Paradox (An FBI Thriller Book 22)

by Catherine Coulter

  She didn’t demand to know what he was planning. She said only Let’s kill us some bugs, then.

  32

  * * *

  FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

  TUESDAY MORNING

  There was standing room only for Octavia Ryan’s funeral mass at Our Lord of the Fields. Family and friends were pressed together in the pews or standing against the nave walls. Sala saw Savich, Sherlock, and Mr. Maitland walk in together and take their seats well behind the family. He saw a lot of FBI agents he knew, some he didn’t. And many of the lawyers Octavia had worked with, some he’d worked with, some he’d seen in passing. Octavia’s mother and father walked like cardboard cutouts, deep in shock, two of their grown children flanking them, both grim and pale-faced. Because of an insane young man bent on revenge, a family was shattered.

  Sala wondered what his own family would have done if he’d simply disappeared from that rental cottage in Willicott, leaving no clues, no leads. His dad would have eventually moved on. He had his feet firmly on the ground, but Mom—his mom would never have stopped looking. She’d have searched until she died, he knew it to his gut. Sala supposed there’d always be terrorists eager to kill those who didn’t agree with them and there would always be Victor Nessers, just as twisted. Octavia had saved Victor from life imprisonment or the lethal injection, and he’d killed her coldly, without remorse, because she’d called him weak, manipulated by his sixteen-year-old Lolita girlfriend. Sala simply couldn’t get his brain around the madness. He wanted very much to put his hands around Nesser’s neck and wring the life out of him. He felt Ty take his hand, squeeze lightly.

  He drew in a deep breath, looked straight ahead at the people in front of him, most wearing black, most sincerely distressed by Octavia’s death. No, get it right—her murder. Her coffin was covered with a blanket of pink hydrangeas, her favorite flower, her sister had said. A large color photo of her taken four months ago was propped against an easel. She was smiling wildly, standing on the courthouse steps, pumping her fist in the air. She looked beautiful, insanely happy, ready to burst out of her skin. Sala remembered that day, the day she succeeded in her prosecution of an embezzler and a murderer, one of Sala’s cases. He’d met her in the course of that case, worked with her, and when it was over, when she’d won, he’d taken her to celebrate with clam spaghetti at Florintine’s in Foggy Bottom.

  At that moment a bright shaft of sunlight speared through a beautiful stained-glass window, striking the easel and Octavia’s face. Sala stared at the picture of the woman he’d known very well. They’d been good for each other in their short time together. He’d still been grieving for his late wife, Joy, and Octavia grieving an aunt lost to breast cancer and, of course, the death of her marriage.

  I’m sorry I failed you, Octavia. Sala accepted that he’d been the only one who could have saved her, but he hadn’t. And now she was gone. He felt the pain of it burrow deep. Yet again, Ty squeezed his hand.

  He wondered if Octavia would have gone back to her ex-husband after all. He stilled. Wasn’t that her ex-husband standing at the edge of the nave? Octavia had shown Sala a photo of him on her phone. It had shown a tall, fair-haired man in his early forties, gym buff and smiling, his arm around her, hugging her tight. Now his shoulders were hunched forward, his face pale and set, as if carved in stone. He never looked away from Octavia’s coffin. Bill Culver was his name, Sala remembered. Culver looked utterly alone. Sala pointed as he whispered to Ty, “That man over there is Octavia’s ex-husband. Try to save an extra seat.”

  Ty watched Sala weave his way toward Bill Culver near the back of the church and lightly touch his shoulder. The two men spoke. A few minutes later, Sala brought Culver back with him. He leaned down, introduced her. “And this is Chief Ty Christie.” He didn’t add Ty had seen Culver’s ex-wife murdered on Lake Massey.

  Ty took Culver’s hand. His skin felt cold and dry. He looked frozen, his grief deep and raw. “Mr. Culver, please sit with us.” The three pressed together in a space meant for two, but their neighbors didn’t mind, probably didn’t even notice.

