HEMLOCK BAY
by Catherine Coulter
HEMLOCK BAY
1
Near the Plum River, Maryland
It was a chilly day in late October. A stiff
wind whipped the last colorful leaves off
the trees. The sun was shining down hard and
bright on the dilapidated red barn that hadn’t
been painted in forty years. Streaks of washed-out
red were all that was left of the last paint
job. There was no charm left, at all.
FBI Special Agent Dillon Savich eased around
the side of the barn, his SIG Sauer in his
right hand. It had taken discipline and practice,
but he’d learned to move so quietly that
he could sneak up on a mouse. Three agents,
one of them his wife, were some twenty feet
behind him, covering him, ready to fan out
in any direction necessary, all of them wearing
Kevlar vests. A dozen more agents were slowly
working their way up the other side of the
barn, their orders to wait for a signal from
Savich. Sheriff Dade of Jedbrough County and
three deputies were stationed in the thick
stand of maple trees just thirty feet behind
them. One of the deputies, a sharpshooter,
had his sights trained on the barn.
So far the operation was going smoothly, which,
Savich supposed, surprised everyone, although
no one spoke of it. He just hoped it would
continue the way it had been planned, but
chances were things would get screwed up.
He’d deal with it; there was no choice.
The barn was bigger than Savich liked—there
was a big hayloft, and too many shadowy corners
for this sort of operation. Too many nooks
and crannies for an ambush, just plain too
many places from which to fire a storm of
bullets.
A perfect place for Tommy and Timmy Tuttle,
dubbed “the Warlocks” by the media, to
hole up. They’d hopscotched across the country,
but had dropped out of sight here, in Maryland,
with their two latest young teenage boys taken
right out of the gym where they’d been playing
basketball after school, in Stewartville,
some forty miles away. Savich had believed
that Maryland was their destination, no sound
reason really, but in his gut he just felt
it. The profilers hadn’t said much about
that, just that Maryland was, after all, on
the Atlantic coast, so they really couldn’t
go much farther east.
Then MAX, Savich’s laptop, had dived into
land registry files in Maryland and found
that Marilyn Warluski, a first cousin to the
Tuttle brothers, and who, MAX had also discovered,
had had a baby at the age of seventeen fathered
by Tommy Tuttle, just happened to own a narrow
strip of land near a good-sized maple forest
that wasn’t far from the serpentine Plum
River. And on that sliver of property was
a barn, a big ancient barn that had been abandoned
for years. Savich had nearly clicked his heels
together in excitement.
And now, four hours later, here they were.
There’d been no sign of a car, but Savich
wasn’t worried. The old Honda was probably
stashed in the barn. He quieted his breathing
and listened. The birds had gone still. The
silence was heavy, oppressive, as if even
the animals were expecting something to happen
and knew instinctively that it wouldn’t
be good.
Savich was afraid the Tuttle brothers were
long gone. All they would find, despite the
silence, would be their victims: teenage boys—Donny
and Rob rthur—dead, horribly mutilated,
their bodies circumscribed by a large, black
circle.
Savich didn’t want to smell any more blood.
He didn’t want to see any more death. Not
today. Not ever.
He looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch.
It was time to see if the bad guys were in
the barn. It was time to go into harm’s
way. It was time to get the show on the road.
MAX had found a crude interior plan of the
barn, drawn some fifty years before, documented
in a computerized county record as having
been physically saved and filed. Kept where?
was the question. They’d finally turned
up the drawing in an old file cabinet in the
basement of the county planning building.
But the drawing was clear enough. There was
a small, narrow entry, down low, here on the
west side. He found it behind a straggly naked
bush. It was cracked open, wide enough for
him to squeeze through.
He looked back, waved his SIG Sauer at the
three agents peering around the corner of
the barn, a signal to hold their positions,
and went in on his belly. He pushed the narrow
door open an inch at a time. Filth everywhere,
some rat carcasses strewn around. He nudged
his way in on his elbows, feeling bones crunch
beneath him, his SIG Sauer steady in his hand.
There was a strange half-light in the barn.
Dust motes filled the narrow spears of light
coming through the upper windows, only shards
of glass sticking up in some of the frames.
He lay there quietly a moment, his eyes adjusting.
He saw bales of hay so old they looked petrified,
stacked haphazardly, rusted machinery—mainly
odd parts—and two ancient wooden troughs.
Then he noticed it. In the far corner was
another door not more than twenty feet to
the right of the front double barn doors.
A tack room, he thought, and it hadn’t been
shown on the drawing. Then he made out the
outline of the Honda, tucked in the shadows
at the far end of the barn. The two brothers
were in the tack room, no doubt about it.
And Donny and Rob Arthur? Please, God, let
them still be alive.
He had to know exactly who was where before
he called in the other agents. It was still,
very still. He got to his feet and ran hunched
over toward the tack room door, his gun fanning
continuously, his breathing low and steady,
his steps silent. He pressed his ear against
the rotted wooden door of the tack room.
He heard a male voice, clear and strong, and
angry, suddenly louder.
“Listen, you Little Bloods, it’s time
for you to get in the middle of the circle.
The Ghouls want you; they told me to hurry
it up. They want to carve you up with their
axes and knives—they really like to do that—but
this time they want to tuck you away in their
carryalls and fly away with you. Hey, maybe
you’ll end up in Tahiti. Who knows? They
haven’t wanted to do this before. But it
doesn’t make any difference to us. Here
come the Ghouls!” And he laughed, a young
man’s laugh, not all that deep, and it sounded
quite happily mad. It made Savich’s blood
run icy.
Then another man’s voice, this one deeper.
“Yep, almost ready for the Ghouls. We don’t
want to disappoint them now, do we? Move it,
Little Bloods.”
He heard them coming toward the door, heard
the scuffling of feet, heard the boys’ crying,
probably beyond reason now, heard curses and
prods from the Tuttle brothers. It was then
that he saw the huge, crude circle painted
with thick, black paint on a cleared-out part
of the rotting wooden barn floor.
Zero hour. No time, simply no time now to
bring the others in.
Savich barely made it down behind a rotted
hay bale before one of them opened the tack
room door and shoved a slight, pale boy in
front of him. The boy’s filthy pants were
nearly falling off his butt. It was Donny
Arthur. He’d been beaten, probably starved
as well. He was terrified. Then a second terrified
youth was shoved out of the small tack room
next to him. Rob Arthur, only fourteen years
old. Savich had never seen such fear on two
such young faces in his life.
If Savich ordered the Tuttles to stop now,
they could use the boys for shields. No, better
to wait. What was all that crazy talk about
ghouls? He watched the two men shove the boys
forward until they actually kicked them into
the center of the circle.
“Don’t either of you move or I’ll take
my knife and shove it right through your arm
into the floor, pin you good. Tammy here will
do the other with her knife. You got that,
Little Bloods?”
Tammy? Her knife? No, it was two brothers—Tommy
and Timmy Tuttle, more than enough alliteration,
even for the media. No, he couldn’t have
heard right. He was looking at two young men,
both in black, long and lean, big, chunky
black boots laced up the front to the knees
like combat boots. They carried knives and
guns.
The boys were huddled together on their knees,
crying, clutching each other. Blood caked
their faces, but they could move, and that
meant no bones were broken.
“Where are the Ghouls?” Tammy Tuttle shouted,
and Savich realized in that instant that he
hadn’t misheard; it wasn’t the Tuttle
brothers, it was one brother and one sister.
What was all this about the ghouls coming
to murder the boys?
“Ghouls,” Tammy yelled, her head thrown
back, her voice reverberating throughout the
ancient barn, “where are you? We’ve got
your two treats for you, just what you like—two
really sweet boys! Little Bloods, both of
them. Bring your knives and axes! Come here,
Ghouls.”
It was a chant, growing louder as she repeated
herself once, twice, then three times. Each
time, her voice was louder, more vicious,
the words ridiculous, really, except for the
underlying terror they carried.
Tammy Tuttle kicked one of the boys, hard,
when he tried to crawl out of the circle.
Savich knew he had to act soon. Where were
these ghouls?
He heard something, something that was different
from the mad human voices, like a high whine,
sort of a hissing sound that didn’t belong
here, maybe didn’t belong anywhere. He felt
gooseflesh rise on his arms. He felt a shock
of cold. He was on the point of leaping out
when, to his utter astonishment, the huge
front barn doors whooshed inward, blinding
light flooded in, and in the middle of that
light were dust devils that looked like small
tornadoes. The white light faded away, and
the dust devils looked more like two whirling,
white cones, distinct from each other, spinning
and twisting, riding up then dipping down,
blending together, then separating—no, no,
they were just dust devils, still white because
they hadn’t sucked up the dirt yet from
the barn floor. But what was that sound he
heard? Something strange, something he couldn’t
identify. Laughter? No, that was crazy, but
that was what registered in his brain.
The boys saw the dust devils, whirling and
spinning far above them, and started screaming.
Rob jumped up, grabbed his older brother,
and managed to jerk him out of the circle.
Tammy Tuttle, who’d been looking up, turned
suddenly, raised her knife, and yelled, “Get
back down, Little Bloods! Don’t you dare
anger the Ghouls. Get back in the circle,
now! GET BACK DOWN!”
The boys scrabbled farther away from the circle.
Tommy Tuttle was on them in an instant, jerking
them back. Tammy Tuttle drew the knife back,
aiming toward Donny Arthur, as Savich leaped
up from behind the bale of hay and fired.
The bullet ripped into her arm at her shoulder.
She screamed and fell onto her side, the knife
flying out of her hand.
Tommy Tuttle whipped about, no knife in his
hand now but a gun, and that gun was aimed
not at Savich but at the boys. The boys were
screaming as Savich shot Tommy through the
center of his forehead.
Tammy Tuttle was moaning on the floor, holding
her arm. The boys stood, clutched together,
silent now, and all three of them looked up
toward those whirling, white cones that danced
up and down in the clear light coming through
the barn doors. No, not dust devils, two separate
things.
One of the boys whispered, “What are they?”
“I don’t know, Rob,” Savich said and
pulled the boys toward him, protecting them
as best he could. “Just some sort of weird
tornado, that’s all.”
Tammy was yelling curses at Savich as she
tried to pull herself up. She fell back. There
was a shriek, loud and hollow. One of the
cones seemed to leap forward, directly at
them. Savich didn’t think, just shot it,
clean through. It was like shooting through
fog. The cone danced upward, then twisted
back toward the other cone. They hovered an
instant, spinning madly, and in the next instant,
they were gone. Simply gone.
Savich grabbed both boys against him again.
“It’s all right now, Donny, Rob. You’re
both all right. I’m very proud of you, and
your parents will be, too. Yes, it’s okay
to be afraid; I know I’m scared out of my
mind, too. Just stay nice and safe against
me. That’s it. You’re safe now.”
The boys were pressed so tightly against him
that Savich could feel their hearts pounding
as they sobbed, deep, ragged sobs, and he
knew there was blessed relief in their sobs,
that they finally believed they were going
to survive. They clutched at him and he held
them as tightly as he could, whispering, “It
will be all right. You’re going to be home
in no time at all. It’s okay, Rob, Donny.”
He kept them both shielded from Tammy Tuttle,
who was no longer moaning. He made no move
to see what shape she was in.
“The Ghouls,” one of the boys kept saying
over and over, his young voice cracking. “They
told us all about what the Ghouls did to all
the other boys—ate them up whole or if they
were already full, then they just tore them
up, chewed on their bones—”
“I know, I know,” Savich said, but he
had no idea what his eyes had seen, not really.
Whirling dust devils, that was all. There
were no hidden axes or knives. Unless they
somehow morphed into something more substantial?
No, that was crazy. He felt something catch
inside him. It was a sense of what was real,
what had to be real. It demanded he reject
what he’d seen, bury it under a hundred
tons of earth, make the Ghouls gone forever,
make it so they had never existed. It must
have been some kind of natural phenomenon,
easily explained, or some kind of an illusion,
a waking nightmare, a mad invention of a pair
of psychopaths’ minds. But whatever they
were that the Tuttles had called the Ghouls,
he’d seen them, even shot at one of them,
and they were embedded in his brain.
Maybe they had been dust devils, playing tricks
on his eyes. Maybe.
As he stood holding the two thin bodies to
him, talking to them, he was aware that agents,
followed by the sheriff and his deputies,
were inside the barn now, that one of them
was bending over Tammy Tuttle. Soon there
were agents everywhere, searching the barn,
corner to corner, searching every inch of
the tack room.
Everyone was high, excited. They’d gotten
the boys back safely. They’d taken down
two psychopaths.
Tammy Tuttle was conscious again, screaming,
no way to keep the boys from hearing her,
though he tried. They held her down on the
floor. She was yelling and cursing at Savich
as she cradled her arm, yelling that the Ghouls
would get him, she would lead them to him,
that he was dead meat, and so were those Little
Bloods. Savich felt the boys nearly dissolve
against him, their terror palpable.
Then one of the agents slammed his fist into
her jaw. He looked up, grinning. “Took her
out of her pain. Didn’t like to see such
a fine, upstanding young lady in such misery.”
“Thank you,” Savich said. “Rob, Donny,
she’s not going to hurt anyone ever again.
I swear it to you.” Sherlock came to him,
and she looked angry enough to spit nails.
She didn’t say anything, just put her arms
around the two boys.
The paramedics came through with stretchers.
Big Bob, the lead, who had a twenty-two-inch
neck, looked at the two agents comforting
the boys and just held up his hand. He said
to the three men behind him, “Let’s just
wait here a moment. I think these boys are
getting the medicine they need right now.
See to that woman. The guy is gone.”
Three hours later, the old barn was finally
empty again, all evidence, mainly food refuse,
pizza boxes, some chains and shackles, a good
four dozen candy bar wrappers, carted away.
Both Tuttles had been removed, Tammy still
alive. The boys were taken immediately to
their parents, who were waiting at the sheriff’s
office in Stewartville, Maryland. From there
they’d go on to the local hospital to be
checked out. The FBI wouldn’t need to speak
to them again for at least a couple of days,
giving them time to calm down before being
questioned.
All the agents drove back to FBI headquarters,
to the Criminal Apprehension Unit on the fifth
floor, to write up their reports.
Everyone was bouncing off the walls. They’d
won. High fives, slaps on the back. No screwups,
no false leads. They hadn’t been too late
to save the boys. “Just look at all the
testosterone flying around,” Sherlock said
as she walked into the office. Then she laughed.
No one could talk about anything but how Savich
had brought them down.
Savich called all the agents who had participated
in the raid together.
“When the barn doors swung in, did anyone
see anything?”
No one had seen a thing.
“Did anyone see anything strange coming
out of the barn, anything at all?”
There wasn’t a word spoken around the big
conference table. Then Sherlock said, “We
didn’t see anything, Dillon. The barn doors
flew inward; there was some thick dust in
the air, but that was it.” She looked around
at the other agents. No one had seen any more
than that. “We didn’t see anything coming
out of the barn either.”
“The Tuttles called them Ghouls,” Savich
said slowly. “They looked so real I actually
shot at one of them. It was then that they
seemed to dissipate, to disappear. I’m being
as objective as I can. Understand, I didn’t
want to see anything out of the ordinary.
But I did see something. I want to believe
that it was some sort of dust devil that broke
into two parts, but I don’t know, I just
don’t know. If anyone can come up with an
explanation, I’d like to hear it.”
There were more questions, more endless speculation,
until everyone sat silent. Savich said to
Jimmy Maitland, “The boys saw them. They’re
telling everyone about them. You can bet that
Rob and Donny won’t call them natural phenomena
or dust devils.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “No one will believe
them. Now, we’ve got to keep this Ghoul
business under wraps. The FBI has enough problems
without announcing that we’ve seen two supernatural
cones, for God’s sake, in a rampaging partnership
with two psychopaths.”
Later, Savich realized while he was typing
his report to Jimmy Maitland that he’d spelled
“Ghouls” with a capital G. They weren’t
just general entities to the Tuttles; they
were specific.
Sherlock followed Savich into the men’s
room some thirty minutes later. Ollie Hamish,
Savich’s second in command, was at the sink
washing his hands when they came in.
“Oh, hi, guys. Congratulations again, Savich.
Great work. I just wish I could have been
with you.”
“I’m glad to see a man washing his hands,”
Sherlock said, and poked him in the arm. “In
a few minutes I’m going to be washing my
hands, too. After I’ve beaten some sense
into my husband here, the jerk. Go away, Ollie,
I know you’ll want to protect him from me,
and I don’t want to have to hurt both of
you.”
“Ah, Sherlock, he’s a hero. Why do you
want to hurt the hero? He saved those little
boys from the Warlocks and the Ghouls.”
Savich said, “After what I told you about
them, do you spell ‘Ghouls’ with a capital
G in your head?”
“Yeah, sure, you said there were two of
them. It’s one of those strange things that
will stay with you. You sure you weren’t
smoking something, Savich? Inhaling too much
stale hay?”
“I wish I could say yes to that.”
“Out, Ollie.”
Once they were alone, she didn’t take a
strip off him, just stepped against him and
wrapped her arms around his back. “I can’t
say that I’ve never been more frightened
in my life, since you and I have managed to
get into some bad situations.” She kissed
his neck and squeezed him even tighter. “But
today, at that damned barn, you were a hot
dog, and I was scared spitless, as were your
friends.”
“There was no time,” he said against her
curly hair. “No time to bring you in. Jesus,
I scared myself, but I had no choice. And
then those howling wind things were there.
I honestly can’t say which scared me more—Tammy
Tuttle or whatever it was she called the Ghouls.”
She pulled back a bit. “I really don’t
understand any of that. You described it all
so clearly I could almost see them whirling
through those barn doors. But Ghouls?”
“That’s what the Tuttles called them.
It was like they were acolytes to these things.
I’d really like to say it was some sort
of hallucination, that I was the only one
who freaked out, but the boys saw them, too.
I know it sounds off the wall, Sherlock, particularly
since none of you guys saw a thing.”
Because he needed to speak of it more, she
just held him while he again described what
had burst through the barn doors. Then he
said, “I don’t think there’s anything
more to do about this, but it was scary, Sherlock,
really.”
Jimmy Maitland walked into the men’s room.
“Hey, where’s a man to piddle?”
“Oh, sir, I just wanted to check Dillon
out, make sure he was okay.”
“And is he?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Ollie caught me in the hall on my way to
the unit, Savich, said you were getting the
bejesus whaled out of you in the men’s room.
We’ve got a media frenzy cranking up.”
Jimmy Maitland gave them a big grin. “Guess
what? No one’s going to pound on us this
time—only good news, thank the Lord. Great
news. Since you were the one in the middle
of it, Savich, we want you front and center.
Of course, Louis Freeh will be there and do
all the talking. They just want you to stand
there and look like a hero.”
“No mention of what we saw?”
“No, not a word about the Ghouls, not even
speculation about whirling dust. The last
thing we need is to have the media go after
us because we claim we were attacked by some
weird balls of dust called into the barn by
a couple of psychopaths. As for the boys,
it doesn’t matter what they say. If the
media asks us about it, we’ll just shake
our heads, look distressed and sympathetic.
It will be a twenty-four-hour wonder, then
it’ll be over. And the FBI will be heroes.
That sure feels good.”
Savich said as he rubbed his hands up and
down his wife’s back, “But there was something
very strange in there, sir, something that
made the hair stand up on my head.”
“Get a grip, Savich. We’ve got the Tuttle
brothers, or rather we’ve got one brother
dead and one sister whose arm was just amputated
at the shoulder. The last thing we need is
a dose of the supernatural.”
“You could maybe call me Mulder?”
“Yeah, right. Hey, I just realized that
Sherlock here has red hair, just like Scully.”
Savich and Sherlock rolled their eyes and
followed their boss from the men’s room.
The boys claimed they’d seen the Ghouls,
could speak of nothing else but how Agent
Savich had put a bullet right in the middle
of one and made them whirl out of the barn.
But the boys were so tattered and pathetic,
very nearly incoherent, that indeed, they
weren’t believed, even by their parents.
One reporter asked Savich if he’d seen any
ghouls and Savich just said, “Excuse me,
what did you say?”
Jimmy Maitland was right. That was the end
of it.
Savich and Sherlock played with Sean for so
long that evening that he finally fell asleep
in the middle of his favorite finger game,
Hide the Camel, a graham cracker smashed in
his hand. That night at two o’clock in the
morning, the phone rang. Savich picked it
up, listened, and said, “We’ll be there
as soon as we can.”
He slowly hung up the phone and looked over
at his wife, who’d managed to prop herself
up on her elbow.
“It’s my sister, Lily. She’s in the
hospital. It doesn’t look good.”
2
Hemlock Bay, California
Bright sunlight poured through narrow windows.
Her bedroom windows were wider, weren’t
they? Surely they were cleaner than this.
No, ait, she wasn’t in her bedroom. A vague
sort of panic jumped her, then fell away.
She didn’t feel much of anything now, just
a bit of confusion that surely wasn’t all
that important, just a slight ache in her
left arm at the IV line.
IV line?
That meant she was in a hospital. She was
breathing; she could feel the oxygen tickling
her nose, the tubes irritating her. But it
was reassuring. She was alive. But why shouldn’t
she be alive? Why was she surprised?
Her brain felt numb and empty, and even the
emptiness was hazy. Maybe she was dying and
that’s why they’d left her alone. Where
was Tennyson? Oh, yes, he’d gone to Chicago
two days before, some sort of medical thing.
She’d been glad to see him go, relieved,
just plain solidly relieved that she wouldn’t
have to hear his calm, soothing voice that
drove her nuts.
A white-coated man with a bald head, a stethoscope
around his neck, came into the room. He leaned
down right into her face. “Mrs. Frasier,
can you hear me?”
“Oh, yes. I can even see the hairs in your
nose.”
He straightened, laughed. “Oh, that’s
too close then. Now that my nose hairs aren’t
in the way, how do you feel? Any pain?”
“No, I can barely feel my brain. I feel
vague and stupid.”
“That’s because of the morphine. You could
be shot in the belly, get enough morphine,
and you wouldn’t even be pissed at your
mother-in-law. I’m your surgeon, Dr. Ted
Larch. Since I had to remove your spleen—and
that’s major abdominal surgery—we’ll
keep you on a nice, steady dose of morphine
until this evening. We’ll begin to lighten
up on it after that. Then we’ll get you
up to see how you’re doing, get your innards
working again.”
“What else is wrong with me?”
“Let me give you the short version. First,
let me promise you that you’ll be all right.
As for having no spleen, nothing bad should
happen in the long run because of that. An
adult doesn’t really need his spleen. However,
you will have all the discomfort of surgery—pain
for several days. You’ll have to be careful
about when and what you eat, and as I said,
we’ll have to get your system working again.
“You have a concussion, two bruised ribs,
some cuts and abrasions, but you’ll live.
Nothing that should cause any scarring. You’re
doing splendidly, given what happened.”
“What did happen?”
Dr. Larch was silent for a moment, his head
tilted a bit to one side. Sun was pouring
in through the window and gave his bald head
a bright shine. He said slowly, studying her
face, “You don’t remember?”
She thought and thought until he lightly touched
his fingers to her forearm. “No, don’t
try to force it. You’ll just give yourself
a headache. What is the last thing you do
remember, Mrs. Frasier?”
Again she thought, and finally she said slowly,
“I remember leaving my house in Hemlock
Bay. That’s where I live, on Crocodile Bayou
Avenue. I remember I was going to drive to
Ferndale to deliver some medical slides to
a Dr. Baker. I remember I didn’t like driving
on 211 when it was nearly dark. That road
is scary and those redwoods tower over you
and surround you and you start feeling like
you’re being buried alive.” She stopped,
and he saw frustration building and interrupted
her.
“No, that’s all right. An interesting
metaphor with those redwoods. Now, everything
will probably all come back to you in time.
You were in an accident, Mrs. Frasier. Your
Explorer hit a redwood dead on. Now, I’m
going to call in another doctor.”
“What is his specialty?”
“He’s a psychiatrist.”
“Why do I need . . .” Now she frowned.
“I don’t understand. A psychiatrist? Why?”
“Well, it seems that you possibly could
have driven into that redwood on purpose.
No, don’t panic, don’t worry about a thing.
Just rest and build up your strength. I’ll
see you later, Mrs. Frasier. If you begin
to feel any pain in the next couple of hours,
just hit your button and a nurse will pump
some more morphine into your IV.”
“I thought the patient could administer
the morphine when needed.”
He was stumped for a moment, she saw it clearly.
He said, “I’m sorry, but we can’t give
you that.”
“Why?” Her voice was very soft.
“Because there is a question of attempted
suicide. We can’t take the chance that you’d
pump yourself full of morphine and we couldn’t
bring you back.”
She looked away from him, toward the window,
where the sun was shining in so brightly.
“All I remember is last evening. What day
is it? What time of day?”
“It’s late Thursday morning. You’ve
been going in and out for a while now. Your
accident was last evening.”
“So much missing time.”
“It will be all right, Mrs. Frasier.”
“I wonder about that,” she said, nothing
more, and closed her eyes.
• Dr. Russell Rossetti stopped for a moment
just inside the doorway and looked at the
young woman who lay so still on the narrow
hospital bed. She looked like a princess who’d
kissed the wrong frog and been beaten up,
major league. Her blond hair was mixed with
flecks of blood and tangled around bandages.
She was thin, too thin, and he wondered what
she was thinking right now, right this minute.
Dr. Ted Larch, the surgeon who’d removed
her spleen, had told him she didn’t remember
a thing about the accident. He’d also said
he didn’t think she’d tried to kill herself.
She was just too “there,” he’d said.
The meathead.
Ted was a romantic, something weird for a
surgeon to be. Of course she’d tried to
kill herself. Again. No question. It was classic.
“Mrs. Frasier.”
Lily slowly turned her head at the sound of
a rather high voice she imagined could whine
when he didn’t get his way, a voice that
was right now trying to sound soothing, all
sorts of inviting, but not succeeding.
She said nothing, just looked at the overweight
man—on the tall side, very well dressed
in a dark, gray suit, with lots of curly black
hair, a double chin, and fat, very white fingers—who
walked into the room. He came to stand too
close to the bed.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Dr. Rossetti. Dr. Larch told you
I would be coming to see you?”
“You’re the psychiatrist?”
“Yes.”
“He told me, but I don’t want to see you.
There is no reason.”
Denial, he thought, just splendid. He was
bored with the stream of depressed patients
who simply started crying and became quickly
incoherent and self-pitying, their hands held
out for pills to numb them. Although Tennyson
had told him that Lily wasn’t like that,
he hadn’t been convinced.
He said, all calm and smooth, “Evidently
you do need me. You drove your car into a
redwood.”
Had she? No, it just didn’t seem right.
She said, “The road to Ferndale is very
dangerous. Have you ever driven it at dusk,
when it’s nearly dark?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t find you had to be very careful?”
“Of course. However, I never wrapped my
car around a redwood. The Forestry Service
is looking at the tree now, to see how badly
it’s hurt.”
“Well, if I’m missing some bark, I’m
sure it is, too. I would like you to leave
now, Dr. Rossetti.”
Instead of leaving, he pulled a chair close
to the bed and sat down. He crossed his legs.
He weaved his plump, white fingers together.
She hated his hands, soft, puffy hands, but
she couldn’t stop looking at them.
“If you’ll give me just a minute, Mrs.
Frasier. Do you mind if I call you Lily?”
“Yes, I mind. I don’t know you. Go away.”
He leaned toward her and tried to take her
hand, but she pulled it away and stuck it
beneath her covers.
“You really should cooperate with me, Lily—”
“My name is Mrs. Frasier.”
He frowned. Usually women—any and all women—liked
to be called by their first name. It made
them feel that he was more of a confidant,
someone they could trust. It also made them
more vulnerable, more open to him.
He said, “You tried to kill yourself the
first time after the death of your child seven
months ago.”
“She didn’t just die. A speeding car hit
her and knocked her twenty feet into a ditch.
Someone murdered her.”
“And you blamed yourself.”
“Are you a parent?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t you blame yourself if your child
died and you weren’t with her?”
“No, not if I wasn’t driving the car that
hit her.”
“Would your wife blame herself?”
Elaine’s face passed before his mind’s
eye, and he frowned. “Probably not. All
she would do is cry. She is a very weak woman,
very dependent. But that isn’t the point,
Mrs. Frasier.” It wasn’t. He would be
free of Elaine very soon now, thank God.
“What is the point?”
“You did blame yourself, blamed yourself
so much you stuffed a bottle of sleeping pills
down your throat. If your housekeeper hadn’t
found you in time, you would have died.”
“That’s what I was told,” she said,
and she swore in that moment that she could
taste the same taste in her mouth now as she
had then when she’d awakened in the hospital
that first time when she’d been so bewildered,
so weak she couldn’t even raise her hand.
“You don’t remember taking the pills?”
“No, not really.”
“And now you don’t remember driving your
car into a redwood. Your speed, it was estimated
by the sheriff, was about sixty miles per
hour, maybe faster. You were very lucky, Mrs.
Frasier. A guy just happened to come around
a bend to see you drive into the tree, and
called an ambulance.”
“Do you happen to know his name? I would
like to thank him.”
“That isn’t what’s important here, Mrs.
Frasier.”
“What is important here? Oh, yes, do you
happen to have a first name?”
“My name is Russell. Dr. Russell Rossetti.”
“Nice alliteration, Russell.”
“It would be better if you called me Dr.
Rossetti,” he said. She saw those plump,
white fingers twisting, and she knew he was
angry. He thought she was out of line. She
was, but she just didn’t care. She was tired,
so very tired, and she just wanted to close
her eyes and let the morphine mask the pain
for a while longer.
“Go away, Dr. Rossetti.”
He didn’t move for some time.
Lily turned her head away and sought oblivion.
She didn’t even hear when he finally left
the room. She did, however, hear the door
close.
When Dr. Larch walked in five minutes later,
his very high forehead flushed, she managed
to cock an eye open and say, “Dr. Rossetti
is a patronizing ass. He has fat hands. Please,
I don’t want to see him again.”
“He doesn’t think you’re in very good
shape.”
“On the contrary, I’m in splendid shape,
something I can’t say about him. He needs
to go to the gym very badly.”
Dr. Larch laughed, couldn’t help himself.
“He also said your defensiveness and your
rudeness to him were sure signs that you’re
highly overwrought and in desperate need of
help.”
“Yeah, right. I’m so overwrought—what
with all this painkiller—that I’m ready
to nap.”
“Ah, your husband is here to see you.”
She didn’t want to see Tennyson. His voice,
so resonant, so confident—it was too much
like Dr. Rossetti’s voice, as if they’d
taken the same Voice Lessons 101 course in
shrink school. If she never saw another one
of them again, she could leave this earth
a happy woman.
She looked past Dr. Larch to see her husband
of eleven months standing in the doorway,
looking rather pale, his thick eyebrows drawn
together, his arms crossed over his chest.
Such a nice-looking man he was, all big and
solid, his hair light and wavy, lots of hair,
not bald like Dr. Larch. He wore aviator glasses,
which looked really cool, and now she watched
him push them back up, an endearing habit—at
least that’s what she’d thought when she’d
first met him.
“Lily?”
“Yes,” she said and wished he’d stay
in the doorway. Dr. Larch straightened and
turned to him. “Dr. Frasier, as I told you,
your wife will be fine, once she recovers
from the surgery. However, she does need to
rest. I suggest that you visit for only a
few minutes.”
“I am very tired, Tennyson,” she said
and hated the small shudder in her voice.
“Perhaps we could speak later?”
“Oh, no,” he said. And then he waited,
saying nothing more until Dr. Larch left the
room, fingering his stethoscope. He looked
nervous. Lily wondered why. Tennyson closed
the door, paused yet again, studying her,
then, finally, he walked to stand beside her
bed. He gently eased her hand out from under
the covers, something she wished he wouldn’t
do, rubbed his fingers over her palm for several
moments before saying in a sad, soft voice,
“Why did you do it, Lily? Why?”
He made it sound like it was all over for
her. No, she was being ridiculous. She said,
“I don’t know that I did anything, Tennyson.
You see, I have no memory at all of the accident.”
He waved away her words. He had strong hands,
confident hands. “I know and I’m sorry
about that. Look, Lily, maybe it was an accident,
maybe somehow you lost control and drove the
Explorer into the redwood. One of the nurses
told me that the Forest Service has someone
on the spot to see how badly the tree is injured.”
“Dr. Rossetti already told me. Poor tree.”
“It isn’t funny, Lily. Now, you’re going
to be here for at least another two or three
days, until they’re sure your body is functioning
well again. I would like you to speak with
Dr. Rossetti. He’s a new man with quite
an excellent reputation.”
“I’ve already seen him. I don’t wish
to see him again, Tennyson.”
His voice changed now, became even softer,
more gentle, and she knew she would normally
have wanted to cry, to fold into herself,
to have him reassure her, tell her the bogeyman
wouldn’t come back, but not now. It was
probably the morphine making her feel slightly
euphoric, slightly disconnected. But she also
felt rather strong, perhaps even on the arrogant
side, and that, of course, was an illusion
to beat all illusions.
“Since you don’t remember anything, Lily,
you’ve got to admit that it wouldn’t hurt
to cover all the bases. I really want you
to see him.”
“I don’t like him, Tennyson. How can I
speak to someone I don’t like?”
“You will see him, Lily, or I’m afraid
we’ll have to consider an institution.”
“Oh? We will consider an institution? What
sort of institution?” Why wasn’t she afraid
of that word that brought a wealth of dreadful
images with it? But she wasn’t afraid. She
was looking at him positively bright-eyed.
She loved morphine. She was tiring; she could
feel the vagueness trying to close her down,
eating away at the focus in her brain, but
for this moment, maybe even the next, too,
she could deal with anything.
He squeezed her hand. “I’m a doctor, Lily,
a psychiatrist, as is Dr. Rossetti. You know
it isn’t ethical for me to treat you myself.”
“You prescribed the Elavil.”
“That’s different. That’s a very common
drug for depression. No, I couldn’t speak
with you like Dr. Rossetti can. But you must
know that I want what is best for you. I love
you and I’ve prayed you were getting better.
One day at a time, I kept telling myself.
And there were some days when I knew you were
healing, but I was wrong. Yes, you really
must see Dr. Rossetti or I’m afraid I will
have no choice but to admit you for evaluation.”
“Forgive me for pointing this out, Tennyson,
but I don’t believe that you can do that.
I’m here—I can see, I can talk, I can
reason—I do have a say in what happens to
me.”
“That remains to be seen. Lily, just speak
to Dr. Rossetti. Talk to him about your pain,
your confusion, your guilt, the fact that
you’re beginning to accept what your ambition
wrought.”
Ambition? She had such great ambition that
her daughter was killed because of it?
She suddenly wanted to be perfectly clear
about this. She said, “What do you mean
exactly, Tennyson?”
“You know—Beth’s death.”
That hit her right between the eyes. Instant
guilt, overwhelming her. No, wait, she wasn’t
going to let that happen. She wouldn’t let
it happen, not now. Beneath the morphine,
beneath all of it, she was still there, hanging
on, wanting to be whole, wanting to draw her
cartoon strips of No Wrinkles Remus shafting
another colleague, wanting . . . Was that
the great ambition that had killed her daughter?
“I can’t deal with this right now, Tennyson.
Please go away. I’ll be better in the morning.”
No, she’d feel like hell when they lessened
her pain dosage, she thought, but she wouldn’t
worry about that now. Now she would sleep;
she’d get better, both her brain and her
body. She turned her head away from him on
the pillow. She had no more words. She knew
if she tried to speak more, she wouldn’t
make sense. She was falling, falling ever
so gently into the whale’s soft belly, and
it would be warm, comforting. Move over, Jonah.
She wouldn’t have nightmares, not with the
morphine lulling her.
She stared at the IV in her arm, upward to
the plastic bag filled with fluid above her.
Her vision blurred into the lazy flow of liquid
that didn’t seem to go anywhere, just flowed
and flowed. She closed her eyes even as he
said, “I will see you later this evening,
Lily. Rest well.” He leaned down and kissed
her cheek. How she used to love his hands
on her, his kissing her, but not now. She
simply hadn’t felt anything for such a very
long time.
When she was alone again, she thought, What
am I going to do? But then she knew, of course.
She forced back the haziness, the numbing
effect of the morphine. She picked up the
phone and dialed her brother’s number in
Washington, D.C. She heard a series of clicks
and then the sound of a person breathing,
but nothing happened. She dialed a nine, then
the number again. She tried yet again, but
didn’t get through. Then, suddenly, the
line went dead.
She realized vaguely as she let herself be
drawn into the ether that there was fear licking
at her, from the deepest part of her, fear
that she couldn’t quite grasp, and it wasn’t
fear that she’d be institutionalized against
her will.
3
Lily awoke to feel the touch of fingers on
her eyebrows, stroking as light as a butterfly’s
wing. She heard a man’s voice, a voice she’d
loved all her life, deep and low, wonderfully
sweet, and she opened to it eagerly.
“Lily, I want you to open your eyes now
and look at me and smile. Can you do that,
sweetheart? Open your eyes.”
And she opened her eyes and looked up at her
brother. She smiled. “My big Fed brother.
I’ve worshiped you from the time you showed
me how to kick Billy Clapper in the crotch
so he wouldn’t try to feel me up again.
Do you remember that?”
“Yes, I remember. You were twelve and this
little jerk, who was all of fourteen at the
time, had put his hand up your skirt.”
“I really hurt him bad, Dillon. He never
tried anything again.”
He was smiling, such a beautiful smile, white
teeth. “I remember.”
“I should have kept kicking guys in the
crotch. Then none of this would have happened.
I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I’m here, Lily, so is Sherlock. We left
Sean with Mom, who was grinning and singing
the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ as we drove out
of the driveway. We told her you’d been
in an accident and that you were okay, that
we just wanted to see you. You can call and
reassure her later. As for the rest of the
family, let Mom do the telling.”
“I don’t want her to worry. It’s true,
Dillon, I’ll be okay. I miss Sean. It’s
been so long. I really like all the photos
you e-mail me.”
“Yes, but it’s not the same as being in
the room with him, having him gum your fingers,
rub his crackers into your sweater, and drool
on your neck.”
Sherlock said, “You touch any surface in
the house and come away with graham cracker
crumbs.”
Lily smiled, and it was real because she could
see that precious little boy dropping wet
graham cracker crumbs everywhere, and it pleased
her to her very soul. “Mom must be so happy
to have her hands on him.”
Savich said, “Yes. She always spoils him
so rotten that when he comes home, he’s
a real pain for a good two days.”
“He’s the cutest little button, Dillon.
I miss him.”
A tear leaked out of her eye.
Savich wiped the tear away. “I know, so
do Sherlock and I and we’ve only been apart
from him for less than a day. How do you feel,
Lily?”
“It’s dark again.”
