldn’t be. Why was she thinking like that? Why wasn’t he dead? She’d shot him straight-on. But he was standing in front of her, studying her face as if she were an insect he’d never seen before. She stared back at him, felt his mind probing at her, and she hated him, hated him so much she was choking on it. Why couldn’t she move?

  Autumn, she thought, but the image of her daughter floated away.

  In a very deep part of her, Joanna knew she’d failed. But she couldn’t fail, she had to destroy this evil. She tried to focus the gun on him again but couldn’t find the will or the strength to even lift it. She heard him laugh, heard him say, in that same soft velvety, singsong voice, “You were mine the second you walked into the room, Joanna, and you’ll do what I want you to. You’re not going to use that gun, except maybe in your mind, or on yourself. I want you to lie down on the bed and fold your hands over your chest, look like you’re dead rot, lying in a casket. That’s a nice start.”

  “Mama!”

  Autumn ran into the bedroom, her eyes on her mother, not on Blessed, who was smiling at her. “Mama! Are you all right? Mama, what’s wrong?” Autumn ran up to her mother and hit her hard on the arm. Joanna didn’t move; she was looking at the bed. She took a step toward the bed but Autumn shoved her back.

  “Come here now, Autumn. Come to your uncle Blessed.”

  Autumn looked him dead in the eye and said, “No. You’re a bad man. Go away. Leave us alone.”

  “Don’t be afraid of power, Autumn. You and I will go away together to where you’ll be surrounded by people who will value you, who will help mold you into what you’re meant to become. Your mother doesn’t understand, she never will. She’s common, unimportant, merely shackles to be cut away to free you.” He extended his hand to her, the thick veins bulging madly, purple and ugly.

  Autumn yelled as she hit her mother again, “You’re horrible! Let my mother go! Mama, come back.” She kept hitting her mother, on her arm, on her shoulder, jerking on her hand.

  Blessed looked bewildered. “You’re an amazing girl, Autumn—you can look at me and still you can resist me.” He slowly shook his head at the child who was staring right into his eyes. He then spoke in his natural voice, higher and sharper, with a kind of a country whine, “You’re really looking at me, aren’t you? Well, it makes sense, since you’re Martin’s daughter. I couldn’t stymie Martin either. See, you don’t know what you can do because your mother can’t teach you anything; she can’t even accept you for what you are, what you will become.

  “Come here now, Autumn. You and I have a long road to travel. I imagine that idiot sheriff will be coming along real soon now. We have to go.”

  Autumn didn’t move.

  “You will come with me or I will have your mother hurt herself. Look, she wants to, all I have to do is tell her to pull the trigger.”

  “No!” Autumn looked at her mother, who was still standing motionless, looking at the bed, the gun held out in front of her now, straight at Blessed. She looked vacant, like she wasn’t there. Autumn shook her mother’s arm hard. “You took my mama!”

  “Yes, I did, but she’ll be all right if you come with me. If you don’t, I will make her kill herself.”

  Autumn closed her eyes.


  “Open your eyes. Stop that foolishness. What are you doing? What—?”

  Dillon had taken a sip of tea as he listened to Ethan describe Blessed’s attack on Saturday night when Autumn screamed at him, Dillon! Help, he’s in the bedroom and he’s hurting Mama. Dillon!

  The tea spewed out of Savich’s mouth. He had his SIG in his hand and was running toward the house in under three seconds, yelling over his shoulder, “Ethan, get your deputies outside Joanna’s bedroom window; you cover the front of the house. Blessed is here!”

  He slammed through the kitchen door, Sherlock six feet behind him, heart pounding, her SIG in her hand. She was running into the back hallway when she heard a man’s voice yell, “You keep away or I’ll kill Joanna, you hear me?”

  Autumn screamed at him, “Dillon, don’t look at him!”

  “You look at me right now, fella, or she’s dead, you hear me?”

  Savich raised his face to stare at Blessed Backman. He didn’t know what he’d expected Blessed to look like, but this pallid, middle-aged man with his stooped narrow shoulders, his baggy pants belted too high over a golf shirt, his light brown hair thinning—this man wasn’t it. He didn’t look like a bogeyman in a horrific nightmare. Except for his eyes. There was something moving behind his eyes, something corrupt, something hot and twisted. This man looked like he saw things others didn’t. He looked like he saw the flames burning in hell and warmed his hands over them. They were Tammy Tuttle’s eyes.

  He watched Blessed’s face take on an immense focus, felt his ungodly need to get inside his head, to control him, destroy him. And he felt the instant Blessed realized he couldn’t get in.

  Savich smiled. “I guess not, Blessed.”

  Blessed’s eyes flared wild and panicked, and he howled, “No! Who are you? There can’t be two of you!”

  Savich said, never taking his eyes off Blessed’s face, “Autumn, look at this man who let his gift be corrupted. Let Joanna go now, Blessed. Release your hold on her.”