  They sat quietly, listening to the organist play a slow requiem Sala didn’t recognize. Culver said, his voice nearly breaking, “That was one of Octavia’s favorite organ pieces. I wonder if they know that.” Sala looked down at his clasped hands and waited until the organist began another piece before he leaned toward Culver. “I know this is a very hard time for you, Mr. Culver—”

  “Bill, please, Agent Porto.”

  Sala nodded. “Call me Sala. You know about Victor Nesser?”

  Culver stiffened, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth became a tight seam. “I saw his face all over TV and on the web. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, how could he kill her after what she did for him? Is he insane?”

  “That’s the working hypothesis. Did Octavia ever talk to you about him?”

  Culver looked down at his polished Italian loafers and nodded. “It was toward the end of our marriage, but both of us were still trying to resolve things in counseling. We were still civil.

  “I remember Octavia felt sorry for him, said he was the saddest young man she’d ever seen, that he didn’t seem to care what happened to him. She said he’d focus on inconsequential things, like the guy in the cell next to him snoring, but mainly he complained about his ankle, said the FBI had shucked him off to a know-nothing intern who didn’t know an ankle from an elbow and he’d limp forever. But Octavia told me he barely limped. She hadn’t even noticed it until he’d complained about it.”

  Sala felt his stomach drop. “Do you know the intern’s name?”

  Culver shook his head. “I think I remember Octavia saying Nesser was treated at Washington Memorial. They took him there right after he was brought back from wherever it was the FBI caught him and that crazy girl he was with. Why?”

  Because Nesser might go after him, that’s why. “Do you remember if Nesser told her he was angry at the defense she’d used at his competency hearing?”

  Culver nodded. “She told me Nesser said to her face she was a lying bitch and how dare she announce to the world he was nothing but a pitiful pawn? She was worse than that worthless lawyer from L.A. he’d fired. I remember Octavia couldn’t believe it. She’d saved him from a trial with a jury that would have, justifiably, found him guilty of murder and bank robbery, even though he only drove the car. And he did shoot a police officer, but thankfully she didn’t die. He should have gotten life imprisonment or a lethal injection. That’s the law. Sorry, you know that. But she got him committed instead.” Culver shook his head. “She told me he was smart, so I suppose she was right. He escaped that mental hospital, didn’t he? Supposedly high-security? And he killed her because she simply pointed out he was a naïve putz who fell for a teenage Lolita.” He struck his fist against his open palm. “He needs to be put down.”

  “I agree.”

  Culver looked blindly ahead at the crowd of people, their heads bowed or staring straight ahead, some speaking quietly, and then at the spear of light still shining on Octavia’s face. “How many dead bodies did he and his crazy girlfriend leave behind?”

  Sala knew, but he only shook his head.

  “Octavia truly believed he’d been abused, both emotionally and physically, manipulated by his sixteen-year-old cousin. Lissy Smiley was her name—sorry, you know that, too. Octavia said Victor denied the physical abuse, said his father only hit his mother. When it was over, I remember she cried because she felt so bad he was upset with her. But she hoped he’d come to understand it was the only defense to get him out of jail in this lifetime. I remember I asked her if he would ever recognize it as the truth, if he would ever see what happened with clear sight. She had to admit he probably wouldn’t, he was too damaged. She did consider the sentence a victory. I remember clearly she believed true justice had prevailed. And now she’s dead.” His breathing stuttered. “Because she didn’t realize how truly crazy he really was.”

  Sala understood the man’s fury,
his pain. He understood how helpless he felt. He didn’t hesitate, leaned close. “Octavia told me she was giving serious consideration to coming back to you.”

  Culver’s eyes blazed, then the light died out again, and he shook his head back and forth. “No, she never said anything like that to me. I thought it was over. Did she really tell you that?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  Culver laughed, low and bitter. “When was this, Agent? Surely not when you were sleeping with her? Aren’t you any good in bed?”

  The fury of Culver’s words jolted Sala, but then he calmed. He, too, would be out of his mind with anger at the man who’d been sleeping with the woman he wanted to come back to him, the man who had also failed to save her at crunch time. “No,” Sala said, “I guess not.”

