The Chevron sign appeared ahead on a right-hand corner. An old man stood in the doorway of the Quik Mart, arms folded over his chest, watching a young guy pump gas into a white Mustang convertible. There were a couple of cars waiting to be serviced, but there was no sign of Agent Cully Gwyn.
Savich didn’t pause. “Let’s go over to Pulitzer Prize Road, take a look at Victor’s apartment building. Maybe they’re there, watching, forgot the time, whatever.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything, but she didn’t like it. She was tense, on edge. She punched her cell phone’s GPS on, and a dulcet female voice told them to turn right in point-five miles. A minute later, they pulled onto Victor’s street in a neighborhood of the small ranch-style houses set back from the road on big yards with pine and oak trees cozied up to the houses. They were lucky it rained here a lot, or the town would never have survived forest fires for so long.
Pulitzer Prize Road was unexpectedly long. Finally the houses began to peter out, and at the very end of the street, on the very edge of Winnett, stood Victor’s apartment building. It wasn’t much, a two-story brick building with maybe six apartments. But the yard was big and green, like all the other yards, and there was a red brick walkway that led up to the door. There was only one house beyond the apartment building, the grass overgrown, its windows boarded up, obviously vacant. Beyond that decrepit house stretched a narrow two-lane road that disappeared into the thick oak and pine trees. Everything looked limp.
“If the locals don’t take care,” Sherlock said, looking around, “the forest is going to consume the town. Nothing but oaks and pines everywhere. It looks like they swallow up the road.”
“I wouldn’t mind sitting under an oak tree about now,” Savich said, looking up at the afternoon sun, hot and high in the cloudless sky, “what with the temperature hovering around a hundred, and the humidity at two thousand. Do you know what the problem is—the sun’s too big down here.”
“We could join that golden retriever over there snoozing away under that pine tree. Everybody must be huddled around their air conditioners.”
“If Cully and Bernie are watching the apartment building from close by, they could be inside that empty house,” Savich said. “Do you see anyone? A car? Anything?”
They looked around carefully, saw nothing but the sun beating down. The trees were utterly still, not a breath of moving air.
Savich turned the car around and headed back toward town. He parked a couple of blocks from the apartment building, between a Toyota SUV and an F-150 truck. They walked back toward the building, their SIGs pressed against their sides to avoid any panic from passersby. They needn’t have bothered. Not a single soul appeared, not Cully or Bernie either. They could be well hidden, Savich thought, but surely they’d have recognized them, at least recognized Sherlock’s bright hair. This wasn’t good, Savich knew it.
Savich would swear the air pulsed with heat. He saw the humidity was making Sherlock’s hair curlier. She turned to him. “Why don’t Cully and Bernie let us know where they are?”
Savich said nothing; what was there to say? He opened the apartment-building front door and stepped into a tiny lobby that held one palm tree and six mailboxes, painted white. The temperature dropped at least thirty degrees.
“It’s like I’ve died and gone to an ice locker,” she said. She flapped her arms, enjoying it.
They looked at the mailboxes even though they knew Victor lived in apartment 403, but why was there a number like that in a two-story apartment building?
“Let’s take the stairs,” he said. “Stay alert.”
They didn’t meet anyone on the stairs. Savich imagined a lot of people were inside, eating dinner. They heard children arguing over whether to watch an old Star Trek episode or Batman, but no adult voices.
The hallway was wide and dark, all the apartment doors painted different colors. Victor Nesser’s apartment was at the very end of the second-floor hall. His front door was painted bright green, with big brass numbers—403.
Sherlock stepped forward, knocked on the door, and waited a moment, her SIG ready. “Mr. Nesser? It’s Clorie Smith, from the Winnett Herald Weekly. I’m here to offer you a full month’s free subscription, four free issues.”
No answer.
She knocked again. “Mr. Nesser?”
No sound, nothing from inside the apartment.
Savich pressed his ear to the door.