“Yes. Nearly seven o’clock Thursday evening.
Now, sweetheart, talk to me. How do you feel?”
“Like they’ve already lightened the morphine.”
“Yeah, Dr. Larch said he was just beginning
to ease up on it now. You’re gonna feel
rotten for a while, a day or two, but then
it’ll be less and less pain each day.”
“When did you get here?”
“Sherlock and I just got into town. The
puddle jumper from San Francisco to Arcata-Eureka
was late.” He saw her eyes go vague and
added, “Sherlock bought Sean a Golden Gate
oven mitt at the San Francisco airport.”
“I’ll show it to you later, Lily,” Sherlock
said. She was standing on the other side of
Lily’s bed, smiling down at her, so scared
for this lovely young woman who was her sister-in-law.
She’d have bitten her fingernails if she
hadn’t stopped some three years before.
“It was between an oven mitt with Alcatraz
on it and the Golden Gate. Since Sean gums
everything, Dillon thought gumming the Golden
Gate was healthier than gumming a Federal
prison.”
Lily laughed. She didn’t know where it had
come from, but she even laughed again. Pain
seared through her side and her ribs, and
she gasped.
“No more humor,” Sherlock said and lightly
kissed her cheek. “We’re here and everything’s
going to be all right now, I promise.”
“Who called you?”
“Your father-in-law, about two in the morning,
last night.”
“I wonder why he called,” she said slowly,
thinking about the pain that was now coming
through and how she would deal with it.
“You wouldn’t expect him to?”
“I see now,” Lily said, her eyes suddenly
narrow and fierce. “He was afraid Mrs. Scruggins
would call you and then you would wonder why
the family hadn’t called. I think he’s
afraid of you, Dillon. He’s always asking
me how you’re doing and where you are. When
you were here before, I think you scared him
really good.”
“Why would I scare him?”
“Because you’re big and you’re smart
and you’re a special agent with the FBI.”
Sherlock laughed. “Lots of people don’t
relax around FBI agents. But Mr. Elcott Frasier?
I took one look at him and thought he probably
chewed nails for breakfast.”
“He could, you know. Everyone thinks that,
particularly his son, my husband.”
“Maybe he called because he knew we’d
want to come here to see you,” Savich said.
“Maybe he isn’t all that much of an iron
fist.”
“Yes, he is. Tennyson was here earlier.”
She sighed, tightened a bit from a jab of
pain in her bruised ribs, the pulling in her
side. “Thank goodness he finally left.”
Savich looked over at Sherlock. “What happened,
Lily? Talk to us.”
“Everyone thinks I tried to kill myself
again.”
“Fine, let them. It doesn’t matter. Talk,
Lily.”
“I don’t know, Dillon, I swear I don’t.
I remember that I had to drive that gnarly
road to Ferndale, you know, 211? And that’s
all. Everything else is just lost.”
Sherlock said, “All right, then. Everyone
thinks you tried to kill yourself because
of the pills you took right after Beth’s
death?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“But why?”
“I suppose I haven’t been exactly honest
with you guys, but I just didn’t want you
to worry. Fact is, I have been depressed.
I’ll feel lots better and then it’s back
down again. It’s gotten progressively worse
the past couple of weeks. Why? I don’t know,
but it has. And then last night happened.”
Savich pulled up a chair and sat down. He
took her hand again. “You know, Lily, even
when you were a little girl, you’d hit a
problem, and I swear you’d worry and work
and chew on that problem, never giving up
until you had it solved. Dad used to say that
if he was slow telling you something you really
wanted to know, he could just see you gnawing
on his trouser leg until you ripped it right
off or he talked, whichever came first.”
“I miss Dad.”
“I do, too. Now, I still don’t understand
that first time you wanted to die. That wasn’t
the Lily I knew. But Beth’s death—that
would knock any parent on his or her butt.
But now seven months have passed. You’re
smart, you’re talented, you’re not one
to be in denial. This depression—that doesn’t
make a lot of sense to me. What’s been happening,
Lily?”
She sobered, frowning now. “Nothing’s
been happening, just more of the same. Like
I said, over the past months sometimes I’d
feel better, feel like I could conquer the
world again, but then it would go away and
I’d want to stay in bed all day.
“For whatever reason, yesterday it got really
bad. Tennyson called me from Chicago and told
me to take two of the antidepressant pills.
I did. I’ll tell you something, the pills
sure don’t seem to help. And then, when
I was driving on that road to Ferndale—well,
maybe something did happen. Maybe I did drive
into that redwood. I just don’t remember.”
“It’s okay. Now, how does your brain feel
right now?” Sherlock asked, scooting in
a little closer to Lily on the hospital bed.
“Not quite as vague as before. I guess since
there’s less morphine swimming around up
in there, I’m coming back.”
“Are you feeling depressed?”
“No. I’m mainly just mad because of that
idiot shrink they sent by. A dreadful man,
trying to be so comforting, so understanding,
when really he was a condescending jerk.”
“You smart-mouthed him, babe?”
“Maybe. A little bit.”
“I’m glad,” Sherlock said. “Not enough
back-mouthing from you lately, Lily.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Oh, dear what?”
But Lily didn’t say anything, just kept
looking toward the door.
Savich and Sherlock both turned to see their
brother-in-law, Tennyson Frasier, come into
the room.
Savich thought, Lily doesn’t want to see
her husband?
What was going on here? Seven months ago,
Lily had come back to Maryland to stay with
their mother for several weeks after Beth’s
funeral. While she’d been there, Savich
had done everything he could, turned over
every rock he could find, called in every
favor, to discover who had struck Beth and
driven off. No luck. Not a clue. But then
Lily had wanted to go back to Hemlock Bay,
to be with her husband, who loved her and
needed her, and yes, she was all right now.
A big mistake to let her come back here, Savich
thought, and knew he wouldn’t leave her
here this time. Not again.
Savich straightened as Tennyson came striding
toward him, his hand outstretched. As he pumped
Savich’s hand, he said, “Boy, am I ever
glad to see you guys. Dad told me he called
you, in the middle of the night.” Then he
stopped. He looked at Lily.
Sherlock never moved from her perch on Lily’s
bed. She said, “Good to see you, Tennyson.”
Such a handsome man he was, big and in pretty
good shape, and at the moment he looked terrified
for his wife. Why didn’t Lily want to see
him?
“Lily, are you all right?” Tennyson walked
to her bed, his hand out.
Lily slipped her hand beneath the covers as
she said, “I’m fine, Tennyson. Do you
know that I tried to call Dillon and Sherlock
earlier? And my line went dead. Is it still
dead now?”
Sherlock picked up the phone. There was a
dial tone. “It’s fine now.”
“Isn’t that strange?”
“Maybe,” Tennyson said, leaning down to
caress Lily’s pale face, kiss her lightly,
“with all that morphine in you, you didn’t
do it right.”
“There was a dial tone, then a person’s
breathing, some clicking sounds, and then
nothing.”
“Hmmm. I’ll check on that, but it’s
working now, so no harm done.” He turned
back to Savich. “You and Sherlock got here
very quickly.”
“She’s my sister,” Savich said, looking
at his brother-in-law closely. “What would
you expect?” He’d always liked Tennyson,
believed he’d been a solid man, one who
was trustworthy, unlike Lily’s first husband,
Jack Crane. He’d believed Tennyson had been
as distraught as Lily when Beth was killed.
He had worked with Savich trying to find out
who the driver was who’d killed Beth. As
for the sheriff, he’d been next to useless.
What was wrong? Why didn’t Lily want to
see him?
Tennyson merely nodded, then kissed Lily again.
He said, his voice as soft as a swatch of
Bengali silk, “I can’t wait to get you
out of this place, get you home. You’ll
be safe with me, Lily, always.”
But she hadn’t been safe, Sherlock thought.
That was the bottom line. She’d run her
Explorer into a redwood. Hardly safe. What
was wrong with this picture?
“What about that psychiatrist, Tennyson?”
“Dr. Rossetti? I would really like you to
see him, Lily. He can help you.”
“You said you would institutionalize me
if I didn’t see him.”
Savich nearly went en pointe.
Sherlock laughed. “Institutionalize Lily?
Come on, Tennyson.”
“No, no, all of you misunderstood. Listen,
Lily very probably drove into that redwood
last night. This is the second time she’s
tried to end her life. You were both here
after the first time. You saw how she was.
Her mother saw as well. Well, she’s been
on medication, but obviously it hasn’t helped.
I want her to speak to a very excellent psychiatrist,
a man I respect very much.”
“I don’t like him, Tennyson. I don’t
want to see him again.”
Tennyson sighed deeply. “All right, Lily.
If you don’t like Dr. Rossetti, then I’ll
find another man who could possibly help you.”
“I would prefer a woman.”
“Whatever. I don’t know of any female
psychiatrists who do anything other than family
counseling.”
Savich said, “I’ll have some names for
you by tomorrow, Lily. No problem. But we’re
a bit off the subject here. I want to know
the name of the antidepressants Lily’s been
taking and I want to know why they seem to
have the opposite effect on her.”
Tennyson said patiently, “It’s a very
popular drug, Dillon. Elavil. You can ask
any doctor.”
“I’m sure it is. I suppose there are a
certain number of people who simply don’t
respond appropriately?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I was considering whether
or not we should try another drug—Prozac,
for example.”
Savich said, “Why don’t you just wait
on all the drugs until Lily has seen a new
psychiatrist. What happened to Dr. McGill?
Weren’t you with him for a while, Lily?”
“He died, Dillon, not two weeks after I
began seeing him. He was such a sweet man,
but he was old and his heart was rotten. He
had a heart attack.”
Tennyson shrugged. “It happens. Hey, I saw
you on TV, Savich, there with all the FBI
brass. You got the Warlocks.”
“Turns out there was only one warlock, the
other was a witch.”
“Yes, a brother and a sister. How did everyone
miss that?”
“Good question.” Savich saw that Lily
was listening closely now. She loved hearing
about their cases, so he kept talking about
it. “Turns out one of them wasn’t really
a guy, just dressed like one—Timmy was really
a she. She even lowered her voice, cropped
off her hair, the whole deal. The profilers
never saw it and neither did any of my unit.
Instead of Tammy, to the world she was Timmy.”
“Did the brother and sister sleep together?”
Tennyson said.
“Not that we know of.”
Lily said, “It was MAX who managed to track
down that barn?”
“That’s right. Once we knew the Tuttles
were back in Maryland, I knew in my gut that
this was their final destination, that they’d
come home, even though they’d been born
and raised in Utah. They kidnapped the boys
in Maryland. So where were they? MAX always
checks out any and every relative when we
know who the suspect is. He dug deep enough
to find Marilyn Warluski, a cousin who owned
this property. And on the property was this
old abandoned barn.”
Thank God no one had mentioned anything about
the Ghouls.
Lily said, “How many boys did the two of
them kill, Sherlock?”
“A dozen, maybe more. All across the country.
We’ll probably never know unless Tammy decides
to tell us, and that’s not likely. Her arm
was amputated thanks to Dillon’s shot. She’s
not a happy camper. Thank God it’s over
and the last two boys are all right.”
Tennyson asked, “You shot her? Did you kill
the brother too?”
“The brother’s dead, yes. It was a team
effort,” Savich said, and nothing more.
“Those poor little boys,” Lily said. “Their
parents must have been torn apart when they
were taken.”
“They were, but as I said, everything turned
out okay for them.”
Nurse Carla Brunswick said from the doorway,
“We don’t have to worry about crooks while
you guys are in town. Now, I get to order
the FBI out. Time for Mrs. Frasier’s sleeping
pills. Say good night—even you, Dr. Frasier.
Dr. Larch’s orders.”
•It wasn’t until they were in the hospital
parking lot that Tennyson said, “I apologize
for not realizing sooner that you’d only
just arrived. You will stay with me, won’t
you?”
“Yes,” Savich said. “Thank you, Tennyson.
We want to be close.”
An hour later, after Savich had called his
mother and told her not to worry and had spoken
to his son, he climbed into the king-size
bed beneath the sloped-ceiling guest room,
kissed his wife, tucked her against his side,
and said, “Why do you really think Mr. Elcott
Frasier called us?”
“The obvious: he was worried about his daughter-in-law
and wanted us to know right away. Very thoughtful.
He thought it through and didn’t just call
your mom and scare the daylights out of her.”
“All right, just maybe you’re right. After
that heavy dose of craziness with the Tuttles,
I guess my mind went automatically to the
worst possible motive.”
Sherlock kissed his neck, then settled back
in, her leg over his belly. “I’ve heard
so much psychobabble about Lily. She tries
to kill herself because it’s the only thing
to do if she wants to gain peace. She has
to drive her Explorer into a redwood to expiate
her guilt. It just doesn’t sound right.
It doesn’t sound like Lily. Yes, yes, I
remember the first time. But that was then.”
“And this is now.”
“Yes. Seven months. Lily isn’t neurotic,
Dillon. I’ve always thought she was strong,
stable. And now I feel guilty because we didn’t
make an effort to see her over the last months.”
“You had a baby, Sherlock, not a week after
Beth’s funeral.”
“And Lily was there for me.”
“She wasn’t there with you—not like
I was. My God, Sherlock, that was the longest
day of my life.” He squeezed her so hard,
she squeaked.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said.
“You never curse, but toward the end there
you called me more names than I’d ever been
called, even by linebackers during football
games in college.”
She laughed, kissed his shoulder again, and
said, “Look, I know Lily’s been through
a very hard time. She’s been understandably
depressed. But we’ve talked to her a lot
since Beth died. I just don’t believe she
was in a frame of mind to try to kill herself
again.”
“I don’t know,” he said. He frowned
and turned off the lamp on the bedside table.
He pulled Sherlock against him again and held
her tight. “It really shakes me up, Sherlock,
this happening to Lily. It’s so hard to
know what to do.”
She held him harder than she had in her life.
And she was thinking how fragile Lily had
been seven months before, so hurt and so very
broken, and then she’d taken those pills
and nearly died. Savich and their mother had
flown out to California for the second time,
not more than a week after Beth’s funeral,
to see Lily lying in that narrow hospital
bed, a tube in her nose, an IV line in her
arm. But Lily had survived. And she’d been
so sorry, so very sorry that she’d frightened
everyone. And she’d come back with them
to Washington, D.C., to rest and get her bearings.
But after three weeks, she’d decided to
go back to her husband in Hemlock Bay.
And seven months later, she’d driven her
Explorer into a redwood.
She squeezed more tightly against him. “I
just don’t know how I’d handle it if anything
happened to Sean. I couldn’t bear that,
Dillon. I just couldn’t. No wonder Lily
didn’t.”
After a long time, he said, “No, I couldn’t
bear it either, but you know what? You and
I would survive it together. Somehow we would.
But I think your instincts on this were right.
You said something doesn’t feel right. What
did you mean?”
She nuzzled her nose into his shoulder, hummed
a bit, a sure sign she was thinking hard,
and said, “Well, just last week, Lily sent
us a No Wrinkles Remus strip she’d just
finished, her first one since Beth was killed,
and she sounded excited. So what happened
over the past four days to make her want to
try to kill herself again?”
4
Hemlock Bay, California
“I stole the bottle of pills,” Savich
said, as he walked into the kitchen.
Sherlock grinned at her husband, gave him
a thumbs-up, and said, “How do we check
them out?”
“I called Clark Hoyt in the Eureka field
office. I’ll messenger them up to him today.
He’ll get back to me tomorrow. Then we’ll
know, one way or the other.”
“Ah, Dillon, I’ve got a confession to
make.” She took a sip of her tea, grinned
down at the few tea leaves on the bottom of
the cup. “The pills you took, well, they’re
cold medicine. You see, I’d already stolen
the pills and replaced them with Sudafed I
found in the medicine cabinet.”
Sometimes she just bowled him over. He toasted
her with his tea. “I’m impressed, Sherlock.
When did you switch them?”
“About five A.M. this morning, before anyone
was stirring. Oh, yes, Mrs. Scruggins, the
housekeeper, should be here soon. We can see
what she’s got to say about all this.”
Mrs. Scruggins responded to Sherlock’s questions
by sighing a lot. She was a tall woman, nearly
as tall as Savich, and she looked strong,
very strong, even those long fingers of hers
including her thumbs, that each sported a
ring. She had muscles. Sherlock didn’t think
she’d want to tangle with Mrs. Scruggins.
She had to be at least sixty years old. It
was amazing. There were pictures of her grandchildren
lining the window ledge in the kitchen and
she looked like she could take any number
of muggers out at one time.
Savich sat back and watched Sherlock work
her magic. “An awful thing,” Sherlock
said, shaking her head, obviously distressed.
“We just can’t understand it. But I’ll
bet you do, Mrs. Scruggins, here with poor
Lily so much of the time. I’ll bet you saw
things real clearly.”
And Mrs. Scruggins said then, her beringed
fingers curving gracefully around her coffee
cup, “I’d think she was getting better,
you know?”
Both Savich and Sherlock nodded.
“Then she’d just fall into a funk again
and curl up in the fetal position and spend
the day in bed. She wouldn’t eat, just lie
there, barely even blinking. I guess she’d
be thinking about little Beth, you know?”
“Yes, we know,” Sherlock said, sighed,
and moved closer to the edge of her chair,
inviting more thoughts, more confidences.
“Every few weeks I’d swear she was getting
better, but it wouldn’t last long. Just
last week I thought she was really improving,
nearly back to normal. She was in her office
and she was laughing. I actually heard her.
It was a laugh. She was drawing that cartoon
strip of hers, and she was laughing.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, Mrs. Savich, I can’t rightly say.
Before I left, Dr. Frasier had come home early
and I heard them talking. Then she just fell
back again, the very next day. It was really
fast. Laughing one minute, then, not ten hours
later, she was so depressed, so quiet. She
just walked around the house that day, not
really seeing anything, at least that’s
what I think. Then she’d disappear and I
knew later that she’d been crying. It’s
enough to break your heart, you know?”
“Yes, we know,” Sherlock said. “These
pills, Mrs. Scruggins, the Elavil, do you
refill the prescription for her?”
“Yes, usually. Sometimes Dr. Frasier just
brings them home for her. They don’t seem
to do much good, do they?”
“No,” said Savich. “Maybe it’s best
that she be off them for a while.”
“Amen to that. Poor little mite, such a
hard time she’s had.” Mrs. Scruggins gave
another deep sigh, nearly pulling apart the
buttons over her large bosom. “I myself
missed little Beth so much I just wanted sometimes
to lie down and cry and cry and never you
mind anything else. And I wasn’t her mama,
not like Mrs. Frasier.”
“What about Dr. Frasier?” Savich asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Was he devastated by Beth’s death?”
“Ah, he’s a man, Mr. Savich. Sure, he
looked glum for a week or so. But you know,
men just don’t take things like that so
much to heart, leastwise my own papa didn’t
when my little sister died. Maybe Dr. Frasier
keeps it all inside, but I don’t think so.
Don’t forget, he wasn’t Beth’s real
father. He didn’t know little Beth that
long, maybe six months in all.”
Sherlock said, “But he’s been so very
worried about Lily, hasn’t he?”
Mrs. Scruggins nodded, and the small diamond
studs in her ears glittered in the morning
sunlight pouring through the window. Diamonds
and muscles and rings, Sherlock thought, and
wondered. Mrs. Scruggins said, “Poor man,
always fretting about her, trying to make
her smile, bringing her presents and flowers,
but nothing really worked, leastwise in the
long term. And now this.” Mrs. Scruggins
shook her head. She wore her gray hair in
a thick chignon. She had lots of hair and
there were a lot of bobby pins worked into
the roll.
It occurred to Sherlock to wonder if Mrs.
Scruggins really cared for Lily, or if it
was all an act. Could it be that she was really
Lily’s companion, or maybe even her guard?
Now where had that thought come from? Hadn’t
Mrs. Scruggins saved Lily’s life that first
time Lily had taken the bottle of pills right
after Beth’s funeral? She was getting paranoid
here; she had to watch it.
“I have a little boy, Mrs. Scruggins,”
Savich said. “I’ve only had him a bit
more than seven months, and you can believe
that I would be devastated if anything were
to happen to him.”
“Well, that’s good. Some men are different,
aren’t they? But my daddy, hard-nosed old
bastard he was. Didn’t shed a tear when
my little sister got hit by that tractor.
Ah, well, I’m afraid I have things to do
now. When is Mrs. Frasier coming home?”
“Perhaps as soon as tomorrow,” Sherlock
said. “She’s had major surgery and won’t
be feeling very well for several days.”
“I’ll take care of her,” Mrs. Scruggins
said and popped her knuckles.
Sherlock shuddered, shot Savich a look, and
thanked the older woman for all her help.
She shook Mrs. Scruggins’s hand, feeling
all those rings grind into her fingers.
Just before they left the kitchen, Mrs. Scruggins
said, “I’m real glad you’re staying
here. Being alone just isn’t good for Mrs.
Frasier.”
Savich felt a deep shaft of guilt. He remembered
he hadn’t said very much when Lily had insisted
on returning here after recuperating with
their mother. She’d seemed just fine, wanted
to be with her husband again, and he’d thought,
I would want to be with Sherlock, too, and
he’d seen her off at Reagan Airport with
the rest of the family. Tennyson Frasier seemed
to adore her, and Lily, it seemed then to
Savich, had adored him as well.
During the months she was home, she hadn’t
ever called to complain, to ask for help.
Her e-mails were invariably upbeat. And whenever
he and Sherlock had called, she’d always
sounded cheerful.
And now, all these months later, this happened.
He should have done something then, shouldn’t
have just kissed her and waved her onto the
flight to take her three thousand miles away
from her family. To take her back to where
Beth had been killed.
He looked down to see Sherlock squeezing his
hand. There was immense love in her eyes and
she said only, “We will fix things, Dillon.
This time we’ll fix things.”
He nodded and said, “I really want to see
Lily’s in-laws again, don’t you, Sherlock?
I have this feeling that perhaps we really
don’t know them at all.”
“Agreed. We can check them out after we’ve
seen Lily.”
At the Hemlock County Hospital, everything
was quiet. When they reached Lily’s room,
they heard the sound of voices and paused
at the door for a moment.
It was Tennyson.
And Elcott Frasier, his father.
Elcott Frasier was saying, his voice all mournful,
“Lily, we’re so relieved that you survived
that crash. It was really dicey there for
a while, but you managed to pull through.
I can’t tell you how worried Charlotte has
been, crying, wringing her hands, talking
about her little Lily dying and how dreadful
it would be, particularly such a short time
after little Beth died. The Explorer, though,
it’s totaled.”
That, Savich thought, was the strangest declaration
of caring he’d ever heard.
“It’s very nice of all of you to be concerned,”
Lily said, and Savich heard the pain in her
voice, and something else. Was it fear? Dislike?
He didn’t know. She said, “I’m very
sorry that I wrecked the Explorer.”
“I don’t want you to worry about it, Lily,”
Tennyson said and took her hand. It was limp,
Savich saw, she wasn’t returning any pressure.
“I’ll buy you another one. A gift from
me to you, my beautiful little daughter-in-law,”
Elcott said.
“I don’t want another Explorer,” she
said.
“No, of course not,” continued Elcott.
“Another Explorer would remind you of the
accident, wouldn’t it? We don’t want that.
We want you to get well. Oh yes, we’ll do
anything to get you well again, Lily. Just
this morning, Charlotte was telling me how
everyone in Hemlock Bay was talking about
it, calling her, commiserating. She’s very
upset by it all.”
Savich, quite simply, wanted to throw Elcott
Frasier out the window. He knew Frasier was
tough as nails, that he was a powerful man,
but Savich was surprised that he hadn’t
been a bit more subtle, not this in-your-face
bludgeoning. Why? Why this gratuitous cruelty?
Savich walked into the room like a man bent
on violence until he saw his sister’s white
face, the pain that glazed her eyes, and he
calmed immediately. He ignored the men, walked
right to the bed, and leaned down, pressed
his forehead lightly against hers.
“You hurt, kiddo?”
“Just a bit,” she whispered, as if she
were afraid to speak up. “Well, actually
a whole lot. It’s not too awful if I don’t
breathe too deeply or laugh or cry.”
“More than a bit, I’d say,” Savich said.
“I’m going to find Dr. Larch and get you
some more medication.” He nodded to Sherlock
and was out the door.
Sherlock smiled brightly at both her brother-in-law
and Elcott Frasier. He looked the same as
he had the first time she’d met him, eleven
months before—tall, a bit of a paunch, a
full head of thick, white hair, wavy, quite
attractive. His eyes were his son’s—light
blue, reflective, slightly slanted. She wondered
what his vices were, wondered if he really
loved Lily and wanted her well. But why wouldn’t
he? Lily had been his son’s wife for eleven
months now. She was sweet, loving, very talented,
and she’d lost her only child and fallen
into a deep well of grief and depression.
She knew Elcott was sixty, but he looked no
older than mid-fifties. He’d been a handsome
man when he was younger, perhaps as handsome
as his only son.
There was a daughter as well. Tansy was her
name and she was, what? Twenty-eight? Thirty?
Older than Lily, Sherlock thought. Tansy—an
odd name, nearly as whimsical as Tennyson.
She lived in Seattle, owned one of the ubiquitous
coffeehouses near Pioneer Square. Sherlock
had gotten the impression from Lily that Tansy
didn’t come back to Hemlock Bay all that
often.
Elcott Frasier walked to Sherlock and grabbed
her hand, shook it hard. “Mrs. Savich, what
a pleasure.” He looked ever so pleased to
see her. She wondered how pleased he was to
see Dillon, since she knew, right to her toes,
that Mr. Elcott Frasier had little respect
for women. It was in his eyes, in his very
stance—condescending, patronizing.
“Mr. Frasier,” she said and gave him her
patented, guileless sunny smile. “I wish
we could meet again under less trying circumstances.”
Go ahead, she thought, believe I’m an idiot,
worth less than nothing in brainpower.
“Your poor husband is very upset by all
this,” Mr. Frasier said. “Given all that’s
happened, I can’t say I blame him.”
Sherlock said, “Certainly he’s upset.
It’s good to see you again, Tennyson.”
She went directly to sit on the side of Lily’s
bed. She lightly stroked her pale hair that
was getting oily now. Thick, lank strands
framed her face. Sherlock saw the pain in
her eyes, how stiffly she was holding her
body. She wanted to cry. “Dillon will be
back in just a moment, Lily. You shouldn’t
have to suffer like this.”
“It is about time for a bit more pain medication,”
a nurse said as she came through the door,
Savich at her heels. No one said a word as
she injected the painkiller into Lily’s
IV. She leaned over, checked Lily’s pulse,
smoothed the thin blanket to her shoulders,
then straightened. “The pain will lessen
almost immediately. Call if you have too much
more discomfort, Mrs. Frasier.”
Lily closed her eyes. After a few minutes,
she said quietly, “Thank you, Dillon. It
was pretty bad, but not now. Thank you.”
Then, without another word, she was asleep.
“Good,” said Savich and motioned for them
all to leave. “Let’s go to the waiting
room. Last time I looked, it was empty.”
“My wife and I are grateful to you for being
here,” Elcott Frasier said. “Tennyson
needs all the support he can get. The past
seven months have been very hard on him.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” Savich
said. “Lily hitting that redwood gave us
just the excuse we needed to come here and
support Tennyson.”
“My father didn’t mean it the way it sounded,
Dillon,” Tennyson said. “It’s just been
difficult—for all of us.” He looked down
at his watch. “I’m afraid I have patients
to see. I will be back to check on Lily in
about four hours.”
He left them with Elcott Frasier, who asked
a passing nurse to fetch him a cup of coffee.
She did without hesitation because, Sherlock
knew, she wasn’t stupid. She recognized
the Big Man on the hospital board of directors
when she saw him. Sherlock wanted to punch
his lights out.
Savich leaned down, kissed Sherlock on the
mouth, and said low, “No, don’t belt him.
Now, I’ve got all sorts of warning whistles
going off in my head. I’m going to look
at that car. Grill our brother-in-law’s
father, okay?”
“No problem,” Sherlock said.
When Dillon found Sherlock two hours later,
she was in the hospital cafeteria eating a
Caesar salad and speaking to Dr. Theodore
Larch.
“So do you think she was so depressed that
she decided to end it? Again?”
“I’m a surgeon, Mrs. Savich, not a psychiatrist.
I can’t speculate.”
“Yeah, but you see lots of people in distress,
Dr. Larch. What do you think of Lily Frasier’s
state of mind?”
“I think the surgical pain is masking a
lot of her symptoms right now—that is, if
she has any symptoms. I haven’t seen any
myself. But what do I know?”
“What do you think of Dr. Rossetti?”
Dr. Larch wouldn’t quite meet her eyes.
“He’s, ah, rather new here. I don’t
know him all that well. Dr. Frasier, however,
knows him very well. They went to medical
school together, I understand. Columbia Presbyterian
Medical School, in New York City.”
“I didn’t know that,” Sherlock said
and tucked it away. She wanted to meet this
Dr. Rossetti, the pompous man Lily didn’t
like and whom Tennyson appeared to be pushing
very hard on his wife.
She smiled at Dr. Larch, took a bite of her
salad, which was surprisingly good, and said,
“Well, you know, Dr. Larch, if Lily didn’t
try to kill herself, then that means that
just perhaps someone is up to no good. What
do you think?”
Dr. Ted Larch nearly swallowed the ice cube
he was rolling around in his mouth.
“I can’t imagine, no, surely not—that’s
crazy. If she didn’t do it on purpose, then
it’s more likely that something just went
wrong with the car, an accident, nothing more
than a tragic accident.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. Since I’m
a cop, I always leap to the sinister first.
Occupational hazard. Hey, I know. She just
lost control of the car—maybe a raccoon
ran in front of the Explorer and she tried
not to hit it—and ended up smacking the
redwood.”
“That sounds more likely than someone trying
to kill her, Mrs. Savich.”
“Yes, the raccoon theory is always preferable,
isn’t it?”
Sherlock saw Dillon out of the corner of her
eye. She rose, patted Dr. Larch on his shoulder,
and said, “Take good care of Lily, Doctor.”
At least now, she thought, walking quickly
toward Dillon, Dr. Larch would keep a very
close eye on Lily because he wouldn’t forget
what she’d said. He would want to dismiss
it as nonsense, but he wouldn’t be able
to, not entirely.
Savich nodded across the cafeteria to Dr.
Larch, then smiled down at his wife. Her light
blue eyes seemed brighter than when he’d
left her, and he knew why. She was up to something.
And she was very pleased with herself.
“What about the car?”
“Nothing at all. It’s been compacted.”
“That was awfully fast, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, sort of like cremating a body before
the autopsy could be done.”
“Exactly. Dr. Larch thinks Lily is just
fine, mentally, thank you very much. Actually,
I think he has a crush on her. It’s Dr.
Rossetti he doesn’t like, but who knows
why? Did you know that Dr. Rossetti and Tennyson
went to medical school together? Columbia
Presbyterian?”
“No. That’s interesting. Okay, Sherlock.
I know that look. You either want me to haul
you to the nearest hot tub and have my way
with you, or you’ve done something. No hot
tub? Too bad. All right, then. What have you
done?”
“I planted a small bug just inside the slat
on Lily’s hospital bed. I already heard
some interesting stuff. Come along and I’ll
play it back for you. Hmmm. About that hot
tub, Dillon . . .”
They went to Lily’s room, saw that she was
still asleep and no one else was there, and
Sherlock shut the door. She walked to the
window, fiddled with the tiny receiver and
recorder, turned on rewind, then play.
“Dammit, she needs more pain medication.”
Savich said, “Who’s that?”
“Dr. Larch.”
“I cut it back, just like you ordered, but
it was too much. Listen, there’s no need
to make her suffer like this.”
“She doesn’t react well to pain meds,
I’ve told you that several times. It makes
her even crazier than she already is. Keep
the pain meds way down. I don’t want her
hurt anymore.”
Sherlock pressed the stop button and said,
“That was Tennyson Frasier. What do you
think it means?”
Sherlock slipped the tiny recorder back into
her jacket pocket.
“It could be perfectly innocent,” Savich
said. “On the other hand, the Explorer has
been compacted. The guy at the junked car
yard told me that Dr. Frasier told him to
haul the Explorer in and compact it immediately.
Will this thing click on whenever someone’s
speaking?”
“Yes, it’s voice-activated. It turns off
when there’s more than six seconds of silence.
I got it from Dickie in Personnel. He’s
a gadget freak, owed me one after I busted
his sister’s boyfriend—you know, the macho
drug dealer who was slapping her around.”
“Sherlock, have I ever told you that you
never cease to amaze and thrill me?”
“Not recently. Well, not since last night,
and I don’t think you had the same sort
of intent then.”
He laughed, pulled her against him and kissed
her. Her curly hair tickled his cheek. “Let’s
call Mom and talk to Sean.”
5
Eureka, California
Clark Hoyt, SAC of the new Eureka FBI field
office, which had opened less than a year
before, handed Savich the bottle of pills.
“Sorry, Agent Savich. What we’ve got here
is a really common antidepressant, name of
Elavil.”
“Not good,” Savich said and looked out
the window toward the small park just to the
left of downtown. The trees were bright with
fall colors. If he turned his head a bit to
the right, he’d see the Old Town section
on the waterfront. A beautiful town, Humboldt’s
county seat, Eureka was filled with countless
fine Victorian homes and buildings.
“Something I can help you with, Agent Savich?
Sounds like something’s happening you don’t
like.”
Savich shook his head. “I wish there was
something, but the pills are exactly what
they should be. I guess it would have been
really easy if they were something different.
I told you that the Explorer my sister totaled
has been compacted. I was really holding out
big hopes for those pills. Oh yeah, call me
Savich.”
“Okay, Hoyt here. Now, the Explorer—that
was done awfully fast.”
“Yes, maybe too fast, but then again, my
life’s work is to be suspicious. Maybe it
was just very straightforward. As of right
now, it’s all a dead end. However, I think
it’s time I did a bit of digging on my brother-in-law,
Dr. Tennyson Frasier.”
Clark Hoyt, who had heard of some of the exploits
of Sherlock, Savich, and MAX, Savich’s transvestite
laptop, said, “Don’t tell me that you
didn’t do a background search on this guy
before he married your sister? Seems to me
a brother would have checked out the fillings
in his teeth.”
“Well, yeah, sure I did. But not a really
deep one. Just that he didn’t have a record,
hadn’t ever been in rehab for drugs or alcohol,
stuff like that.”
“And that he wasn’t a bigamist?”
“No, I didn’t check on that. Lily told
me he’d been right up front about the fact
that he’d been married before and that his
wife had died. You know something, Hoyt? I
wonder now what the first wife died of. I
wonder how long they were married before she
died.” His eyes brightened.
“Savich, you don’t really think he’s
trying to kill his wife? The pills were just
what they were supposed to be.”
“They were indeed, and I’m not sure. But
you know, information is just about the most
important thing any cop can have.” Savich
rubbed his hands together. “MAX is going
to love this.”
“You know that the Frasiers are a really
big deal down in Hemlock Bay and the environs.
Daddy Frasier has dealings all over the state,
I understand.”
“Yeah. Before, I didn’t see the need to
check into Papa’s finances and dealings,
but now it’s time to be thorough.”
“Is your sister going to be all right?”
“Yes, she’ll be just fine.”
“I’ve got the names of some excellent
psychiatrists in the area—all women, just
like you wanted. I hope one of them will be
able to help your sister.”
“Yeah, me too. But you know—no matter
there’s no proof of any funny stuff, that
it really does look like she just drove the
Explorer into that redwood on purpose—I
simply can’t believe that Lily tried to
kill herself. No matter what anyone says,
I find myself coming back again and again
to the fact that it just doesn’t fit.”
“People change, Savich. Even people we love
dearly. Sometimes we can’t see the change
because we’re just too close.”
Savich took another look at that lovely park
and said, “When Lily was thirteen, she was
running a gambling operation in the neighborhood.
She would take bets on anything from the point
spread in college football games to who could
shoot the most three-point baskets in any
pro game. Drove my parents nuts. Since my
dad was an FBI agent, the local cops didn’t
do anything, just snickered a lot. I think
they all admired her moxie, but they gave
my dad lots of grief about it, called her
a chip off the old block.
“When she hit eighteen, she suddenly realized
that she liked to draw and she was very good
at it. She’s an artist, you know, very talented.”
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
“Actually, her talent comes from our grandmother,
Sarah Elliott.”
“Sarah Elliott? Good grief, the Sarah Elliott,
the artist whose paintings are in all the
museums?”
“Yep. Lily’s talents lie in a different
direction—she’s an excellent cartoonist,
lots of humor and irony. Have you ever heard
of the cartoon strip No Wrinkles Remus?”
Agent Hoyt shook his head.
“That’s all right. It’s political satire
and shenanigans, I guess you could say. She
hasn’t done much for the past seven months,
since the death of her daughter. But she will,
and once she gets herself back together again,
I’m sure she’s going to be syndicated
in lots of papers across the country.”
“She’s that good?”
“I think so. Now, given her talent, her
background, can you really believe that she
would try to kill herself seven months after
her daughter was killed?”
“A girl who was the neighborhood bookie,
then a cartoon strip artist?” Hoyt sighed.
“I’d like to say no, I can’t imagine
it, Savich, but who knows? Aren’t artists
supposed to be high-strung? Temperamental?
You said she still can’t remember a thing
about the accident?”
“Not yet.”
“What are you going to do?”
“After MAX checks everything out, we’ll
see. No matter what, I’m taking Lily back
to Washington with my wife and me. I think
it’s been proved that Hemlock Bay isn’t
healthy for her.”
“Everything could be perfectly innocent,”
Clark Hoyt said. “She could have simply
lost control of the car.”
“Yeah, but you know something? I saw my
brother-in-law differently this time. I saw
him through Lily’s eyes, maybe. It’s not
a pretty sight. I want to strangle him. Actually,
I wanted to throw his daddy through the hospital
window.”
Clark Hoyt laughed. “Let me know if there’s
anything I can do.”
“I will, thank you, Hoyt. Count on it. Thanks
for the names of the shrinks.”
Hemlock Bay, California
On the following Sunday afternoon, four days
after her surgery, Lily was pronounced well
enough to leave the hospital. She suffered
only mild discomfort, because Dr. Larch had
stopped by her room, looking determined, and
given her some pills to keep the worst of
the pain at bay. She still walked bent over
like an old person, but her eyes were clear,
her mood upbeat.
Sherlock had wanted to ask Dr. Larch about
lowering Lily’s meds temporarily on Dr.
Frasier’s orders, but Savich said, “Nope,
let’s just hold off on that for a while.”
“Nothing else good on the tape,” Sherlock
said in some disgust as she removed the small
bug from beneath Lily’s hospital bed while
Lily was in the small bathroom bathing. “Not
even doctors or nurses gossiping.”
