by Lisa Shearin
Now the silence was on our end.
“By whom?” The anger rolling off Marshall made the hairs on my arm closest to him stand straight up.
“I can’t say.”
“Sloane and Kinney.”
“I didn’t tell you.”
“You didn’t need to,” Marshall shot back. “Andrew Sloane and Richard Kinney are two toads in the same swamp with Barton Renwick. I’m not bringing that thing in alive.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Chisholm said. “You already have your orders. Carry them out.” He hung up.
CHAPTER 34
Berta stood. “Come on, Rory. I’m taking you home.”
“What?”
“You heard me. There’s nothing more you can do here, at least not now. Last night, you dozed for an hour in a chair at the foot of Ambrose’s bed, and the night before that, you didn’t get any sleep at all. And I spent last night standing guard and not sleeping so you would sleep.”
“You said you slept.”
“I lied. But we’re not doing any of that again. You’re going home, and I’m going home with you. Think of it as a sleepover where everyone actually sleeps.”
“You’re right.”
Berta blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” I smiled. “You just want me to say it again. You’re right.”
Berta nodded in satisfaction. “And I have witnesses. It’s been a good day. Let’s make it a restful night. I have a feeling we’re all gonna need it.” She gave Gabriel Marshall a look. “Except for the Caped Crusader here. Sounds like you got a job to do.”
Marshall shrugged. “I do need to make a few stops before going back to the Bat Cave, but I agree with you about getting some sleep.” He stood. “I’ve learned to get it when I can.” He inclined his head to me and Berta, then Rees and Hudson. “Ladies. Gentlemen. I’ll be in touch.”
I waited until he’d left and closed the door behind him. “So, how does the CIA do this? Does Marshall leave the body on Langley’s doorstep like a cat leaving a dead rat?”
Rees scowled. “Unfortunately, I don’t think Elias Halverson is going to make this easy for any of us.”
I agreed to go home, on one condition. I wanted to stop by the hospital and see Grandad first.
Berta relented. I knew she wanted to check on him, too.
It’d been a little over twenty-four hours since Grandad had been brought to Georgetown University Hospital. I was sitting next to his bed, holding his hand. It was warm and his color was better.
I was a true believer in the benefits of talking to the deeply unconscious. Dr. Beck said Grandad wasn’t in a coma, but he was close to it. I knew he could hear me. I squeezed his hand tighter. I knew he could feel me. I sat there, holding and talking, willing him to fight his way up through the darkness and come back to me.
“I know you’re tired,” I told him. “We all are. But I have good news. Great news. We found David Barrington. He’s safe and he’s talking. We know who did this to you and how he did it. The same man killed Julian and Alan, and Mark Dalton. There are people tracking him down right now—and no, one of them isn’t me.” I gave him a little smile. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel the emotion. “And you were wrong about who’s behind it. It wasn’t the Nazis. It’s the Russians. Go figure, right?” I gave his hand another squeeze. “But I’m not going to tell you how he did it. You have to wake up and ask me. Believe me, it’s quite a story. You definitely want to hear this one.”
I searched his face for any sign of movement. Nothing. Yet, I told myself. There would be a reaction. Tomorrow. He needed rest, and so did I.
I rubbed his hand. “I know you want me to go home and get some sleep, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do, but don’t get used to winning any arguments. I’ll be back tomorrow, and the only way you’ll get rid of me then is to open your eyes and tell me to go home. Ti voglio bene,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision. I raised his hand to my lips, kissed it, then put it back by his side.
Dr. Beck had said Grandad had been worried about me when he’d been brought in. I debated telling him that Berta was going home with me and that we had FBI agents at the house to further put his mind at ease. But he’d know all those precautions would only be in place if I was in danger, so I didn’t mention any of it. If I said anything, he might pick up images from me of what had happened with Simmons’s guards and why Berta had assigned herself as my second shadow. I could hide my emotions from everyone else, but I’d never been able to fool Grandad.