He didn’t hear anything at first, pressed his ear closer. He heard a muffled sound—a person’s voice? He didn’t wait, motioned for Sherlock to step back, and he kicked the door in. It flew open, banging against the wall. They went in, fanning their SIGs, and found themselves in a small entry hall, a living room to the right connected to a small dining area and kitchen.
Empty.
A muffled voice yelled, “In here!”
The voice was coming from the bedroom. Savich stepped toward it when the man shouted again, “No! Don’t come in! There’s a bomb and a trip wire!”
58
SAVICH FROZE, Sherlock behind him. He called out, “Okay, we’re not moving. Cully, is that you? What bomb?”
“Just a second, got to get this duct tape off my mouth. Damn, it’s hard to talk without any lips. Okay, listen, the young guy—Victor Nesser—I saw him string a wire across the bedroom doorway, floor level. I guess he didn’t mind I saw him, figured I would see you coming and not be able to do a thing about it. Thank God I finally managed to get the tape off my mouth or we’d all be dead.”
Savich knelt down and saw the wire, maybe a quarter inch off the floor, stretched taut. He called out, “We’re stepping over it. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, just humiliated. I’m here, on the other side of the bed. Like I said, I finally got the tape off my mouth, but I’m still tied up. Victor’s got me connected to a wire, too.”
“Okay, don’t move,” Savich said and walked slowly over to the bed.
Cully said, “I can see the bomb from here. It’s by the dresser.”
“Got it,” Sherlock said. “You just don’t move, Cully. Dillon and I are going to check it out.”
Cully said, “The girl—Lissy Smiley—she was laughing, really enjoying it, crowing that the instant some stupid fed tripped the wire the whole building would go boom—a hundred feet up, burn up the air, maybe all the way to heaven, she said. Then she hooted, doing a Madonna bump and grind, and said something about sending you, Savich, to heaven.” Cully sucked in a breath. “I usually don’t remember exactly what people say, but she was over the top.”
Sherlock said, “Hey, we’re really glad you got the duct tape off your mouth. No heaven for any of us yet.”
Cully Gwyn, amazingly, laughed. “I knew you guys would come here when you didn’t see me at the Chevron station and I didn’t answer my cell. Please tell me you’ve spoken to Bernie.”
“No, we haven’t,” Savich said. “We don’t have his cell number. Okay, Cully, I won’t try to get you free until we see what’s going on with this bomb.”
Sherlock dropped to her knees beside an ancient pine dresser, vintage Goodwill. “Okay, just eyeballing it first. What we’ve got is a large black metal box about the size and shape of a small suitcase. There’s a wire running from inside it across the floor over to the bedroom door and another to you, Cully, so don’t move a whisker.”
Cully said, “There’s no bomb squad in Winnett, no surprise there. Please tell me you guys know about bombs.”
Savich said, “Stop hyperventilating, Cully, it’ll be all right. Sherlock took a course at Quantico. She knows enough not to set the sucker off. How did Victor and Lissy get you?”
“Bernie and I were close to the empty house just down the street, the one that’s been deserted for only a few months, we were told, but the grass looks ready to take up residence it grows so fast here. We were hunkered down in trees a bit beyond the house, close enough to keep an eye on Victor’s end apartment, but not too close to spook them if they
showed up.” He sighed. “Bernie had to use the john, so he went into the house, through the back. I never looked away from the apartment building. I swear to you, I never heard a thing, not even a whisper of movement. One minute I was wondering why Bernie was taking so long and the next I felt a gun stuck in my ear, and a girl giggled, told me I was the easiest fed she’d ever got. I couldn’t believe it, Savich. I have no clue how she snuck up on me. I didn’t hear a thing.”
Dillon said, “She and Victor were probably behind you, watching, for a good long time, waiting for their chance. When Bernie went into the house, you had no one covering your back.” Easy, Savich thought, so easy.
Cully sighed again. “I tried for her, twisted around, sent my elbow at her face, but she jumped back, waved the gun at me, and told me if I tried anything again, she’d shoot me. Then Victor comes up and tells me we’re going to his apartment, he’s hungry, and he wants to see if the bologna in his fridge is still good.
