The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  No, Coop thought. No, he couldn’t let this happen, he couldn’t let her get away, not with this little girl as her hostage this time. Coop took off running, firing over Kirsten’s head. Kirsten turned, and he saw the little girl’s face was turning blue, Kirsten’s arm was that tight around her neck. Kirsten fired, then turned, dragging the little girl toward the pickup.

  It was then he saw a flash of bright red hair. Sherlock’s hair. She was bent low, moving toward Kirsten.

  He heard a door slam, heard a woman’s high, frantic voice. “Amanda! What’s going on here? Who are you? Oh, no, you’ve got a gun! You’re hurting my daughter!”

  Kirsten fired toward the woman and missed, but the woman fell to her knees and scrabbled behind a bush.

  But she was up in the next instant. “You let go of my daughter!”

  Kirsten took dead aim, but Amanda was jerking at her arm, twisting wildly, screaming, “Don’t you shoot my mama! Don’t!”

  CHAPTER 74

  Ruth gunned the Silverado through the Sunday traffic toward Chevy Chase. She eyed the ring clutched in Lucy’s hand. “Listen, Lucy, I don’t understand what it is about this ring that makes it so valuable, but don’t you think it’s time to tell me? Your cousin Miranda tried to kill you for it. Why?”

  “Miranda wanted the ring badly, Ruth—she believed what my grandfather wrote, that it held some kind of power that belonged to her, and she could bring that power to life, but it didn’t work out that way. I know in my gut she’s going to confront her mother about it, and she’s enraged. I don’t know what she’s going to do, Ruth.”

  Ruth tossed Lucy her clutch piece. Then she grabbed her cell and speed-dialed Ollie.

  “No, Ruth, please don’t call for backup, not yet.”

  She got a raised eyebrow from Ruth. “I know these people are your family, Lucy, but I’m getting the cold, hard feeling these people are nuts. We’re going to follow standard procedure, both of us.” She called Ollie.

  They were pulling into the Silvermans’ driveway when they heard a gunshot.

  Lucy was out of the Silverado in a second, Ruth shouting after her, “Don’t you go in there alone, Lucy, you hear me? Stop or I’ll hurt you!”

  But Lucy couldn’t stop. She shoved the front door open and ran through the elegant entrance hall to the living room. She flung the heavy wooden door open and skidded to a stop. Uncle Alan, Aunt Jennifer, and Court stood huddled together beside Uncle Alan’s favorite burgundy leather sofa. They were frozen in place, Miranda standing in front of them.

  Uncle Alan stepped in front of his wife. “No, Miranda, don’t shoot that gun again, do you hear me? She’s your mother, for God’s sake, your mother!”

  Miranda raised the heavy Kel Tec, aimed it directly at her father. “Dad, why would you protect her? She betrayed you. She got pregnant by another man. She cheated me out of what was mine. Don’t you understand, she stole everything from me!”

  Lucy said, “Miranda, stop now! You can’t hurt your mother!”

  Miranda whirled around. “Lucy, go away, I don’t want you here. What? Are you going to shoot me, Lucy? And her? Will she shoot me, too?”

  Lucy said very calmly, “No, I’m not going to shoot you, Miranda, and neither is Ruth. I want all of this to stop. Drop the gun, Miranda, and all of this can be over.”

  “No, it’s not over. She destroyed everything that should have been mine; she made me into nothing, do you hear me, Lucy? I’m nothing!”

  “You’re much more than nothing, Miranda; we all are. Listen, it’s only a ring, a stupid ring that shouldn’t even exist. You lived without the ring a very long time. You did fine. You don’t need it. Drop the gun and we’ll talk about this as much as you want.”

  Miranda said in a dead voice, “Alan Silverman is not my father. I asked mother, and she told me the truth. She slept with some kind of artist she met in a coffeehouse—can you believe that? She said she was lonely then because my father—Alan—was working so much she hardly ever saw him. She said she wanted to protect me from knowing that, but she was protecting herself.

  “And that’s why the ring wouldn’t work for me—I’m not a Silverman. Don’t you think it’s funny that I fell for an artist in a café myself? A real loser, like my own real father, I’ll bet. Like me. I know that now. And look at you, all grown up, an FBI agent, and you have the ring, and it works for you, doesn’t it? I would have sworn I hit you outside that motel, but then you weren’t where I thought you’d be. Not that you deserve to die; you really don’t. You’re the one who has everything now.”