  Culver shook his head. “Sorry, none of this is your fault. The thing is, Octavia never knew what she wanted, but it was always something else, always something she didn’t have. I tried to understand, I really did, because I worshiped her. She had a great career, and when her grandmother died, she inherited millions from her offshore accounts.” He paused. “But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.” Culver looked down at his clasped hands and drew a deep breath. “I can’t believe she’s dead, that I’ll never see her again, never make her favorite strawberry margarita for her.” He raised dazed eyes to Sala’s face. “Did she really say she was coming back to me?”

  She hadn’t exactly, but Sala nodded.

  When the organ music stopped, Father Francis McKay moved to stand at the podium. He paused a moment, looked out at the hundreds of mourners, and then began Octavia’s funeral mass. To a Protestant, the mass was like a choreographed dance, everyone knowing what to do when. It was long and slow and infinitely soothing. In the homily, Father McKay spoke of Octavia’s passion for justice, her love of her family and of all the people whose lives she’d touched in her too-short life.

  Family and friends spoke next, filling the air with pain and raw emotion. Like Father McKay, they spoke of her kindness, her deep and abiding love for her family, and what she felt was her mission to help find justice for those unable to find it for themselves.

  As he listened, Savich held Sherlock’s hand. He felt such rage at Victor Nesser, he knew if he’d been there, he’d have killed him. Justice long overdue. He knew he’d have to get in line.

  After communion, the mass ended, and everyone prepared to follow the hearse to bury Octavia at Forest Lawn, where the first of her family, a great-grandfather, Damian Ryan, had been buried in 1907.

  “The Lord be with you.”

  “And with your spirit.”

  “May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. The mass is ended, go in peace.”

  Savich saw Sherlock wipe her eyes and hugged her against him. Mr. Maitland stood to embrace family and friends, a rock in a massive tide of pain. Savich wondered how Victor knew where Octavia would be on her last weekend. Everyone believed he’d been following her, but she hadn’t noticed. And why should she?

  Sherlock had frowned. “But Octavia would have noticed, Dillon, if he’d followed her there,” she’d said. “She dealt with very bad people.”

  Of course, a lot of people knew about Victor Nesser, but none had spoken to him or seen him. None admitted to telling anyone outside of work of Octavia’s plans to spend the week in Willicott with Agent Sala Porto.

  Octavia’s funeral procession assembled. Six men, all colleagues of hers, took their places beside Octavia’s coffin, waiting for the priest and the celebrants to lead them down the aisle and outside to the hearse. Father McKay, his two deacons, and a single altar girl stepped out in front of the coffin as the organ began to play “In Paradisum.” There was no conversation, only people standing, waiting to leave their pews to fall in behind the coffin as it passed. As the procession started down the aisle, there was a deafening explosion. Stained-glass windows shattered inward, showering people with glass. The music soared. The building heaved, the pulpit shook, and Octavia Ryan’s photograph toppled off the easel.

  There was pandemonium.

  33

  * * *

  Mr. Maitland was already yelling into his cell phone. Savich jumped onto the pew, cupped his mouth, and shouted, “Everyone, stop! Stay calm. Father, pallbearers, move Octavia’s coffin as quickly as you can out of the church. Those FBI agents near the exits, lead people out safely. All other FBI agents, take a pew and form a line. People, if anyone in your line is hurt, help them. Everyone, do not panic.”

  Sherlock grabbed his arm, “I smell smoke, Dillon. The church is on fire!”

  He shouted again, “Cover your mouths, do not inhale the smoke. Quickly now! Move! We will all get out of here—”

  There were already sirens in the distance.

  Savich heard the flames now, smelled the gas from the pipes in the basement. The church would come down fast. He felt the building heave beneath his feet, watched the pulpit crash forward onto the floor and roll down the six deep steps into the nave. The thick old timbers overhead creaked.

  He shouted, “Keep walking. Do not run, take care of those around you. We will all get out of here.”