“First though, Lissy went into the house where Bernie was. I didn’t hear anything, not a yell from Bernie, nothing. When she comes out, she’s popping bubble gum. I asked her what she did with Bernie, but she just gives me a sneer and hits my ribs real hard with the butt of her gun. ‘That’s for trying to hit me in the face,’ she says.
“There was no one around, and believe me, I looked hard. They marched me over here to the apartment building, then Victor ties me up here in the bedroom while she’s got the gun on me. I watched Victor hook up the bomb. I asked him where Bernie was, and Lissy just laughs again, tells me to shut up.”
“You’re very lucky she didn’t just shoot you when you tried to take her down,” Sherlock said. “That’s what she does, Cully.”
“Yeah, I know. Fortunately for me, I think she wanted a show; she was hoping you guys would come. She laughed and laughed, and wondered if they’d ever figure out what body part went with what fed.”
“I recommend you forget that thought, Cully,” Savich said. “Okay, I can’t get you free until Sherlock disarms the bomb. Don’t move.”
Savich went down on his knees next to Sherlock. She’d gotten the lid of the black box open. “Okay, it’s definitely homemade, not sophisticated—thank you, God—nice and straightforward. Victor probably got this off the Internet, or out of a book, which is very good for us. Dillon, give me your Swiss Army Knife.”
He handed it to her without a word.
Sherlock looked down at a pair of wires, red and green twisted together, leading to a—timer. Why a timer? The bomb was supposed to explode if someone hit the trip wire across the bedroom doorway, or if Cully pulled out his wire. Why a timer? Had they tried to rig the front door too?
Sherlock cupped her hand around the small screen and read out 00:34 seconds. She sucked in her breath, forced herself to calm.
“We’re on a timer here, guys, not much time left before the sucker explodes.”
Savich looked at the timer over her shoulder.
Thirty seconds, twenty-nine. He saw his son’s face clear as glass in his mind, bouncing a basketball, and then saw Sherlock leaning over him, tucking a sheet around his chest.
Eighteen seconds, seventeen.
He watched Sherlock untwist the wires, follow each one to its lead.
Thirteen seconds, twelve.
Time compressed itself into a moment, yet Savich felt each ticking second as a separate unit, each second a universe of time, yet each second somehow disappeared into the next. He couldn’t guess how many people were right now in the building, how many could die because of Victor and Lissy. He thought of the children they’d heard arguing. He heard Cully talking softly—maybe he was praying, but he wasn’t moving, and that was good since the wire connected to the duct tape around his ankles.
Seven seconds, six.
No more time.
He wanted to tell Sherlock he loved her, and he opened his mouth—
“Here we go,” Sherlock said, and he watched her slice cleanly through a yellow wire.
His heart thudded, and his breath eased out of his mouth.
He reached out and wiped away the line of sweat streaking down her cheek. “You did it, sweetheart, you did it.”
Cully gave a shout. “Good going, Sherlock. Hey, I can get this duct tape off—”
There was a loud pop.
Sherlock said, “Hold that thought, Cully. What’s going on now?”
59
PEAS RIDGE, GEORGIA
Kjell was tall, well over six feet, angular, and good-looking. His shaved head glistened in the stark white light. He wore glasses.
He bowed from the waist to Blessed, and said in a clipped British accent, “Keeper, we did not know if you would come. I see you have the little girl. Excellent. But the man and woman?”
“The sheriff and the child’s mother.”
“Keeper, we have never before brought outsiders here. It is a danger. Are you certain you were not followed here?”
“I am very certain.”
“But why did you bring them here? Why did you not rid us of them?”
Blessed said, “I could not stymie them because of the child. I needed them to get her here.
“Do not look away from the sheriff, Kjell. He is dangerous. As I said, no one followed us, I made very certain of that. Twilight will remain a secret. Kjell, I must see the Father immediately. There is news I must give him.”
“Where is Grace?”
“I must see the Father,” Blessed said again. “Take them to see the Master. Be careful with the sheriff.”