Ten minutes later Savich said to his sister
as he pushed her wheelchair toward the elevator,
“I told Tennyson that Sherlock and I are
taking you to see your new shrink. He wasn’t
happy about that, said he didn’t know anything
about this woman. She could be a rank charlatan
and he’d lose all sorts of money, maybe
even get you more depressed. I just let him
talk on, then gave him my patented smile.”
“That smile,” Sherlock said, “translates
into ‘You mess with me, buddy, and even
your toenails are gonna hurt.’ ”
“In any case, at the end of all his ranting,
there was nothing he could do about it. He
tried to get me to convince you to see Dr.
Rossetti. I do wonder why he thinks the guy
is so great.”
“He’s not,” Lily said. “He’s horrible.”
She actually shuddered. “He came back again
this morning. The nurse had just washed my
hair for me, so I looked human and felt well
enough to take him on.”
“What happened?” Sherlock asked. She was
carrying Lily’s small overnight bag. Savich
pushed her wheelchair onto the elevator, punched
the button. No one else was on board.
Lily shuddered yet again. “I think he’d
talked to Tennyson some more. He tried to
change his tactics. He actually attempted
to be ingratiating, at least at first. When
he slithered into my room—yes, that’s
it exactly, he slithered—Nurse Carla Brunswick
had just finished blow-drying my hair.”
Nurse Brunswick turned toward him and said,
“Doctor.”
“Leave us alone for a bit, Nurse. Thank
you.”
Lily said, “I don’t want Nurse Brunswick
to leave, Dr. Rossetti. I want you to leave.”
“Please, Mrs. Frasier, just a moment of
your time. I fear we got off on the wrong
foot when I was here before. You were just
out of surgery; it was simply too soon for
you to want to hear about anything. Please,
just a few minutes of your time.”
Nurse Brunswick smiled at Lily, patted her
hand, then left the hospital room.
“I see that I have little choice here, Russell.
What do you want?”
If he was angered at her use of his first
name, he didn’t let on. He kept smiling,
walked to her bed, and stood there, towering
over her. She looked at his hands; his plump
hands sported a ring this time—a huge diamond
on his pinkie. She wished she could throw
him out of her room.
“I just wanted to speak to you, Mrs. Frasier—Lily.
See if perhaps we could deal better with each
other, perhaps you could come to trust me,
to let me help you.”
“No.”
“Are you in pain, Lily?”
“Yes, Russell, I am.”
“Would you like me to give you a mild antidepressant?”
“My pain is from my ribs and my missing
spleen.”
“Yes, well, that pain will likely suppress
the other, deeper pain for a while longer.”
“I hope so.”
“Mrs. Frasier—Lily—won’t you come
to my office, perhaps next Monday? That will
give you another week to recuperate.”
“No, Russell. Ah, here’s Dr. Larch. Hello.
Do come in. Dr. Rossetti was just leaving.”
Savich looked ready to spit by the time Lily
finished, but she just laughed. “No need
to go pound him, Dillon. He left, didn’t
say another word, just walked out. Dr. Larch
didn’t move until he was gone.”
“What I don’t understand,” Sherlock
said thoughtfully, “is why both Tennyson
and Dr. Rossetti want you as his patient so
very much. Isn’t that strange? You give
Rossetti grief and he still wants you?”
“Yes,” Savich said slowly, “it is strange.
We’ll have to see what MAX has to say about
Russell Rossetti. He was ready to give you
some antidepressants, right there, on the
spot?”
“It seems so.”
After Lily was in the car, a pillow over her
stomach and ribs, the seat belt as loose as
possible over the pillow, Savich said, “I
have a psychiatrist for you, Lily. No, not
someone to shrink you and give you more medication,
but a woman who is very good at hypnosis.
What do you think?”
“Hypnosis? Oh, goodness, she’ll help me
remember what happened?”
“I hope so. It’s a start anyway. Maybe
it will jump-start your memory. Since it’s
Sunday, she’s coming into her office especially
for you.”
“Dillon, I think I just gained a whole ton
of energy.”
Sherlock heard her say under her breath, “I’ll
know, finally, if I’m really crazy.”
“Yes, you’ll know, and that’s the best
thing to happen,” Sherlock said and patted
her shoulder.
“Then we’re off right now to Eureka.”
•Dr. Marlena Chu was a petite Chinese-American
woman who looked barely old enough to buy
liquor. Lily was tall, nearly five feet eight
in her ballet flats, which were what she was
wearing today, and she wondered how she could
trust someone so small she could easily tuck
her beneath her armpit.
Dr. Chu met them in her outer office, since
there was no one else there on Sunday. “Your
brother has told me what has happened,”
she said. “This must be very difficult for
you, Mrs. Frasier.” She took Lily’s hands
in her own small ones and added, “You need
to sit down. I can see that you’re still
very weak. Would you like a glass of water?”
Her hands felt warm, Lily thought; she didn’t
want to let them go. And her voice was incredibly
soothing. She suddenly felt much calmer, and
surely that was odd, but true nonetheless.
Also, the nagging pain in her ribs seemed
to fade. She smiled at Dr. Chu, hanging on
to her hands like a lifeline.
“No, I’m just fine. Well, maybe a bit
tired.”
“All right, then. Come into my office and
sit down. I have a very comfortable chair
and a nice, high footstool so you won’t
feel like you’re pulling anything. Yes,
here we are.”
Her inner office was perfectly square with
soft blue furnishings and lots of clean, oak
parquet floor. Again, Lily felt a wave of
peace and calm wash through her.
“Do let me help you sit down, Mrs. Frasier.”
“Please, call me Lily.”
“Thank you. I’d like that.” As soon
as Lily was seated, Dr. Chu brought her chair
alongside and took Lily’s left hand in hers
again. Dr. Chu watched Lily’s eyelids flutter
as warmth and calm flowed through her, and
was pleased. She watched Mr. Savich ease the
footstool beneath his sister’s narrow feet
and saw it immediately lessened the pull on
her stitches. She studied her patient. Even
though she was pale, her eyes were bright.
Lovely eyes, a soft light blue that went very
nicely with her blond hair. She was a lovely
young woman, but that didn’t really matter.
What was important was that she was in trouble.
What was more important was that she was soaking
up the strength Dr. Chu was giving her. “Lily
is such a romantic name. It sounds like soft
music; it’s the sort of name to make one
dream of fanciful things.”
Lily smiled. “It’s my grandmother’s
name. Coincidence, maybe, but she grew the
most beautiful lilies.”
“It’s interesting how some things work
out, isn’t it?”
“Yes, interesting, but sometimes it’s
also terrifying.”
“True, but there is nothing here to harm
you, Lily.” She patted Lily’s hand again.
Dr. Chu knew that Lily Frasier was an artist,
and that meant she was creative, probably
very bright. Such folk usually went under
very easily. She said in her soft voice, “You
understand that I’m going to try to help
you remember what happened last Wednesday
evening. Do you want this?”
“Yes, I want to know very badly what really
happened. Just tell me what to do. I’ve
never been hypnotized before.”
“It’s nothing, really. I just want you
to relax.” She lightly squeezed Lily’s
hand.
Lily felt more warmth flow through her, all
the way to her bones, felt herself becomimg
utterly calm. Those small hands of Dr. Chu’s,
how could they make her feel like this?
Savich pulled a chair next to Lily’s and
took her other hand. A strong hand, she thought,
strong fingers. His hand didn’t make hers
feel warm, but it did make her feel safe.
He said nothing at all, was just there beside
her, there for her. Sherlock sat on a sofa
behind Lily, quiet as could be.
Dr. Chu said, “You will perhaps believe
this a bit odd, Lily, but I don’t swing
a watch in front of your eyes or let you lie
on the sofa and chant this and that over and
over. No, we’ll just sit here and chat.
I understand you draw a cartoon strip. No
Wrinkles Remus? Such an interesting title.
What does it mean?”
Lily actually smiled. She felt the familiar
pain of Beth’s death ease away. “Remus
is a United States senator from the state
of West Dementia, located in the Midwest.
He’s very bright, utterly ruthless, completely
amoral, has overweening ambition, and loves
to pull fast ones on his opponents. He’s
also known as ‘Ept Remus,’ as opposed
to inept, because he’s so fast to come up
with a new angle to get what he wants. He’s
a spin master. He never gives up, just ignores
what people say because he knows that soon
enough they’ll forget, ignores what the
truth is, and continues until he gets what
he wants. What he wants now is the presidency,
and he’s shafted a friend of his to get
it.”
Dr. Chu raised a thin, perfectly arched black
brow and smiled. “An interesting character
study, and not all that unfamiliar.”
Lily actually chuckled. “I finished another
strip just last week. His friend Governor
Braveheart isn’t taking being shafted well.
He’s fighting back. Although he’s tough
as hell, he’s got one big problem—he’s
honest. It’s good. At least I hope it is.”
“Did you take it to your editor at the paper?”
Lily paused a moment and closed her eyes.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I started feeling bad again.”
“What do you mean by ‘feeling bad’?”
“Like nothing really mattered. Beth was
dead and I was alive, and nothing was worth
anything, including me and anything I did.”
“You went from feeling great and creative,
from smiles and laughter to utter depression?”
“Yes.”
“In just a day?”
“Yes. Maybe less. I don’t remember.”
“On the day your husband left for Chicago,
how did you feel, Lily?”
“I don’t remember feeling much of anything.
I was . . . just there.”
“I see. Your husband called you the next
day—Wednesday—and he wanted you to take
some medical slides to a doctor in Ferndale?”
“That’s right.”
“And the only road is 211.”
“Yes. I hate that road, always have. It’s
dangerous. And it was dusk. Driving at that
time of day always makes me antsy. I’m always
very careful.”
“It makes me nervous as well. Now, you took
two more antidepressant pills, right?”
“That’s right. Then I slept. I had terrible
nightmares.”
“Tell me what you remember about the nightmares.”
Dr. Chu wasn’t holding her hand now, but
still Lily felt a touch of warmth go through
her, felt like it was deep inside her now,
so deep it was warming her very soul. “I
saw Beth struck by that car, over and over,
struck and hurled screaming and screaming,
at least twenty feet, crying out my name,
over and over. When I awoke, I could still
see Beth. I remember just lying there and
crying and then I felt lethargic, my brain
dull.”
“You felt leached of hope?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. I felt like nothing
was worth anything, particularly me. I wasn’t
worth anything. Everything was black, just
black. Nothing mattered anymore.”
“All right, Lily, now you’re driving away
from your house. You’re in your red Explorer.
What do you think of your car?”
“Tennyson yells every time I call it a car.
I haven’t done that for months now. It’s
an Explorer and nothing else is like it and
it isn’t a car, so you call it by its name
and that’s it.”
“You don’t like the Explorer much, do
you?”
“My in-laws gave it to me for my birthday.
That was in August. I turned twenty-seven.”
Dr. Chu didn’t appear to be probing or delving;
she was merely speaking with a friend, nothing
more, nothing less. She was also lightly stroking
Lily’s left hand. Then she turned to Savich
and nodded.
“Lily.”
“Yes, Dillon.”
“How do you feel, sweetheart?”
“So warm, Dillon, so very warm. And there’s
no nagging pain anywhere. It’s wonderful.
I want to marry Dr. Chu. She’s got magic
in her hands.”
He smiled at that and said, “I’m glad
you feel good. Are you driving on 211 yet?”
“Yes, I just made a right onto the road.
I don’t mind the beginning of it, but you
get into the redwoods and it’s so dark and
the trees press in on you. I’ve always thought
that some maniac carved that road.”
“I agree with you. What are you thinking,
Lily?”
“I’m thinking that when it’s dark, it
will be just like a shroud is thrown over
all those thick redwoods. Just like Beth was
in a shroud and I’m so depressed that I
want to end it, Dillon, just end it and get
it over with. It’s relentless, this greedy
pain. I’m thinking it’s settled into my
soul and it won’t leave me, ever. I just
can’t stand it any longer.”
“This pain,” Dr. Chu said in her soft
voice, holding Lily’s hand now, squeezing
occasionally, “tell me more about this pain.”
“I know the pain wants to be one with me.
I want to give over to it. I know that if
I become the pain and the pain becomes me,
then I’ll be able to expiate my guilt.”
“You came to the conclusion that you had
to kill yourself because it was the only way
you could make reparation? To redress the
balance?”
“Yes. A life for a life. My life—worth
nothing much—for her small, precious life.”
Then Lily frowned.
Dr. Chu lightly ran her palm over Lily’s
forearm, then back to clasp her limp hand.
“What are you thinking now, Lily?”
“I just realized that something isn’t
right. I didn’t kill Beth. No, I’d been
at the newspaper, giving my cartoon to Boots
O’Malley, seeing what he thought, you know?”
“I know. And he laughed, right?”
“Yes. I heard the sheriff say later that
Beth’s body had been thrown at least twenty
feet.”
Lily stopped. She squeezed Dr. Chu’s hand
so tightly her knuckles whitened.
“Just stay calm, Lily. Everything is just
fine. I’m here. Your brother and Mrs. Savich
are here. Forget what the sheriff said. Now,
you suddenly recognized that you didn’t
kill Beth.”
“That’s right,” Lily whispered, her
eyelids fluttering. “I realize that something
is wrong. I suddenly remember taking those
sleeping pills that Tennyson put on the bedside
table. I took so many of them, felt them stick
in my throat and I swallowed and swallowed
to get them down, and I sat with that bottle
and chanted, more, more, more, and then the
bottle was nearly empty and I thought suddenly,
Wait, I don’t want to die, but then it was
too late, and I felt so sorry for the loss
of Beth and the loss of me.”
“I don’t understand, Lily,” Savich said
in that darkly smooth voice of his. “You
told me about the pills you took just after
Beth’s funeral. Why are you thinking about
that now, while you’re driving?”
“Because I realize that I can’t really
remember actually taking those pills. Now
isn’t that odd?”
“It’s very odd. Tell us more.”
“Well, I realize I didn’t want to die
then, and I don’t want to die now. But why
is the guilt eating at me like this? What’s
inside my brain that’s making me want to
simply drive the Explorer right into the thick
trees that line this horrible road?”
“And did you find an answer, Lily?”
“Yes, I did.” She stopped, just stopped
and sighed deeply. She was asleep. Her head
fell lightly to the side.
“It’s all right, Mr. Savich. Let’s just
let her rest awhile, then I’ll wake her
and we can carry on. She’ll be back with
us when she wakes up. We’ll see if she needs
to go under again.
“You know, Mr. Savich, I’m getting more
and more curious about that first time when
she took all those sleeping pills. Just maybe
we should go into that as well.”
“Oh, yes,” Sherlock said from behind them.
However, they didn’t have to wake Lily up.
Not more than another minute passed when suddenly
Lily opened her eyes, blinked, and said, “I
remember everything.” She smiled at Dr.
Chu, then said to her brother, “I didn’t
try to kill myself, Dillon, I didn’t.”
Dr. Chu took both of her hands now and leaned
very close. “Tell us exactly what happened,
Lily.”
“I came back to myself. I felt clear and
alert and appalled at what I’d been considering.
Then the road twisted, started one of those
steep descents. I realized I was going too
fast and I pressed down on the brake.”
“What happened?” Savich said, leaning
toward her.
“Nothing happened.”
Sherlock whispered “I knew it, I just knew
it.”
Savich said, “Did you pump the brakes the
way Dad taught you way back when?”
“Yes, I pumped gently, again and again.
Still there was nothing. I was terrified.
I yanked up the emergency brake. I know it
only works on the rear tires, but I figured
it would have to slow me down.”
“Don’t tell me,” Savich said. “The
emergency brake didn’t work either.”
She just shook her head, swallowed convulsively.
“No, it didn’t. I was veering from the
center toward the deep ravine on my left.
I pulled back, but not too far because the
redwoods were directly to my right, thick,
impenetrable. I was going too fast, and the
downhill grade was becoming even steeper.
That stretch twists and wheels back on itself
a whole lot before it flattens out at the
outskirts of Ferndale.”
Sherlock said from behind her, “Did you
slam the shift into park?”
“Oh, yes. There was an awful grinding noise,
like the transmission was tearing itself up.
The Explorer shuddered, screamed, and all
the wheels locked up. I went into a skid.
I tried to let the side of the Explorer scrape
against the redwoods, to slow me down, but
then the road twisted again. I knew I was
going to die.”
Savich pulled her very gently into his arms,
settling her on his lap. Dr. Chu never released
her left hand. Lily lay against him, her head
on his shoulder. She felt Sherlock’s fingers
lightly stroking her hair. She drew a deep
breath and said, “I remember so clearly
slamming head-on into that poor redwood, thinking
in that split second that the redwood had
survived at least a hundred years of violent
Pacific storms but it wouldn’t survive me.
“I remember hearing the blaring of the horn,
so loud, like it was right inside my head.
And then there just wasn’t anything.”
She pulled back and smiled, a beautiful smile,
clean and filled with self-awareness and hope.
“Now, this is a very strange thing, Dillon.
The brakes didn’t work. Did someone try
to kill me?”
Since Dr. Chu was still holding her hand,
Lily wasn’t frightened. Actually, she felt
good all the way to her toes. Her smile didn’t
fade a bit with those awful words.
“Yeah,” Savich said, looking directly
into her eyes. “Probably so. Isn’t that
a kick?”
“Now,” Dr. Chu said, “let’s just go
back and see how it happened that you ended
up in the hospital with all those sleeping
pills in your stomach.”
Lily felt peaceful and excited at the same
time. “Yes, let’s go back.”
6
Hemlock Bay, California
“All right, MAX, whatcha got?”
Sherlock walked over, looked down at the laptop
screen. “Oh, dear, he’s not doing anything.
You don’t think he’s becoming MAXINE again
so soon, do you, Dillon? He’s in a mood?”
“Nah, MAX is still a he, and he’s just
concentrating. He’s going to turn up something
for us.”
“You hope.”
“MAX just shuddered a bit. That means he’s
digging deep. Is Lily asleep?”
“Yes, I just checked on her. She didn’t
want a pain pill. Said she didn’t need it.
Isn’t that amazing?”
“Lily told me that a doctor who could make
her feel good without hurting her was sure
an improvement over a husband who can’t.
She said she still feels better for having
met her.”
“Since Dr. Chu didn’t hold our hands,
we’ll have to work out our stress at the
gym. Too bad.” Then Sherlock laughed. “Remember
when she asked Dr. Chu to marry her? That
was good, Dillon. She wants out of this mess.
“Now, according to Mrs. Scruggins, Tennyson
will be home in about two hours. She told
me she’s making a vegetarian dinner just
for you—her special zucchini lasagna, and
an apple-onion dish that she assured me would
make you hum and help you keep your, er, physique
perfect. I think she’d like to see you on
a calendar, Dillon. What do you think?”
Savich just laughed, then smacked MAX very
lightly on his hard drive with the palm of
his hand.
“Not going to commit yourself, are you?
Okay, she’s got a big crush on you, Dillon.
I think it struck when she saw you in your
T-shirt this morning, your pants zipped up
but not fastened. There was lust in her eyes
when she said your name. She had her hands
clasped on her bosom. That’s a sure sign
of palpitations. She wants you.”
Savich cocked a dark eyebrow at his wife.
“Don’t go there, Sherlock, it scares me
too much.”
She thought about how she felt whenever she
saw him in a T-shirt—or less—and didn’t
doubt Mrs. Scruggins’s fast-beating heart
one bit. She lightly touched her fingertips
to the back of his neck and began to knead.
MAX beeped.
“He’s jealous.”
“No, that was a burp. Well, maybe he’s
telling me he’s distracted, what with you
draped all over me.”
Sherlock leaned down to kiss the back of his
neck, then just grinned at him as she did
some stretching. “It really is time for
the gym. Do you think there’s one here in
Hemlock Bay?”
“We’ll find one. Tomorrow morning, if
Lily’s still feeling fine, we’ll go get
the kinks out and lower our stress levels.”
She stretched a bit more, rubbing the back
of her neck. “You think Tennyson was giving
her pills to make her depressed, don’t you?
You think he changed the pills back, just
to be on the safe side since her big brother
Fed was here.”
“Sounds good to me. After Dr. Chu couldn’t
get anything conclusive about Lily’s so-called
attempt to commit suicide right after Beth’s
funeral, I’m thinking that maybe she never
tried to kill herself at all.”
“It was strange how Lily sort of remembered,
but she didn’t really. If she didn’t do
it, then it had to be Tennyson, and that was
the bastard’s first try. They’d been married
all of four months, Dillon. That’s incredibly
cold-blooded. It makes me really mad. Let’s
prove it so we can pound him.”
“We’ll try, Sherlock. Here we go. Good
work, MAX.”
Both of them read the small print on the screen,
as Savich slowly scrolled. A couple of minutes
later, Savich raised his head and looked up
into Sherlock’s blue eyes.
“Not really all that much of a surprise,
is it? So, our Tennyson was married once before,
just like he told Lily. Only thing is, he
didn’t bother to mention that his first
wife committed suicide only thirteen months
after they’d tied the knot.”
Savich hit his palm against his forehead.
“I’m an idiot, Sherlock. I shouldn’t
have given him the benefit of the doubt, shouldn’t
have respected his privacy. Some brother I
am after that bastard first husband of hers.
After Jack Crane, I should have opened every
closet in his house, checked his bank statements
for the past twenty years. You know something
else? All I had to do was flat-out ask Tennyson
just how his first wife died.”
“He probably would have lied.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. You know I
can tell when someone’s lying. Also, I could
have done then what I’m doing now. My holding
back, my respecting Lily’s decision, could
have cost Lily her life. I want you to flay
me, Sherlock.”
Sherlock was twining one curly strand of hair
round and round her finger, a sure sign she
was upset. He immediately took her hand between
his two large ones. She said, “I’d just
as soon flay myself, Dillon. Do you think
Lily would still have married him if she’d
known that the first wife killed herself?”
“We can ask her. You can bet she’ll be
asking herself the same question, over and
over. But the thing is that this is now, and
her eyes are wide open. Eleven months ago
she believed she loved him, thought she’d
found a really wonderful father for Beth.
If Tennyson had told her, she’d probably
have felt sorry for him—poor man—losing
his wife like that. She probably would have
married him anyway. If I’d told her, it
probably would have pissed her off, she’d
have resented me, and she would have married
him.”
“Okay, so no flaying. You know, Dillon,
sometimes we women do think with our hearts,
not like you men, who think with your . . . well,
that’s better left unsaid, isn’t it?”
He grinned up at her. “Yep, probably so.”
“All of it was an illusion. Look, the first
wife—her name was Lynda—was rich, Dillon,
had a nice, fat trust fund from her grandfather.
Oh, my, she was only twenty-five.”
“Ah, just read this, Sherlock.” Savich
stroked his fingers over his jaw and added,
disgust thick in his voice, “That immoral
bastard. It usually comes down to money, doesn’t
it? Daddy got himself into a mess and so his
son tries to bail him out. Or maybe it was
both of them in the mess up to their necks.
That sounds more likely.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “It’s so mundane,
really, just a couple of greedy men trying
to get what they want.”
Savich nodded as he read to the end of MAX’s
information. He sat back a moment, then said,
“It seems very likely to me that Tennyson
killed his first wife as well as trying to
kill Lily. Was Daddy in on it with him? Very
likely. Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to
take any more chances. I want Lily out of
here. I want you to take her to that very
nice bed-and-breakfast we stayed at once in
Eureka. What was it?”
“The Mermaid’s Tail, just off Calistoga
Street. It’s late fall. Tourist season is
over so they’ll have room. What will you
do?”
“I’m going to have a nice vegetarian dinner
with Tennyson. I love lasagna. I’m going
to see if I can get him to admit to anything
useful. I really want to nail him. I’ll
join you and Lily later.”
He rose and pulled her tightly against him.
“Take MAX with you. Keep after him to find
out all he can about Daddy Frasier’s efforts
to get that public road built to the lovely
resort spot on the coast he’s so hot to
build. Without the state legislature passing
it, the project would be doomed. He’s having
trouble. Maybe they ran out of bribery money.”
“Don’t forget the condos he’s planning,
too—Golden Sunset.”
“Yes, lots of potential profit from those
as well. Elcott Frasier has lots and lots
of bucks already invested. I wonder if they
ran into more roadblocks. Maybe that’s why
they wanted Lily out of the way. They were
in deep financial trouble again. Now, let’s
get you guys packed up and out of this house.”
But Lily didn’t cooperate. She was awake,
she still didn’t hurt very much at all,
and she was very clearheaded. She smacked
her palm to the side of her head and announced,
delight and wonder in her voice, “Would
you look at me—I’m not depressed. In fact
I can’t imagine being depressed. Nope, everything
inside there is rattling around clockwise,
just as it should be.”
They were in the hallway outside her bedroom.
Lily was dressed in loose jeans and a baggy
sweater, hair pulled back in a ponytail, no
makeup, hands on hips, reminding Savich of
his once sixteen-year-old sister who stood
tall and defiant in front of their parents,
who were dressing her down but good for her
latest bookie scheme. “No, Dillon, I won’t
just turn tail and leave. I want to read everything
MAX has come up with so far. I want to speak
to Tennyson, confront him with all this. It’s
my right to find out if my husband of eleven
months married me only to kill me off. Oh,
dear. There’s a big problem here. Why would
he do it? I don’t have any money.”
“Unfortunately, sweetheart,” Savich said,
his voice very gentle, “you are very rich.
All us kids tend to forget what Grandmother
left us.”
“Oh, my Sarah Elliott paintings. You’re
right, I forget about them, since they’re
always on loan to a museum.”
“Yes, but they’re legally yours, all eight
paintings, willed to you. I just e-mailed
Simon Russo in New York. You remember him,
don’t you? You met him way back when he
and I were in college.”
“I remember. That was way back in the dark
ages before I started screwing up big time.”
“No, you were screwing up then, too,”
Savich said, lightly punching her arm. “Remember
that point spread you had on the Army-Navy
game? And Dad found out that you’d gotten
twenty dollars off Mr. Hodges next door?”
“I hid out in your room, under your bed,
until he calmed down.”
They laughed. It sounded especially good to
Sherlock, who beamed at both of them. Lily
depressed? It was hard, looking at her now,
to believe that she’d ever been depressed.
Lily said, “Yes, I remember Simon Russo.
He was a real pain in the butt and you said
yeah, that was true enough, but it didn’t
matter because he was such a good wide receiver.”
“That’s Simon. He’s neck-deep in the
art world, you know. He got back to me right
away, said eight Sarah Elliotts are worth
in the neighborhood of eight to ten million
dollars.”
Lily stared at him blank-faced. She was shaking
her head. “That’s unbelievable. No, you’re
pulling my leg, aren’t you? Please tell
me you’re kidding, Dillon.”
“Nope. The paintings have done nothing but
gain in value since Grandmother died seven
years ago. Each of the four grandchildren
got eight paintings. Each painting is worth
about one million dollars right now, more
or less, according to Simon.”
“That’s an enormous responsibility, Dillon.”
He nodded. “Like you, I think the rest of
us have felt like we’re the guardians; it’s
our responsibility to see that the paintings
are kept safe throughout our lifetimes and
exhibited so that the public can enjoy them.
I remember yours were on loan to the Chicago
Art Institute. Are they still there?”
Lily said slowly, rubbing her palms on the
legs of her jeans, “No. When Tennyson and
I married he thought they should be here,
in a regional museum, close to where we lived.
So I moved them to the Eureka Art Museum.”
Savich said without missing a beat, “Does
Tennyson know anyone who works in the museum?”
Lily said very quietly, “Elcott Frasier
is on the board of the museum.”
“Bingo,” Sherlock said.
• When Tennyson Frasier walked through the
front door of his house that evening, he saw
his wife standing at the foot of the stairs,
looking toward him. She watched his eyes fill
with love and concern. But it didn’t take
him long to realize that something was up.
He sensed it, like an animal senses danger
lying in wait ahead. His step slowed. But
when he reached Lily, he said gently, as he
took her hands, “Lily, my dear, you are
very pale. You must still be in pain. After
all, the surgery wasn’t long ago at all.
Please, sweetheart, let me take you up to
bed. You need to rest.”
“Actually, I feel fine, Tennyson. You needn’t
worry. Mrs. Scruggins has made us a superb
dinner. Are you hungry?”
“If you’re sure you want to eat downstairs,
then yes, I’m hungry.” He sent a wary
look to his brother and sister-in-law, who
had just walked into the entrance hall from
the living room. “Hello, Sherlock, Savich.”
Savich just nodded.
“Hope you had a good day, Tennyson,” Sherlock
said and gave him a sunny smile. She hoped
he couldn’t tell just yet that she wanted
to strangle him with his own tie.
“No, I didn’t actually,” Tennyson said.
He took a step back from Lily and stuck his
hands in his pockets. He didn’t take his
eyes off his wife. “Old Mr. Daily’s medication
isn’t working anymore. He talked about sticking
his rifle in his mouth. He reminded me of
you, Lily, that awful hopelessness when the
mind can’t cope. It was a dreadful day.
I didn’t even have time to come visit you
before you left the hospital. I’m sorry.”
“Well, these unpleasant sorts of things
occasionally happen, don’t they?” Sherlock
patted his arm and just smiled at the disgusted
look he gave her.
Savich winked at her as they walked to the
dining room.
Tennyson tenderly seated Lily in her chair
in the long dining room. Lily loved this room.
When she’d moved in, she had painted it
a light yellow and dumped all the heavy furniture.
It was very modern now, with a glossy Italian
Art Deco table, chairs, and sideboard. On
the walls were five Art Deco posters, filled
with color and high-living stylized characters.
Tennyson was no sooner seated than Mrs. Scruggins
began to serve. Normally, she simply left
the food in the oven and went home, but not
this evening.
Tennyson said, “Good evening, Mrs. Scruggins.
It’s very nice of you to stay.”
“My pleasure, Dr. Frasier,” she said.
Sherlock, who was watching her pile food onto
Lily’s plate, knew that Mrs. Scruggins wasn’t
about to leave unless she was booted out.
“I couldn’t very well leave when Mrs.
Frasier was coming home, now could I?”
Savich nearly smiled. Mrs. Scruggins wanted
to hear everything. She knew the air was hot,
even if she didn’t know the reason, and
would become hotter.
Lily took a small bite of a homemade dinner
roll that tasted divine. She said to her husband,
“Oh yes, Tennyson, you’ll be pleased,
I hope, to hear that I didn’t try to kill
myself by running the Explorer into the redwood.
Actually, neither the brakes nor the emergency
brake worked. Since I was on that very gnarly
part of 211, I didn’t stand a chance. Doesn’t
that relieve your mind?”
Tennyson was silent, frowning a bit over a
forkful of lasagna, beautifully flavored,
that was nearly to his mouth. He swallowed,
then said slowly, his head cocked to the side,
“You remembered, Lily?”
“Yes, I remembered.”
“Ah, then you mean that you changed your
mind? But it was too late because then the
brakes failed?”
“That’s it exactly. I realized that I
didn’t want to kill myself, but then it
didn’t matter, since someone had evidently
disabled the brakes.”
“Someone? Come on, Lily, that’s absurd.”
Savich said easily, “Unfortunately, the
Explorer was compacted the very next day after
the accident, so we can’t check it out to
see if it is or isn’t absurd.”
“Perhaps, Lily,” Tennyson said very gently,
“just perhaps you’re wanting to remember
something different, something that could
alleviate the pain of the past seven months.”
“I don’t think so, Tennyson. You see,
I remembered while I was under hypnosis. And
then when I came out of it, I remembered the
rest of it, all by myself. All of it.”
A thick eyebrow went straight up. Savich had
never before seen an eyebrow do a vertical
lift like that. Tennyson turned to Savich
and spoke, his voice low and controlled, but
it was obvious to everyone that he was very
angry. “You’re telling me you took Lily
to see a hypnotist? One of those charlatans
who plant garbage in their patients’ minds?”
“Oh, no,” Sherlock said, taking Lily’s
clenched fist beneath the table. “This doctor
didn’t plant anything, Tennyson. She simply
helped Lily to remember what happened that
evening. Both Dillon and I were there the
whole time, and he and I are very familiar
with hypnotists as part of our work. It was
all on the up-and-up. Now, don’t you think
it’s strange that the brakes didn’t work?
Don’t you think it’s at least possible
that someone disabled them from what Lily
said?”
“No, what I think is that Lily disremembers.
I’m not sure if she’s doing it on purpose
or if she’s simply confused and wants desperately
for it to be this way. Don’t you see? She
made up the brakes failing so she wouldn’t
have to face up to what she did. I don’t
think the brakes failed. I certainly don’t
think anyone cut the lines. That’s beyond
what is reasonable, and her saying that, claiming
that that’s what happened, well, it really
worries me. I don’t want Lily to even consider
such a thing; it could make her lose ground
again.
“Listen, I’m a psychiatrist—a real one—one
who doesn’t use hocus-pocus on people to
achieve some sort of preordained result. I
am not pleased about this, Savich. I am Lily’s
husband. I am responsible for her.”
Sherlock pointed her fork at him and said,
her voice colder than a psychopath’s heart,
“You haven’t been doing such a good job
of it, have you?”
7
Tennyson looked as if he wanted to throw his
plate at Sherlock’s head. His breathing
was hard and fast.
Sherlock continued after a moment of chewing
thoughtfully on a green bean. “I’ve also
wondered at the timing. You remember, don’t
you, Tennyson? You called to ask Lily to deliver
those medical slides to Ferndale, knowing
it would be dusk to dark when she was on 211.
Then the brakes failed. That sounds remarkably
fortuitous, doesn’t it?”
“Damn you, you both went behind my back,
did something you knew I wouldn’t approve
of! Lily is fine now. She no longer needs
you here. I repeat, I am her husband. I will
take care of her. As for your ridiculous veiled
accusations, I won’t lower myself to answer
them.”
“I think you should consider lowering yourself,”
Sherlock said, and in that moment, Tennyson
looked fit to kill.
Savich waited a moment for him to regain some
calm, then said, “All right, no lowering
right now. Let’s just move along. Let’s
suppose, Tennyson, that Lily does remember
everything exactly as it happened. That raises
a couple of good questions. Why did the brakes
fail? Perhaps it was simply a mechanical problem?
But then the emergency brake failed, too.
It’s rather a difficult stretch to make
if there’s also a second mechanical problem,
don’t you think? And that means that someone
had to have disabled the systems. Who, Tennyson?
Who would want Lily dead? Realize, too, that
if she had died, why then, everyone would
have declared it a clear case of suicide.
Who would want that, Tennyson?”
Tennyson rose slowly to his feet. Sherlock
could see the pulse pounding in his neck.
He was furious, and he was also something
more. Frightened? Desperate? She just couldn’t
tell, which disappointed her. He was very
good, very controlled.
Tennyson said, the words nearly catching in
his throat, “You are a cop. You see bad
things. You deal with bad people, evil people.
What happened wasn’t caused by someone out
to kill Lily—other than Lily. She’s been
very ill. Everyone knows that. Lily knows
that; she even accepts it. The most logical
explanation is that she simply doesn’t remember
what happened because she can’t bring herself
to admit that she really tried to commit suicide
again. That’s all there is to it. I won’t
stand for your accusations any longer. This
is my home. I want you both to leave. I want
you both out of our lives.”
Savich said, “All right, Tennyson, Sherlock
and I will be delighted to leave. Actually,
we’ll leave right after dinner. Mrs. Scruggins
made it just for me, and I don’t want to
miss any of it. Oh, yes, did I tell you that
we know all about Lynda—you remember, don’t
you? She was your first wife who killed herself
only thirteen months after marrying you?”
They hadn’t told Lily about Lynda Middleton
Frasier. She froze where she sat, her mouth
open, utter disbelief scored on her face,
any final hope leached out with those words.
When her husband had spoken so calmly, so
reasonably, she had wondered if it was possible
that her mind had altered what really happened,
that her mind was so squirrelly that she simply
couldn’t trust any thought, any reaction.
But not any longer. Now she knew she hadn’t
disremembered anything. Oh, God, had he killed
his first wife? It was horrible, unbelievable.
Lily was shaking from the inside out—she
couldn’t help it.
She said slowly, holding her knife in a death
grip, her knuckles white from the strain,
“I remember that you told me you’d been
married for a very short time, Tennyson, a
long time ago.”
“A long time ago?” Sherlock said, an eyebrow
arched. “Sounds like maybe it was a decade
or more, doesn’t it? Like he ran away with
a girl when he was eighteen? Actually, Lily,
Tennyson’s first wife, Lynda, killed herself
two years ago—just eight months before you
came to Hemlock Bay and met him.” She looked
over at Tennyson and said, her voice utterly
emotionless, “However, you didn’t say
a word about your wife having killed herself.
Why is that, Tennyson?”
“It was a tragic event in my life,” Tennyson
said calmly, in control again, as he picked
up his wineglass and sipped at the Napa Valley
Chardonnay. It was very dry, very woody, just
as he preferred. “It is still painful. Why
would I wish to speak of it? Not that it was
a secret. Lily could have heard it from anyone
in town, from my own family even.”
Sherlock leaned forward, her food forgotten.
The gauntlet was thrown. This was fascinating.
She smiled at Tennyson Frasier. “Still,
doesn’t it seem like it would be on the
relevant side, Tennyson, for her to know,
particularly after Lily tried to kill herself
seven months ago? Wouldn’t you begin to
think, Oops, could there be something wrong,
just maybe, with me? Two wives trying to do
away with themselves after they’ve been
married to me only a short time? What are
the odds on that, do you think, Tennyson?
Two dead wives, one live husband?”
“No, that’s all ridiculous. None of it
was at all relevant. Lily isn’t anything
like Lynda. Lily was simply bowled over by
her child’s death, by her role in her child’s
death.”
“I didn’t have a role in Beth’s death,”
Lily said. “I realize that now.”
“Do you really believe that, Lily? Just
think about it, all right? Now, as for Lynda,
she had a brain tumor. She was dying.”
This was a corker, Savich thought. “A brain
tumor?”
“Yes, Savich, she was diagnosed with a brain
tumor. It wasn’t operable. She knew she
was going to die. She didn’t want the inevitable
pain, the further loss of self, the deterioration
of her physical abilities. Her confusion was
growing by the day because of the tumor. She
hated it. She wanted to be the one to decide
her own end, and so she did. She gave herself
an injection of potassium chloride. It works
very quickly. As for the tumor, I saw to it
that it was kept quiet. I saw no reason to
tell anyone.” He paused for a moment, looked
at Savich, then at Sherlock. “There are,
of course, records. Check if you want to,
I don’t care. I’m not lying.”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock said. “So you think
it’s better for a woman to be known as a
suicide for no good reason at all?” Sherlock
sat back in her chair now, arms crossed over
her breasts.
“It was my call and that’s what I decided
to do at the time.”