  Mr. Maitland pressed forward to reach Octavia’s mother, who was standing stunned, shocked immobile, staring up at the beams, leaning into her daughter. “Mama, let’s go, please.”

  Mr. Maitland took Mrs. Ryan’s hand and gently led her from the pew. He weaved his way toward the nave exit, leading the dozen family members to safety, and ran back into the church. He saw Savich lifting a sobbing old woman into his arms. People moved aside for him as he carried her out of the church, gave her to an agent, and ran back in.

  The cathedral was thick now with smoke, billowing up from the basement, the heat of the flames burning the air. Savich pulled a handkerchief away from his face and shouted, “Keep your faces covered! Everyone, you’re doing great! Keep moving and help anyone who needs it.” Another stained-glass window burst overhead. People coughed and moved. Children were screaming, parents were trying desperately to protect them from the fire that was raging closer and closer.

  A wild-eyed man with a camera around his neck was screaming, “We’re going to burn to death! I can feel the fire coming right under my feet! We’re going to die!” He shoved people aside to get to the exit. Savich grabbed his arm, jerked him around, and cold-cocked him. Savich handed him off to two men in line, who dragged him between them.

  The air was choked with thick, acrid smoke, the heat from the closing fire fearsome. Not much more time, Savich knew, before the building collapsed, before the flames engulfed all of them, but the lines of mourners kept moving out the exits. Savich saw Sherlock leading a line of people through the opposite side door. She was safe, too.

  Fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances jammed the street a block away from the church. It was too hot to get closer. Police and firefighters ran forward to help agents with the last of the stragglers and help the injured away. The fire was blazing hot and fast, a scene from hell, flames licking into the sky, the smoke black and thick, gushing out of the inferno.

  Sala saw Bill Culver walk quickly to the hearse. A huge spear of stained glass had stabbed through the hood, and it wouldn’t start. The hearse, once black, was now covered with gray ash. Sala saw Octavia’s brother wave Culver off, saw his expression was hard with dislike and distrust, but Bill ignored him. The pallbearers pushed the hearse forward, away from the building.

  The fire burned so hot, people kept moving away, staring at the once-beautiful cathedral so quickly reduced to rubble, trying to make sense of what had happened. Ty heard a small boy ask, “Papa, what happened to God’s house?”

  There were screams and shouts when the roof, blazing brighter than the sun, collapsed, and rancid smoke gushed into the air.

  Ty saw a young woman, tears streaming down her face as she rocked a baby. Why was she alone? Where was the rest of the family? Ty hugged the young woman and her child close and eased her into a
crowd, whispered to an older couple, “Please, comfort her as best you can and keep the reporters away from her.” People were coughing, some hacking up the smoke that had filled their lungs, and she prayed they would be all right. EMTs were circulating, tending to those with burns or smoke inhalation. Ambulances screamed in and out of the scene.

  Ty saw a reporter closing fast on Octavia’s family, a mic in his fist, his eyes shining with excitement. Nothing like pain and tragedy to bring out a soulless vulture. She started forward to steer the reporter away, but she saw Mr. Maitland move to stand between him and the family, a rock. The reporter was yelling about freedom of the press, but Mr. Maitland didn’t move. She thought he snorted.

  Ty heard someone shout terrorists had blown up the cathedral. That’s when it hit her hard. There was no doubt in her mind Victor Nesser had set the bombs. Was he here, watching and gloating, pumping his frigging fist? She lightly laid her hand on the arm of an older man whose breathing was too fast. “Take shallow breaths, slowly. That’s it. Everyone got out. It’s over.” She prayed that was so. Thankfully, the man’s breathing slowed. Still, he held on to her hand like a lifeline. “Where is your family?”

  “My son, he’s with Octavia’s coffin. I’ll be all right.” Still, Ty found another couple, brought them over to stay with him.

  Sala’s cell phone rang. He was about to let it go to voice mail but then saw the call was from Dirk, the agent now manning the Star of David belt buckle hotline.

  “Dirk, Sala here. What’s up?”

  “I heard about the explosion, the fire. Are you guys all right?”