Berta and I had passed through the gauntlet of FBI agents to get to Grandad’s room, and again to leave. There was an agent at the stairs and another by the elevator, one in the hallway, and two flanking the entrance to his room. Grandad was as safe as he could possibly be. I remembered the grainy, green video of Elias Halverson in that cave. If he really wanted to get to Grandad, he probably could, but Gabriel Marshall was right. As far as Halverson and his game was concerned, Grandad was a piece that had been taken off the board. It was me Halverson wanted now.
I had news for Elias Halverson, Grandad wasn’t a threat to him any longer.
I was.
I was going to be careful, but I wasn’t about to let caution stop me from tracking him down.
“I don’t like that look,” Berta said as she pushed the elevator button.
“What look?”
“You look pissed and way too determined.”
“Really?”
“I’m taking you home, and you will sleep.”
“I’m not arguing with you. I need the rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”
Grandad was going to recover. I no longer needed to tell myself that. I believed it.
I slept.
When I woke up, I had drool on my pillow and sheet prints on my face.
I immediately checked my messages, and when there wasn’t one from the hospital, I called for an update.
There hadn’t been any change.
I told myself that wasn’t bad news. He was already better; further improvement would take time.
I’d let Berta talk me into spending the night in the town house rather than my carriage house apartment. I could see her point. My apartment consisted of three rooms—the living area/kitchen, a bedroom, and the bathroom. Once an intruder was in, there was only one door between them and me. The town house consisted of multiple levels, multiple rooms, and was more easily defensible. Roger Hudson had augmented Simmons’s guards with two FBI agents. Simmons’s people were outside, Hudson’s inside. The security system was fully operational and being closely monitored.
Like Grandad in the hospital, I was as safe as I was going to be.
I was surprised I’d slept as well as I had. There was a reason I lived in the carriage house. The place was huge, so space wasn’t a problem. I liked my privacy, though it wasn’t like I had much need for it. Unlike the earthquake we’d just had, my love life wouldn’t even register on the Richter scale.
I lived in the carriage house because I couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep in a house filled with antiques. To my heightened psychometric senses, the furniture and art seemed to give off a continual buzzing, like fluorescent lights times a hundred. Grandad slept just fine. He said it was because he was an antique, too. I preferred my furniture new and my art minimal. Though last night, I think a marching band could’ve come through my room and I wouldn’t have budged.
I took a shower and got dressed to go downstairs for breakfast. With Gerald home, I was guaranteed a pre-hunt feast. He’d promised to make his incomparable cinnamon rolls.
I was hunting Elias Halverson, but I hadn’t lied to Grandad. I wouldn’t be hunting Halverson himself. I’d be looking for his psychic spoor.
It had been about thirty-six hours since Halverson’s attack on Grandad. When he’d killed Julian and Alan, he had stood only a few feet away from them. Mark Dalton had been attacked from even closer. I’d been at the Russell
and Hart buildings within a few hours of those murders. I didn’t know if distance affected the strength of Halverson’s PK. I would think that the closer Halverson was to a victim, the less psychic energy he would need to use. Depending on where his perch had been outside the town house, there was a chance he might have had to work harder to do the same damage. Regardless of the psychic physics involved, I would find that perch.
Halverson had plenty of time after he murdered Mark Dalton to kill Simmons’s guards here and get in place.
He would’ve had to wait for us to get home. While he waited, he would have thought and possibly planned. Elias Halverson had a strong personality and psychic imprint. I’d sensed him twice. If I could find where he had waited to kill Grandad, perhaps even after a day and a half there would be enough left for me to determine where he was now and what he was going to do next.
My phone beeped with an incoming message.
Berta.
Guess who’s here? Marshall. Brought cinnamon rolls. Gerald insulted.
So much for peace in the house.
I walked into a silent kitchen.