“Thirteen months,” Savich said. “Married
the first time only thirteen months. If Lily
had managed to die in that accident, then
she would have beaten Lynda to the grave by
two months. Or, if she had died in her first
attempt, right after Beth’s death, then
she would have really broken the record.”
Tennyson Frasier said slowly, looking directly
at his wife, “I don’t find that amusing,
Savich. You have judged me on supposition,
on a simple coincidence, no evidence that
would stand up anywhere, and surely a cop
shouldn’t do that. Lily didn’t die, thank
God, either time. If she had died in that
accident, I doubt I would have survived. I
love her very much. I want her well.”
He was good, Savich thought, very good indeed.
Very fluent, very reasoned and logical, and
the appeal to gut emotion was surefire. Tennyson
was certainly right about one thing—they
didn’t have any proof. He was right about
another thing—Savich had already judged
him guilty. Guilty as sin. They had to have
proof. MAX had to dig deeper. There would
be something; there always was.
Sherlock chewed on a homemade roll that was
now cold, swallowed, then said in the mildest
voice imaginable, “Where did Lynda get the
potassium chloride?”
“From her doctor, the one who diagnosed
her in the first place. He was infatuated
with her, which is why, I believe, he assisted
her. I knew nothing about any of it until
she was dead and he told me what had happened,
what he had helped her do. I didn’t file
charges because I’d known she’d wanted
to end her life herself, on her own terms.
Dr. Cord died only a short while later. It
was horrible, all of it.”
Lily said, “I heard about Dr. Cord’s death
from a woman in Casey’s Food Market. She
said he shot himself while cleaning his rifle,
such a terrible accident. She didn’t mention
anything about your wife.”
“The townspeople didn’t want to see me
hurt any more, I suppose, particularly since
I had a new wife, so I guess they just kept
quiet.” He turned to his wife and said,
his voice pleading, his hand stretched out
toward her, “Lily, when you came to town,
just over a year and a half ago, I couldn’t
believe that someone else could come into
my life who would make me complete, who would
love me and make me happy, but you did. And
you brought precious little Beth with you.
I loved her from the first moment I saw her,
just as I did you. I miss her, Lily, every
day I miss her.
“What you’ve been going through—maybe
now it’s over. Maybe what happened with
the Explorer, maybe that snapped you back.
Believe me, dearest, I just want you to get
well. I want that more than anything. I want
to take you to Maui and lie with you on the
beach and know that your biggest worry will
be how to keep from getting sunburned. Don’t
listen to your brother. Please, Lily, don’t
believe there was anything sinister about
Lynda’s death. Your brother is a cop. Cops
think everyone has ulterior motives, but I
don’t. I love you. I want you to be happy,
with me.”
Savich, who’d been finishing off his lasagna
during this impassioned speech, looked only
mildly interested, as if he were attending
a play. He laid down his fork and said, “Tennyson,
how long has your dad been on the board of
the Eureka Art Museum?”
“What? Oh, I don’t know, for years, I
suppose. I’ve never really paid any attention.
What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“You see,” Savich continued, “at first
we couldn’t figure out why you would want
to marry Lily if your motive was to kill her.
For what? Then we realized you knew about
our grandmother’s paintings. Lily owns eight
Sarah Elliotts, worth a lot of money, as you
very well know.”
For the first time, Savich felt a mild surge
of alarm. Tennyson was a man nearing the edge.
He was furious, his face red, his jaw working.
He readied himself for an attack, just in
case.
But what Tennyson did was bang his knife handle
on the table, once, twice, then a really hard
third time. “You bastard! I did not marry
Lily to get her grandmother’s goddamned
paintings! That’s absurd. Get out of my
house!”
Lily slowly rose to her feet.
“No, Lily, not you. Please, sit down. Listen
to me, you must. My father and I are familiar
with the excellent work of the folk at the
Eureka Art Museum. They have a splendid reputation.
When you told me your grandmother was Sarah
Elliott—”
“But you already knew, Tennyson. You knew
before you met me that first time. And then
you acted so surprised when I told you. You
acted so pleased that I had inherited some
of her incredible talent. You wanted so much
to have her paintings here, in Northern California.
You wanted them here so you could be close
to them, so you could control them. So that
when I was dead, you wouldn’t have any difficulty
getting your hands on them. Or maybe your
father wanted the paintings close? Which,
Tennyson?”
“Lily, be quiet, that’s not true, none
of it. The paintings are great art. Why should
the Chicago Art Institute have them when you
live here now? Also, administration of the
paintings is much easier when they’re exhibited
locally.”
“What administration?”
Tennyson shrugged. “There are phone calls
coming in all the time, questions about loaning
the paintings out, about selling them to collectors,
the schedule for ongoing minor restoration,
about our approval on the replacement of a
frame. Endless questions about tax papers.
Lots of things.”
“There was very little of what you just
described before I married you, Tennyson.
There was only one contract with the museum
to sign every year, nothing else. Why haven’t
you said anything about any administration
to me? You make it sound like an immense amount
of work.”
Was that sarcasm? Savich wondered, rather
hoping that it was.
“You weren’t well, Lily. I wasn’t about
to burden you with any of that.”
Suddenly, the strangest thing happened. Lily
saw her husband as a grayish shadow, hovering
without substance, his mouth moving but nothing
really coming out. Not a man, just a shadow,
and shadows couldn’t hurt you. Lily smiled
as she said, “As Dillon said, I’m very
rich, Tennyson.”
Savich saw that his brother-in-law was trying
desperately to keep himself calm, to keep
himself logical in his arguments, not to get
defensive, not to let Lily see what he really
was. It was fascinating. Could a man be that
good a liar, that convincing an actor? Savich
wished he knew.
Tennyson said, “It’s always been my understanding
that you simply hold the paintings in a sort
of trust. That they aren’t yours, that you’re
merely their guardian until you die and one
of your children takes over.”
“But you’ve been in charge of their administration
all these months,” Lily said. “How could
you not know that they were mine, completely
mine, no trust involved?”
“I did believe that, I tell you. No one
ever said anything different, not even the
curator, Mr. Monk. You’ve met him, Lily,
up front, so pleased to have the paintings
here.”
Savich sipped at the hot tea Mrs. Scruggins
had poured into his cup. “None of us hold
the paintings in trust,” he said. “They’re
ours, outright.” He knew Mrs. Scruggins
was listening to everything, forming opinions.
He didn’t mind it a bit. Just maybe she’d
have something more to say to him or to Sherlock
when this little dinner meeting was over.
“If Lily wants to, she can sell one or two
or all of the paintings. They’re worth about
one million dollars each. Maybe more.”
Tennyson looked stunned. “I . . . I never
realized,” he said, and now he sounded a
bit frantic.
“Difficult not to,” Lily said. “You’re
not a stupid man, Tennyson. Surely Mr. Monk
told you what they’re worth. When you found
out I was Sarah Elliott’s granddaughter,
it would have been nothing at all for you
to find out that she willed them to me. You
saw me as the way to get to those paintings.
You must have rubbed your hands together.
I left everything in my will to Beth, at your
urging, Tennyson, if you’ll remember, and
I named you the executor.”
“As it happened,” Savich said, “Beth
did predecease Lily. Who inherits?”
“Tennyson. My husband.” She continued
after a moment, so bitter she was nearly choking
on it. “How easy I made everything for you.
What happened? Big money troubles? You needed
me out of the way, fast?”
Tennyson was nearly over the edge now. “No,
no, listen to me. I suppose I just saw the
paintings as your grandmother’s, nothing
more than that. Valuable things that needed
some oversight, particularly after you became
so ill. All right, I was willing to do that
work. Please, Lily, believe me. When you told
me that she was your grandmother, I was very
surprised and pleased for you. Then I just
dismissed it. Lily, I didn’t marry you for
your grandmother’s paintings. I swear to
you I didn’t. I married you because I love
you, I loved Beth. That’s it. My father—no,
I don’t believe there could possibly be
anything there. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Tennyson,” Lily said, her voice low,
soothing, “do you know that I’ve never
been depressed in my life until I married
you?”
“Dammit, before Beth’s death, you had
no reason to be depressed.”
“Well, maybe I did. Didn’t I tell you
a bit about my first husband?”
“Yes, he was horrible, but you survived
him. But, Lily, it was completely different
when your daughter was killed by a hit-and-run
driver. It’s only natural that you’d be
overcome with grief, that you would experience
profound depression.”
“Even after seven months?”
“The mind is a strange instrument, unpredictable.
It doesn’t always behave the way we would
like it to. I’ve prayed and prayed for your
full recovery. I agree it’s been taking
you a long time to recover but, Lily, you’ll
get well now, I know it.”
“Yes,” she said very slowly and pushed
back her chair. “Yes, I know I’ll get
well now.” She felt her stitches pull, a
tug that made her want to bend over, but she
didn’t. “Yes, Tennyson,” she said, “I
fully intend to get well now. Completely well.”
She pressed her palms flat on the table. “I
will also love Beth for the rest of my life,
and I will know sadness at her loss and grief
until I die, but I will come to grips with
it. I will bear it. I will pray that it will
slowly ease into the past, that I won’t
fall into that black depression again. I will
face life now and I will gain my bearings.
Yes, Tennyson, I will get well now because,
you see, I’m leaving you. Tonight.”
He rose so quickly his chair slammed down
to the floor. “No, dammit, you can’t leave
me . . . Lily, no! It’s your brother.
I wish my father hadn’t called him; I wish
Savich hadn’t come here to ruin everything.
He’s filled your mind with lies. He’s
made you turn on me. There’s no proof of
anything at all, just ask him. No, none of
it’s true. Please, Lily, don’t leave me.”
“Tennyson,” Lily said very quietly now,
looking directly at him, “what sort of pills
have you been feeding me these last seven
months?”
He howled, literally howled, a desperate,
frightened sound of rage and hopelessness.
He was panting hard when he said, “I tried
to make you well. I tried, God knows, and
now you’ve decided to believe this jerk
of a brother and his wife and you’re leaving
me. Dammit, I’ve been giving you Elavil!”
Lily nodded. “Actually, even though there
doesn’t seem to be any solid proof to haul
you to the sheriff. The sheriff is something
of a joke anyway, isn’t he? When I remember
how he tried so hard to apprehend Beth’s
killer.”
“I know he did the best he could. If you’d
been with Beth, maybe you would have made
a better witness, but you—”
She ignored his words and said, “If we find
proof, then even Sheriff Bozo will have to
lock you away, Tennyson—no matter what you
or Daddy say, no matter how much money you’ve
put in his pocket, no matter how many votes
you got for him—until we manage to get some
competent law enforcement in Hemlock Bay.
The truth of the matter is, I would leave
you even if you didn’t kill your first wife,
if you hadn’t, in truth, tried to kill me,
because, Tennyson, you’ve lied to me; from
the very beginning you lied to me. You used
Beth’s death to make me feel the most profound
guilt. You milked it, manipulated me—you’re
still doing it—and you very likely drugged
me to make me depressed, to make me feel even
more at fault. I wasn’t at fault, Tennyson.
Someone killed Beth. I didn’t. I realize
that now. Were you planning on killing me
even as you slid the ring on my finger?”
He was holding his head in his hands, shaking
his head back and forth, not looking at anyone
now.
“I found myself wondering today, Tennyson—did
you kill Beth, too?”
His head came up, fast. “Kill Beth? Oh,
my God! No!”
“She was my heir. If I died, then the paintings
would be hers. No, surely even you couldn’t
be that evil. Your father could, maybe your
mother could, but not you, I don’t think.
But then again, I’ve never been good at
picking men. Look at my pathetic track record—two
tries and just look what happened. Yes, I’m
obviously rotten at it. Hey, maybe it’s
my bookie genes getting in the way of good
sense. No, you couldn’t have killed or had
Beth killed. Maybe we’ll find something
on your daddy. We’ll see.
“Good-bye, Tennyson. I can’t begin to
tell you what I think of you.”
Both Savich and Sherlock remained silent,
looking at the man and woman facing each other
across the length of the dining table. Tennyson
was as white as a bleached shroud, the pulse
in his neck pounding wildly. His fingers clutched
the edge of the table. He looked like a man
beyond himself, beyond all that he knew or
understood.
As for Lily, she looked calm, wonderfully
calm. She didn’t look to be in any particular
discomfort. She said, “Dillon and Sherlock
will pack all my things while you’re at
your office tomorrow, Tennyson. Tonight, the
three of us are going to stay in Eureka.”
She turned, felt the mild pulling in her side
again, and added, “Please don’t destroy
my drawing and art supplies, Tennyson, or
else I’ll have to ask my brother or sister-in-law
to break your face. They want to very badly
as it is.”
She nodded to him, then turned. “Dillon,
I’ll be ready to leave in ten minutes.”
Head up, back straight, as if she didn’t
have stitches in her side, she left the dining
room. Lily saw Mrs. Scruggins standing just
inside the kitchen door. Mrs. Scruggins smiled
at her as she walked briskly past, saying
over her shoulder, “It was an excellent
dinner, Mrs. Scruggins. My brother really
liked it. Thank you for saving my life seven
months ago. I will miss you and your kindness.”
8
Eureka, California
The Mermaid’s Tail
Lily swallowed a pain pill and looked at herself
in the mirror. She’d looked better, no doubt
about that. She sighed as she thought back
over the months and wondered yet again what
had happened to her. Had she looked different
when she’d first arrived in Hemlock Bay?
She’d been so full of hope, both she and
Beth finally free of Jack Crane, on their
own, happy. She remembered how they’d walked
hand in hand down Main Street, stopping at
Scooters Bakery to buy a chocolate croissant
for Beth and a raisin scone for herself. She
hadn’t realized then that she would soon
marry another man she’d believe with all
her heart loved both her and Beth, and this
one would gouge eleven months out of her life.
Fool.
She’d married yet another man who would
have rejoiced at her death, who was prepared
to bury her with tears running down his face,
a stirring eulogy coming out of his mouth,
and joy in his heart.
Two husbands down—never, never again would
she ever look at a man who appeared even mildly
interested in her. Fact was, she was really
bad when it came to choosing men. And the
question that had begun to gnaw at her surfaced
again. Was Tennyson responsible for Beth’s
death?
Lily didn’t think so—she’d been honest
the night before about that—but it had happened
so quickly and no one had seen anything at
all useful. Could Tennyson have been driving
that car? And then the awful depression had
smashed her, had made her want to lie in a
coffin and pull down the lid.
Beth was gone. Forever. Lily pictured her
little girl’s face—a replica of her father’s,
but finer, softer—so beautiful, that precious
little face she saw now only in her mind.
She’d just turned six the week before she
died. Beth hadn’t been evil to the bone
like her father. She’d been all that was
innocent and loving, always telling her mother
any- and everything until . . . Lily raised
her head and looked at herself again in the
mirror. Until what? She thought back to the
week before Beth was killed. She had been
different, sort of furtive, wary—maybe even
scared.
Scared? Beth? No, that didn’t make any sense.
But still, Beth had been different just before
she died.
No, not died. Beth had been killed. By a hit-and-run
driver. The pain settled heavily in Lily’s
heart as she wondered if she would ever know
the truth.
She shook her head, drank more water from
the tap. Her brother and Sherlock had just
left, after she’d assured them at least
a half dozen times that she still felt calm,
didn’t hurt at all. She was fine, go, go,
pack up her things in Hemlock Bay. She hoped
that Tennyson hadn’t trashed her drawing
supplies.
She drew a deep, clean breath. Yes, she wanted
her drawing supplies today, as soon as possible.
She wanted to hold her #2 red sable brush
again, but it would be foolish to buy another
one just to use today. No, she’d just buy
a small sampler set of pens and pen points,
inexpensive ones because it didn’t really
matter. Maybe she’d get a Speedball cartooning
set, just like the one her folks had given
her when she’d wanted to try cartooning
so many years before. Those pens would still
feel familiar in her hand. And a bottle of
India ink, some standard-size, twenty-pound
typing paper, durable paper that would last,
no matter how many times it was shoved into
envelopes or worked on by her and the editors.
Yes, just some nice bond paper, not more than
a hundred sheets. Usually, since she did political
cartoons, she used strips of paper cut from
larger sheets of special artist paper, thicker
than a postcard—bristol board, it was called,
well suited for brushwork. And one bottle
of Liquid Paper. She could just see herself—not
more than an hour from now—drawing those
sharp, pale lines that would become the man
of the hour, Senator No Wrinkles Remus, the
soon-to-be president of the U.S., from that
fine state of West Dementia, where the good
senator has managed to divide his state into
halves, to conduct the ultimate experiment
with gun control. One half of the state has
complete gun control, as strict as in England;
the other half of West Dementia has no gun
control at all. He gives an impassioned speech
to the state legislature, with the blessing
of the governor, whom he’s blackmailed for
taking money from a contractor who is also
his nephew: “One year, that’s all we ask,”
Remus says, waving his arms to embrace all
of them. “Just one year and we’ll know
once and for all what the answer is.”
And what happens in the west of West Dementia
is that criminals auction off areas to one
another since civilians aren’t allowed to
own any device that shoots a bullet out of
a barrel. Criminals break-and-enter at their
leisure, whenever the spirit moves them. Houses,
banks, gas stations, 7-Elevens, nothing is
safe.
In east West Dementia, every sort of gun abounds,
from sleek pistols that fire one round a minute
to behemoths that kick out eight hundred zillion
rounds a second. There are simply no limits
at all. Because of the endless supply, guns
are really cheap. What happens surprises everyone:
robbery stats go down nearly seventy percent
after a good dozen would-be robbers are killed
breaking in—to homes, banks, filling stations,
7-Elevens.
On the other side of it, killing abounds.
Everything that moves, and doesn’t move,
gets shot—deer, rabbits, cars, people. Some
people even take to target-shooting in the
rivers. Many trout, it is said, die from gunshot
wounds.
There are rumors of payoffs from both the
National Rifle Association and the Mafia to
No Wrinkles Remus, but like his name, no matter
what he does—or people believe he does—that
face of his remains smooth and absolutely
trustworthy.
She was grinning like a madwoman. She rubbed
her hands together. She wanted to draw No
Wrinkles Remus—now, right this minute, as
soon as she could get a pen between her fingers.
She didn’t need a drawing table, the small
circular Victorian table in her room would
be perfect. The sun was coming in at exactly
the right angle.
She just didn’t want to wait. Lily grabbed
her purse, her leather jacket, and headed
out of the bed-and-breakfast. Mrs. Blade,
standing behind the small counter downstairs,
waved her on. Lily didn’t know Eureka well,
but she knew to go to Wallace Street. A whole
bunch of artists lived over in the waterfront
section of town, and a couple of them ran
art supply stores.
The day was cloudy, nearly cold enough to
see your breath, a chilly breeze swirling
about in the fallen autumn leaves that strengthened
the salty ocean taste when you breathed in.
She managed to snag a taxi across the street
that was letting off an old man in front of
an apartment building.
The driver was Ukrainian, had lived in Eureka
for six years, and his high-schooler son liked
to doodle, even on toilet paper, he said,
which made you wonder what sort of poisoning
you could get using that toilet paper. He
knew just where to go.
It was Sol Arthur’s art supply shop. She
was in and out in thirty minutes, smiling
from ear to ear as she shifted the wrapped
packages in her arms. She had maybe eleven
dollars left in her purse—goodness, eleven
whole dollars left in the world. She wondered
what had happened to her credit cards. She
would ask Dillon to deal with it.
She stood on the curb looking up and down
the street. No way would a taxi magically
appear now even though she was ready to part
with another four dollars from her stash.
No, no taxi. Such good lightning luck didn’t
strike twice. A bus, she thought, watching
one slowly huff toward her. The bed-and-breakfast
wasn’t all that far from here, and the bus
was heading in the right direction. She jaywalked,
but not before she was sure that no cars were
coming from either direction. There weren’t
a whole lot of people on the street.
No Wrinkles Remus is looking particularly
handsome and wicked, right there, full-blown
in her mind again. He looks annoyed when a
colleague hits on a staffer Remus himself
fancies, his absolute joy when he discovers
that the wife of a senator cheated on her
husband with one of his former senior aides.
She was singing when the bus—twenty years
old if not older, belching smoke—lumbered
toward her. She saw the driver, an old coot,
grinning at her. He had on headphones and
was chair-dancing to the music. Maybe she
was the only passenger he’d seen in a while.
She climbed on board, banging her packages
about as she found change in her wallet. When
she turned to find a seat, she saw that the
bus was empty.
“Not many folk out today?”
He grinned at her and pulled off his headphones.
She repeated her question. He said, “Nah,
all of ’em down at the cemetery for the
big burying.”
“Whose big burying?”
“Ferdy Malloy, the minister at the Baptist
Church. Kicked it, just last Friday.”
She’d been lying in the hospital last Friday,
not feeling so hot.
“Natural causes, I hope?”
“You can think that if you want, but everyone
knows that his missus probably booted him
to the other side. Tough old broad is Mabel,
tougher than Ferdy, and mean. No one dared
to ask for an autopsy, and so they’re planting
Ferdy in the ground right about now.”
“Well,” Lily said, then couldn’t think
of another thing. “Oh, yes, I’m at The
Mermaid’s Tail. Do you go near there?”
“Ain’t nobody on board to tell me not
to. I’ll take you right to the front door.
Watch that third step, though, board’s rotted.”
“Thank you, I’ll be careful.”
The driver put his headphones back on and
began bouncing up and down in the seat. He
stopped two blocks down, just in front of
Rover’s Drive-In with the best hamburgers
west of the Sillow River, sandwiched next
to a storefront that advertised three justices
of the peace, who were also notaries, on duty
24/7.
Lily closed her eyes. The bus started up again.
No Wrinkles Remus was in her mind again, playing
another angle.
“Hey.”
She looked up to see a young man swinging
into the seat next to her. He simply lifted
off the packages, set them on the seat opposite,
and sat down.
For a moment, Lily was simply too surprised
to think. She stared at the young man, no
older than twenty, his black hair long, greasy,
and tied back in a ratty ponytail. He had
three silver hoops marching up his left ear.
He was wearing opaque sunglasses, an Orioles
cap on his head, turned backward, and a roomy
black leather jacket.
“My packages,” she said, cocking her head
to one side. “Why did you put them over
there?”
He grinned at her, and she saw a gold tooth
toward the back of his mouth.
“You’re awful pretty. I wanted to sit
next to you. I wanted to get real close to
you.”
“No, I’m not particularly pretty. I’d
like you to move. Lots of seat choice, since
the bus is empty.”
“Nope, I’m staying right here. Maybe I’ll
even get a little closer. Like I said, you’re
real pretty.”
Lily looked up at the bus driver, but he was
really into his rock ’n’ roll, bouncing
so heavily on the seat that the bus was swerving
a bit to the left, then back to the right.
Lily didn’t want trouble, she really didn’t.
“All right,” she said and smiled at him.
“I’ll move.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, his voice
barely a whisper now, and he grabbed her arm
to hold her still.
“Let go of me, buster, now.”
“I don’t think so. You know, I really
don’t want to hurt you. It’s too bad because,
like I said, you’re real pretty. A shame,
but hey, I need money, you know?”
“You want to rob me?”
“Yeah, don’t worry that I’ll do anything
else. I just want your wallet.” But he pulled
a switchblade out of his inside jacket pocket,
pressed a small button, and a very sharp blade
flew out, long and thin, glittering.
She was afraid now, her heart pumping, bile
rising in her throat. “Put the knife away.
I’ll give you all my money. I don’t have
much, but I’ll give you all I’ve got.”
He didn’t answer because he saw that the
bus was slowing for the next stop. He said,
low, “Sorry, no time for the money.”
He was going to kill her. The knife was coming
right at her chest. She tightened, felt the
stitches straining, but it didn’t matter.
“You fool,” she said. She drove her elbow
right into his Adam’s apple, then right
under his chin, knocking his head back, cutting
off his breath. Still he held the knife, not
four inches from her chest.
Twist left, make yourself a smaller target.
She turned, then did a right forearm hammer,
thumb down smashing the inside of his right
forearm.
Attack the person, not the weapon.
She grabbed his wrist with her left hand and
did a right back forearm hammer to his throat.
He grabbed his throat, gagging and wheezing
for breath, and she slammed her fist into
his chest, right over his heart. She grabbed
his wrist and felt the knife slide out of
his fingers, heard it thunk hard on the floor
of the bus and slide beneath the seat in front
of them.
The guy was in big trouble, couldn’t breathe,
and she said, “Don’t you ever come near
me again, you bastard.” And she smashed
the flat of her palm against his ear.
He yelled, but it only came out as a gurgle
since he still couldn’t draw a decent breath.
The bus had stopped right in front of The
Mermaid’s Tail. The driver waved to her
in the rearview mirror, still listening to
his music, still chair-dancing. She didn’t
know what to do. Call the cops? Then it was
taken out of her hands. The young man lurched
up, knowing he was in deep trouble, scooped
up his knife, waved it toward the bus driver,
who was now staring back at the two of them
wide-eyed, no longer dancing. He waved the
knife at her once, then ran to the front of
the bus, jumped to the ground, and was running
fast down the street, turning quickly into
an alley.
The bus driver yelled.
“It’s okay,” Lily said, gathering her
bags together. “He was a mugger. I’m all
right.”
“We need to get the cops.”
The last thing Lily wanted was to have to
deal with the cops. The guy was gone. She
felt suddenly very weak; her heart was pounding
hard and loud. But her shoulders were straight.
She was taller than she’d been just five
minutes before. It hadn’t been much more
than five minutes when she’d first gotten
onto that empty bus, and then the young guy
had come on and sat down beside her.
It didn’t matter that she felt like all
her stitches were pulling, that her ribs ached
and there were jabs of pain. She’d done
it. She’d saved herself. She’d flattened
the guy with the knife. She hadn’t forgotten
all the moves her brother had taught her after
she’d finally told him about Jack and what
he’d done.
Dillon had said, squeezing her so hard she
thought her ribs would cave in, “Dammit,
Lily, I’m not about to let you ever be helpless
again. No more victim, ever.” And he’d
taught her how to fight, with two-year-old
Beth shrieking and clapping as she looked
on, swinging her teddy bear by its leg.
But he hadn’t been able to teach her for
real—how to handle the bubbling fear that
pulsed through her body when that knife was
just a finger-length away. But she’d dealt
with the fear, the brain-numbing shutdown.
She’d done it.
She walked, straight and tall, her stitches
pulling just a bit now, into The Mermaid’s
Tail.
“Hello,” she called out, smiling at Mrs.
Blade, who was working a crossword puzzle
behind the counter.
“You look like you won the lottery, Mrs.
Frasier. Hey, do you know a five-letter word
for a monster assassin?”
“Hmmm. It could be me, you know, but Lily
is only four letters. Sorry, Mrs. Blade.”
Lily laughed and hauled her packages up the
stairs.
“I’ve got it,” Mrs. Blade called out.
“The monster assassin is a ‘slayer.’
You know, ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer.’ ”
“That’s six letters, Mrs. Blade.”
“Well, drat.”
Upstairs in her room, Lily arranged the small
Victorian table at just the right angle to
the bright sun. She carefully unwrapped all
her supplies and arranged them. She knew she
was on an adrenaline high, but it didn’t
matter. She felt wonderful. Then she stopped
cold.
Her Sarah Elliott paintings. She had to go
right now to the Eureka Art Museum and make
sure the paintings, all eight of them, were
still there. How could she have thought only
of drawing Remus?
No, she was being ridiculous. She could simply
call Mr. Monk, ask him about her paintings.
But what if he wasn’t trustworthy—no one
else had proved the least trustworthy to date—he
could lie to her.
Tennyson or his father could have stolen them
last night after they’d left the house.
Mr. Monk could have helped them.
No, someone would have notified her if the
paintings were gone. Or maybe they would just
call Elcott Frasier or Tennyson. No, they
were her paintings, but she was sick, wasn’t
she? Another suicide attempt. Incapable of
dealing with something so stressful.
She was out the door again in three minutes.
9
The Eureka Art Museum took up an entire block
on West Clayton Street. It was a splendid
old Victorian mansion surrounded by scores
of ancient, fat oak trees madly dropping their
fall leaves in the chilly morning breeze.
What with all the budget cuts, the leaves
rested undisturbed, a thick red, yellow, and
gold blanket spread all around the museum
and sidewalks.
Lily paid the taxi driver five dollars including
a good tip because the guy had frayed cuffs
on his shirt, hoping she had enough cash left
for admission. The old gentleman at the entrance
told her they didn’t charge anything, but
any contributions would be gracefully accepted.
“Not gratefully?”
“Maybe both,” he said and gave her a big
grin. All she had to give him in return was
a grin to match and a request that he tell
Mr. Monk that Mrs. Frasier was here.
She’d seen the paintings here only once,
during a brief visit, before the special room
was built, right after she’d married Tennyson.
She’d met Mr. Monk, the curator, who had
gorgeous, black eyes and looked intense and
hungry, and two young staffers, both with
Ph.D.s, who’d just shrugged and said there
were no jobs in any of the prestigious museums,
so what could you do but move to Eureka? At
least, they said, big smiles on their faces,
the Sarah Elliott paintings gave the place
class and respectability.
It wasn’t a large museum, but nonetheless,
they had fashioned an entirely separate room
for Sarah Elliott’s eight paintings, and
they’d done it well. White walls, perfect
lighting, highly polished oak floor, cushion-covered
benches in the center of the room to sit on
and appreciate.
Lily just stood there for a very long time
in the middle of the room, turning slowly
to look at each painting. She’d been overwhelmed
when her grandmother’s executor had sent
them to her where she was waiting for them
in the office of the director of the Chicago
Art Institute. Finally, she’d actually touched
each one, held each one in her hands. Every
one of them was special to her, each a painting
she’d mentioned to her grandmother that
she loved especially, and her grandmother
hadn’t forgotten. Her favorite, she discovered,
was still The Swan Song—a soft, pale wash
of colors, just lightly veiling an old man
lying in the middle of a very neat bed, his
hands folded over his chest. He had little
hair left on his head and little flesh as
well, stretched so taut you could see the
blood vessels beneath it. The look on his
face was beatific. He was smiling and singing
to a young girl, slight, ethereal, who stood
beside the bed, her head cocked to one side.
Lily felt gooseflesh rise on her arms. She
felt tears start to her eyes.
Dear God, she loved this painting. She knew
it belonged in a museum, but she also knew
that it was hers—hers—and she decided
in that moment that she wanted to see it every
day of her life, to be reminded of the endless
pulse of life with its sorrowful endings,
its joyous beginnings, the joining of the
two. This one would stay with her, if she
could make that happen. The value of each
of the paintings still overwhelmed her.
She wiped her eyes.
“Is it you, Mrs. Frasier? Oh my, we heard
that you had been in an accident, that you
were in serious condition in the hospital.
You’re all right? So soon? You look a bit
pale. Would you like to sit down? May I get
you a glass of water?”
She turned slowly to see Mr. Monk standing
in the doorway of the small Sarah Elliott
room, with its elegant painted sign over the
oak door. He looked so intense, like a taut
bowstring, he seemed ready to hum with it.
He was dressed in a lovely charcoal gray wool
suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie.
“Mr. Monk, it’s good to see you again.”
She grinned at him, her tears dried now, and
said, “Actually, the rumors of my condition
were exaggerated. I’m just fine; you don’t
have to do a thing for me.”
“Ah, I’m delighted to hear it. You’re
here. Is Dr. Frasier here as well? Is there
some problem?”
Lily said, “No, Mr. Monk, there’s no problem.
The past months have been difficult, but everything
is all right now. Oh, yes, which of these
paintings is your favorite?”
“The Decision,” Mr. Monk said without
hesitation.
“I like that one very much as well,” Lily
said. “But don’t you find it just the
least bit depressing?”
“Depressing? Certainly not. I don’t get
depressed, Mrs. Frasier.”
Lily said, “I remember I told my grandmother
I loved that one when I’d just lost a lot
of money on a point spread between the Giants
and Dallas. I was sixteen at the time, and
I do remember that I was despondent. She laughed
and loaned me ten dollars. I’ve never forgotten
that. Oh, yes, I paid her back the next week
when a whole bunch of fools bet New Orleans
would beat San Francisco by twelve.”
“Are you talking about some sort of sporting
events, Mrs. Frasier?”
“Well, yes. Football, actually.” She smiled
at him. “I am here to tell you that I will
be leaving the area, Mr. Monk, moving back
to Washington, D.C. I will be taking the Sarah
Elliott paintings with me.”
He looked at her like she was mad. He fanned
his hands in front of him, as if to ward her
off. “But surely, Mrs. Frasier, you’re
pleased with their display, how we’re taking
such good care of them; and the restoration
work is minor and nothing to concern you—”
She lightly laid her fingers on his forearm.
“No, Mr. Monk, it looks to me like you’ve
done a splendid job. It’s just that I’m
moving, and the paintings go where I go.”
“But Washington, D.C., doesn’t need any
more beautiful art! They have so many beautiful
things that they’re sinking in it, beautiful
things that are stuck in basements, never
seen. They don’t need any more!”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Monk.”
Those gorgeous dark eyes of his glittered.
“Very well, Mrs. Frasier, but it’s obvious
to me that you haven’t discussed this with
Dr. Frasier. I’m sorry but I cannot release
any of the paintings to you. He is their administrator.”
“What does that mean? You know very well
the paintings are mine.”
“Well, yes, but it’s Dr. Frasier who’s
made all the decisions, who’s directed every
detail. Also, Mrs. Frasier, it’s common
knowledge here that you haven’t been well—”
“Lily, what are you doing out of bed? Why
are you here?”
Dillon and Sherlock stood just behind Mr.
Monk, and neither of them looked very pleased.
She smiled, saying only, “I’m here to
tell Mr. Monk that the paintings go where
I go, and in this case, it’s all the way
to Washington, D.C. Unfortunately, he says
that everyone knows I’m crazy and that Dr.
Frasier is the one who controls everything
to do with the paintings—and so Mr. Monk
won’t release them to me.”
“Now, Mrs. Frasier, I didn’t quite mean
that . . .”
Savich lightly tapped him on the shoulder,
and when Mr. Monk turned, in utter confusion,
he said, “The paintings can’t be released
to my sister? Would you care to explain that
to us, Mr. Monk? I’m Dillon Savich, Mrs.
Frasier’s brother, and this is my wife.
Now, what is all this about?”
Mr. Monk looked desperate. He took a step
back. “You don’t understand. Mrs. Frasier
isn’t mentally competent, that’s what
I was told, and thus the paintings are all
controlled by Dr. Frasier. Appropriate, naturally,
since he is her husband. When we heard that
she’d been in an accident, an accident that
she herself caused, there were some who thought
she was dying and thus Dr. Frasier would inherit
the paintings and then they would never leave
the museum.”
“I’m not dead, Mr. Monk.”
“I can see that you’re not, Mrs. Frasier,
but the fact is that you aren’t as well
as you should be to have charge of such expensive
and unique paintings.”
Savich said, “I assure you that Mrs. Frasier
is mentally competent and is legally entitled
to do whatever she wishes to with the paintings.
Unless you have some court order to the contrary?”
Mr. Monk looked momentarily flummoxed, then,
“A court order! Yes, that’s it, a court
order is what’s required.”
“Why?” said Savich.
“Well, a court could decide whether she’s
capable of making decisions of this magnitude.”
Sherlock patted his shoulder. “Hmm, nice
suit. I’m sorry, Mr. Monk, as this seems
to be quite upsetting to you, but she is under
no such obligation to you. I suppose you could
try to get her declared incompetent, but you
would lose, and I’m sure it would create
quite a stir in the local papers.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t do that. What I mean
is that I suppose then that everything is
all right, but you understand, I have to call
Dr. Frasier. He has been dealing with everything.
I haven’t spoken to Mrs. Frasier even once
over all the months the paintings have been
here.”
Savich pulled out his wallet, showed Mr. Monk
his ID, and said, “Why don’t we go to
your office and make that phone call?”
Of course Savich had shown Mr. Monk his FBI
shield. He swallowed, looked at Lily like
he wanted to shoot her, and said, “Yes,
of course.”
“Good,” Savich said. “We can also discuss
all the details of how they’ll be shipped,
the insurance, the crating, all those pesky
little details that Dr. Frasier doesn’t
have to deal with anymore. By the way, Mr.
Monk, I do know what I’m doing since I also
own eight Sarah Elliott paintings myself.”
“Would you like to go now, Mr. Savich?”
Savich nodded, then said over his shoulder
as he escorted Mr. Monk from that small, perfect
room, “Sherlock, you stay here with Lily,
make sure she sits down and rests. Mr. Monk
and I will finalize matters. Come along, sir.”
“I hope the poor man doesn’t cry,” Lily
said. “They built this special room, did
a fine job of exhibiting the paintings. I
think that Elcott and Charlotte Frasier donated
the money to build the room. Wasn’t that
kind of them?”
“Yes. You know, Lily, many people have enjoyed
the paintings over the past year. Now people
in Washington can enjoy them for a while.
You need to think about where you want the
paintings housed. But we can take our time
there, no rush, let people convince you they’re
the best.
“Oh, Lily, don’t feel guilty. There are
a whole lot of people there who have never
seen these particular Sarah Elliott paintings.”
“Truth be told, I’m just mighty relieved
that they’re all present and accounted for
and I’m not standing here looking at blank
walls because someone stole the paintings.
That’s why I came, Sherlock. I just realized
that since Tennyson married me for the paintings,
maybe they were already gone.”
Sherlock patted a cushion and waited until
Lily eased carefully down beside her. “We
didn’t want to wait either.” She paused
to look around. “Such beauty. And it’s
in your genes, Lily, both yours and Dillon’s.
You’re very lucky. You draw cartoons that
give people great pleasure, and Dillon whittles
the most exquisite pieces. He whittled Sean,
newly born, in the softest rosewood. Whenever
I look at that piece, touch it, I feel the
most profound gratitude that Dillon is in
my life.
“Now, I’m going to get all emotional and
that won’t help anything. Did I have a point
to make? Oh yes, such different aspects of
those splendid talent genes from your grandmother.”
“What about your talent, Sherlock? You play
the piano beautifully. You could have been
a concert pianist, if it hadn’t been for
your sister’s death. I want to listen to
you play when we get back to Washington.”
“Yes, I’ll play for you.” Sherlock added,
without pause, “You know, Lily, I was very
afraid that Tennyson and his father had stolen
the paintings as well, and you hadn’t been
notified because you’d been too ill to deal
with it.”
“I suppose they had other plans. All of
this happened very quickly.”
“Yes, they did have time, but don’t you
see? If the paintings were suddenly gone,
they would have looked so guilty San Quentin
would have just opened its doors and ushered
them right on in. I suppose they were waiting
to sell them off when you were dead and they
legally belonged to Tennyson.”