  She laughed. “And still you come back after me, Lucy? You think you’re going to arrest me?” She laughed again, and then she fired the pistol.

  CHAPTER 75

  The little girl pulled and jerked at Kirsten’s arm when she raised her gun to shoot again at her mother, and Kirsten clouted her. Savich’s bullet caught her in her right shoulder. She staggered, screamed, and fell to the ground, taking the little girl with her.

  “Sherlock, see to the mother!”

  Sherlock ran to the woman, who had fallen, as Savich and Coop ran toward Kirsten, listening to the little girl’s screams. She knelt beside the woman. There was a thin line of blood along her hairline. The woman looked up at her, confused and frantic. Sherlock said,

  “It’s okay. I’m FBI. We’ve got Amanda. She’s all right, too.”

  “But Taylor, Taylor? My little boy?”

  Sherlock shouted, “The little boy—is he okay?”

  Coop called back, “Yes, the highway patrolman said he’s fine. Everyone’s good.”

  “Taylor’s all right. Let me get you cleaned up. Thank goodness, it’s only a graze, you’ll be fine.”

  “When I saw that woman dragging Amanda toward me, and no sign of Taylor, I’ll tell you—” The words fell into a hiccuping sob. Sherlock pressed a handkerchief to the bloody line on her head. “I know,” she said. “You all did great.”

  The little girl had managed to wriggle away from Kirsten as soon as they fell. She’d stumbled away, then had fallen to her side, gulping in big breaths of air, rubbing her throat and sobbing quietly.

  Savich saw Coop pull the little girl up into his arms. He rocked her, saying, “It’s okay, your mama’s going to be fine; so is your little brother. Taylor’s his name?” At her jerky nod, he continued, “Yep, Taylor’s all right.” She clutched at him, and Coop kissed her forehead and kept rocking her. He saw Savich run past them to come down beside Kirsten. Blood snaked out of the wound, high on her shoulder, but she wasn’t unconscious, she was moaning, her head twisting from side to side, her eyes closed. He picked up her gun, an old Smith & Wesson.

  Coop kissed Amanda’s forehead, gave her a last hug, and handed her off to one of the highway patrolmen. He walked to Kirsten, went down on his knees beside Savich, and leaned in close. “Kirsten, can you hear me?”

  Kirsten opened her eyes, stared up at Coop, then over at Savich. “You,” she whispered at Savich. “You freaking murderer. You killed me.”

  “Nah, you aren’t going to die,” Savich said. He tore off his shirt and pressed it hard against her shoulder.

  She tried to spit at him. “You killed Bruce. It isn’t right, it just isn’t right. And you, I hope you’re hurting bad.”

  Savich looked over at him. “What is she talking about? Coop?”

  “She shot me in the side. No, don’t worry, I’m okay.”

  Savich studied his face for a moment, nodded, then lifted his shirt off Kirsten’s shoulder wound enough to see the bleeding had slowed.

  Kirsten licked her lips. She was deathly pale, no more lipstick, no more of her powder. Savich knew she had to be in bad pain, but she wasn’t making a sound. Finally she whispered, “What will Daddy say?”

  They looked up at the sound of sirens. Two ambulances were whipping through the tobacco field toward them, behind them a half dozen squad cars.

  CHAPTER 76

  Lucy and Ruth both dropped and rolled. Miranda’s shot w
ent through a window, shattering the glass. Miranda had shot nowhere near them or her mother. Lucy shouted as Ruth pulled her SIG, “No, Ruth, don’t shoot her!”

  Lucy slowly rose to her feet. Miranda stood ten feet from her, motionless, staring at Lucy and back to her father, who really wasn’t her father at all, and finally, she looked at her mother. She said quietly, “I know Dad loves you, and you’re my mother, and that’s why I can’t kill you. I wish I could, but I can’t.” She looked at her father again, great sadness in her eyes, and gave a small nod. She slowly raised the gun to her mouth—

  “No! Miranda! No!”

  “This is what I want, Lucy—my choice, not yours. Don’t you dare use that ring.”

  The shot was obscenely loud in the still room.

  Lucy ran to Miranda as she collapsed to the floor, Ruth at her heels. Jennifer screamed, tore away from her husband, and rushed to Miranda, who now lay on her side, the gun still in her hand. Neither her uncle Alan nor Court moved, as if they couldn’t, as if the world they knew had ended, and in this horrible new world neither of them had any idea what to do.