There was a bag from Dog Tag Bakery on the table. I loved anything from there, and their cinnamon rolls were to die for, but Gerald’s had a special place in my heart and stomach. He had set an extra place in front of Gabriel Marshall and had graciously plated the Dog Tag cinnamon rolls next to his. It looked like I’d have to eat one of each; after all, Marshall was going to kill the man who’d briefly killed Grandad.
The sacrifices I had to make.
It sounded like there was a small outboard motor under the table. I lifted the cloth. Pablo was rubbing and winding himself around Marshall’s legs.
“Pablo doesn’t like strangers,” I told him.
“Marshall’s his drug dealer,” Berta said. “He wants another hit.”
“Actually, I did bring something for him.” Marshall reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out what looked like a small whiffle ball. It was filled with tiny jingle bells. Marshall gave it a single shake and instantly had Pablo’s undivided and absolute attention.
“Sorry, Pablo. My last present didn’t go over too well. No catnip this time.” Marshall tossed it toward Pablo’s bed, and the big tom scrambled after it.
Gerald set a smoothie in front of me that I knew from its unappetizing greenness had all the fruits, veggies, vitamins, and minerals necessary for the kind of big day I had planned. He gave me a knowing look.
I’d never been able to fool Grandad—or Gerald. He knew I was up to something, and he wholeheartedly approved.
Once I’d downed the smoothie, I was free to enjoy two cinnamon rolls. While I did, I told Berta and Marshall my theory.
Berta was the first to weigh in. “You’re going to step outside where this psycho attacked Ambrose and sniff around until you find the direction it came from, and then go there.”
I saluted her with my coffee mug. “Exactly.”
“Oh, hell no.”
“As soon as I go outside, I’ll know if he’s still in the neighborhood or not. And if, for whatever reason, he’s still in the country, I seriously doubt he’s hanging around here waiting to knock me off.”
“But there’s no way you can be sure.”
“No, there’s not, until I go out there. But there’s a good chance that if he had to wait for us to get home, he was there long enough that I can pick up an impression, maybe even some images. It’s more than we’ve got now.” I looked to Marshall. “Unless you got lucky last night on your way home to the Bat Cave.”
He grinned. “No, I most definitely did not get lucky last night.”
“No rat on Langley’s doorstep, huh?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Marshall took a sip of coffee. “I agree with Berta.”
“You’re batting a thousand,” I told her. “Me last night, now Marshall.”
Berta leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “If he agrees, that just means there’s something in it for him. What is it?”
“Nothing. I simply agree that Rory shouldn’t go outside.”
I put down my fork. “I don’t seem to recall asking either one of—”
Marshall held up a hand. “Hear me out. You shouldn’t go outside until you know Halverson’s not lurking in a parked car on the street. Can you determine that from the bay windows next to the front door? We can open the window closest to the front steps and leave the sheers pulled. He can’t see you, but you can still work your mojo. Would that do?”
I had to think about that. “Maybe. If it’ll make the two of you feel better, I’ll try it. But if it doesn’t work, I’m gonna go play outside.”
CHAPTER 35
I never considered that setting foot outside my own front door could get me killed.
A lot can change in a day and a half.
While the weather was mild for this time of year, most people would consider it too cold to open a window. I wasn’t interested in fresh air. I wanted to catch the psychic scent of a killer.
At the base of the bay windows was a curved padded bench that had been one of my favorite places when I was a little girl and we’d come from California to visit Grandad. I would get a book from the library, and Gerald would fix me a pot of tea and let me choose my own cup and saucer. With book, tea, and whatever cookies Gerald had just baked, I’d happily spend hours curled up here.
Today, Gerald had fortified me with a power smoothie and a cinnamon roll, but it wasn’t for hours of reading. I’d asked Berta and Marshall to stand back to give me space to work. I could see down the street in both directions from the three windows, but I’d already determined that the attack had come from down the street to the right. To the left were more town homes on both sides. While it would’ve been possible for Elias Halverson to have hidden in one of our neighbors’ bushes, it was highly unlikely. To the right of the front door were more town homes, but near the end of the street on the opposite side were a coffee shop, a tavern, and a cigar bar—all with a direct line of sight to our front walkway.