“Dead.” Lily said the word again, then
once more, sounding it out. “It isn’t
easy to believe that someone wants you dead
so they can have what you own. That’s really
low.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I feel shock that Tennyson betrayed me,
probably his father as well, but I don’t
want to wring my hands and cry about it. Nope,
what I really want to do is belt Tennyson
in the nose, maybe kick him hard in his ribs,
too.”
Sherlock hugged her, very lightly. “Good
for you. Now, how do you feel, really?”
“Calm, just a bit of pain, nothing debilitating.
I believed I loved him, Sherlock, believed
I wanted to spend the rest of my life with
him. I trusted him, and I trusted him with
Beth.”
“I know, Lily. I know.”
Lily got ahold of herself, tried to smile.
“Oh yes, I’ve got something amazing to
tell you. Remus was dancing in my head this
morning, yelling at me so loud that I went
out and bought art supplies. Then, strange
thing, I get on this empty city bus to go
back to The Mermaid’s Tail and this young
guy tries to mug me.”
Sherlock blinked, her mouth open.
Lily laughed. “Finally I’ve managed to
surprise you so much you can’t think of
anything to say.”
“I don’t like this, Lily. Tell me exactly
what happened.”
But Mr. Monk appeared in the doorway. “I
will contact our lawyers and have them prepare
papers for your signature. I’ve detailed
to Mr. Savich how the paintings will be packed
and crated in preparation to be shipped to
Washington. You will need to inform us of
their destination so that we can make arrangements
with the people at the other end. There will
be two guards as well for the trip. It’s
quite an elaborate process, necessary to keep
them completely safe. I will phone you when
the papers are ready. Did you plan to leave
the area soon?”
“Fairly soon, Mr. Monk.” Lily rose slowly,
her stitches pulling, aching more now, and
took his hand. “I’m sorry, but I really
can’t leave them here.”
“It’s a pity. Dr. Frasier said on the
phone that you were divorcing him and that
he had no more say in anything.”
“I’m relieved that he didn’t try anything
underhanded,” Lily said.
Mr. Monk looked profoundly uncomfortable at
that. “He’s a fine man, and so are his
esteemed father and mother.”
“I understand that many people think that.
Yes, we’re divorcing, Mr. Monk.”
“Ah, such a pity. You’ve been married
such a short time. And you lost your little
girl just a few months ago. I do hope you’re
making this decision with a clear head.”
“You still think my mental condition is
in question, Mr. Monk?”
Mr. Monk seemed to pump himself up. He swallowed
and said, “Well, I think that just maybe
you’re acting in haste, not really thinking
things through. And here you are divorcing
poor Dr. Frasier, who seems to love you and
wants only the best for you. Of course, Mrs.
Frasier, this is a very bad thing for me and
for the museum.”
“Well, these things happen, don’t they?
And I’d have to say that Dr. Frasier loves
my paintings, sir, not me. I’m staying at
The Mermaid’s Tail here in Eureka. Please
call when I can finalize all this.”
Lily’s last view of Mr. Monk was of him
standing in the doorway to the Sarah Elliott
room, hunched in on himself, looking like
he’d just lost all his money in a poker
game. The museum had run just fine before
Sarah Elliott’s paintings had arrived, and
it would do so after they went away.
When they were walking down the stone steps
of the museum, Savich on one side of Lily,
her arm resting heavily on his, Sherlock on
the other, Savich said, not looking at her,
“I was wondering if Tennyson would be obstructive
when we called him up. To be honest, if it
had been you, Lily—by yourself on the phone—he
would have been, no doubt in my mind about
that. But he couldn’t this time, not with
two of us federal agents and one of them your
brother.”
He stopped abruptly, turned, and grasped Lily’s
shoulders in his big hands. “I’m not pleased
with you, Lily. You should have let Sherlock
and me take care of all this. I’ll bet you
pulled your stitches and now your belly aches
like you’ve been punched.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, “Dillon’s right.
You look like you’re ready to fall over.”
Lily smiled down at her sister-in-law—small,
fine-boned, all that incredible curly red
hair, and the sweetest smile—who could take
down a guy three times her size. And she played
the piano beautifully. She’d known from
the moment they’d first met at her and Dillon’s
wedding that Sherlock’s love for Dillon
was steady and absolute. Beth had been three
years old at the time, so excited to see her
uncle Dillon, and so proud of her new patent-leather
shoes. Lily swallowed, got herself together.
She said, “Do you know that you and Dillon
could finish each other’s sentences? Now,
don’t fret, either of you. I am feeling
a bit on the shaky side, but I can hold on
until we get back to the inn.” She hugged
him tight, then stepped back. “You know
what, Dillon? I’ve decided that I’m going
to check into my own credit card situation.”
“What does that mean?”
Lily just smiled. He helped her into the backseat,
gently placed the pillow over her stomach,
and fastened her seat belt. She lightly touched
her fingertips to his cheek. “I’m glad
you came to the museum. I don’t think I
had enough money to pay for a taxi back to
the B-and-B.”
Savich shook his head at her as he slipped
his hand beneath the seat belt to make sure
it wouldn’t press too hard against her middle,
got in the driver’s seat, and drove off.
“Now then, Lily,” Sherlock said, turning
in her seat. “You can’t put it off any
longer. Dillon will want to hear all about
this, too. I want you to tell us about the
mugger who attacked you on that empty bus
this morning. No more than two hours ago.”
Savich nearly drove into a fire hydrant.
• They were eating lunch in a small Mexican
restaurant, The Toasted Taco, on Chambers
Street, just down the block from The Mermaid’s
Tail, Lily having decided she was starving
more than she was aching.
“Good salsa,” Lily said and dipped in
another tortilla chip and stuffed it in her
mouth. “That’s a sure sign that the food
will be okay. Goodness, I don’t think I’ve
ever been so hungry in my life.”
Savich said, “Talk.”
She’d told them about the bus driver who
had explained to her that the bus was empty
because of the big burying and was having
a fine time chair-dancing while he drove,
headphones turned up high, and about the young
man with three earrings in his left ear, the
switchblade that was sharp and silver and
nearly went into her heart.
Savich blew out a big breath, picked up a
tortilla chip, and absently chewed on it.
“I suppose it’s occurred to you it may
not have been a mugger.”
“He talked like one, maybe, I’m not sure
since I’ve never been mugged before. Then
he ruined it by pulling this switchblade knife.
One thing I’m absolutely sure of—there
was death in his eyes. And you know what?
I knew all the way to my stomach lining that
it was the end of the line. But then I went
after him, Dillon, wrecked him good—all
the moves you taught me. I could hear your
voice telling me things, ‘Make yourself
as small as possible,’ stuff like that.
I hammered him—my hand a tight fist and
whap! Then I hammered him hard against his
chest, then polished him off by slamming my
palm against his ear. Unfortunately, he got
himself together and jumped off the bus, got
away. Hey, I smashed him, Dillon, really smashed
him.”
She looked so proud of herself that Dillon
wanted to hug her until she squeaked, but
he was still too scared. She could have been
killed so very easily.
He cleared his throat. “Did you call the
police?”
Lily shook her head. “To be honest, all
I wanted to do was get back to the B-and-B.
Then I thought of the paintings and got to
the museum as fast as I could. Why don’t
you think it was a mugger?”
Savich was still shaking with reaction. “I’m
upset about this, Lily, really upset. He most
certainly wasn’t a mugger. Listen, an empty
bus, a guy starts with a throwaway line about
taking your wallet to keep things real calm,
then he brings out the knife? A mugger? No,
Lily, I don’t think so.”
“The question is,” Sherlock said, chewing
on a chip that she’d liberally dipped in
salsa, her right hand near her glass of iced
tea, “who found him, got him up to speed
and moving so fast? You told Tennyson just
last night that you were leaving him. Talk
about fast action—that really surprises
me. Tennyson, his father, whoever else is
involved in this—they’re not pros, yet
they got this guy after you very quickly.
He must have been watching the B-and-B, then
followed you to the art supply shop, got ahead
of you and on the bus at the next stop. It
was well planned, well executed, except, thank
God, he failed.”
“Yeah, they didn’t know what Dillon had
taught me.” She actually rubbed her hands
together, realized she’d gotten salsa all
over herself, and laughed. “Can we have
another basket of chips?” she called out
to the young Mexican waitress, then, “I
saved myself, Dillon, and it felt really good.”
Savich understood then, of course. Her life
had been out of control for so very long,
but no longer. He patted her back. “I wonder
if it would help to check hospitals. Did you
hurt him that bad?”
“Maybe. Good idea, I didn’t think of that.”
“He’s paid to think of things like that,”
Sherlock said and got out her cell phone.
She looked up at them after a moment, “We’ve
got a lot of possibilities here.”
Savich said, “You know, I was going to call
the cops. But now that I think about it, I
don’t think the local constabulary is what
we need just yet. What I want is Clark Hoyt
from the FBI field office right here in Eureka.
If he knows the local cops, thinks they could
help with this, then we can bring them into
it. But for the time being, let’s use our
own guys.”
Sherlock said, as she dialed information,
“Great idea, Dillon. I’m sure glad they
opened up this field office last year. The
one in Portland wouldn’t be able to help
us with much. Clark can get all the hospitals
checked in no time. Now, Lily, tell me where
you hit this guy. Be as specific as you can.”
“Yeah, I can do that, and then hand me a
napkin so I can draw the guy for you.”
10
Eureka, California
The Mermaid’s Tail
Savich flipped open his cell phone, which
was softly beeping the theme song from The
Lion King, listened, and said, “Simon Russo?
Is this the knucklehead who shot himself in
the foot with my SIG Sauer?” Then he laughed
and listened some more. Then he talked. Savich
realized quickly enough that Simon didn’t
like what he had been hearing, didn’t like
it at all. What the hell was going on here?
He listened as Simon said slowly, “Listen,
Savich, just get your grandmother’s paintings
safely back to Washington. Do it right away,
don’t dither or let the museum curator put
you off. Don’t take any shortcuts with their
safety, but move quickly. I’ll be down to
Washington as soon as the paintings get there.
I want to see them. It’s very important
that I see them. Don’t take any chances.”
Savich frowned into his cell phone. What was
this all about? “I know you like my grandmother’s
paintings, Simon. She gave you your favorite
when you graduated from MIT, but you don’t
have to come down to Washington to see them
right away.”
“Yes,” Simon said, “trust me on this,
I do.” And he hung up.
Sherlock was standing on the far side of the
bedroom, her own cell phone dangling from
her hand. “Sweetheart,” he called out
to her, “strangest thing. Simon is all hot
under the collar to see Lily’s eight Sarah
Elliott paintings. He’s being mysterious,
won’t tell me a thing, just insists he has
to see the paintings as soon as they arrive
in Washington.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything. Savich felt
a sharp point of fear. Jesus, she looked shell-shocked,
no, beyond that. She looked drop-dead frightened,
her pupils dilated, her skin as pale as ice.
He was at her side in an instant. He gathered
her against him, felt that she was as cold
as ice as well, and held on to her tightly.
“What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong.
It’s Sean, isn’t it? Oh God, something’s
happened to our boy?”
She shook her head hard, but still no words.
He pulled back, saw the shock of fear still
deep in her eyes, and shook her lightly. “Please
tell me, Sherlock, talk to me. What’s going
on? What happened?”
She swallowed, and managed finally to get
the words out. “Sean’s all right. I checked
in at the office. I heard Ollie yell in the
background that he had to speak to us. Oh,
God, Dillon, Ollie said that Tammy Tuttle
just up and walked out of the jail wing of
Patterson-Wright Hospital.”
“No,” Savich said, shaking his head in
utter disbelief, “you’ve got to be kidding
me.” Things like that just didn’t happen.
She was very dangerous, and everyone at the
hospital knew it. He continued to stare down
at his wife, wanting to see some flicker of
doubt that wasn’t there. “That can’t
be possible,” he went on slowly. The panic
of it was nearly under control, but he just
didn’t want to believe it, to accept it.
“She was in the jail ward. She was well
guarded. The woman is nuts. Everyone knows
what she’s done. She couldn’t just walk
out.”
“They were going to put her in restraints
tomorrow or the next day, when they thought
she was well enough to be a danger to them.
Then there was a screwup in the scheduling
of the guards. Evidently, she was ready for
something to give her a chance. When she got
her break, she snagged a nurse, knocked her
out cold, and took her white pantsuit. At
least she didn’t kill her. But she walked
out.”
“It hasn’t been even a week since they
amputated her arm. How could she have the
strength to take down a nurse? They’re used
to violent patients; they’re trained. She’s
got only one arm, for God’s sake.”
“Obviously no one thought she had the strength
or the ability, and that’s why when there
was the scheduling foul-up. No one was really
concerned. And that’s why no one even discovered
she was gone until a nurse went in to give
her a shot and found another nurse tied up
naked in the closet. They figure she got herself
at least a two-hour window.”
Savich shook himself. His brain was back in
gear, finally. “All right. Where would she
go? Do they have any leads?”
“Ollie says there are more cops looking
for her than the hunt for Marlin and Erasmus
Jones. Everyone knows she’s really scary,
that she’s truly dangerous. No one wants
her free again.” Sherlock cleared her throat.
“There’s the question of those things
you saw in the barn, Dillon—the Ghouls.”
He squeezed her again and said against her
temple, her curly hair tickling his nose,
“I know what I want to do right this minute.
I want to talk to Sean and listen to him gurgle.
That little guy is so sane, and that’s what
we need right now, a big dose of normalcy.”
He didn’t add that he just wanted to know
for sure, all the way to his soul, that his
little boy was all right. As for the Ghouls—if
they were real, and Savich knew to his bones
that they were—then it was possible there
was more danger than anyone could begin to
imagine. Would the FBI let all the people
looking for Tammy Tuttle know that she could
have accomplices? Or were they just going
to ignore everything he’d told them?
They took turns gurgling with their son, who
was busy gnawing a banana, not a graham cracker.
Then they called Ollie back to see if there
was any news yet.
“Yes,” Ollie Hamish said, “but not good.”
Sherlock could see him leaning back in his
chair, spinning it just a bit, because he
was nervous and scared. “Tammy Tuttle just
murdered a teenage boy a block outside of
Chevy Chase, Maryland. She left a note on
the body. Well, actually, she didn’t leave
it on the body, she left it attached to the
body. It’s addressed to you, Savich.”
“Read it, Ollie.”
“Here goes: ‘I’ll get you and I’ll
rip your arm off and then I’ll cut your
fucking head off, you murdering bastard. Then
I’ll give you to the Ghouls.’ ”
“That’s real cheery,” Savich said. “Was
it addressed specifically to me?”
“Yeah, which means she knows your name.
How? Everyone thinks she probably heard people
talking about you in the hospital. She left
her fingerprints all over the paper and envelope,
obviously didn’t care. Oh yes, at the murder
scene, there was also a black-painted circle,
and the boy was inside it. She’s loose,
Savich. Everyone is shaken to their toes.
It was a really gruesome crime scene. That
poor kid, he was only thirteen years old.”
“Black-painted circle,” Savich said. “Tammy
called to the Ghouls to come get the boys
in the circle.”
“I was hoping maybe you really hadn’t
seen anything, Savich, that maybe you’d
just experienced a temporary vision distortion.
Since the boy’s body was a mess, maybe more
of a mess than a single one-armed sick woman
could have done, then maybe these things—these
Ghoul characters—were somehow involved.
Jimmy Maitland brought it up. And the bosses
even had a big meeting about it. They’ve
all decided that what you saw in that barn
were dust devils.”
Savich said finally, “Mr. Maitland has my
number here if he wants to talk about it.
Now, here’s something to do. Bring in Marilyn
Warluski.”
“We already went looking. She’s long gone,
no one knows where.”
“MAX found out that she has an ex-boyfriend
in Bar Harbor, Maine, name of Tony Fallon.
Check there. Just maybe she’ll be with him
and know something. Tammy has to go somewhere,
and Marilyn loaned her and her brother that
barn for their use. Did Tammy steal any money?”
“Not at the hospital, but elsewhere? We
haven’t heard of anything yet. Also, there
have been a dozen reports of stolen vehicles.
We’re checking all those out as well.”
“Okay. Find Marilyn and wring her out, Ollie.
I think you should be the one in direct contact
with her. You know more than the others.”
“Okay. Let me take a deep breath here. I’m
very glad you aren’t listed in the phone
book and your phone number’s private. It’s
unlikely she could find you where you are,
but I want you to be careful, Savich, really
careful.”
“You can count on that, Ollie.”
“Okay. How are things going out there with
Lily?”
Savich said, “She managed to hurt a guy
who tried to kill her on an empty bus a couple
of hours ago. Clark Hoyt in the new Eureka
field office is checking all the hospitals.
No word yet. Lily drew a picture of him and
we just heard from a Lieutenant Dobbs at the
Eureka Police Department that the guy’s
a local hood-for-hire, a freelancer, who would
kill his own mom for the right price. Name
of Morrie Jones. Everyone’s looking for
him. He’s a kid, just turned twenty.”
Savich could see Ollie shaking his head back
and forth as he said, “Big troubles on both
coasts. Ain’t nothing easy anywhere in this
world, is there?”
• Lily slept for three hours—no nightmares,
thank God—and awoke to see her brother seated
on a big wing chair pulled near her lovely
Victorian canopied bed, a gooseneck lamp beaming
light over his right shoulder, reading through
a sheaf of papers.
He looked up immediately.
“You’re fast. I just opened one eye and
you knew I was awake.”
“Sean got both Sherlock and me trained in
a matter of days. He yawns or grunts, and
we’re ready to move.”
She managed a smile, but truth be told, the
day’s events had caught up with her. She’d
gone from being euphoric about drawing Remus
again, to nearly being murdered, to getting
back her paintings. At least she’d had a
great Mexican lunch and it hadn’t made her
sick to her stomach.
But now, even after a very long sleep, she
still felt wrung out. Her side ached something
fierce, and her head sat heavy and dull on
her shoulders. “No, Dillon, don’t get
up. What are you reading?”
“Articles and reports MAX found for me on
weird phenomena. I’m trying to find other
reported crimes with similarities to the Tuttles’
rampage and the Ghouls.”
“You told me just a little bit about the
Tuttles and these Ghoul things, Dillon. Tell
me more.”
“There were two of them, two distinct white
cones that sometimes came together. You can
imagine how the two boys—Tammy and Timmy
Tuttle called them ‘Little Bloods’—were
reacting. I’ve never seen such terror. I
nearly swallowed my own tongue I was so afraid.
Then Tammy Tuttle called to the Ghouls, yelled
for them to bring their axes and knives, their
‘treats’ were ready for them. The boys
wanted out of that circle and Tammy pulled
her knife. She was going to nail them to the
barn floor, inside that damned circle. That’s
when I shot her, and the bullet nearly tore
her arm off. Timmy pulled his gun then, but
he wasn’t going to shoot me, no, he was
aiming at the boys, so I had to kill him clean
and quick, no choice. Then one of those white
cones was coming at us, and I shot it. Did
the bullet hurt it? I have no idea. I pulled
the boys out of that circle and then both
of the white cones just whooshed out of there.
No one outside the barn saw them. So it was
just the two boys, me, and Tammy, who had
called them.”
“My God, that’s scary.”
“More than you can imagine.”
Lily said, “I wonder, did their victims
have to be inside that circle?”
“Good question. Since I was there and saw
all of it, I think they did have to have their
victims inside the circle. Or maybe it was
just a ritual that they themselves had developed
over time, a ceremony that gave the Tuttles
more of a kick out of what they were doing.
However, I didn’t see that the Ghouls had
any knives or axes, so why did they say that?”
He paused a moment, thinking back. “You
know, Tammy had a knife but I didn’t see
any axes anywhere.”
“Maybe she was just speaking dramatically.”
Savich thought about the teenage boy, his
body mutilated. “Maybe. I don’t think
so.”
“What sorts of things has MAX dug up?”
He paused for a moment, then gave a slight
shake of his head as he said, “You’d be
surprised what’s turned up over the years.”
“Yeah, I bet I would, only you’re not
going to tell me anything, are you?”
There was a knock on the door.
Sherlock’s voice. “Quick, Dillon. Open
up!”
She was carrying three covered trays, stacked
on top of one another. “From Mrs. Blade,
downstairs,” she said and handed them to
Savich. “Besides doing crossword puzzles,
she likes to cook. She insisted that if we
couldn’t come down to the dining room, she
was sending this up.”
Two huge plates of spaghetti with meatballs,
one huge plate without the meatballs for Savich,
lots of Parmesan cheese in a big bowl on the
side, eight slices of garlic bread, and three
large bowls of Caesar salad.
No one said a word for at least seven minutes,
just groaned with pleasure and chewed. Finally,
Lily sat back, patted her stomach, and sighed.
“That garlic bread makes your back teeth
sing the Italian anthem. Goodness, that was
nearly as good as our Mexican lunch.”
Sherlock wanted to laugh, but her mouth was
full of spaghetti. Savich said, “Nah, Lily,
give me a salty tortilla and salsa hot enough
to burn the rubber off my soles any day. I
wonder which one of your in-laws is going
to pay us a visit this evening?”
Lily turned a bit pale. “But why would any
of them want to see me again?”
Sherlock took the tray off her lap and said
matter-of-factly, “Because their pigeon
is bent on flying out of the nest. You survived
the attack on the city bus this morning. No
more attacks since Dillon and I have been
with you. Nope, now they’ve got to visit
you and try to convince you that Tennyson
can’t live without you.”
“A final shot,” Lily said.
“Yes, that’s right,” Sherlock said.
Savich just smiled. “Only thing is, they
also know that their little pigeon has two
big crows guarding her. We’ll see exactly
what tack they take. Ah, look at that dessert
Sherlock was hiding from us. Chocolate mousse,
one of my favorites.”
Tennyson and his mother showed up an hour
later, at precisely eight o’clock.
Charlotte Frasier had come to the hospital
only once, stood by Lily’s bed, and told
her at least three times that she desperately
needed to see dear Dr. Rossetti, a fine doctor,
an excellent man who would help her. She was
so worried about her dear Lily, everyone was.
No one wanted her to try to kill herself again.
To which Lily had simply stared at her, not
a single word coming to mind after that outrageous
speech. This evening, she was beautifully
dressed in a dark wine-colored wool suit,
a pale pink silk blouse beneath. Her thick
black hair, not a hint of white, was cut short
and tousled in loose curls and waves around
her face. It was a very young style, but it
didn’t look ridiculous at all. Her teeth
were white and straight, her lipstick blood
red. Charlotte looked good; she always had.
As for Tennyson, he paid no attention to either
Savich or Sherlock, just marched directly
to Lily’s bed, grabbed her hand, and held
on tightly.
“Come home with me, Lily. I need you.”
“Hello, Tennyson. Hello, Charlotte. What
more could we possibly have to say to each
other? Dillon thought you would come by this
evening, but I have to admit I’m very surprised.”
Lily finally got her hand back and asked,
“Oh yes, where is your father? Isn’t he
well?”
Savich said easily, “Maybe they don’t
think they need him. They’re hopeful they
can talk you around by themselves.”
Lily said to her husband, “You can’t.”
Charlotte said in her rich-as-sin Savannah-smooth
voice, “Elcott wanted to come tonight, but
he had a slight indigestion. Now, listen to
me for a moment, Lily. My son loves you very
much. Since he’s a man, it’s difficult
for him to speak from his heart—that’s
a woman sort of thing to do, so I am telling
you for him that he really does need you.”
“Actually, Charlotte, Tennyson can speak
very eloquently. However, I don’t think
his heart has anything to do with it. No,
Charlotte, what Tennyson really needs is my
Sarah Elliott paintings.”
“That’s not true!” Tennyson whirled
about to face Savich. “You have filled her
head with suspicions, doubts, with lies about
me and my family and my motives. I don’t
have any ulterior motives! I love my wife,
do you hear me? Yes, that is from my bruised
and bleeding heart! I wouldn’t do anything
to harm her. She’s precious to me. Why don’t
you and your wife just go back to Washington
and fight criminals, you know, people who
have really done bad things, not innocent
people you’ve just taken a dislike to. That’s
what you’re paid to do, not rip apart a
loving family! Leave us the hell alone!”
“That was a very impassioned speech,”
Sherlock said, smiling and nodding in approval.
She knew from the furious pulse pounding in
Tennyson’s neck that he would cheerfully
murder her.
Charlotte’s voice was still as silky and
soft as gently flowing honey. “Now, now,
my dears, all of you need to calm down. Lily
dearest, you’re a grown woman. My Tennyson
is just as protective of his own younger sister
as your brother is of you. But your brother
and his wife have gone over the line. They
dislike my son, for whatever reasons I’m
sure I can’t say. But there can simply be
no proof to any of their accusations, not
a shred. Mad accusations, all of them. Lily,
how could you possibly believe such things
of my son?”
Sherlock said, “I wouldn’t call them particularly
‘mad accusations,’ but, yes, ma’am,
you’re right about proof. If we had proof,
we’d haul his butt to jail.”
Charlotte said, “So, then, why are you continuing
to poison poor Lily’s mind? You’re doing
her a disservice. She’s really not well,
you know, and you’re pushing her farther
down a road none of us want her to travel.”
“Mother—”
“No, it’s true, Tennyson. Lily is mentally
ill. She needs to come home so we can take
care of her.”
Lily said in a loud, clear voice that brought
everyone’s eyes back to her, “A young
guy tried to murder me this morning.”
“What? Oh, God, no!” Tennyson nearly jerked
her up into his arms, but Lily managed to
press herself against the headboard and hold
firm. Even as she was struggling, she said,
“No, Tennyson, I’m quite all right. He
didn’t succeed, as you can see. Actually,
I beat the stuffing out of him. The cops know
who he is. Do back away now before my sister-in-law
bites you.”
Sherlock laughed.
“That’s right,” Savich said. “His
name is Morrie Jones. Ring a bell, Tennyson?
Charlotte? No? Well, you certainly got to
him quickly enough, set everything in motion
with nary a wasted moment. The cops will catch
him anytime now and he’ll spill his guts
to them, and then we’ll have our proof.”
Tennyson said, “It’s another lie, Lily.
The guy must have mistaken you for someone
else; that, or more likely, the guy was just
a mugger. Where did it happen?”
“That’s right, you couldn’t have known
where he’d find me, could you? He got on
a local city bus that was empty except for
me and the bus driver, because of the funeral.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “Dear old Ferdy
Malloy died, probably poisoned by his wife.
Everybody knows it, but no one was about to
insist on an autopsy, least of all the coroner.”
“Yes, yes, but that’s not important, Mother.
Someone tried to hurt Lily.”
“A sharp knife probably meant he was planning
to do more than hurt me,” Lily said. “Lucky
for me that Dillon had taught me how to protect
myself.”
“Just maybe,” Tennyson said now, his voice
all soft and gentle, his patented shrink’s
voice, “just maybe there was this young
guy who came on to you, maybe even asked you
out. I know Dr. Rossetti believes that a young
woman, vulnerable like you are, uncertain,
her mind clouded, can imagine many different
things to disguise her sickness—”
Lily, who’d been staring at him like he
had sprouted a TV antenna from his head, said,
“Why did I ever think I loved you? You’re
the biggest jerk.”
“I’m not, I’m just trying to understand
you, to make you face things. Besides, that’s
what Dr. Rossetti thinks.”
Lily began laughing, rich, deep laughter that
didn’t stop for a good, long time. Finally,
wiping her eyes, she said, “You’re really
good, Tennyson, both you and Dr. Rossetti.
You combined all your shrink analysis with
some pills to drive me over the edge, and
no wonder I wanted to do away with myself.
So I made the guy up to assuage my guilt.
Do you know what, Tennyson? I think I’m
just about over blaming myself.”
Charlotte said, “Lily dearest, I’m glad
to hear you say that, actually—”
Lily interrupted her mother-in-law. She was
waving Tennyson away even as she said, her
voice light, amused, “Please go now, both
of you. I hope that I’m lucky enough never
to see either of you again.”
Sherlock said, “Oh, I hope we do see them
again, Lily. In a courtroom.”
Savich said suddenly, “Your first wife,
Tennyson. I don’t suppose Lynda’s fondest
wish was to be cremated?”
Tennyson was shaking so much from rage, Sherlock
was sure he was going to go after her husband,
a singularly stupid thing for him even to
consider. She stepped quickly to him, laid
her hand on his forearm and said, “Don’t
even think about it. You couldn’t take me
and I’m half your size. Even five days after
surgery, I doubt you could take Lily either.
So please just leave, Tennyson, and take your
mother with you.”
“I am appalled that you have relatives who
are so very close-minded and obnoxious, Lily,”
Charlotte Frasier said, her words smooth out
of her mouth. They left, not another word
out of either mouth, but Tennyson did pause
to give Lily a tormented look over his shoulder.
Sherlock said thoughtfully, “He was trying
to reproduce a patented Heathcliff look there,
all down-in-the-mouth and pathetic. He didn’t
do it well, but he tried.”
Lily said, “Did you notice that lovely black
turtleneck sweater Tennyson was wearing? I
gave it to him for Christmas.”
“You know what I think, Lily?” Savich
asked, shaking his head at her. “I think
the next time a guy appeals to you, red lights
need to flash in your brain. Then we need
to take him in for questioning.”
“I was just thinking about that this morning.
Maybe I’m too gullible. Okay, no more good-looking
men; actually, no more men at all, Dillon,
or I’ll kick myself from here to Boston.
Nothing but gnomes with pocket protectors
for me in the future, and they’ll just be
friends.”
That was going overboard, Sherlock was thinking,
but for the time being, not a bad way for
Lily to think about the opposite sex.
Lily said, “I wish I had a beer so I could
drink to that.”
Savich said, “No beer. Here’s more iced
tea.”
“Thanks.” Lily sipped the tea and laid
her head back against the pillow. “I wonder
where my father-in-law was. You think they
really thought he’d be a liability?”
“Evidently so,” Savich said. “What amazes
me is they don’t seem to realize what a
liability the both of them are.”
“I’ve never heard such a charming Southern
accent,” Sherlock said. She sat down on
the bed beside Lily and lightly rubbed her
arm. “Talk about candy coating.”
“She frightened me more than Tennyson.”
She gave both of them a fat smile. “I held
up,” she said, gave a deep sigh, and said
again, “I held up. He never guessed that
I was so scared.”
Savich felt her pain in his gut. He gathered
her against him, very careful with her stitches.
He kissed the top of her head. “Oh no, sweetheart,
there isn’t a reason for you to be afraid
of him, ever again. I was proud of you. You
held up great.”
“Yes, you did, Lily, so no more talk about
being scared. Remember, you’ve got your
two bulldogs right here. You know something?
I don’t know what they thought they could
gain by coming here. They didn’t try to
be very conciliatory. Are they stupid or was
there some method to their approach?”
“I surely hope not,” Lily said and closed
her eyes.
Savich’s cell phone rang.
11
Washington, D.C.
Three days later
“You go to bed now, Lily. No arguments.
You look like a ghost out of A Christmas Carol.”
Lily managed a small smile and did as she
was told. She was still weak, and the long
plane trip back east had knocked her flat.
She awoke an hour later to hear Dillon and
Sherlock talking to Sean. They cuddled, hugged,
and kissed him until finally he was so exhausted
he hollered big time for about two minutes.
Then he was out like the proverbial light.
His nursery was right next to the guest room,
where she lay quietly in the dim light. She
didn’t realize she was crying until a tear
itched her cheek. She wiped it away.
She closed her eyes when she heard her door
open slightly. No, she wasn’t ready to see
anyone just yet, although she loved them both
dearly for caring about her so very much.
She pretended to be asleep. When she heard
them go downstairs, she got up and went into
the baby’s room. Sean was sleeping on his
knees, his butt in the air, two fingers in
his mouth, his precious face turned toward
her. He looked just like his father, but he
had his mother’s dreamy blue eyes. She lightly
rubbed her fingers over his back. So small,
so very perfect.
She cried for the beauty of this little boy
and for the loss of Beth.
Late that evening, over a good-sized helping
of Dillon’s lasagna, she said, “Have you
checked back with your office? Did they find
Marilyn Warluski?”
Savich said, “Not yet. They found the boyfriend,
Tony Fallon, but he claims she hasn’t contacted
him. But there were a couple of folk in Bar
Harbor who identified a photo of her, said
they’d seen her recently. They’re going
back to put his feet to the coals. We’ll
know something soon.”
“We hope,” Sherlock said. Then she smiled.
“You should have seen Dillon’s mother
when we picked up Sean—she didn’t want
us to take him. She said we’d promised her
at least a week with him all to herself, but
we’d lied; it was barely a week. She was
shouting ‘Foul’ even as we were pulling
out of her driveway.”
Savich shook his head. “Now he’ll be so
spoiled that we’ll actually have to say
no to him a couple of times to get him grounded
back into reality.”
“I bet Mom would love to baby-sit him on
a regular basis,” Lily said.
“Well,” Savich said, “she’s got her
own life. She’s his treat; two or three
times a week he gets big doses of Grandma.
It works well that way. Our nanny, Gabriella
Henderson, is the best. She’s young, so
she’s got the energy and stamina to keep
up with him. Believe me, he can wear you down
very fast.”
Lily was laughing, looking over at Sean, who
was seated in his walker, a nifty contraption
that let him scoot all over the downstairs.
If he ran into something, he just changed
directions.
Savich said, “Those wheels are bad for the
floor, but Sherlock and I decided we’d just
have them refinished when he moves on to crawling
and walking.”
Lily said slowly, “Isn’t it strange? I
never imagined you with a kid, Dillon.”
Savich smiled and helped her down on his big
stuffed chair. “I didn’t either, but here
came Sherlock, blasted right into my comfortable
life, and it just seemed like the right thing.
We’re very lucky, Lily. Now, sweetheart,
we’ve been traveling all day and you’re
jet-lagged, probably really bad what with
the surgery a week ago. I want you to sleep
at least ten hours before you face the world
here in Washington tomorrow.”
“You and Sherlock have to be jet-lagged
too. Even though you travel a lot and you
are FBI agents, you—”
The front doorbell rang.
Savich walked around Sean, who was speeding
toward the front door. It was Simon Russo.
Savich knew him as a man of immense energy
and focus, a man who just didn’t quit. And
now Simon was looking beyond him to the living
room.
“Simon, it’s good to see you. What the
devil are you doing here?”
Simon grinned at his friend, shook his hand,
and said, “Yeah, good to see you, Savich.
I came to see the paintings. Where are they?
Not here, I hope. You don’t have the kind
of security to keep the paintings here, even
overnight.”
“No we don’t. Come on in. No, the paintings
are in the vault in the Beezler-Wexler Gallery,
safe as can be.”
“Good, good. I’d like you to arrange for
me to see them, Savich.”
“So you said. First, however, you need a
cup of tea and a slice of apple pie. My mom
made it.”
“Oh, not your blasted tea. Coffee, please,
Savich, I’m begging you. Coffee, black.
Then we can see the paintings.”
“Simon, come on in and say hello to Sherlock
and meet my sister, Lily.”
Simon shook his head and asked, “Not until
tomorrow? How early?”
“Get a grip, Simon. Come along. Hey, guys,
look who just flew through our front door?
Simon Russo.”
Lily’s first impression of Simon Russo was
that he was too good-looking, that he was
a man who looked like a Raphaelesque angel,
hair black and thick and a bit too long. Yeah,
the angel Gabriel, probably, the head angel,
the big kahuna. He was taller than her brother,
long and lean, his eyes brighter and bluer
than a winter sky over San Francisco Bay,
and he looked distracted. He hadn’t shaved.
He was wearing blue jeans, sneakers, a white
dress shirt, a yellow-and-red tie, and a tweed
jacket. He looked like a gangster academic,
an odd combination, but it was true. Or maybe
a nerd gangster, what with a name like Simon.
He also looked like he knew things, maybe
dangerous things. Lily was sure all the way
to her bones that she wouldn’t trust him
if he pledged his name in blood.
Red lights flashed in her brain. No, she wouldn’t
let herself even see him as a man. He was
an expert who wanted to see her Sarah Elliott
paintings for some reason. He was Dillon’s
friend. She wouldn’t have to worry about
him. Still, she found herself drawing back
into the big chair, just in case.
“Simon!” Sherlock was across the living
room in under three seconds, her arms thrown
around him, laughing and squeezing him. She
came barely to his chin. He was hugging her,
kissing her bouncing hair. She pulled back
finally, kissed his scratchy cheek, and said,
“Goodness, you’re here in a hurry. Yes,
I know it isn’t us you want to see, it’s
those paintings. Well, you’ll just have
to wait until morning.”
Lily watched him hug her sister-in-law close
once again, kiss her hair once again, and
say, “I love you, Sherlock, I’d love to
keep kissing you, but Dillon can kill me in
a fair fight. The only time I ever beat him
up, he was sick with the flu, and even then
it was close. He also fights dirty. I don’t
want him to mess up my perfect teeth.” He
lifted her over his head, then slowly lowered
her.
Savich said, crossing his arms over his chest,
“You kiss her hair again and I’ll have
to see about those teeth.”
Simon said, “Okay, I’ll stay focused on
the paintings, but, Sherlock, I want you to
know that I wanted you first.” He started
to kiss her again, then sighed deeply. “Oh,
what the hell.”
Then he turned those dark blue eyes on Lily,
and he smiled at her, far too nice a smile,
and she wished she could just stand up and
walk out of the room. He was dangerous.
“Why,” she said, not moving out of her
chair, actually pressing her back against
the cushions, “are you so hot to see my
paintings?”
Savich frowned at her, his head cocked to
one side. She sounded mad, like she wanted
to kick Simon through a window. He said easily,
“Lily, sweetheart, this is Simon Russo.
You’ve heard me talk about him over the
years. Remember, we roomed together our senior
year at MIT?”
“Maybe,” Lily said. “But what does he
want with my paintings?”
“I don’t know yet. He’s a big-time dealer
in the art world. He’s the one I called
to ask how much Grandmother’s paintings
are worth in today’s market.”
“I remember you,” she said to Simon. “I
was sixteen when you came home with Dillon
on Christmas your senior year. Why do you
want to see my paintings so badly?”
Simon remembered her, only she was all grown
up now, not the wily, fast-talking teenager
who’d tried to con him out of a hundred
bucks. He didn’t remember the scheme—some
bet, maybe, but he did remember that she would
have gotten it out of him, too, if her father
hadn’t warned him away and told him to keep
his money in his wallet.
Simon wasn’t deaf. He heard wariness, maybe
even distrust in her voice. Why would she
dislike him? She didn’t even know him, hadn’t
seen him in years. She didn’t look much
like that teenager, either. She still looked
like a fairy princess, but this grown-up fairy
princess looked ground under—alarmingly
pale, shadows beneath her eyes. Her hair was
pulled back in a ratty ponytail and badly
needed to be washed. She also needed to gain
some weight to fill out her clothes. Antipathy
was pouring off her in waves, a tsunami of
dislike to drown him. Why?
“Are you in pain?” he asked, taking a
step toward her.