  Lucy reached for the ring, paused, then left the ring in her pocket. She stared down at Miranda’s ruined face, at her hair streaked red with blood, at the blood splattered everywhere, even the wall behind her, all the way up to the crown moldings. Jennifer was rocking back and forth over her daughter, her limp hand clasped between hers, keening, not understanding, Lucy knew, why all this had happened, knowing only that if she hadn’t slept with that man long ago, if Miranda hadn’t been his seed, Miranda would still be alive. But Lucy couldn’t ever tell her about the ring.

  She heard Court say, “She came running in here, waving Dad’s Kel Tec and demanding to see mother—‘that whore,’ she called her. Mom finally had to tell her she’d cheated on Dad before she had Miranda. Mom begged for her forgiveness for not telling her, but Miranda was over the edge. She screamed Mom had ruined her life, stealing what was hers, making the ring useless to her, and then she shot Dad’s Kel Tec into the ceiling. And then she laughed, a horrible sound, not funny at all, that laugh. I think I’ll hear it the rest of my life. What did she mean? What has that idiot ring got to do with anything?”

  Uncle Alan hadn’t moved. He stood statue-still, staring at his dead daughter and his wife rocking over her, her deep tearing cries filling the silent room.

  Lucy said, “I’m very sorry, Uncle Alan.”

  Alan Silverman shook his son’s hand off his shoulder and looked toward Lucy. “This is your fault; you brought all this death and pain to us, you and that godforsaken ring.” He walked to his wife, knelt beside her, and cradled her in his arms. Jennifer turned into him and wept.

  Lucy couldn’t bear it. Tears streamed down her face. Ruth pulled her close, stroked her up and down her back, trying to calm her, and said over and over, “He’s overwhelmed with pain, Lucy. Of course it wasn’t your fault.”

  Lucy clutched Ruth hard. She smelled death around her. She looked back to see Uncle Alan staring at her over his wife’s head, his face ravaged, tears streaming down his face.

  Aunt Jennifer pulled back and looked up at her husband. “It isn’t Lucy’s fault, Alan. It’s mine, all of it. If only I hadn’t slept with that man, if only—this ring, why did it mean so much to her? I don’t understand.”

  Jennifer leaned into her husband again, sobbing.

  Lucy heard the front door crash open, heard men’s and women’s voices yelling, heard their wild footsteps.

  And Ollie’s voice shouting, “Stop! All of you!”

  She barely registered the voices swirling around her, some urgent, some weary, all of them were moving, doing their jobs. They weren’t looking at her, not like Uncle Alan was. They were looking at Miranda’s body.

  CHAPTER 77

  Washington, D.C.

  Washington Memorial Hospital

  Late Sunday night

  Lucy laid her hand lightly on Coop’s shoulder while Dr. Rayburn probed the bullet wound in his side. She looked at the line of black stitches in his bruised flesh, the traces of blood that had oozed from between the black thread until Dr. Rayburn covered it with a fresh bandage. It scared her to her toes to think how very close it had come to penetrating his belly. If only she’d been outside with him when Kirsten had taken him—

  Dr. Rayburn straightened, gave Coop a toothy grin. “There you go, Agent. Except for some lingering soreness, you’ll be good as new in a couple of days. Well, more like two weeks. You’re a lucky man. No exercise until the sutures are out in seven days, well, more like no exercise for three weeks, and try to keep off your feet for a couple of days. No, er, strenuous activity, either. Don’t want to pull those stitches apart.” He shot a look toward Lucy.

  “Indeed not,” she said.

  “What?” Coop asked.

  Dr. Rayburn kept talking. “I’m happy to say the surgeon who saw you in that ER in North Carolina fixed you up fine—good, tight stitches, no signs of infection. Still, I’m glad you stopped here before heading on home, if only to be sure. You can see your own doctor tomorrow.”

  “Nah, not tomorrow, I’ll give him a call on Tuesday. I feel fine, Doctor, thank you—”

  “That’s the narcotics you’ve got on board talking, Coop.” Lucy patted his hand, and turned to Dr. Rayburn, who was no older than she was, bags under his eyes the size of carry-ons. “He’ll do exactly what you’ve said, not to worry. I’ve got him well in hand.”