Just before Halverson’s attack, Grandad had turned his head to ask Rees and Berta if they’d had lunch, and at the instant of the attack, his eyes had become fixed and staring in that same direction. Was it a coincidence, or had Grandad sensed on some level what was happening and had looked toward where he felt the attack coming from? Once I’d realized what was happening, I’d been completely focused on getting him inside. The FBI and police hadn’t found anyone, but how could they have known who they were even looking for?
Elias Halverson was a professional. He wouldn’t have run. Immediately after the attack, he could have simply gotten up and walked out of wherever he was. By the time the police arrived, he would’ve been long gone. On the other hand, I’d sensed extreme arrogance from him in the Hart Building men’s room. He’d just made his third kill. He was high on his new power. He wasn’t killing pigs any longer; he was hunting and killing humans with his mind, and he liked it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d stayed right where he was after he’d attacked Grandad. He might have even volunteered to answer questions from the FBI or police when they’d canvassed the neighborhood.
I sat back. “He’s not out there now. His perch was either the coffee shop or tavern. My money is on the coffee shop. Berta, would you call Rees and see if he has that updated sketch of Elias Halverson? It’s time to show it around.”
I was having a hard time thinking of our neighborhood coffee shop as a psychic assassin’s grassy knoll.
I went back to my apartment to change into something other than sweats. Berta and Marshall went with me. Despite my assurance that Elias Halverson wasn’t in the neighborhood, let alone lurking in our backyard, they didn’t insist on accompanying me so much as not give me a choice. I was a believer in picking my battles. This one wasn’t worth the effort.
We went through the garage to get to my apartment stairs. Marshall stopped to admi
re my restored 1957 Harley Sportster.
“Very nice,” he said.
“I agree. This Wednesday, a ’41 Indian Sport Scout will be in the next stall. Your BMW isn’t half bad, if you go in for that sort of thing.”
Marshall shrugged. “Sometimes a man has a need for speed.”
“When fleeing the scene of a crime,” Berta shot back.
Marshall’s gray eyes met mine. “So it was you who found her.”
I spread my hands. “Guilty as charged. You did a good job of muting yourself and hiding your trail.” I grinned. “But not good enough. How did you get here this morning?”
“The BMW. Again.”
“I hope you didn’t park her in the alley this time.”
He tilted his head toward the garage door. “No, she’s right outside.”
I pushed the button to raise the door. “I’ve got a spare stall. Bring her in out of the cold.”
That earned me identical surprised looks from Marshall and Berta.
Marshall recovered first. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I went upstairs to change. Berta ensured my bedroom and bathroom were Elias-free before returning to my small living room to wait with Marshall.
Once back in the town house, Berta used the printer in the office to print out the FBI’s new sketch of Elias Halverson while Marshall admired the da Vinci drawing hanging on the wall to the left of Grandad’s desk.
“I stayed longer than I should have the other night,” he confessed, never taking his eyes from what the master had probably considered a mere doodle. “This is like being in a museum. I’d heard this drawing existed, but I’ve never seen it.”
“A gift from a grateful Florentine businessman from his private collection,” I said. “Grandad recovered Caravaggio’s ‘Portrait of Maffeo Barberini’ for him.” I gave him a quizzical glance. “You’re into art?”
His eyes continued to drink in every detail. “Oh yes.”
Berta came up behind us, copies tucked in a folder. “Ready when you are.”
She was the first one out the front door. She gestured for me to stay put while she scanned the immediate area for anyone who could have remotely been Elias Halverson. I waited patiently until she gestured me forward. Berta was one of my best friends, and she needed to protect me right now, so I let her do it. Besides, I was protecting her, too. I knew Halverson wasn’t out there. We were all safe.