Lily blinked at him, drawing herself in even
more. “What?”
“Are you in pain? I know you had surgery
last week. That’s got to be tough.”
“No,” she said, still looking as though
she was ready to gut him. Then Lily realized
that she had no reason at all to dislike this
man. He was her brother’s friend, nothing
more, no reason to be wary of him. The only
problem was that he was good-looking, and
surely she could overlook that flaw. He was
here to see her paintings.
The good Lord save her from good-looking men
who wanted her paintings. Two had been more
than enough.
She tried to smile at him to get that puzzled
look off his face.
Now what was this? Simon wondered, but he
didn’t get an answer, of course. He didn’t
say anything more. He turned on his heel and
walked to where Sean had come to a halt in
his walker and was staring up at him, a sodden
graham cracker clutched in his left hand.
Crumbs covered his mouth and chin and shirt.
“Hi, champ,” Simon said and came down
on his haunches in front of Sean’s walker.
Sean waved the remains of the graham cracker
at him.
“Let me pass on that.” He looked over
his shoulder. “He’s still teething?”
Sherlock said, “Yep, for a while yet. Don’t
let Sean touch you, Simon, or you’ll regret
it. That jacket you’re wearing is much too
nice to have wet graham cracker crumbs and
spit all over it.”
Simon merely smiled and stuck out two fingers.
Sean looked at those two fingers, gummed his
graham cracker faster, then shoved off with
his feet. The walker flew into Simon. He was
so startled, he fell back on his butt.
He laughed, got back onto his knees, and lightly
ran his fingers over Sean’s black hair.
“You’re going to be a real bruiser, aren’t
you, champ? You’re already a tough guy,
mowed me right down. Thank God you’ve got
your mama’s gorgeous blue eyes or you’d
scare the bejesus out of everybody, just like
your daddy does.” He turned on his heel
to say to Lily, “Are you the changeling
or is Savich?”
Savich laughed and gave Simon a hand up. “She’s
the changeling in our immediate family. However,
she looks just like Aunt Peggy, who married
a wealthy businessman and lives like a princess
in Brazil.”
“Okay, then,” Simon said, “let’s see
if she tries to bite my hand off.” He stuck
out his hand toward Lily Frasier. “A pleasure
to meet another Savich.”
Good manners won out, and she gave him her
hand. A soft hand, smooth and white, but there
were calluses on her fingertips. He frowned
as he felt them. “I remember now, you’re
an artist, like Savich here.”
“Yes, I told you about her, Simon. She draws
No Wrinkles Remus, a political cartoon strip
that—”
“Yes, of course I remember. I’ve read
the strip, but it’s been a while now. It
was in the Chicago Tribune, if I remember
correctly.”
“That’s right. It ran there for about
a year. Then I left town. I’m surprised
you remember it.”
He said, “It’s very biting and cynical,
but hilarious. I don’t think it matters
if the reader is a Democrat or a Republican,
all the political shenanigans ring so true
it just doesn’t matter. Will the world see
more of Remus?”
“Yes,” Lily said. “Just as soon as I’m
settled in my own place, I’m going to begin
again. Now, why are you so anxious to see
my paintings?”
Sean dropped the graham cracker, looked directly
at his mother, and yelled.
Sherlock laughed as she lifted him out of
the walker. “You ready for a bath, sweetie?
Goodness, and a change, too. It’s late,
so let’s go do it. Dillon, why don’t you
make Lily and Simon some coffee. I’ll be
back with the little prince in a while.”
“Some apple pie would be nice,” Simon
said. “I haven’t had dinner yet; it would
fill in the cracks.”
“You got it,” Savich said, gave Lily the
once-over to make sure she was okay, and went
to the kitchen.
“Why do you want to see my paintings so
badly?” Lily asked again.
“I’d just as soon not say until I actually
see them, Mrs. Frasier.”
“Very well. What do you do in the art world,
Mr. Russo?”
“I’m an art broker.”
“And how do you do that, exactly?”
“A client wants to buy, say, a particular
painting. A Picasso. I locate it, if I don’t
know where it is already—which I do know
most of the time—see if it’s for sale.
If it is, I procure it for the client.”
“What if it’s in a museum?”
“I speak to the folk at the museum, see
if there’s another painting, of similar
value, that they’d barter for the one my
client wants. It happens that way, successfully
sometimes, if the museum wants what I have
to barter more than the painting they have.
Naturally, I try to keep up with the wants
and needs of all the major museums, the major
collectors as well.” He smiled. “Usually,
though, a museum isn’t all that eager to
part with a Picasso.”
“You know all about the illegal market,
then.”
Her voice was flat, no real accusation in
it, but he knew to his toes that she was very
wary of him. Why? Ah, yes, her paintings,
that was it. She didn’t trust him because
she was afraid for her paintings. Okay, he
could deal with that.
He sat down on the sofa across from her, picked
up the afghan, and held it out to her.
Lily said, “Thanks, I am a bit cold. No,
no, just toss it to me.”
But he didn’t. He spread it over her, aware
that she didn’t want him near her, frowned,
then sat down again and said, “Of course
I know about the illegal market. I know all
of the main players involved, from the thieves
to the most immoral dealers, to the best forgers
and the collectors who, many of them, are
totally obsessed if there is a piece of art
they badly want. ‘Obsession’ is many times
the operative word in the business. Is there
anything you want to know about it, Mrs. Frasier?”
“You know the crooks who acquire the paintings
for the collectors.”
“Yes, some of them, but I’m not one of
them. I’m strictly on the up-and-up. You
can believe that because your brother trusts
me. No one’s tougher than Savich when it
comes to trust.”
“You’ve known each other for a very long
time. Maybe trust just starts between kids
and doesn’t end, particularly if you rarely
see each other.”
“Whatever that means,” Simon said. “Look,
Mrs. Frasier, I’ve been in the business
for nearly fifteen years. I’m sorry if you’ve
had some bad experiences with people in the
art world, but I’m honest, and I don’t
dance over the line. You can take that to
the bank. Of course I know about the underside
of the business or I wouldn’t be very successful,
now would I?”
“How many of my grandmother’s paintings
have you dealt with?”
“Over the years, probably a good dozen,
maybe more. Some of my clients are museums
themselves. If the painting is owned by a
collector—legally, of course—and a museum
wants to acquire it, then I try to buy it
from the collector. Since I know what all
the main collectors own and accumulate, I
will try to barter with them. It cuts both
ways, Mrs. Frasier.”
“I’m divorcing him, Mr. Russo. Please
don’t call me that again.”
“All right. ‘Frasier’ is a rather common
sort of name anyway, doesn’t have much interest.
What would you like to be called, ma’am?”
“I think I’ll go back to my maiden name.
You can call me Ms. Savich. Yes, I’ll be
Lily Savich again.”
Her brother said from the doorway, “I like
it, sweetheart. Let’s wipe out all reminders
of Tennyson.”
“Tennyson? What sort of name is that?”
Lily actually smiled. If it wasn’t exactly
at him, it was still in his vicinity. “His
father told me that Lord or Alfred just wouldn’t
do, so he had to go with Tennyson. He was
my father-in-law’s favorite poet. Odd, but
my mother-in-law hates the poet.”
“Perhaps Tennyson, the poet—not your nearly
ex-husband—is a bit on the ‘pedantic’
side.”
“You’ve never read Tennyson in your life,”
Lily said.
He gave her the most charming smile and nodded.
“You’re right. I guess ‘pedantic’
isn’t quite right?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t read him either.”
“Here’s coffee and apple pie,” Savich
said, then cocked his head, looking upward.
He said, “I hear Sherlock singing to Sean.
He loves a good, rousing Christmas carol in
the bathtub. I think she’s singing ‘Hark!
The Herald Angels Sing.’ You guys try to
get along while I join the sing-along. You
can trust him, Lily.”
When they were alone again, Lily heard the
light slap of rain on the windows for the
first time. Not a hard, drenching rain, just
an introduction, maybe, to the winter rains
that were coming. It had been overcast when
they’d landed in Washington, and there was
a stiff wind.
Simon sipped Savich’s rich black coffee,
sighed deeply, and sat back, closing his eyes.
“Savich makes the best coffee in the known
world. And he rarely drinks it.”
“His body is a temple,” she said. “I
guess his brain is, too.”
“Nah, no way. Your brother is a good man,
sharp, steady, but he ain’t no temple. I
bet Savich would fall over in shock if he
heard you say that about him.”
“Probably so, but it’s true nonetheless.
Our dad taught all of us kids how to make
the very best coffee. He said if he was ever
in an old-age home, at least he’d know he
could count on us for that. Our mom taught
Dillon how to cook before he moved to Boston
to go to MIT.”
“Did she teach all of you?”
“No, just Dillon.” She stopped, listening
to the two voices singing upstairs. “They’ve
moved on to ‘Silent Night.’ It’s my
favorite.”
“They do the harmony well. However, what
Savich does best is country and western. Have
you ever heard him at the Bonhomie Club?”
She shook her head, drank a bit of coffee,
and knew her stomach would rebel if she had
any more.
“Maybe if you’re feeling recovered enough,
we could all go hear him sing at the club.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Why do you distrust me, Ms. Savich? Or
dislike me? Whatever it is.”
She looked at him for a good, long time, took
a small bit of apple pie, and said finally,
“You really don’t want to know, Mr. Russo.
And I’ve decided that if Dillon trusts you,
why, then, I can, too.”
12
Raleigh Beezler, co-owner of the Beezler-Wexler
Gallery of Georgetown, New York City, and
Rome, gave Lily the most sorrowful look she’d
seen in a very long time, at least as hangdog
as Mr. Monk’s at the Eureka museum.
He kissed his fingers toward the paintings.
“Ah, Mrs. Frasier, they are so incredible,
so unique. No, no, don’t say it. Your brother
already told me that they cannot remain here.
Yes, I know that and I weep. They must make
their way to a museum so the great unwashed
masses can stand in their wrinkled walking
shorts and gawk at them. But it brings tears
to my eyes, clogs my throat, you understand.”
“I understand, Mr. Beezler,” Lily said
and patted his arm. “But I truly believe
they belong in a museum.”
Savich heard a familiar voice speaking to
Dyrlana, the gorgeous twenty-two-year-old
gallery facilitator, hired, Raleigh admitted
readily, to make the gentlemen customers looser
with their wallets. Savich turned and called
out, “Hey, Simon, come on back here.”
Lily looked through the open doorway of the
vault and watched Simon Russo run the distance
to the large gallery vault in under two seconds.
He skidded to a stop, sucked in his breath
at the display of the eight Sarah Elliott
paintings, each lovingly positioned against
soft black velvet on eight easels, and said,
“My God,” and nothing else.
He walked slowly from painting to painting,
pausing to look closely at many of them, and
said finally, “You remember, Savich, that
your grandmother gave me The Last Rites for
my graduation present. It was my favorite
then and I believe it still is. But this one—The
Maiden Voyage—it’s incredible. This is
the first time I’ve seen it. Would you look
at the play of light on the water, the lace
of shadows, like veils. Only Sarah Elliott
can achieve that effect.”
“For me,” Lily said, “it’s the people’s
faces. I’ve always loved to stare at the
expressions, all of them so different from
each other, so telling. You know which man
owns the ship just by the look on his face.
And his mother—that look of superior complacency
at what he’s achieved, mixed with the love
she holds so deeply for her son and the ship
he’s built.”
“Yes, but it’s how Sarah Elliott uses
light and shadow that puts her head and shoulders
above any other modern artist.”
“No, I disagree with you. It’s the people,
their faces, you see simply everything in
their expressions. You feel like you know
them, know what makes them tick.” She saw
he would object again and rolled right over
him. “But this one has always been my favorite.”
She lightly touched her fingertips to the
frame on The Swan Song. “I really hate to
see it go to a museum.”
“Keep it with you then,” Savich said.
“I’ve kept The Soldier’s Watch. The
insurance costs a bundle as well as the alarm
system, but very few people know about it,
and that’s what you’ll have to do. Keep
it close and keep it quiet.”
Simon looked up from his study of another
painting. “I have The Last Rites hung in
a friend’s gallery near my house. I see
it nearly every day.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Raleigh
Beezler said and beamed at Lily, seeing hope.
“Do you know, Mrs. Frasier, that there is
an exquisite townhouse for sale not two blocks
from my very safe, very beautiful, very hassle-free
gallery that would accord you every amenity?
What do you say I call the broker and you
can have a look at it? I understand you’re
a cartoonist. There is this one room that
is simply filled with light, just perfect
for you.”
That was well done, Lily thought. She had
to admire Mr. Beezler. “And I could leave
some of my paintings here, in your gallery,
on permanent display?”
“An excellent idea, no?”
“I’d like to see the townhouse, sir, but
the price is very important. I don’t have
much money. Perhaps you and I could come to
a mutually satisfying financial arrangement.
My painting displayed right here for a monthly
stipend, a very healthy one, given that this
house sits in the middle of Georgetown and
I’d have to afford to live here. What do
you think?”
Raleigh Beezler was practically rubbing his
hands together. There was the light of the
negotiator in his dark eyes.
Simon cleared his throat. He’d continued
studying the rest of the paintings, and now
he turned slowly to say, “I think that’s
a very good idea, Ms. Savich, Mr. Beezler.
Unfortunately, there is a huge problem.”
Lily turned to frown at him. “I can’t
see any problem if Mr. Beezler is willing
to pay me a sufficient amount to keep up mortgage
payments, at least until I can get an ongoing
paycheck for No Wrinkles Remus, maybe even
get it syndicated . . .”
Simon just shook his head. “I’m sorry,
but it’s just not possible.”
“What’s wrong, Simon?” Because he knew
Simon, knew that tone of voice, Savich automatically
took Lily’s hand. “All right, the floor’s
yours. You really wanted to see the paintings.
You’ve seen them. I’ve watched you studying
them. What’s wrong?”
“No easy way to say this,” Simon said.
“Oh damn, four of them are fakes, including
The Swan Song. Excellent fakes, but there
it is.”
“No,” Lily said. “No. I would know if
it weren’t real. You’re wrong, Mr. Russo,
just wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Savich, but I’m very
sure. Like I said, the way Sarah Elliott uses
light and shadows makes her unique. It’s
the special blend of shades that she mixed
herself and the extraordinary brush strokes
she used; no one’s really managed to copy
them exactly.
“Over the years I’ve become an expert
on her paintings. Still, if I hadn’t also
heard some rumors floating around New York
that one of the big collectors had gotten
a hold of some Sarah Elliott paintings in
the last six months, I wouldn’t have come
rushing down here.”
Savich said, “I’m sorry, Lily, but Simon
is an expert. If he says they’re fake, then
it’s true.”
“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “Also, there
were no Sarah Elliotts for sale that I knew
of. When I heard The Swan Song as one of the
paintings acquired, I knew something was wrong.
I immediately put out feelers to get more
substantial information. With any luck, I’ll
find out what’s going on soon. Unfortunately,
I haven’t yet heard a thing about what happened
to the fourth painting. Since I knew that
you, Ms. Savich, owned them, and that they’d
been moved from the Chicago Art Institute
to the Eureka Art Museum eleven months ago,
I didn’t want to believe it—there are
always wild rumors floating through the art
world. I couldn’t be sure until I’d actually
seen them. I’m sorry, they are fakes.”
“Well,” Sherlock said, her face nearly
as red as her hair, “shit.”
Savich stared at his wife and said slowly,
“You really cursed, Sherlock? You didn’t
even curse when you were in labor.”
“I apologize for that, but I am so mad I
want to chew nails. This is very bad. I’m
really ready to go over the edge here. Those
bastards—those officious, murdering bastards.
There, I don’t have to curse anymore. I’m
sorry, Dillon, but this really is too much.
This is so awful, Lily, but at least we have
a good idea who’s responsible.”
Lily said, “Tennyson and his father.”
Sherlock said, “And Mr. Monk, the curator
of the Eureka museum. He had to be in on it.
No wonder he was near tears when you told
him you were taking the paintings. He knew
the jig would be up sooner or later. He had
to know that in Washington, D.C., experts
would be viewing the paintings and one of
them would spot the fakes.”
“So did Tennyson,” Savich said.
Lily said, “Probably my father-in-law as
well. Maybe the whole family was in on this.
But they couldn’t have known we would find
out the very day after we got here.” She
turned to Simon Russo. “I’m madder than
Sherlock. Thank you, Mr. Russo, for being
on top of this and getting to us so quickly.”
Simon turned to Savich. “There is one positive
thing here. At least Tennyson Frasier didn’t
have time to have all eight of them forged.
Now that I know for certain that we’ve got
four forgeries, I can find out the name of
the forger. It won’t be difficult. You see,
it’s likely to be one of three or four people
in the world—the only ones with enough technique
to capture the essence of Sarah Elliott and
fool everyone except an expert who’s been
prepared for the possibility.”
Lily said, “Would you have known they were
fakes if you hadn’t heard about them being
sold to a collector?”
“Maybe not, but after the second or third
viewing, I probably would have realized something
was off. They really are very well done. When
I find out who forged them, I’ll pay a visit
to the artist.”
“Don’t forget, Simon, we need proof,”
Savich said, “to nail Tennyson. And his
family, and Mr. Monk at the Eureka museum.”
Sherlock said, “No wonder that guy tried
to murder you on the bus, Lily. They knew
they had to move quickly and they did. It’s
just that you’re no wuss and you creamed
the guy. I wanna lock them all up, Dillon.
Maybe stomp on them first.”
Simon, who had been studying The Maiden Voyage,
looked up. “What do you mean she creamed
the guy? Someone attacked you? But you were
just out of surgery.”
“Sorry, I forgot to mention that,” Savich
said.
Lily said, “There was no reason to tell
him. But yes, I’d been five or six days
out of surgery. I was okay, thanks to a psychiatrist
who . . . well, never mind about that.
But I was feeling just fine. A young guy got
on an empty bus, sat beside me, and pulled
out this really scary switchblade. He was
lucky to get away.” And Lily gave him a
big smile, the first one he’d gotten from
her. He smiled back.
“Very good. Your brother taught you?”
“Yes, after Jack . . . No, never mind
that.”
“You have a lot of never minds, Ms. Savich.”
“You may have to get used to it.” But
she saw him file Jack’s name away in that
brain of his.
Simon said, “As for the fourth painting,
Effigy, I thought it was just fine at first,
but then I realized that the same forger who
did the other three did that one as well.
No leads yet on Effigy, but we’ll track
it down. It probably went to the same collector.”
Mr. Beezler, shaken, wiped a beautiful linen
handkerchief over his brow and said, “This
would be a catastrophe to a museum, Mr. Savich,
like a stick of dynamite stuck in the tailpipe
of my Mercedes. You, Mr. Russo, you are, I
gather, in a position to perhaps get the original
paintings back?”
“Yes,” said Simon, “I am. Keep the black
velvet warm, Mr. Beezler.”
Savich said, “I’ll speak to the guys in
the art fraud section, see what recommendations
they have. The FBI doesn’t do full-blown
stolen art investigations at this time, so
our best bet is Simon finding out who acquired
the paintings.”
Simon said, “First thing, I’ll do some
digging around, hit up my informants to get
verification on who our collector is, find
the artist, and squeeze him. The instant our
collector hears that I’m digging—and he’d
hear about it real quick—he’ll react,
either go to ground, hide the paintings, or
maybe something else, but it won’t matter.”
“What do you mean ‘something else’?”
Lily asked.
Savich gave him a frown, and Simon said quickly,
shrugging, “Nothing, really. But since I
plan to stir things up, I’ll be really careful
who’s at my back. Oh yeah, Savich, I’m
relieved you didn’t use the shippers that
Mr. Monk wanted you to use.”
Savich said, “No, I used Bryerson. I know
them and trust them. There’s no way Mr.
Monk or Tennyson or any of the rest of them
could know, at least for a while, where the
paintings ended up. However, I will call Teddy
Bryerson and have him let me know if he gets
any calls about the paintings. Simon, do you
think anyone will realize that these four
paintings are fakes if they’re out in the
open for all to see?”
“Sooner or later someone would notice and
ask questions.”
Lily said to Mr. Beezler, “I can’t very
well let a museum hang the four fakes. What
do you think about hanging all of them here
for a while, Mr. Beezler, and we can see what
happens?”
“Yes, I will hang them,” said Raleigh,
“with great pleasure.”
Lily said to Simon, “Do you really think
you can get the paintings back?”
Simon Russo rubbed his hands together. His
eyes were fierce, and he looked as eager as
a boy with his first train set. “Oh, yes.”
She imagined him dressed all in black, even
black camouflage paint on his face, swinging
down a rope to hover above an alarmed floor.
Savich said, “Just one thing, Simon. When
you find out who bought the paintings, I go
with you.”
Sherlock blinked at her husband. “You mean
that you, an FBI special agent, unit chief,
want to go steal four paintings?”
“Steal back,” Savich said, giving her
a kiss on her open mouth. “Bring home. Return
to their rightful owner.”
Lily said, “I’ll be working with Mr. Russo
to find the person who forged them and the
name of the collector who bought them. And
then we’ll have proof to nail Tennyson.”
“Oh no,” Savich said. “I’m not letting
you out of my sight, Lily.”
“No way,” Sherlock said. “No way am
I letting you out of my sight either. Sean
wants his auntie to hang out with him for
a while.”
Simon Russo looked at Lily Savich and slowly
nodded. He knew to his bones that when this
woman made up her mind, it would take more
than an offering of a dozen chocolate cakes
to change it. “Okay, you can work with me.
But first you need to get yourself back to
one-hundred-percent healthy.”
“I’ll be ready by Monday,” Lily said.
She raised her hand, palm out, to her brother
before he could get out his objection. “You
guys have lots to worry about—this Tammy
Tuttle person. She’s scary, Dillon. You’ve
got to focus on catching her. This is nothing,
in comparison, just some work to track these
paintings, maybe talking to these artists.
I know artists. I know what to say to them.
It won’t be any big deal. I can tell Mr.
Russo exactly how to do it.”
“Right,” said Simon.
Sherlock was pulling on a hank of curly hair,
something, Savich knew, she did when she was
stressed or worried. She said, “She’s
right, Dillon, but that doesn’t mean I like
it.” She sighed. “And it’s not just
Tammy Tuttle. Oh well, I’ll just spit it
out. Ollie phoned just before we left the
house this morning.”
“He did?” Savich turned the full force
of his personality on his wife, a dark brow
raised. “And you didn’t see fit to mention
it to me?”
“It’s Friday morning, Gabriella was at
the dentist and running late; she’s our
nanny,” Sherlock added to Simon. “Besides,
you’d already told Ollie and Jimmy Maitland
that you wouldn’t be in until late morning.
I was going to tell you on the way in.”
“I know I don’t want to hear this, but
out with it, Sherlock. I can take it.”
“Besides worrying about Tammy Tuttle, there’s
been a triple murder in a small town called
Flowers, Texas. The governor called the FBI
and demanded that we come in, and so we will.
Both the ATF and the FBI are involved. There’s
this cult down there that they suspect is
responsible for the murder of the local sheriff
and his two deputies, who’d gone out to
their compound to check things out. Their
bodies were found in a ditch outside of town.”
“That’s nuts,” Simon said.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, “it is. Ah, Raleigh,
would you mind visiting with Dyrlana for a
moment? All this stuff is sort of under wraps.”
Raleigh looked profoundly disappointed, but
he left them in the vault. At the doorway,
he said, “What about your sister and Mr.
Russo? They’re civilians, too.”
“I know, but I can control what they say,”
Savich said. “I really couldn’t get away
with busting your chops.”
They heard him chuckling as he called out,
“Dyrlana! Where is my gumpoc tea?”
“One problem is,” Sherlock said, “that
the cult has cleared out, split up into a
dozen or more splinter groups and left town
in every direction. Nobody knows where the
leader is. They’ve pulled in a few of the
cult members, but these folks just shake their
heads and claim they don’t know anything
about it. The only good thing is that we have
a witness, of sorts. It seems that one of
the women is pregnant by the guru. Lureen
was rather angry when she found him seducing
another cult member, actually at least three
or four other cult members. She slipped away
and told the town mayor about it.”
Savich said, “A witness, then. Did she identify
the guru as the guy who ordered the murders?”
“Not yet. She’s still thinking about it.
She’s afraid she’d screw up her child’s
karma if she identified the father as a murderer.”
“Great,” Savich said and sighed. “Like
Ollie said, there doesn’t seem to be anything
in this life that’s easy. Do we have some
sort of name on this guy?”
“Oh, sure, that’s no secret,” Sherlock
said. “Wilbur Wright. Lureen just wouldn’t
say his name out loud, but everybody knows
it, since he was around town for a couple
of months.”
“Isn’t that clever?” Savich rubbed the
back of his neck, nodded to Simon, grabbed
his wife’s hand, and walked out of the vault.
He said over his shoulder, “It’s settled
then. Lily, you rest and recuperate. Simon,
you can stay at the house. I’d feel better
if you did. Sherlock and I will call you guys
later. Oh yes, don’t spoil Sean. Gabriella
is besotted with him already; she doesn’t
need any more help. Holler if you want MAX
to check anything out for you, Simon.”
“Will do.”
“Oh, yes, there’s one other thing,”
Sherlock said to Savich once they were out
of the vault and in the gallery itself, alone
and beyond the hearing of Lily or Simon. She
glanced at Raleigh and Dyrlana, who were drinking
gumpoc tea over by the front glass doors.
Savich knew he didn’t want to hear this.
He merely looked at her, nodding slowly.
“The guru. He had the hearts cut out of
the sheriff and his two deputies.”
“So this is why the Texas governor wants
us involved. This guy has probably done something
this sick before in other states. Ah, Sherlock,
I just knew it couldn’t be as straightforward
as you presented it. So, is Behavioral Sciences
also involved?”
“Yes. I didn’t want Lily to have to hear
that.”
“You’re right. All right, love, let’s
go track down Tammy Tuttle and Wilbur Wright.”
Lily Savich and Simon Russo stood in the silent
vault, neither of them saying a word. She
walked to one of the paintings that was real,
not forged—Midnight Shadows. She said, “I
wonder why he tried to kill me when he did?
What was the hurry? He had four more paintings
to have forged. Why now?”
Savich had told Simon most of what had happened
to his sister the previous evening, after
she’d gone to bed, looking pale and, truth
be told, wrung out. All except for the murder
attempt on the city bus in Eureka. What had
happened to her—what was still happening—was
tragic and evil, and it all came on top of
the death of her daughter.
But just perhaps they could recover the paintings.
He sure wanted to. He said, “That’s a
good question. I don’t know why they cut
the brake lines. My guess is that something
must have happened to worry them, something
to make them move up the timetable.”
“But why not just kill me off right away?
Surely it would have been easier for Tennyson
to simply inherit the paintings, to own them
himself. Then he wouldn’t have had to go
to all the trouble and risk of finding a first-class
forger and then collectors who would want
to buy the paintings.”
“Count on Mr. Monk to help with all that.
I bet you Mr. Monk doesn’t have all that
sterling a reputation. I’ll check into that
right away.”
“Yes,” Lily continued, her head cocked
to one side, still thinking. “He could have
killed me immediately, and then he would have
owned the paintings. He could then have sold
them legally, right up front, with no risk
that someone would turn on him, betray him.
Probably he would have made more money that
way, you know, in auctions.”
“First of all, Lily, killing you off would
have brought Savich down on their heads, with
all the power of the FBI at his back. Never
underestimate your brother’s determination
or the depths of his rage if something had
happened to you. As for legal auctions for
the paintings, you’re wrong there. Collectors
involved in illegal art deals pay top dollar,
many times outrageous amounts because they
want something utterly unique, something no
one else on the face of the earth owns. The
stronger the obsession, the more they’ll
pay. Going this route was certainly more risky,
but the payoff was probably greater, even
figuring in the cost of the forgery. It was
trying to kill you that was the real risk.
As I said, something very threatening must
have happened. I don’t know what, but we’ll
probably find out. Now, you ready to go have
some lunch before you go home to bed?”
Lily thought about how tired she was, how
she could simply sit down and sleep, then
she smiled. “Can I have Mexican?”
13
Quantico
Savich was seated in his small office in the
Jefferson dorm at the FBI academy when two
agents ushered in Marilyn Warluski, who’d
borne a child by her cousin Tommy Tuttle,
now deceased, the child’s whereabouts unknown.
They’d nabbed her getting on a Greyhound
bus in Bar Harbor, Maine, headed for Nova
Scotia. Since she’d been designated a material
witness, and Savich wanted to keep her stashed
away, they’d brought her in a FBI Black
Bell Jet to Quantico.
He’d never met her, but he’d seen her
photo, knew she was poorly educated, and guessed
that she was not very bright. He saw that
she looked, oddly, even younger than in her
photo, that she’d gained at least twenty
pounds, and that her hair, cropped short in
the photo, was longer and hung in oily hanks
to her shoulders. She looked more tired than
scared. No, he was wrong. What she looked
was defeated, all hope quashed.
“Ms. Warluski,” he said in his deep, easy
voice, waving her to a chair as he said her
name. The two agents left the office, closing
the door behind them. Savich gently pressed
a button on the inside of the middle desk
drawer, and in the next room, two profilers
sitting quietly could also hear them speak.
“My name is Dillon Savich. I’m with the
FBI.”
“I don’t know nothin’,” Marilyn Warluski
said.
Savich smiled at her and seated himself again
behind the desk.
He was silent for several moments, watched
her fidget in that long silence. She said
finally, her voice jumpy, high with nerves,
“Just because you’re good-lookin’ doesn’t
mean I’m gonna tell you anythin’, mister.”
This was a kick. “Hey, my wife thinks I’m
good-looking, but I’m wondering, since you
said it, if you’re just trying to butter
me up.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “you’re
good-lookin’ all right, and I heard one
of the lady cops on the airplane say you’re
a hunk. They were thinkin’ that a sexy guy
will make me talk, so they got you.”
“Well,” Savich said, “just maybe that’s
so.” He paused a fraction of a second, then
said, his voice unexpectedly hard, “Have
you ever seen the Ghouls, Marilyn?”
He thought she’d keel over in her chair.
So she knew about the Ghouls. She paled to
a sickly white, looked ready to bolt.
“They’re not here, Marilyn.”
She shook her head back and forth, back and
forth, whispering, “There’s no way you
could know about the Ghouls. No way at all.
Ghouls are bad, real bad.”
“Didn’t Tammy tell you that I was there
in the barn, that I saw them, even shot at
them?”
“No, she didn’t tell me . . . ah, shit.
I don’t know nothin’, you hear me?”
“Okay, she didn’t tell you that I saw
them and she didn’t tell you my name, which
is interesting since she knows it. But she
did tell you that she wanted to have at me,
didn’t she?”
Marilyn’s lips were seamed tight. She shook
her head and said “Oh, yeah, and she will.
She called you that creepy FBI fucker. I don’t
know why she didn’t tell me that you saw
the Ghouls.”
“Maybe she doesn’t trust you.”
“Oh, yeah, Tammy trusts me. She doesn’t
have anybody else now. She’ll get you, mister,
she will.”
“Just so you know, Marilyn, I’m the one
who shot her, the one who killed Tommy. I
didn’t want to, but they left me no choice.
They had two kids there, and they were going
to kill them. Young boys, Marilyn, and they
were terrified. Tommy and Tammy had kidnapped
them, beaten them, and they were going to
murder them, like they’ve murdered many
young boys all across the country. Did you
know that? Did you know your cousins were
murderers?”
Marilyn shrugged. Savich saw a rip beneath
the right arm of her brown, cracked leather
jacket. “They’re my kin. I could miss
Tommy—seein’ as how he’s dead now—but
he killed our baby, cracked its poor little
head right open, so I was really mad at him
for a long time. Tommy was hard, real hard.
He was always doin’ things you didn’t
expect, mean things, things to make you scream.
You killed him. He was one of a kind, Tommy
was. Tammy’s right, you’re a creepy fucker.”
Savich didn’t respond, just nodded, waiting.
“You shouldn’t have shot Tammy like you
did, tearing her arm all up so they had to
saw it off. You shouldn’t have been there
in my barn in the first place. It wasn’t
none of your damned business.”
He smiled at her, sat forward, his palms flat
on his desk. “Of course it’s my business.
I’m a cop, Marilyn. You know, I could have
killed Tammy, not just shot her arm off. If
I had killed her in the barn then she wouldn’t
have killed that little boy outside Chevy
Chase. Either she did it or the Ghouls did
it. Maybe the Ghouls did kill the boy, since
there was a circle. Do the Ghouls have to
have a circle, Marilyn? You don’t know?
Were you with her when she took that boy?
Did you help her murder him?”
Marilyn shrugged her shoulders again. “Nope,
I didn’t even know what she was going to
do, not really. She left me at this grungy
motel on the highway and told me to stay put
or she’d bang me up real bad. She looked
real happy when she got back. There was lots
of blood on her nurse’s uniform; she said
she’d have to find somethin’ else to wear.
She thought it was neat that there was blood
on the uniform, said it was a-pro-pos or somethin’
like that. Now, I’m not goin’ to say any
more. I already said too much. I want to leave
now.”
“You know, Marilyn, your cousin’s very
dangerous. She could turn on you, like this.”
He snapped his fingers, saw her cower in the
chair, saw her shudder. He said, “How would
you like to be ripped apart?”
“She wouldn’t turn on me. She’s known
me all my life. I’m her cousin, her ma and
mine were sisters, at least half-sisters.
They wasn’t real sure since their pa was
always cattin’ around.”
“Why did Tammy pretend to be Timmy?”
Marilyn focused her eyes on the pile of books
along the side wall of the office and didn’t
answer. Savich started to leave it for the
moment since it obviously upset her, when
she burst out, “She wanted me, you know,
but she weren’t no dyke and so she played
with me only when she was dressed like Timmy,
but never when she was Tammy.”
For an instant, Savich was too startled to
say a word. What a wild twist. He said finally,
“Okay then, tell me what kind of shape Tammy
is in right now.”
That brought Marilyn up straight in her chair.
“No thanks to you she’s going to be okay,
at least she kept telling me that. But she
hurts real bad and her shoulder looks all
raw and swollen. She went to a pharmacy late
one night, just when they was closing, and
got the guy to give her some antibiotics and
pain pills. He nearly puked when he saw her
shoulder.”
“I didn’t hear about any robbery in a
pharmacy,” Savich said slowly. They’d
been looking, but hadn’t gotten any news
as yet.
“That’s because Tammy whacked the guy
after she got the medicine from him, tore
the place up. She said that’d make the cops
go after the local druggies.”
“Where was this, Marilyn?”
“In northern New Jersey somewhere. I don’t
remember the name of that crummy little town.”
Local law enforcement hadn’t connected the
pharmacist’s murder to the Tammy Tuttle
bulletin the FBI had circulated all over the
eastern seaboard. Well, at least now they’d
find out everything the local cops had on
the murder. He said, “Where did Tammy go
after you went off to Bar Harbor?”
“She said she wanted some sun so’s it
would heal her shoulder. She was going down
to the Caribbean to get herself well. No,
I don’t know where; she wouldn’t tell
me. She said there were lots of islands down
there and she’d just find the one that was
best for her. Of course she didn’t have
enough money, so she robbed this guy and his
wife in a real fancy house in Connecticut.
Got three thousand and change. That’s when
she told me she’d be all right and I could
take off.”
“Naturally she’s going to call you, let
you know how she’s doing?”
Marilyn nodded.
“Where will she call you?”
“At my boyfriend’s, in Bar Harbor. But
I’m not there anymore, am I? My boyfriend
will tell her that the cops came around and
I left.”
That was true enough, Savich thought, no hope
for it. He just hoped that Tammy wouldn’t
call until they’d found out where she was
in the Caribbean.
Marilyn said, “I’ll bet she really wants
to kill you bad because of what you done to
her. She’ll come back when she’s really
well, and she’ll take you down. Tammy’s
the meanest female in the world. She beat
the shit out of me every time I saw her when
we was growin’ up. She’ll get you, Dillon
Savich. You’re nuthin’ compared to Tammy.”
“What are the Ghouls, Marilyn?”
Marilyn Warluski seemed to grow smaller right
in front of him. She was pressed against the
back of her chair, her shoulders hunched forward.
“They’re bad, Mr. Savich. They’re really
bad.”
“But what are they?”
“Tammy said she found them when she and
Tommy were hiding out in some caves in the
Ozarks a couple years ago. That’s in Arkansas,
you know. It was real dark, she told me, real
dark in that stinkin’ cave, smelled like
bat shit, and Tommy was out takin’ a leak,
and she was alone and then, all of a sudden,
the cave filled with weird white light and
then the Ghouls came.”
“They didn’t hurt her?”
Marilyn shook her head.
“What else did she say?”
“Said she knew they were the Ghouls, just
knew, that somehow they’d got inside her
head and told her their name, then told her
that they needed blood, lots of young blood,
and then they laughed and told her they were
counting on her, and then they just winked
out. That’s what Tammy said: they laughed,
spoke in her head, and just ‘winked out.’ ”
“But what are they, Marilyn? Do you have
any idea?”
She was silent for the longest time, then
she whispered, “Tammy told me just a couple
of days ago that the Ghouls were pissed off
at her because she and Tommy hadn’t given
them their young blood in the barn, that if
Tommy was still alive, they’d eat him right
up.”
“Do you think that’s why Tammy got that
kid? So the Ghouls could have their young
blood?”
She didn’t say anything, just looked at
him and slowly nodded. Then she started crying,
hunched over, her bowed head in her hands.
“Do you know anything else, Marilyn?”
She shook her head. Savich believed her. He
also understood why she was shivering. He
was close to shivering himself. He had goose
bumps on his arms.
Two FBI agents escorted Marilyn Warluski out
of Savich’s office. She would remain here
at Quantico, a material witness and the FBI’s
guest until Savich and Justice made a decision
about what to do with her.
He was standing by his desk, deep in thought,
looking out the window toward Hogan’s Alley,
the all-American town that the FBI Academy
had created and used to train their agents
in confronting and catching criminals, when
Jeffers, a profiler in the Behavioral Sciences,
housed three floors down here at Quantico,
said in his slow, Alabama drawl even before
he cleared the doorway, “This is about the
strangest shared delusion I’ve ever heard,
Savich. But what are the things to them? How
do they interact with Tammy Tuttle? Marilyn
said Tammy told her the Ghouls got in her
head and told her to do things.”
“What we’ve got to do is predict what
Tammy Tuttle will do next given this belief
of hers in the Ghouls,” said Jane Bitt,
a senior profiler who’d lasted nearly five
years without burning out.
Jane Bitt came around Jeffers and leaned against
the wall, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Lots of other monsters but not anything
like this. Tammy Tuttle is a monster. She’s
got monsters inside her—monsters within
a monster. The problem is that we don’t
have any markers, any clues to give us even
a glimmer of an idea of what we’re working
with here. We’re faced with something we’ve
never seen before.”