Kjell gave him a small bow, drew a revolver from his loose pants. “The child, Keeper, she will come to embrace us, you will see.”
Blessed gave Ethan and Joanna one last look, then smiled down at Autumn. “All will be well,” he told her, and walked through the same door as Kjell. The door closed soundlessly behind him.
Autumn stood perfectly still and looked up at Kjell.
He said, “Sheriff, you and the woman back up against that wall.” He came down on his knees in front of Autumn. He lifted his hand and touched her face. Autumn didn’t move, merely stared at him in his eyes.
“What can you do?” she asked.
Kjell smiled. “I am a student.”
“Of what?”
“All who are here are students. We study with the Father and with the Master. We study miracles of the mind that reach back many hundreds of years. We watch and we learn. This is an amazing place, Autumn. I also protect Twilight from anyone who would try to harm us.”
He rose again and turned to Ethan and Joanna.
Ethan said, “Blessed is the Keeper. What is your title, Kjell?”
“I? I am the Master’s right hand.”
“I can’t say I care much for all the white.”
Kjell said, “White is the essence of light, it is peace and tranquility, it is life to the devout. That is enough, Sheriff. I believe you are both small-minded, incapable of understanding something so sublime as what we are.”
Ethan said, “We’re the small-minded people who are going to bring you down, Kjell.”
Kjell laughed. “Dream your little dreams, Sheriff. All of you will follow me. We will see what the Master wishes to do with you.”
Joanna asked, “Where are all the cult members? You call them the devout?”
“The devout are here, but you will not see them. We do not wish them to be disrupted by outside corruption. You need know nothing more. Let us go. You will meet the Master.”
60
THEY STEPPED INTO a wide corridor, its walls white, the ceiling lower here than in the large room, the low hum of air-conditioning the only sound other than that of their footsteps. Every several feet there were framed photographs, all of them of the sky, each an evocative moment of time. Ethan thought there was real talent here: a magnificent sunset, a slash of lightning with a dying sun behind it, moments he’d tried to capture himself.
Kjell walked soundlessly behind them, Joanna in front, Autumn pressed against her si
de, her hand held tightly in her mother’s. Ethan knew he had a gun pointed at the back of his head.
They passed doors with glass windows and brass door handles, most of them with their blinds pulled tight. He saw a flash as one of the blinds fell, and caught a glimpse of a beautiful young woman’s face through the window before she disappeared. One of the devout? Or someone else? Had they been warned to remain in their rooms to avoid being corrupted by the outsiders? Or did the leaders not want them to know what was happening?
Corridors veered off to the right and left as they walked. It seemed to be a huge place. They walked another twenty feet before Kjell said, “Knock on this door, Sheriff.”
Ethan knocked.
“Enter.”
“Open the door, Sheriff.”
There was no window in this imposing door. Ethan opened it and stepped into a library that held books floor to ceiling on all four of its walls. It was twenty feet deep, and against the back wall there was a large mahogany desk, and behind it stood a man wearing a white robe belted at the waist with a gold-link chain. He was a fine-looking man, in his fifties, tall, slim, his eyes a deep, shocking blue, eyes that pinned you. He held a small pistol in his hand.
Joanna wanted to tell him he looked ridiculous, but the truth was he didn’t. He looked like a biblical prophet. She saw a strange pendant hanging from the belt. She wasn’t close enough to see what it was.
Ethan said, “Caldicot Whistler, I presume?”
“Yes.” Whistler held the gun in an elegant hand, an artist’s hand, long-fingered and graceful. If Ethan wasn’t mistaken, it was a Colt-style 1911 .45 semiautomatic aimed at him, not Joanna or Autumn, and for that he was grateful.
“Blessed told me you were bringing them to me, Kjell. Please stay close. You will be needed again.”
Kjell gave Whistler a slight bow and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Whistler stepped from behind his desk, but he didn’t come close enough for Ethan to make a try for him. Smart man. He said, staring down at Autumn for a long moment, “So this is the child.”
The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15 Page 93