  “Only because I’m such a nice guy. But Lucy, we’ll have to discuss this strenuous-activity business.”

  “Ah, are you both FBI agents?”

  “Yes,” they said in unison.

  “You guys married?”

  “I barely know him,” Lucy said, kissed Coop’s cheek, and smiled at Dr. Rayburn.

  Dr. Rayburn opened the curtain around the stretcher, shook hands with the waiting Savich and Sherlock on his way out, and then he was off in a fast walk, his white coat flapping.

  Savich and Sherlock walked into the cubicle and examined Coop’s face. “Lucy’s right,” Savich said. “You’re happier now than you’ll be for a good two days. Lots of rest, Coop. I don’t want to see you at work until Wednesday.”

  “But—”

  “Wednesday,” Savich said very pleasantly, and turned to Lucy. “Lucy, we were so relieved to hear you’re okay. We’re very sorry about your cousin.”

  Lucy could only nod. The reality of Miranda’s suicide crashed in again.

  “I want you to take the time off, too, Lucy. Stay with Coop. You can help us get a better handle on what happened later. The police detective in charge, Mylo Dwyer, wants to understand what brought all this about, since he only saw the tragic ending. He told me it seemed Miranda became enraged because her mother told her Alan Silverman wasn’t her biological father. There was also mention of a ring. He wants to speak to you again. One thing, though—however did you get away from Miranda?”

  “She tied my wrists to the chair arms, but managed to work one hand free. I couldn’t get my SIG or her Kel Tec, but I could run, and so I did.”

  “Why did Miranda want the ring so badly?”

  Lucy looked him straight in the eyes. “The ring is very old, and it may have been in my family for hundreds of years. She wanted it for herself.”

  Enough to kill you? Enough to kill herself ? Savich shot a look at Sherlock, who was patting Coop like she patted Sean when he hurt himself.

  He said to Lucy, “It looks like you’re going to have your hands full with John Wayne here. Both of you regroup, take it easy, come to grips with the fact that all of this is over. You ride herd on him until Wednesday, okay? You’re both going to need the rest, because I think you’re going to want to go on a long trip on Wednesday.

  “Coop insisted on calling Vincent Delion while we were still hunkered in that tobacco field, told him where Kirsten said she’d buried Arnette Carpenter.

  “They found her. Roy Carpenter wants both of you to come to the funeral in San Fr
ancisco on Thursday, to thank you for finding his wife, but only if you’re feeling up to it. There’s a visit to Nob Hill you’ll want to make, too, while you’re there.”

  Coop said, “I’ll be more than ready to fly out on Wednesday. As for Nob Hill, how did you know, Savich?”

  “It only made sense. And we’ve had time to get a good look at the calls Kirsten made from her cell. By the way, Kirsten is out of surgery in North Carolina as of an hour ago. They say she’ll survive her wounds fine, so now it’ll be up to the state and federal courts to decide where they’ll try her first.”

  “Amen to that,” Coop said. He stood quietly while Sherlock buttoned his shirt. He gave Savich a big loopy grin. “I’m really glad we all made it out of this. I didn’t like my chances for a while. And that mom, she was so happy her kids are okay she might forget to sue us. She and her kids sure have a story for a lifetime—bringing down Ted Bundy’s daughter. Can you imagine how popular those kids are going to be in school?”

  He stopped cold, swallowed. He realized he’d been babbling, when Lucy had almost died as well and had lost yet another family member. Like Savich and Mylo Dwyer, he simply didn’t understand what had driven Miranda to try to kill Lucy, then to kill herself. So who cared if Alan Silverman wasn’t her father? Did it matter so much to her? Evidently so. And that ring. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lucy interrupted him. “Smile, Coop, and relax, you’re feeling all those meds they gave you. Enjoy not having any pain. That’s a good thing.”

  Sherlock leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Well done, Coop. You brought Kirsten down.” Then she clasped Lucy’s shoulders and smiled at her. “I am so relieved you are all right.” And she hugged her.

  Sherlock looked after them as they walked to the waiting room, Coop flying high and happy. She could hear him humming from where she stood, his arm around Lucy’s shoulders. “He looks like he should be punching cattle in Wyoming in that shearling coat. I’m glad he didn’t ruin it, only the one little blood spot inside.” She gave Dillon a look. “I’d have to say he looks nearly as hot in it as you do in your black leather.”