“That’s right,” said Jeffers, the two
words so drawn out in his accent that Savich
wanted to say them for him, that or just pull
them out of his mouth. “How do we get her,
Agent Savich? I sure want to hear what she
has to say about the Ghouls.”
Savich said, “You heard Marilyn say that
Tammy went to the Caribbean, to an island
‘right’ for her. She couldn’t have walked
there, and she sure can’t be hard to spot.
Just a moment, let me call Jimmy Maitland.
They can get on that right away.” He placed
the phone call, listened, and when he finally
hung up, he said, “Mr. Maitland was nearly
whistling. He’s sure they’ll get her now.
What else do you guys think from listening
to her?”
“Well,” Jane said as she sat down, crossing
her legs and leaning forward, “it seems
to be some sort of induced hallucination.
Marilyn seems to think they’re real, and
both you and the boys saw something unusual
in that barn, isn’t that right, Agent Savich?”
“Yes,” Savich said.
“Maybe Tommy and Tammy have some sort of
ability to alter what you see and feel, some
sort of hypnotic ability.”
Savich said to Jeffers, “You did a profile
on Timmy Tuttle before he turned out to be
Tammy.”
“Savich is right, Jane,” Jeffers said.
“We ain’t got nothing useful that fits
a psychotic cross-dresser who may have hypnotic
skills.”
Savich laughed, said, “You know what I want
to try? I want to talk Marilyn into letting
us hypnotize her. Maybe if you’re right
about this, she can tell us a lot more when
she’s under.”
Jeffers laughed. “Hey, maybe the Ghouls
are real, maybe they’re entities, aliens
from outer space. What do you think, Jane?”
“I like the sound of that, Jeffers. It’d
perk up our boring lives a bit, add some color
to our humdrum files. White cones whirling
around black circles—maybe they’re from
Mars, you think?”
Savich said, “Actually, I’ve been reading
articles, studies on various phenomena involved
in past crimes.”
“Found anything?” Jeffers asked.
“Nothing like this,” Savich said. “Not
a thing like this.” He added as he stood,
“Joke all you want, but just don’t do
it in front of the media.”
“Not a chance,” Jane said. “I don’t
want to get committed.” She rose, shook
Savich’s hand. “Marilyn told you that
Tammy met up with the Ghouls in a cave. My
husband is really into speleology and we usually
go spelunking on our vacations. In fact, we
were planning on visiting some of the caves
in the Ozarks this summer. No matter how much
I can laugh about this, I might want to rethink
that plan.”
Washington, D.C.
Lily was leaning over her drawing table, looking
at her work. No Wrinkles Remus was emerging
clear and strong and outrageous from the tip
of her beloved sable brush. The brush was
getting a bit gnarly, but it was good for
another few weeks, maybe.
First panel: Remus is sitting at his desk,
a huge, impressive affair, looking smug as
he says to someone who looks like Sam Donaldson,
“Here’s a photo of you without your wig.
You’re really bald, Sam. I’m going to
show this photo to the world if you don’t
give me what I want.”
Second panel: Sam Donaldson clearly isn’t
happy. He grabs the photo, says, “I’m
not bald, Remus, and I don’t wear a wig.
This photo is a fake. You can’t blackmail
me.”
Third panel: Remus is gloating. “Why don’t
you call Jessie Ventura? Just ask him what
I did to him.”
Fourth panel: Sam Donaldson, angry, defeated,
says, “What do you want?”
Fifth panel: Remus says, “I want Cokie Roberts.
You’re going to fix it so I can have dinner
with her. I want her and I’m going to have
her.”
Lily was grinning when she turned to see Simon
Russo standing in the doorway.
He looked fit, healthy, and tanned. She felt
suddenly puny and weak, still bowed over a
bit. She wished he’d just go away, but she
said, “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, but you should be
in bed. I just spoke to Savich, and he said
to check on you. He knew you wouldn’t be
following orders. You’ve got a strip nearly
ready?”
“Yep. It’s not the final version yet,
but close. Remus is in fine form. He’s blackmailing
Sam Donaldson.”
Simon wandered over to look down at the panels.
He laughed. “I’ve missed Remus, the amoral
bastard. Glad to see him back.”
“Now I’ve got to see if the Washington
Post would like to take me and Remus in. Keep
your fingers crossed that they’ll agree.
I won’t get rich anytime soon, but it’s
a start.”
Simon said after a moment, looking down at
the Remus strip, “I know a cartoonist doesn’t
make much money until he or she is syndicated.
Hey, I just happen to know Rick Bowes. He
runs the desk. How about I give him a call,
go to lunch, show him the strips?”
Lily didn’t like it, obvious enough, so
he didn’t say anything more until she shook
her head. “All right, then, you bring some
of these strips to show him and I’ll take
you both to a Mexican restaurant.”
“Well,” she said, “maybe that would
be okay.”
“Will you take a nap now, Lily? You should
take some of your meds, too.”
Sean hollered from the nursery down the hall.
They heard Gabriella telling him that if he’d
just stop chewing his knuckles as well as
hers, she’d get him a graham cracker and
they’d go for a walk in the park. Sean let
out one more yell, then burbled. Gabriella
laughed. “Let’s go get that cracker, champ.”
Lily heard Sean cooing as Gabriella carried
him down the hall. She tried to swallow the
tears, but it just wasn’t possible. She
stood there, not making a sound, tears rolling
down her cheeks.
Simon knew about tragedy, knew about the soul-deep
pain that dulled over time but never went
away. He didn’t say a word, just very slowly
pulled her against him and pressed her face
to his shoulder.
When the phone rang a minute later, Lily pulled
away, wouldn’t look him straight in the
eye, and answered it.
She handed it to him. “It’s for you.”
14
New York City
It was nearly ten o’clock Sunday night.
Simon was back in New York and had just finished
a hard workout at his gym. He felt both exhausted
and energized, as always. He toweled off his
face, wiped the sweat off the back machine,
stretched, and headed for the showers. There
were at least a dozen guys in the men’s
locker room, all in various stages of undress—cracking
jokes, bragging about their dates, and complaining
about injured body parts.
Simon stripped and nabbed the only free shower.
It was late when he finally stepped out and
grabbed up his towel. Only two guys were left,
one of them blow-drying his hair, the other
peeling a Band-Aid off his knee. Then, not
three minutes later, they were gone. Simon
had on his boxer shorts when the lights went
out.
He grabbed for his pants. He remembered the
circuit breaker was outside the men’s locker
room, right there on the left wall.
He heard something, a light whisper of sound.
It was the last thing he remembered. The blow
just over his right ear knocked him out cold.
He fell flat to the locker room floor.
“Hey, man, wake up! Oh God, please, man,
don’t be dead. I’d lose my job for sure.
Please, man, open your eyes!”
Simon cracked open an eye to see an acne-ridden
face, a very young face that was scared to
death, staring down at him. The young guy
was shaking his shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m not dead. Stop shaking
me.” Simon raised his hand and felt the
lump behind his right ear. The skin was broken,
and he felt the smear of his own blood. He
looked up at the kid and said, “Someone
turned out the lights and hit me with something
very hard.”
“Oh, man,” the kid said, “Mr. Duke is
going to blame me for sure. I’m supposed
to take care of this place, and I’ve only
been here a week and he’s going to fire
me. I’m roadkill.” He began wringing his
hands, looking around wildly, as if expecting
to see Mr. Duke, the manager, at any minute.
“The guy who hit me—I guess you didn’t
see him?”
“Nah, I didn’t see any guy.”
“All right. Don’t worry, chances are he’s
long gone. Help me up, I’ve got to check
my wallet.” Once on his feet, Simon opened
his locker door and reached for his ancient
black bomber jacket that had seen its best
days at MIT a dozen years before. His wallet
was gone.
A robber trips the circuit breaker, then comes
into the gym locker room to steal a wallet?
He must have known only one guy was left,
which meant that he’d had to look in, to
check. A mugger in a men’s locker room?
“Sorry, kid, but we should call the cops.
Can’t hurt. Just maybe they’ll turn up
something.”
Simon canceled his credit cards while he waited
for the cops to show up. The police, two young
patrolmen, took a statement, looked around
the gym and in the locker room, but—
Simon waited to call Savich until he was back
at his brownstone on East Seventy-ninth Street.
Savich said, “What’s happening?”
Simon said, “I had a bit of trouble just
a while ago.”
Savich said, “You leave my house this afternoon
after you get a phone call, don’t call me
to tell me what’s going on, and you’re
telling me you’ve already landed into trouble?”
“Yeah, that’s about the size of it. Is
Lily better?”
“Lily is indeed better, and she’s pissed.
She said tomorrow is Monday, her stitches
are out in the morning, and she’s coming
up to New York, no matter what kind of excuses
you try to pawn off on her.”
“I’ll have to think about that,” Simon
said.
“All right, tell me what happened.”
After Simon had finished, Savich said, “Go
to the hospital. Have a doctor check out your
head.”
“Nah, it’s nothing, Savich, the skin’s
barely split. Don’t worry about that. Thing
is my wallet was taken, and I really don’t
know what to make of it all.”
Savich said slowly, “You think some people
know you’re after my grandmother’s paintings?”
“Could be. Thing is, when I got that phone
call at your house, I wasn’t exactly truthful
with Lily. It wasn’t an emergency with a
client here in New York. It was from an art
world weasel I do business with occasionally.
I’d called him from your house earlier and
he said he’d heard some things, too, and
now he’s put out some feelers for me on
the Sarah Elliott paintings. He was expecting
some solid results soon, would have something
to show me, and he needed me up here in New
York. I was supposed to meet him tonight,
but he called earlier and said he didn’t
have everything together yet. So it’s on
for tomorrow night, at the Plaza Hotel, the
Oak Room Bar, one of his favorite places.
The guy’s good, really knows what he’s
doing, so I’m hopeful.”
“All right, sounds promising. Now, just
in case you were wondering how good a liar
you are, Lily didn’t believe you for a minute.
Your mugging, Simon, maybe it was just a mugging
or maybe it was a warning. They didn’t hurt
you seriously, and they could have. I’ll
bet you a big one that your wallet is in a
Dumpster somewhere near the gym. So take a
look.”
Simon could picture Savich pacing up and down
that beautiful living room with its magnificent
skylights.
“How’s Sean?”
“Asleep.”
“Is Lily asleep, too?”
“Nope. She’s here, knows it’s you on
the phone, and wants to lay into you. I can’t
stop her from coming up, Simon.”
Simon said, “Okay, give her my address,
tell her to take a shuttle up here. I’ll
meet her unless there’s a problem. I wish
you could keep her with you longer, Savich.”
“No can do.”
Simon said, “I changed my mind, Savich.
It may be turning dangerous, real fast. I
really don’t want Lily involved in this.
She’s a civilian. For God’s sake, she’s
your sister. I take it all back. Tie her to
a chair; don’t let her come up here.”
“Do you happen to have any suggestions about
what I should do, other than tying her up?”
“Put her on the phone. I want to talk to
her.”
“Sure. She’s about to rip the phone away
from me in any case. Good luck, Simon.”
A moment later, Lily said, “I’m here.
I don’t care what you have to say. Just
be quiet, go to the hospital, get a good night’s
sleep, and meet my plane tomorrow. I’ll
take the two-o’clock United shuttle to JFK.
Then we can handle things. Good night, Simon.”
“But Lily—”
She was gone.
Then Savich’s voice came on. “Simon?”
“Yeah, Savich. Well, I’d have to say it
was a nonstarter.”
Savich laughed. “Lily’s my sister. She’s
smart, and they are her paintings. Let her
help with it, Simon, but keep her safe.”
Simon bowed to the inevitable. “I’ll try.”
He took two aspirins and went back to his
gym. There was a Dumpster half a block away.
Lying on the top was his wallet, with only
the cash gone. He looked up to see two young
guys staring at him.
When one of them yelled an obscenity at him,
Simon started forward. They didn’t waste
time and swaggered away, then turned when
they figured they were far enough away from
him and gave him the finger.
Simon smiled and waved.
• He was waiting for her, standing right
in front of the gate, arms crossed, looking
pissed.
Lily smiled, said even before she got to him,
“I didn’t want to carry much because of
my missing spleen. I’ve got a bag down on
carousel four.”
“I’ve decided you’re going back to Washington
to draw your cartoons.”
“While you find my paintings? Doesn’t
look like you started out very well, Mr. Russo.
You don’t look so hot. I think I did better
on that bus than you did in your men’s locker
room last night. And I want to find my grandmother’s
paintings worse than you do.”
And she walked past him to follow the signs
to Baggage Claim.
Simon didn’t own a car, had never felt the
need to, so they took a taxi to East Seventy-ninth,
between First and Second. He assisted her
out of the cab, took her purse and suitcase,
grunted because it had to weigh seventy pounds,
and said, “This is it. I’ve got a nice
guest room with its own bath. You should be
comfortable until you wise up and go back
home. How are they doing on that cult case
in Texas? They got him yet? Wilbur Wright?”
“Not yet. What Dillon does is feed all the
pertinent information into protocols he developed
for the CAU—Criminal Apprehension Unit.
Put that eyebrow back down. So you already
know what he does and how he does it.”
“I should have asked, has MAX got Wilbur
yet?”
“MAX found out that Wilbur Wright is Canadian,
that he attended McGill University, that he’s
a real whiz at cellular biology, and that
his real name is Anthony Carpelli—ancestry,
Sicily. Oh my, Simon, this is very lovely.”
Lily stepped into a beautifully marbled entryway,
and felt like she’d stepped back into the
1930s. The feel was all Art Deco—rich dark
wood paneling, lamps in geometric shapes,
a rich Tabriz carpet on the floor, furniture
right out of the Poirot series on PBS.
“I bought it four years ago, after I got
a really healthy commission. I knew the old
guy who’d owned it for well nigh on to fifty
years, and he gave me a good deal. Most of
the furnishings were his. I begged and he
finally sold me most of them. Neat, huh?”
“Very,” she said, a vast understatement.
“I want to see everything.”
There was even a small library, bookshelves
to the ceiling with one of those special library
ladders. Wainscoting, leather furniture, rich
Persian carpets on the dark walnut floor.
He didn’t show her his bedroom, but guided
her directly to a large bedroom at the end
of the hall. All of the furniture was a rich
Italian Art Deco, trimmed with glossy black
lacquer. Posters from the 1930s covered the
walls. He put her suitcase on the bed and
turned. She said, shaking her head, “You
are so modern, yet here you are in this museum
of a place that actually looks lived in. This
is a beautiful room.”
“Wait till you see the bathroom.”
He didn’t tell her that he was leaving until
he had the key in his hand that evening at
10:30.
“I’m meeting a guy with information. No,
you’re not coming with me.”
“All right.”
He distrusted her, she could see it, and she
just smiled. “Look, Simon, I’m not lying.
I’m not going to sneak out after you and
follow you like some sort of idiot. I’m
really tired. You can go hear what your informant
has to say. Just be careful. When you get
back, I’ll still be awake. Tell me what
you find out, okay?”
He nodded and was at the Plaza Hotel by ten
minutes to eleven.
LouLou was there, pacing back and forth along
the park side of the Plaza, beautifully dressed,
looking like a Mafia don. The uniformed Plaza
doormen paid him little attention.
He nodded to Simon, motioned to the entrance
to the Plaza’s Oak Room Bar. It was dark
and rich, filled with people and conversation.
They found a small table, ordered two beers.
Simon leaned back, crossing his arms over
his chest. “How’s it going, LouLou?”
“Can’t complain. Hey, this beer on you?
Drinks aren’t cheap here, you know?”
“Since we’re in New York, I figured the
Oak Room would be our venue. Yeah, I’m paying
for the beer. Now, what have you got for me?”
“I found out that Abe Turkle did the Elliotts.
Talk is he had a contract to do eight of them.
Do you know anything about which eight?”
“Yeah, I do, but you don’t need to know
any more. I would have visited Abe Turkle
second. You sure it’s not Billy Gross?”
“He’s sick—his lungs—probably cancer.
He’s always smoked way too much. Anyway,
he took all his money and went off to Italy.
He’s down living on the Amalfi Coast, nearly
dead. So it’s Abe who’s your guy.”
“And where can I find him?”
“In California, of all places.”
“Eureka, by any chance?”
“Don’t know. He’s in a little town called
Hemlock Bay, on the ocean. Don’t know where
it is. Whoever’s paying him wants him close
by where he is.”
“You’re good, LouLou. I don’t suppose
you’ll tell me where you heard this?”
“You know better, Simon.” He drank the
rest of his beer in one long pull, wiped his
mouth gently on a napkin, then said, “Abe’s
a mean sucker, Simon, unlike most artists.
When you hook up with him, you take care,
okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be real careful. Any word
at all on who our likely collectors are?”
LouLou fiddled with a cigarette he couldn’t
light, even here in a bar, for God’s sake.
“Word is that it just might be Olaf Jorgenson.”
This was a surprise, a big surprise, to Simon.
He wouldn’t have put Olaf in the mix. “The
richest Swede alive, huge in shipping. But
I heard that he’s nearly blind, nearly dead,
that his collecting days are over.”
LouLou said, “Yeah, that’s the word out.
Why buy a painting if you’re blind as a
bat and can’t even see it? But, hey, that’s
what I heard from my inside gal at the Met.
She’s one of the curators, has an ear that
soaks up everything. She’s been right before.
I trust her information.”
“Olaf Jorgenson,” Simon said slowly, taking
a pull on his Coors. “He’s got to be well
past eighty now. Been collecting mainly European
art for the past fifty years, medieval up
through the nineteenth century. After World
War Two, I heard he got his hands on a couple
of private collections of stolen art from
France and Italy. Far as I know, he’s never
bought a piece of art legally in his life.
The guy’s certifiable about his art, has
all his paintings in climate-controlled vaults,
and he’s the only one who’s got the key.
I didn’t know he’d begun collecting modern
painters, like Sarah Elliott. I never would
have put him on my list.”
LouLou shrugged. “Like you said, Simon,
the guy’s a nut. Maybe nuts crack different
ways when they get up near the century mark.
His son seems to be just as crazy, always
out on his yacht, lives there most of the
time. His name’s Ian—the old guy married
a Scotswoman and that’s how he got his name.
Anyway, the son now runs all the shipping
business. From the damned yacht.”
Simon gave a very slight shake of his head
to a very pretty woman seated at the bar who’d
been staring at him for the past couple of
minutes. He moved closer to LouLou to show
that he was in very heavy conversation and
not interested. “LouLou, how sure are you
that it’s Olaf who bought the paintings?”
“Besides my gal at the Met, I went out of
my way to get it verified. You know my little
art world birdies that are always singing,
Simon. I spread a little seed, and they sing
louder and I heard three songs, all with the
same words. One hundred percent? Nope, but
it’s a start. Cost me a cool thousand bucks
to get them to sing to me.”
“Okay, you done good, LouLou.” Simon handed
him an envelope that contained five thousand
dollars. LouLou didn’t count it, just slipped
the fat envelope inside his cashmere jacket
pocket. “Hey, you know what the name of
Ian Jorgenson’s yacht is?”
Simon shook his head.
“Night Watch.”
Simon said slowly, “That’s the name of
a painting by Rembrandt. That particular painting
is hanging in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.
I saw it there a couple of years ago.”
LouLou cocked his head to one side, his hairpiece
not moving a bit because it was expensive
and well made, and gave Simon a cynical smile.
“Who knows? Just maybe Night Watch is hanging
in Ian’s stateroom, right over his bed.
I’ve often wondered how many real paintings
there are left in the museums and not beautifully
executed fakes.”
“Actually, LouLou, I don’t want to know
the answer to that question.”
“Since Sarah Elliott just died some seven
years ago, all her materials—the paints,
the brushes—still exist. You take a superb
talent with an inherent bent toward her sort
of technique and visualization, and what you
get is so close to the real thing, most people
wouldn’t even care if you told them.”
“I hate that.”
“I do, too,” LouLou said. “I need another
beer.”
Simon ordered them another round, ate a couple
of peanuts out of the bowl on their table,
and said, “Remember that forger Eric Hebborn,
who wrote that book telling would-be forgers
exactly how to do it—what inks, papers,
pens, colors, signatures, all of it? Then
he up and dies in ninety-six. The cops said
it was under mysterious circumstances. I heard
it was a private collector who killed Hebborn
because a dealer friend had sold him an original
Rubens that turned out to be a fake that Hebborn
himself had done. Supposedly the dealer died
shortly thereafter in a car accident.”
LouLou said, “Yeah, I met old Eric back
in the early eighties. Smart as a whip, that
guy, and so talented it made you cry. You
wondering if it was Olaf Jorgenson who popped
him? Hey, Simon, there’s a whole bunch of
collectors who’d cut off hands to have a
certain medal or stamp or train or painting.
They’ve got to have it or life loses its
meaning for them. Look, Simon, when you get
down to it, they’re the people who keep
us in business.”
“I wonder if Olaf ordered all eight paintings.
I wonder what he’s paying for them.”
“Huge bucks, my man, huge, count on it.
All eight Sarah Elliotts? Don’t know. I
haven’t heard any other names floated around.
Simon, I heard those eight paintings are owned
privately by a member of the Elliott family?”
“Yes, Lily Savich owns them. And therein
lies a very long, convoluted tale.” Simon
rose, putting a fifty-dollar bill on the table.
“LouLou, thank you. You know where to find
me. I think I’ll be heading out to California
soon to track down one of the major players—Abraham
Turkle. He’s English, right?”
“Half Greek. Weird guy. Very eccentric,
said to eat only snails that he raises himself.”
LouLou shuddered. “You take care around
him, Simon. Abe killed a guy who tried to
rip him off with his bare hands, just a couple
of years ago. So have a care. Hey, this Lily
Savich hire you?”
Simon paused, cocked his head to the side.
“Not exactly, but that’s about it. I want
to get those four paintings back.”
“I hope the others are safe.”
“Much safer than the snails in Abe’s garden.
Take care, LouLou.”
“Why are you going after Abe?”
Simon said, “I want to see if I can shake
something loose. It’s not just the art scam.
There are other folk involved in this deal
who have done very bad things, and I want
to nail them. Just maybe Abe can help me do
that.”
“He won’t help you do squat.”
“We’ll see. His forging days in Hemlock
Bay are over. I want to catch him before he
takes off to parts unknown. Who knows what
I can get out of him.”
“Good luck shaking the wasp nest. You know,
I’ve always liked the name Lily,” LouLou
said and gave Simon a small salute. Then,
when Simon left, LouLou turned his attention
to that very pretty lady at the bar who’d
kept looking over at them.
15
Quantico
Dr. Hicks said quietly, “Marilyn, tell me,
how did Tammy look when she came back to the
motel?”
“She had on a coat and she just ripped it
apart and showed me her nurse’s uniform.
It was soaked with blood.”
“Did she seem pleased?”
“Oh yes. She was crazy happy that she got
away. She just kept laughing and rubbing her
bloody hands against herself. She loves the
feel of fresh blood on her hands.”
“How d-id she get back to the motel? You
said her hands were all bloody. Wouldn’t
somebody have noticed?”
“I don’t know.” Marilyn looked worried,
shaking her head just a bit.
“No, no, that’s okay. It’s not important.
Now, you said she was wearing a coat. Do you
know where she got the coat?”
“I don’t know. When she came to get me,
she was wearing it. It was too big for her,
but it covered her arm where she didn’t
have one, you know?”
“Yes, I know. Mr. Savich would like to ask
you some questions now. Is that all right,
Marilyn?”
“Yes. He was nice to me. He’s sexy. I’m
kinda sorry that Tammy’s gonna kill him.”
Dr. Hicks raised a thick brow at Savich, no
look of shock on his face since he’d heard
it all. He just shook his head as Savich eased
his chair nearer to Marilyn’s.
“She’s well under, Savich. You know what
to do.”
Savich nodded, said, “Marilyn, how are you
feeling about Tammy right now?”
She was silent, her forehead creased in a
frown, then she shook her head and said slowly,
“I think I love her; I’m supposed to since
she’s my cousin, but she scares me. I never
know what she’s going to do. I think she’d
kill me, laugh while she rubbed my blood all
over her hands, if she was in the mood, you
know?”
“Yes, I know.”
“She’s going to kill you.”
“Yes, she might try, you told me. How do
you think she contacts the Ghouls?” Savich
ignored Dr. Hicks, who didn’t have a clue
who or what the Ghouls were. He just shook
his head and repeated the question. “Marilyn?”
“I’ve thought about that, Mr. Savich.
I know they were there when she killed that
little boy. Maybe, from what she said, she
just thinks about them and they come. Or maybe
they follow her around and she just says that
to prove how powerful she is. Do you know
what the Ghouls are?”
“No, I don’t have any idea, Marilyn. You
don’t either, do you?”
She shook her head. She was sitting in a comfortable
chair, her head leaning back against the cushion,
her eyes closed. She’d been staying in a
room at the Jefferson dormitory at the FBI
complex, watched over by female agents. She’d
washed her hair, and they’d given her a
clean skirt and sweater. Even hypnotized,
she looked pale and frightened, her fingers
continually twitching and jerking. He wondered
what would happen to her. She had no other
family, no education to speak of, and there
was Tammy, in the Caribbean, who’d scared
her all of her life. He hoped the FBI would
find her soon and Marilyn wouldn’t have
to be scared of her anymore.
He said, “Has Tammy been to the Caribbean
before?”
“Yeah. She and Tommy visited the Bahamas
a couple years ago. In the spring, I think.”
“Did they take the Ghouls with them?”
Marilyn frowned and shook her head.
“You don’t know if they killed anyone
while they were there?”
“I asked Tommy, and he just laughed and
laughed. That was right before he got me pregnant.”
Savich made a note to check to see if there’d
been any particularly vicious, unsolved killings
during their stay.
“Has Tammy ever talked about the Caribbean,
other than the Bahamas? Any islands that she’d
like to visit?”
She shook her head.
“Think, Marilyn. That’s right, just relax,
lean your head back, and think about that.
Remember back over the times you’ve seen
her.”
There was a long silence, and then Marilyn
said, “She said once—it was Halloween
and she was dressed like a vampire—that
she wanted to go to Barbados and scare the
crap out of the kids there. Then she laughed.
I never liked that laugh, Mr. Savich. It was
the same kind of laugh that Tommy had after
the Bahamas.”
“Did she ever talk about what the Ghouls
did to those kids?”
“Once, when she was being Timmy, she said
they just gobbled them right up.”
“But the Ghouls don’t just gobble them
up, do they? They maybe take an arm, a leg?”
“Oh, Mr. Savich, they just do that when
they’re full and aren’t interested in
anything but a taste. But I can’t be sure
because both Tommy and Tammy never really
told me.”
Savich felt sick. Jesus, did she really mean
what he thought she meant? That there were
young boys who’d simply disappeared and
would never be found because the Tuttles had
eaten them? Were they cannibals? He unconsciously
rubbed his arms at a sudden chill he felt.
He looked over at Dr. Hicks. His face was
red, and he looked ready to be ill himself.
Savich lightly touched her forearm and said,
“Thank you, Marilyn, you’ve been a big
help. If you could choose, right now, what
would you like to do with your life?”
She didn’t hesitate for a second. “I want
to be a carpenter. We lived for about five
years in this one place and the neighbor was
a carpenter. He built desks and tables and
chairs, all sorts of stuff. He spent lots
of time with me, taught me everything. ’Course
I paid him just like he wanted, and he liked
that a lot. In high school they told me I
was a girl and girls couldn’t do that, and
then Tommy got me pregnant and killed the
baby.”
“Just one more question. Was Tammy planning
to contact you from the Caribbean?” He’d
asked her this before. He wanted to see if
she added anything under hypnosis because
now he had a plan.
“Yeah. She didn’t say when, just that
she would, sometime.”
“How would she find you?”
“She would call my boyfriend, Tony, up in
Bar Harbor. I don’t think he likes me anymore.
He said if the cops were after me, then he
was out of there.”
Savich hoped that Tony wouldn’t take off
too soon. He was still there, working as a
mechanic at Ed’s European Motors. He’d
check in again with the agents in Bar Harbor,
keep an eye on him, maybe some wiretaps. Now
they had something solid. A call from Tammy.
“Thank you, Marilyn.” Savich rose and
went to stand by the door. He watched as Dr.
Hicks brought her gently back. He listened
as he spoke quietly to her, reassuring her,
until he nodded to Savich and led her from
the room, holding her shoulder.
Savich said, “It’s time for lunch, Marilyn.
We’ll eat in the Boardroom, not the big
cafeteria. It’s just down the hall on this
floor.”
“I’d really like a pizza, Mr. Savich,
with lots of pepperoni.”
“You’ve got it. The Boardroom is known
for its pizza.”
Eureka, California
Simon was pissed. He’d sent Lily back to
Washington. She’d been as pissed as he was
now, but she’d finally given up, seen reason,
and slid her butt into the taxi he’d called
for her. Only she hadn’t gone back to Washington.
She’d simply taken the same plane he had
to San Francisco, keeping out of sight in
the back, then managed to make an earlier
connection from San Francisco to Arcata-Eureka
Airport. She’d waltzed right up to him at
the damned baggage carousel and said in a
chirpy voice, “I never thought I’d be
traveling back to Hemlock Bay only two weeks
after I finally managed to escape it.”
And now they were sitting side by side in
a rental car, and Simon was still pissed.
“You shouldn’t have pulled that little
sneaking act, Lily. Some bad stuff could happen.
We’re in their neck of the woods again,
and I—”
“We’re in this together, Russo, don’t
forget it,” she said. She gave him a long
look, then glanced out the back window of
their rental car to study the three cars behind
them. None appeared to be following them.
She said, “You’re acting like I’ve cut
off your ego. This isn’t your show, Russo.
They’re my paintings. Back off.”
“I promised your brother I wouldn’t let
you get hurt.”
“Fine. Okay, keep your promise. Where are
we going? I was thinking it would be to Abe
Turkle. You said maybe you could get something
out of him, not about the collector he was
working for, but maybe about the Frasiers.
Since he’s here, that pretty well proves
he’s involved with them, doesn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“You said Abraham Turkle is staying in a
beach house just up the coast from Hemlock
Bay. Do we know who owns it? Don’t tell
me it’s my soon-to-be-ex-husband.”
Simon gave it up. He turned to her as he said,
“No, it’s not Tennyson Frasier. It’s
close, but no, the cottage is in Daddy Frasier’s
name.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that sooner? That
really nails it, doesn’t it? Isn’t that
enough proof?”
“Not yet. Just be patient. Everything will
come together. Highway 211 is a very gnarly
road, just like you told me. Are we going
to be passing the place where you lost your
brakes and plowed into that redwood?”
“Yes, just ahead.” But Lily didn’t look
at the tree as they passed it. The events
of that night were growing more faint, the
terror fading a bit, but it was still too
close to her.
Simon said, “Turns out that Abraham Turkle
has no bank account, no visible means of support.
So the Frasiers must be paying him in cash.”
“I still can’t get over their going to
all this trouble,” Lily said.
“After we verify that Mr. Olaf Jorgenson
of Sweden now has three in his possession—no,
we want him to have all four of the paintings,
it’d keep things simple—we may be able
to find out how much he’s paid for them.
I’m thinking in the neighborhood of two
to three million per painting. Maybe higher.
Depends on how obsessed he is. From what I
hear, he’s single-minded when he wants a
certain painting.”
“Three million? That’s a whole lot of
money. But to go to all this trouble—”
“I can tell you stories you don’t want
to hear about how far some collectors will
go. There was one German guy who collected
rare stamps. He found out that his mother
had one that he’d wanted for years, only
she wanted to keep it for herself. He hit
her over the head with a large bag of coins,
killed her. Does that give you an idea of
how completely obsessed some of these folk
are?”
Lily could only stare at him. “It’s just
hard to believe. This Olaf Jorgenson—you
told me he’s very old and nearly blind in
the bargain.”
“It is amazing that he can’t control his
obsession, not even for something as incidental
as, say, going blind. I guess it won’t stop
until he’s dead.”
“Do you think his son Ian has the real Night
Watch aboard his yacht?”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
“Are you going to tell the people at the
Rijksmuseum?”
“Yeah, but trust me on this, they won’t
want to hear it. They’ll have a couple of
experts examine the painting on the sly. If
the experts agree that it’s a forgery, they’ll
try to get it back, but will they announce
it? Doubtful.
“We’ve been checking out Mr. Monk, the
curator of the Eureka Art Museum. He does
have a Ph.D. from George Washington, and a
pedigree as long as your arm. If something’s
off there, Savich hasn’t found it yet. We’re
going deeper on that, got some feelers out
to a couple of museums where he worked. You
keep looking back there. Is anyone following
us?”
Lily shifted in her seat to face his profile.
“No, no one’s back there. I can’t help
it. To me, this is enemy territory.”
“You’re entitled. You had a very bad experience
here. You met Mr. Monk, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes.”
“Tell me about him.”
Lily said slowly, “When I first met Mr.
Monk, I thought he had the most intense black
eyes, quite beautiful really, ‘bedroom eyes’
I guess you could call them. But he looked
hungry. Isn’t that odd?”
Simon said, “He has beautiful eyes? Bedroom
eyes? You women think and say the strangest
things.”
“Like men don’t? If it were Mrs. Monk,
you’d probably go on about her cleavage.”
“Well, yeah, maybe. And your point would
be?”
“You’d probably never even get to her
face. You men are all one-celled.”
“You think? Really?”
She laughed, she just couldn’t help it.
He pushed his sunglasses up his nose, and
she saw that he was grinning at her. He said
with a good deal of satisfaction, “You’re
feeling better. You’ve got a nice laugh,
Lily. I like hearing it. Mind you, I’m still
mad because you followed me out here, but
I will admit that this is the first time I’ve
seen you that you don’t look like you want
to curl up and take a long nap.”
“Get over it, Simon. We must be nearly to
Abraham Turkle’s cottage. Just up ahead,
Highway 211 turns left to go to Hemlock Bay.
To the right there’s this asphalt one-lane
track that goes the mile out to the ocean.
That’s where the cottage is?”
“Yes, those were my directions. You’ve
never been out to the ocean on that road?”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“Okay now, listen up. Abe has a bad reputation.
He’s got a real mean side, so we want to
be careful with him.”
They came to the fork. Simon turned right,
onto the narrow asphalt road. “This is it,”
Simon said. “There’s no sign and there’s
no other road. Let’s try it.”
The ocean came into view almost immediately,
when they were just atop a slight rise. Blue
and calm as far as you could see, white clouds
dotting the sky, a perfect day.
“Look at this view,” Lily said. “I always
get a catch in my throat when I see the ocean.”
They reached the end of the road very quickly.
Abe Turkle’s cottage was a small gray clapboard,
weathered, perched right at the end of a promontory
towering out over the ocean. There were two
hemlock trees, one on either side of the cottage,
just a bit protected from the fierce ocean
storms. They were so gnarly and bent, though,
that you wondered why they even bothered to
continue standing.
There was no road, just a dirt driveway that
forked off the narrow asphalt. In front of
the cottage was a black Kawasaki 650 motorcycle.
Simon switched off the ignition and turned
to Lily. She held up both hands. “No, don’t
say it. I’m coming with you. I can’t wait
to meet Abe Turkle.”
Simon said as he came around to open her car
door, “Abe only eats snails and he grows
them himself.”
“I’m still coming in with you.”
She carefully removed the seat belt, laid
the small pillow on the backseat, and took
his hand. “Stop looking like I’m going
to fall over. I’m better every day. It’s
just that getting out of a car is still a
little rough.” He watched her swing her
legs over and straighten, slowly.
Simon said, “I want you to follow my lead.
No reason to let him know who we are just
yet.”
When he reached the single door, so weathered
it had nearly lost all its gray paint, he
listened for a moment. “I don’t hear any
movement inside.”
He knocked.
There was no answer at first, and then a furious
yell. “Who the hell is that and what the
hell do you want?”
“The artist is apparently home,” Simon
said, cocking a dark eyebrow at Lily, and
opened the door. He kept her behind him and
walked into the cottage to see Abraham Turkle,
a brush between his teeth, another brush in
his right hand, standing behind an easel,
glaring over the top toward them.
There was no furniture in the small front
room, just painting supplies everywhere, at
least twenty canvases stacked against the
walls. The place smelled of paint and turpentine
and french fries and something else—maybe
fried snails. There was a kitchen separated
from the living room by a bar, and a small
hallway that probably led to a bedroom and
a bathroom.
The man, face bearded, was indeed Abe Turkle;
Simon had seen many photos of him.
“Hi,” Simon said and stuck out his hand.
Abe Turkle ignored the outstretched hand.
“Who the hell are you? Who is she? Why the
hell is she standing behind you? She afraid
of me or something?”
Lily stepped around Simon and said, extending
her hand, “I like snails. I hear you do,
too.”
Abraham Turkle smiled, a huge smile that showed
off three gold back teeth. He had big shoulders
and hands the size of boxing gloves. He didn’t
look at all like an artist, Simon thought.
Wasn’t an artist supposed to wear paint-encrusted
black clothes and have long hair in a ponytail?
Instead, Abraham Turkle looked like a lumberjack.
He was wearing a flannel shirt and blue jeans
and big boots that were laced halfway to his
knees. There were, however, paint splotches
all over him, including his tangled dark beard
and grizzled hair.
“So,” Abe said, and he put down the brushes,
wiped the back of his hand over his mouth
to get off the bit of turpentine, and shook
Lily’s hand. “The little gal here likes
snails, which means she knows about me, but
I don’t know who the hell you are, fella.”
“I’m Sully Jones, and this is my wife,
Zelda. We’re on our honeymoon, just meandering
up the coast, and we heard in Hemlock Bay
that you were an artist and that you liked
snails. Zelda loves art and snails, and we
thought we’d stop by and see if you had
anything to sell.”
Lily said, “We don’t know yet if we like
what you paint, Mr. Turkle, but could you
show us something? I hope you’re not too
expensive.”
Abraham Turkle said, “Yep, I’m real expensive.
You guys aren’t rich?”
Simon said, “I’m in used cars. I’m not
really rich.”
“Sorry, you won’t want to buy any of my
stuff.”
Simon started to push it, then saw that Lily
looked on the shaky side. Simon nodded to
Abe Turkle and just looked at him.
“Wait here.” Abe Turkle picked up a towel
and wiped his hands. Then he walked past them
to the far wall, where there were about ten
canvases piled together. He went through them,
making a rude noise here, sighing there, and
then he thrust a painting into Lily’s hand.
“Here, it’s a little thing I did just
the other day. It’s the Old Town in Eureka.
For your honeymoon, little gal.”
Lily held the small canvas up to the light
and stared at it. She said finally, “Why,
thank you, Mr. Turkle. It’s beautiful. You’re
a very fine artist.”
“One of the best in the world actually.”
Simon frowned. “I’m sure sorry we haven’t
heard of you.”
“You’re a used-car salesman. Why would
you have heard of me?”
“I was an art history major,” Lily said.
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t heard of you
either. But I can see how talented you are,
sir.”
“Well, just maybe I’m more famous with
certain people than with the common public.”
“What does that mean?” Simon asked.
Abe’s big chest expanded even bigger. “It
means, used-car salesman, that I reproduce
great paintings for a living. Only the artists
themselves would realize they hadn’t painted
them.”
“I don’t understand,” Lily said.
“It ain’t so hard if you think about it.
I reproduce paintings for very rich people.”
Simon looked astonished. “You mean you forge
famous paintings?”
“Hey, I don’t like that word. What do
you know, fella, you’re nothing but a punk
who sells heaps of metal; the lady could do
a lot better than you.”
“No, you misunderstand me,” Simon said.
“To be able to paint like you do, for whatever
purpose, I’m really impressed.”
“Just hold it,” Abe said suddenly. “Yeah,
just wait a minute. You aren’t a used-car
salesman, are you? What’s your deal, man?
Come on, what’s going on here?”
“I’m Simon Russo.”
That brought Abe to a stop. “Yeah, I recognize
you now. Dammit, you’re that dealer guy . . .
Russo, yeah, you’re him. You’re Simon
Russo, you son of a bitch. You’d better
not be here to cause me any trouble. What
the hell are you doing here?”
“Mr. Turkle, we—”
“Dammit, give me back that painting! You
aren’t on any honeymoon now, are you? You
lied to me. As for you, Russo, I’m going
to have to wring your scrawny neck.”
16
Lily didn’t think, just assumed a martial
arts position that Dillon had shown her, the
painting still clutched in her right hand.
She looked both ridiculous and defiant, and
it stopped Abe Turkle in his tracks. He stared
at her. “You want to fight me? You going
to try to karate chop me with my own painting?”
She moved back and forth, flexed her arms,
her fists. “I won’t hurt your bloody painting.
Listen, pal, I don’t want to fight you,
but I can probably take you. Yes, I can take
you. You’re big but I’ll bet you’re
slow. So go ahead, if you want, let’s just
see how tough you are.”
“Lily, please don’t,” Simon said as
he prepared to simply lift her beneath her
armpits and move her behind him. To Simon’s
surprise, Abe Turkle began shaking his head.
He laughed, and then he laughed some more.
“Jesus, you’re something, little lady.”
Abe made to grab the painting from Lily’s
hand, and she said quickly, whipping it behind
her back, “Please let me keep it, Mr. Turkle.
It really is beautiful. I’ll treasure it
always.”
“Oh, hell, keep the stupid thing. I don’t
want to fight you either. It’s obvious to
me that you’re real tough. Hell, I might
never get over being scared of you. All right,
now. Let’s just get it over with. What do
you want, Simon Russo? And who is the little
gal here?”
“I’m just here to see which Sarah Elliott
you’re working on now.”
Abe Turkle glanced back at his easel, and
his face blotched red as he said, “Listen
to me, Russo, I barely heard of the broad.
You want to look?”
“Okay.” Simon smiled and walked toward
Abe.
Abe held up a huge hand still stained with
daubs of red, gold, and white paint. “You
try it and I’ll break your head off at your
neck. Even the little lady here won’t be
able to hold me off.”
Simon stopped. “Okay. Since there were no
paintings missing from the Eureka Art Museum,
you must be having trouble working from photographs
they brought to you. Which one is it? Maybe
The Maiden Voyage or Wheat Field? If I were
selecting the next one, it would be either
of those two.”
“Go to hell, boyo.”
“Or maybe you had to stop with the Sarah
Elliotts altogether now that they’re gone
from the museum? So you’re doing something
else now?”
“I’d break your head for you right this
minute, right here, but not with my new stuff
around. You want to come outside?”
“You were right about the lady,” Simon
said. “She isn’t my wife. She’s Lily
Savich, Sarah Elliott’s granddaughter. The
eight paintings that were in the museum, including
the four you’ve already copied, belong to
her.”
“Are you finishing a fifth one, Mr. Turkle?
If you are, it’s too bad because you won’t
get paid for it. The real one is back in my
possession so there won’t be any chance
to switch it.”
Simon said, “Actually, I’m surprised you’re
still here in residence since the paintings
have flown the coop. They’re hoping they’ll
get them back? No chance.
“To be honest, Abe, the real reason we’re
here is that we want to know who commissioned
you. Not the collector, but the local people
who are paying you and keeping you here.”
“Yes,” Lily said. “Please, Mr. Turkle,
tell us who set this up.”
Abe Turkle gave a big sigh. He looked at Lily
and his fierce expression softened, just a
bit. “Little gal, why don’t you marry
me and then I could look at those paintings
for the rest of my life. I swear I’d never
forge anything again.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m still married to
Tennyson Frasier.”
“Not for long. I heard all about how you
just walked out on him.”
“That’s right. But even so, the paintings
belong in a museum, Mr. Turkle, not in a private
collection somewhere, locked away, to be enjoyed
by only one person.”
“They’re the ones with all the money.
They call the shots.”
Simon said, “Abe, she’s divorcing Tennyson.
She wants to fry that bastard’s butt, not
yours. You’d do yourself a favor if you
helped us.”
Abe said slowly, one eyebrow arched up a good
inch, “You’ve got to be joking, boyo.”
Lily stepped forward and laid her hand on
Abe Turkle’s massive shoulder. “We’re
not joking. You could be in danger. Listen,
Tennyson tried to kill me, and I wondered,
Why now? Do you know? Did something happen
to make him realize that I was a threat to
him, before you’d finished copying all the
paintings? Please, Mr. Turkle, tell us who
hired you to copy my paintings. We’ll help
you stay safe.”
“That really so? Your old man tried to kill
you? I’m sorry about that, but I don’t
have a clue what you’re talking about. Both
of you need to just get out of here now.”
He was standing with his legs spread, his
big arms crossed over his chest. “I’m
sorry you were almost killed, but it doesn’t
have anything to do with me.”
“We know,” Simon said, “that this cottage
is owned by the Frasiers. You’re staying
here. It isn’t a stretch to figure it out.”
“I don’t have anything to say about that.
Maybe when this is over, the little gal will
share some lunch with me, I’ll marinate
up some snails, then broil them. That’s
the best, you know.”
Lily shook her head, then walked to the easel.
Abe didn’t get in her way, didn’t try
to block her. She stopped and sucked in her
breath. On the easel was a magnificent painting
nearly finished—it was Diego Velázquez’s
Toilet of Venus, oil on canvas.
“It’s incredible. Please, Mr. Turkle,
don’t let some collector take the original.
Please.”
Abe shrugged. “I’m just painting that
for the fun of it. I’m in between jobs right
now. No, you don’t want to say that it’s
because you took all the Sarah Elliott paintings
away from the museum. Nah, don’t say that.
There’s nothing going on here so I’m just
having me some fun.”
Simon came around and looked at the nearly
completed painting. “The original is in
the National Gallery in London. I hope your
compatriots elect to leave it there, Abe.”
“Like I said, this is just for fun. A guy’s
got to keep practicing, you know what I mean?
Look, I painted this from a series of photos.
If I were in it for bucks, I wouldn’t have
let her see it. I’d be in London, too.”
Lily couldn’t give up, not yet. “Won’t
you just tell us the truth, Mr. Turkle? Tennyson
Frasier married me only to get his hands on
the paintings. Then he tried to kill me. Did
he tell you that, Mr. Turkle? It’s possible
that he murdered my child as well, I don’t
know for sure. Please, we won’t involve
you. Just tell us.”
Abe Turkle looked back and forth between the
two of them. He slowly shook his head.
“I wish you hadn’t found me, Russo,”
Abe Turkle said, shaking his big head. “I
really wish you hadn’t.” He turned then
and walked out the cottage door.
“Wait!” Lily started after him.
Simon grabbed her sleeve and pulled her back.
“Let him go, Lily.”
They watched from the doorway as the big,
black Kawasaki scattered rocks and dirt as
it picked up speed. Then he was gone.
“We screwed up,” Simon said.
“I wish he’d stayed and fought me,”
Lily said.
Simon looked down at her, remembering the
image of her in a fighting position, with
that painting in her right hand. He grinned.
He lightly touched his hand to her hair. “You’re
all blond and blue-eyed, you’re skinny as
a post, your pants are hanging off your butt,
and knowing you for just a short time, I know
you’ve got more guts than brains. I swear
to you, when I tell Savich how his little
sister was ready to take on Abe Turkle, he’ll . . .
No, better not tell him how I nearly got you
into a fight. Well, shit.”
Lily punched him in the gut. “You jerk.
I didn’t see you trying to do anything.”
Simon grunted, rubbed his palm over his belly,
and grinned down at her. “I hope you didn’t
pull anything loose when you hit me. Not in
me, in you.”
“I might have, no thanks to you.”
She didn’t speak to him until they were
back in the car and headed down to Hemlock
Bay.
“We’re going to see Tennyson?”
“Nope, we’ve got other fish to fry.”
Washington, D.C.
The Hoover Building
Fifth Floor, The Criminal
Apprehension Unit
It was one o’clock in the afternoon. Empty
sandwich wrappers were strewn on the conference
table, leaving the vague smell of tuna fish
with an overlay of roast beef, and at least
a dozen soda cans stood empty. They’d just
finished their daily update meeting. Savich’s
second in charge, Ollie Hamish, said to the
assembled agents around the CAU conference
table, “I’m going to be going to Kitty
Hawk, North Carolina, in the morning. Our
research says that he not only took the real
Wilbur’s name, he’s spent a lot of time
in Wright’s hometown. Chances are, though,
that he’s not going to Dayton, since everyone’s
looking for him there, but to Kitty Hawk.
I’ve gotten all the data over to Behavioral
Sciences, to Jane Bitt. We’ll see what she’s
got to add, but that’s it, so far.
“I’m going to our office down there, fill
them all in, and get things set up for when
he turns up.”
Savich nodded. “Sounds good, Ollie. No more
supposed sightings of the guru in Texas?”
“Oh, yeah,” Ollie said, “but we’re
letting the agents there deal with them. Our
people here believe guru Wilbur is already
heading across country, due east to North
Carolina. Our offices across the South are
all alerted. Maybe we can get him before he
hits Kitty Hawk. It might be that Kitty Hawk
will be his last stand. We don’t want him
to bring real havoc when he gets there. We’ll
see if Jane Bitt agrees.”
Sherlock said, “Have we got photos?”
“The only photo we’ve got is old and fuzzy,
unfortunately. We’re looking at getting
more.”
Special Agent Dane Carver, newly assigned
to the unit, said, “Why don’t you give
me the photo, Ollie, and let me work on it.
Maybe we can clean it up in the lab.”
“You got it.”
Savich looked around the conference table.
“Everyone on track now?”
There were grunts, nods, and groans.
Millie, the CAU secretary, said, “What about
Tammy, Dillon? Any sightings? Any word at
all yet?”
“Not a thing as yet. It’s only been a
day since I spoke to Marilyn Warluski at Quantico.
Our people are staying with Tony, Marilyn’s
boyfriend, in Bar Harbor. His phone’s covered.
If Tammy calls, we’ll hear it all. He’s
cooperating.” Savich paused a moment, then
shrugged. “It’s frustrating. She’s not
in good shape, yet no one’s seen her. Chances
are very good that she did indeed murder a
pharmacist in Souterville, New Jersey. The
other pharmacist checked and said someone
had rifled through the supplies. Vicodin,
a medication to control moderate pain, and
Keflex, an oral antibiotic, a good three or
four days’ supply, were missing. Evidently
she killed the guy because he refused to give
her anything.
“As you know, we alerted police on all islands
to Tammy’s possible presence. Now they also
know to keep a close eye on doctors and pharmacies,
and why.”
Ollie said, sitting forward, his hands clasped,
“Look, Savich, she threatened you. I read
you the note. She means it. We’ve all been
talking about it, and we think you should
have some protection. We think Jimmy Maitland
should assign you some guards.”
Savich thought about it a minute, then looked
down the table to Sherlock. He realized that
she was thinking about Tammy finding out where
they lived and coming to the house. She was
thinking about Sean. He said to Ollie, “I
think that’s a great idea. I’ll speak
to Mr. Maitland this afternoon. Thanks, Ollie,
I really hadn’t thought it through.”
He called a halt, scheduled a meeting with
his boss, Jimmy Maitland, within the hour,
and kissed Sherlock behind a door. Then he
went to his office and punched in Simon’s
cell phone.
Simon answered on the third ring. “Yo.”
“Savich here. Is Lily all right? What’s
going on?”
“Yes, she’s fine.” Simon then told him
about their meeting with Abe Turkle, omitting
Lily’s challenge to beat the crap out of
Abe. Then he told him about their much shorter
meeting in Hemlock Bay with Daddy Frasier.
“That old guy’s really something, Savich.
The guy hates Lily, you can see it in his
eyes, colder than a snake’s, and in his
body language. I think he would have threatened
her if I hadn’t been there.”
Savich wanted details, and so Simon told him
exactly what had happened.
They’d gone to Elcott Frasier’s office
because they wanted to get in the old man’s
face, scare the bejesus out of him, let him
know that everyone was on to him. Since he
was the president and big cheese of the Hemlock
National Bank, he had the shiny corner office
on the second floor, all windows, a panoramic
view of both the ocean and the town. Simon
had wondered if Frasier would see them. His
administrative assistant, Ms. Loralee Carmichael,
at least twenty-one years old, and so beautiful
it made your teeth ache to look at her, left
them to kick up their heels for only twelve
minutes, acceptable, Simon decided, since
they’d caught the old man off guard and
he’d probably want to get himself and his
stories together. But Simon was worried about
Lily. He’d have given anything to put her
on a plane back to Washington, D.C., where
she’d be safe. She looked nearly flattened,
her face pale and set. If there’d been a
bed nearby, he’d have tied her down in it.
She moved slowly, but she had that lockjaw
determined look, and so he kept his mouth
shut.
Elcott Frasier welcomed them into his office,
patted Lily’s shoulder, his hand a bit on
the heavy side, and said, “Lily, dear. May
I say that you don’t look well.”
“Mr. Frasier.” She immediately moved away
from him. “Since you’ve already said it,
I don’t suppose there’s anything I can
do about it.” She gave him a smile as cold
as his own. “This is Mr. Russo. He’s a
dealer of art. He’s the one who verified
that four of my Sarah Elliott paintings are
forgeries.”
Elcott Frasier nodded to Simon and motioned
to them to be seated. “Well, this comes
as quite a surprise. You say you’re an art
dealer, Mr. Russo. I don’t know many art
dealers who can spot forgeries. Are you quite
sure about this?”
“I’m not exactly an art dealer, Mr. Frasier,
as in running a gallery. I’m more a dealer/broker.
I bring buyers and sellers together. Occasionally
I track down forgeries and return them to
their rightful owners. Since I own a Sarah
Elliott and know her work intimately, I was
able to spot the fakes among the eight paintings
that Lily owns, particularly since I knew
which four had been forged.”
Simon paused a moment, wondering how much
to tell Frasier and if it would frighten the
man. He’d known, of course, about the forgeries,
didn’t even try to act shocked. Why not
push it all the way, since he had a pretty
good idea of how it had gone down? It would
have to make him act. He hadn’t told Lily
this and hoped she wouldn’t act surprised.
He smiled toward her, then added, “I originally
thought that you initiated the whole deal.
But then I got to thinking that you’re really
a very small man, with no contacts at all.
There’s a collector, a Swede named Olaf
Jorgenson, who isn’t a small man. He’s
very powerful, actually. When he wants something,
he goes after it, no obstacle too great. I
believe that it was Jorgenson who instigated
the whole thing. It went this way: Olaf wanted
the Sarah Elliott paintings when they were
in the Chicago Institute, but he couldn’t
pull it off and had to wait. He knew exactly
when Lily Savich left Chicago to move to Hemlock
Bay, California. He put out feelers and found
you very quickly, and your son, Tennyson,
who was the right age. Then you all cut a
deal. Actually, I heard Olaf had only three
of the paintings. I don’t know where the
fourth one is as of yet. Hopefully, he has
it as well. It makes everything cleaner, easier.”
Simon snapped his fingers right in Frasier’s
face. “We’ll get them back fast as that.
So, Mr. Frasier, did I get it all right?”
Elcott Frasier didn’t bat an eye. He looked
faintly bored. Lily, though, who knew him
well, saw the slight tic in his left eye,
there only when he was stressed out or angry.
He could be either or both at this moment
in time. She was surprised initially at what
Simon had said but realized that it had probably
happened just as Simon had said. She said,
“Jorgenson is indeed powerful, Elcott. He
isn’t a small man at all, not like you.”
Simon thought their father-in-law would belt
her. He was ready for it, but Frasier managed
to hold himself in. He said, dismissively
and as smoothly as a politician accepting
a bribe for a pardon, “That’s quite a
scenario, Mr. Russo. I’m sorry to hear four
of the paintings were forged. No matter what
you say, it must have happened while they
were at the Chicago Institute. All this elaborate
plot by this fellow Olaf Jorgenson sounds
like a bad movie. However, none of this has
anything to do with me or my family. I really
don’t know why you came here to accuse me
of it.”
He turned to Lily and there was a good deal
of anger in those eyes of his. “As for you,
Lily, you left my son. I fear for his health.
He is not doing well. All he talks about is
you. He says that your brother and sister-in-law
slandered him, and none of it’s true. He
wants to see you, although if I were him,
and I’ve told him this countless times,
I’d just as soon see the back of you for
good. You weren’t a good wife to him. You
gave him nothing, and then you just up and
left him. His mother is also very concerned.
The mere idea that he would marry you to get
ahold of some paintings, it’s beyond absurd.”
“I don’t think it’s absurd at all, Elcott.
It could have happened the way Mr. Russo said.
Or maybe it was Mr. Monk who found Mr. Jorgenson.
Either way, four of my paintings are fakes
and you are the one responsible.
“Now, if Tennyson isn’t doing well, I
recommend that he pay a visit to Dr. Rossetti,
the psychiatrist he very badly wanted me to
see when I was still in the hospital. One
wonders what he had to do with all this.”
Lily paused a moment, shrugged, then continued.
“But of course you would know about that.
How much did you pay Morrie Jones to kill
me?”
“I didn’t pay him a—” She’d snagged
him, caught him completely off guard. He’d
burst right out with it, then cut off like
a spigot, but too late. Simon was impressed.
The tic was very pronounced now, and added
to it was a face turning red with outrage.
“You’re quite a bitch, you know that,
Lily? I can see why you brought your bodyguard
with you. This painting business, I don’t
know what you’ve done, but you can’t lay
it on me. I’m not to blame for anything.”
Simon wanted, quite simply, to stand, reach
over Mr. Frasier’s desk, and yank the man
up by his expensive shirt collar and smash
him in the jaw. It surprised him, the intense
wish to do this man physical damage. But when
he spoke, he was calm, utterly measured. “Trust
me, Mr. Frasier, Lily isn’t a bitch. As
for your precious son, what he is isn’t
in much doubt. Would you like to tell us why
Abe Turkle is staying at your cottage?”
Simon sat slightly forward in his chair, the
soul of polite interest.
“I don’t know who that is or why he’s
there. The real estate agent handles rentals.”
“Naturally Abe knows you, Mr. Frasier, knows
everything, since he’s forged the paintings
for you. I do know that he’s expensive.
Or perhaps Olaf is handling his payments as
part of the deal?”
Mr. Frasier got to his feet. The pulse was
pounding in his heavy neck. He was nearly
beyond control, his hands shaking. Almost
there, Simon thought. Elcott Frasier pointed
to the door and yelled, “I don’t know
any damned Olaf! Now, get out, both of you.
Lily, I don’t wish to see you again. It’s
a pity that the mugger didn’t teach you
a lesson.”
Simon said, “We’ll return for a very nice
visit, along with the FBI, when we have our
proof. Not much longer. Consider this a reality
check. You might want to consider cutting
a deal right now, with us. If you don’t,
just think of all those big, mean prisoners
in the federal lockups; they like vulnerable
old guys like you.”
“Get out or I’ll call the sheriff!”
Lily laughed, couldn’t help it. “Sheriff
Bozo?”
Elcott Frasier yelled, “His name is Scanlan,
not Bozo!” Then he nearly ran to the door,
jerked it open, and left them staring after
him. Simon said to Lily as he helped her to
her feet, “It’s been quite a morning,
first Abe and now your soon-to-be-ex-father-in-law,
both of them leaving us in their lairs and
stalking off. But everyone is shook up now,
Lily. We’ve stirred the pot as much as we
can. Now we wait to see who does what. Just
maybe old man Frasier will decide to cut a
deal. Now, you ready for a light lunch, maybe
Mexican?”
“There isn’t a Mexican restaurant in Hemlock
Bay. We’ll have to go to Ferndale.”
Loralee Carmichael looked them over very carefully
as they left the reception area. Simon wiggled
his fingers in good-bye to her. There was
no sign of Elcott Frasier.
He said carefully, as he walked slowly beside
her to the elevator, “I want you to consider
leaving the rest of this to me. Can I talk
you into going back to Washington?”
“No, don’t even try, Simon.”
“I had to try. When bad men are afraid,
Lily, they do things that aren’t necessarily
smart, but are, many times, deadly.”
“Yes. We will be very careful.”
He sighed and gave it up. “Over tacos we
can discuss our next foray.”
“Do you really think that Olaf Jorgenson
set this whole thing up?”
“When you think about it, he’s the one
with all the contacts and the expertise, unless
our Mr. Monk knows more about the illegal
side of the business than we’re aware of
yet. I’m sure that Frasier will be speaking
to Mr. Monk if he hasn’t already. I can’t
wait to hear what this guy with his bedroom
eyes has to say.”
Simon paused a moment, then said, “That’s
all of it, Savich, every gnarly detail.”
Simon switched his cell phone to his other
ear, waiting for Savich to ask him questions,
but Savich didn’t say anything. Simon could
practically hear him sorting through possible
scenarios.
“Lily did really good, Savich. She’s tired,
but she’s hanging in. I’ve tried to talk
her into going back to Washington, but she
won’t hear of it. I swear I’ll keep her
safe.”
“I know you will,” Savich said finally.
“Just to let you know, Clark Hoyt, the SAC
in the Eureka FBI office, is going to provide
you backup. I figured you guys would stir
everything up and that could be very dangerous.
I don’t want you to be on your own. If you
happen to see a couple of guys following you,
they’re there to keep you safe. If you have
any concerns, just give Clark Hoyt a call.
Now, you make Lily rest. How many tacos did
she get down?”
“Three ground beef tacos, a basketful of
chips, and an entire bowl of hot salsa. We’re
going to hole up now, then see Mr. Monk in
the morning. By then, they’ll all have spoken
together, examined their options, made plans.
I can’t wait to see what they’ll do. Give
my love to Sherlock, and let Sean teethe on
your thumb. Any word on Tammy Tuttle?”
“No.”
“I’ll call you after we’ve seen Mr.
Monk tomorrow.”
“Clark told me they’ve got a line on Morrie
Jones. It shouldn’t be long before he’s
in the local jail.”
“Thank God for that. I’ll call the cops
in Eureka and find out.” He paused, then
added, “I’m not planning on letting Lily
out of my sight.”
17
Eureka, California
The Mermaid’s Tail
Lily was deeply asleep, dreaming, and in that
dream, she was terrified. There was something
wrong, but she didn’t know what. Then she
saw her daughter, and she knew Beth was crying,
sobbing, but Lily didn’t know why. Suddenly,
Beth was far away, her sobs still loud, but
Lily couldn’t get to her. She called and
called, and then Beth simply wasn’t there
and Lily was alone, only she wasn’t really.
She knew there was something wrong, but she
didn’t know what.
Lily jerked up in bed, drenched with sweat,
and groaned with the sharp ache the abrupt
movement brought to her belly. She grabbed
her stomach and tried to breathe in deeply.
When she did, she smelled smoke. Yes, it was
smoke and it was in her room. That was what
was wrong, what had brought her out of the
nightmare. The smell of smoke, acrid, stronger
now than just a moment before. Then she saw
it billowing up around the curtains in the
window, black and thick, the curtains just
catching fire.
Dear God, the bed-and-breakfast was on fire!
She hauled herself out of the high tester
bed with its drapey gauze hangings and hit
the floor running.
Her door was locked. Where was the key? Not
in the door, not on the dresser. She ran to
the bathroom, wet a towel, and pressed it
against her face.
She ran to the phone, dialed 911. The phone
was dead. Someone had set the fire and cut
the phone lines. Or had the fire knocked out
the lines? Didn’t matter, she had to get
out. Flames now, in the bedroom, licking up
around the edges of the rug beneath that window
with its light and gauzy draperies. She raced,
bowed over, to the wall and began banging
on it. “Simon! Simon!”
She heard him then, shouting back to her.
“Lily, get the hell out of there, now!”
“My door’s locked. I can’t get it open!”
“I’m coming! Stay low to the floor.”
But Lily couldn’t just lie down and wait
to be rescued. She was too scared. She ran
back to the door and banged her shoulder hard
against it. The collision jarred her and left
her gasping. She picked up a chair and smashed
it hard into the door. The chair nearly bounced
off it. The door shuddered a bit but nothing
happened. The damned door wasn’t hollow.
It was old-fashioned and solid wood. She heard
Simon jerk his door open, heard him knocking
on doors, yelling. Thank God he hadn’t been
locked in like she was.
Then he was at her door, and she quickly moved
back. She heard him kick it, saw it shudder.
Then he kicked it hard again, and the door
slammed inward. “You okay?”
“Yes. We’ve got to warn everyone.” She
began coughing, doubled over, and he didn’t
hesitate. He picked her up in his arms and
carried her down the wide mahogany staircase.
Mrs. Blade was in the lobby, and she was helping
out a very old lady who was sobbing quietly.
“It’s Mrs. Nast. She’s a permanent resident.
I tried to call nine-one-one but the line’s
dead, of all things. There are people on the
third floor, Mr. Russo. Please get them.”
“I’ve already called nine-one-one on my
cell phone. They’re on their way.” Simon
set Lily down and ran back up the stairs.
He heard her hacking cough as he ran.
He didn’t get to the top of the stairs alone.
Beside him at the last minute were firemen,
all garbed up and yelling for him to get back
downstairs and out of the building.
He nodded, then saw a young woman struggling
with two children, coughing, trying to pull
them down the corridor. The two firemen had
their hands full with other guests. Simon
simply grabbed all three of them up in his
arms and carried them downstairs. They were
all coughing by the time they got out the
front door, the kids crying and the mother
holding herself together, comforting them,
thanking him again and again until he just
put his hand over her mouth. “It’s okay.
Take care of your kids.”
They saved a lot of The Mermaid’s Tail,
thank God, and all of the ten people staying
there. No serious injuries, just some smoke
inhalation.
Colin Smith, the agent sent over by Clark
Hoyt to maintain an overnight watch on the
bed-and-breakfast, told them he’d seen two
men sneaking around, followed and lost them,
turned back to see the smoke billowing up,
and immediately called the fire department.
That was why most of The Mermaid’s Tail
was still standing.
Agent Smith left them, after making certain
they were okay, to repeat his story to the
fire chief and the arson investigator, who’d
just arrived.
Simon was holding Lily close to him. She was
barefoot, wearing a long white flannel nightgown
that came to her ankles, and her hair was
straggling around her shoulders. He’d managed
to scramble into jeans and a sweater and sneakers
before he’d left his bedroom. He blew out,
but didn’t see his breath. It was cold,
probably just below fifty degrees, and the
firemen were distributing coats and blankets
to all the victims. Neighbors were coming
out with more blankets and coffee, even some
rolls to eat.
Simon said, “You okay, Lily?”
She only nodded. “We’re alive. That’s
all that matters. The bastards. I can’t
believe they set the entire place on fire.
So many people could have been hurt, even
killed.”
“Your brother realized before I did that
they’d probably try something. You met Agent
Colin Smith. Your brother got the SAC here
in Eureka to send him to watch over us.”
She sighed and just stayed where she was.
She was exhausted, doubted that any part of
her would move, even if she begged. “Yeah,
I realized he was a guard for us. I sure wish
he’d caught them before they set the fire.”
“He does, too. He’s really beating himself
up. He was calling in his boss, Clark Hoyt,
last time I saw him. Hoyt will probably be
here soon. I’ll bet you he’s already called
Savich.”
“At four o’clock in the morning?”
“Good point.”
“It’s really cold, Simon.”
He was sitting on a lawn chair that a neighbor
had brought over. He pulled her onto his lap,
wrapping the blankets around both of them.
“Better?”
She just nodded against his shoulder and whispered,
“This really sucks.”
He laughed.
“You know, Simon, even Remus wouldn’t
go so far as to do this sort of thing. Someone
so desperate, so malevolent, they don’t
care how many people they kill? That’s really
scary.”
“Yes,” he said slowly, “it is. I didn’t
expect anything like this.”
“You got mugged in New York so soon after
you left Washington. These people work really
fast. I’m beginning to think it’s Olaf
Jorgenson behind all this, not the Frasiers,
just like you said. How would the Frasiers
have even known about you or where you were?”
“I agree. But you know, the guy didn’t
try to kill me, at least I don’t think he
did.”
“Probably a warning.”
“I guess. This wasn’t a warning. This
was for real. We’re in pretty deep now,
Lily. I’ll bet you that Clark Hoyt isn’t
going to let us out of his sight for as long
as we’re in his neck of the woods.”
“At this point I’m glad. No, Simon, don’t
say it. I’m not about to leave you alone
now.” She fell silent, and for a little
while he thought she’d finally just given
out. Then she said, “Simon, did I ever tell
you that Jeff MacNelly was my biggest influence
for Remus?”
Who was Jeff MacNelly? He shook his head slowly,
fascinated.
“Oh, yes, he was. I admired him tremendously.”
When she realized he didn’t have a clue,
she added, “Jeff MacNelly was a very famous
and talented cartoonist. He won three Pulitzer
Prizes skewering politicos. But he never once
said that they were evil. He died in June
of 2000. I really miss him. It upsets me that
I never told him how much he meant to me,
and to Remus.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Lily.” He realized
then that she was teetering on the edge of
shock, so he pulled another blanket around
her. It was too much even for her. Her life
had flown out of control when she’d married
Tennyson Frasier. He couldn’t imagine what
she’d gone through when her daughter had
been killed and she’d managed to survive
months of depression. And then all this.
Lily said, “Jeff MacNelly said that ‘when
it comes to humor, there’s no substitute
for reality and politicians.’ I don’t
like this reality part, Simon, I really don’t.”
“I don’t either.”
Washington, D.C.
Hoover Building
Savich slowly hung up the phone, stared out
his window a moment, then lowered his face
to his hands.
He heard Sherlock say, “What is it, Dillon?
What’s happened?” Her competent hands
were massaging his shoulders, her breath was
warm on his temple.
He slowly raised his head to look up at her.
“I should have killed her, Sherlock, should
have shot her cleanly in the head, just like
I did Tommy Tuttle. This is all my fault—that
boy’s death in Chevy Chase, and now this.”
“She’s killed again?”
He nodded, and she hated the despair in his
eyes, the pain that radiated from him. “In
Road Town, Tortola, in the British Virgin
Islands.”
“Tell me.”
“That was Jimmy Maitland. He said the police
commissioner received all our reports, alerted
his local officers, waited, and then a local
pharmacist was murdered, his throat cut. The
place was trashed, impossible to tell what
drugs were taken, but we know what was stolen—pain
meds and antibiotics. They don’t have any
leads, but they’re combing the island for
a one-armed woman who’s not in good shape.
No sign of her yet. Not even a whiff. Tortola
isn’t like Saint Thomas. It’s far more
primitive, less populated, more places to
hide, and the bottom line is there’s just
no way to get to and from the island except
by boat.”
“I’m very sorry it happened. You know
she’s gotten ahold of a boat. By now she’s
probably long gone from Tortola, to another
island.”
“It’s hard to believe that no one’s
reported a boat stolen.”
“It’s late,” Sherlock said. “E-mail
all the other islands, then let it go for
a while. Let’s go home, play with Sean,
then head over to the gym. You need a really
hard workout, Dillon.”
He rose slowly. “Okay, first I’ve got
to talk to all the local cops down there,
make sure they know what’s happened on Tortola,
tell them again how dangerous she is.” He
kissed her, hugged her tightly, and said against
her temple, “Go home and start playing with
Sean. I’ll be there in a while. Have him
gum some graham crackers for me.”
Quantico, Virginia
FBI Academy
Special Agent Virginia Cosgrove cocked her
head to one side and said, “Marilyn, it’s
for you. A woman, says she’s with Dillon
Savich’s unit at headquarters. I’ll be
listening on the other line, okay?”
Marilyn Warluski, who was folding the last
of her new clothes into the suitcase provided
by the FBI, nodded, a puzzled look on her
face. She was staying in the Jefferson dorm
with two women agents, just starting to get
used to things. What did Mr. Savich want from
her now? She took the phone from Agent Cosgrove
and said, “Hello?”
“Hi, sweet chops. It’s Timmy. You hot
for me, baby?”
Marilyn closed her eyes tight against the
shock, against the disbelief. “Tammy,”
she whispered. “Is it really you?”
“No, it’s Timmy. Listen up, sweetie, I
need to see you. I want you to fly down here,
to Antigua, tomorrow; that’s when I’ll
be there. I’ll be at the Reed Airport, waiting
for you. Don’t disappoint me, baby, okay?”
Marilyn looked frantically over at Virginia.
Virginia quickly wrote on a pad of paper,
then handed it to Marilyn. “Okay, I can
do it, but it’ll be late.”
“They treating you all right at that cop
academy? Do you want me to come up with the
Ghouls and level the place?”
“No, no, Tammy, don’t do that. I’ll
fly down late tomorrow. Are you all right?”
“Sure. Had to get me some more medicine
on Tortola. Lousy place, dry and boring, no
action at all. Can’t wait to get out of
here. See you tomorrow evening, baby. Bye.”
Marilyn slowly placed the phone in its cradle.
She looked blankly at Virginia Cosgrove. “How
did she know where I was? I need to call Dillon
Savich. Damn, it’s really late.”
Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland called Dillon
Savich to mobilize the necessary agents. He
got it done in two hours and set himself up
to coordinate the group leaving for Antigua.
Maitland called in the SWAT Team at the Washington,
D.C., field office because they were bringing
this all down very possibly in an airport,
and there could always be trouble. He told
Savich, “Yeah, I threw them some meat and
they agreed to come out and play. We got one
team, six really good guys.”
Vincent Arbus, point man for the team, built
like a bull, bald as a Q-tip, and many times
too smart for his own good, looked at Savich,
then at Sherlock, who was standing at his
side, and said in his rough, low voice, “Call
me Vinny, guys. I have a feeling that we’re
going to be getting tight before this is all
over.
“Now, how the hell did this crazy one-armed
woman know that Marilyn Warluski was holed
up in Jefferson dorm at Quantico? How the
hell did she get her number?”
“Well,” Savich said slowly, not looking
at Sherlock, “I sort of let it be known.
Actually, I set the whole thing up.”
18
Eureka
Mr. Monk was gone, his office left looking
as if he would be returning the next day.
There were no notes, no messages, no telltale
appointments listed in his date book, which
sat in the middle of his desk. There was no
clue at all as to where he’d gone.
Nor was he at his big bay-windowed apartment
on Oak Street. He hadn’t cleaned out his
stuff, had just, apparently, taken off without
a word to anyone.
Hoyt said to Simon when he opened his hotel
room door, “He’s gone. I just stood in
the middle of that empty living room with
its fine paintings by Jason Argot on the white
walls, with its own specialized lighting,
and I tell you, Russo, I wanted to kick myself.
I knew we should have covered his place, but
I didn’t. I’m an idiot. Kick me. There’s
got to be a clue somewhere in there about
where his bolt-hole is. Or maybe not, but
I haven’t found a bloody thing. Really,
Russo, just kick my ribs in.”
“Nah,” Simon said as he zipped the fly
on his new jeans and threaded his new belt.
He waved Hoyt into his deluxe room with its
king-size bed that took up nearly three-quarters
of the room. Lily was right through the adjoining
door. They were staying at the Warm Creek
Lodge, both with an ocean view from one window
and an Old Town view from the other. “I
appreciate your checking him out for us first
thing, since Lily and I didn’t have any
clothes at all. Though I wouldn’t have minded
paying the jerk a visit myself. Thank God
I left my wallet in my jeans pocket last night
or we’d be in really deep caca. Actually,
if the credit card companies hadn’t sent
me replacement credit cards after my wallet
was stolen in New York, we’d still be in
deep caca. We’re all outfitted now, real
spiffy. Now, what about Monk’s car? Any
sign of it?”
“We’ve got an APB out on it—a Jeep Grand
Cherokee, ’ninety-eight, dark green. And
we’re covering the Arcata airport. We’ve
sent out alerts as far down as SFO, though
I don’t think he could have gotten that
far.”
“Problem is, we don’t know when he bolted.
Don’t you think it would be better if you
issued a tri-state airport alert?”
“Yeah, good idea. I’m thinking he probably
got scared. I doubt he has a fake ID or a
passport. If he tries to take a flight, we’ll
nail him.”
Simon nodded. “Would you like a cup of coffee?
Room service just sent some up with croissants.”
Clark Hoyt looked like he would cry. He didn’t
say another word until he’d downed two cups
of coffee and eaten a croissant, smeared with
a real butter pat and sugarless apricot jam.
When Lily came in a few minutes later, Simon
smiled at the sight. She looked even better
than he’d imagined. She was wearing black
stretch jeans, a black turtleneck sweater,
and black boots. She looked like a fairy princess
who was also a cat burglar on her nights off.
Clark Hoyt, when he rose to greet her, said,
“Quite a change from how you looked early
this morning. I like all the black.”
Lily thanked him, poured herself a cup of
coffee, and watched him eat a second croissant.
He filled Lily in on what they hadn’t found
so far.
Hoyt said, “I called Savich back at Disneyland
East and filled him in. He made me swear on
the head of my schnauzer, Gilda, that you
guys didn’t have a single singed hair on
your heads. It was arson, all right, but no
idea yet who the perps were or who hired them.”
“Disneyland East?” Lily asked, an eyebrow
up.
“Yep, just another loving name for FBI Headquarters.
Hey, thanks for breakfast. You guys still
smell like smoke. It’s really tough to get
it all out. I should know, I was overenthusiastic
with my barbeque last summer and lost my eyebrows,
although my face was so black you couldn’t
tell. Just lay low; keep out of sight until
I get some news for you, okay?”
• It was early afternoon when Hoyt came
to get them from the lodge. Mr. Monk hadn’t
tried to fly out of harm’s way. Actually,
he hadn’t flown anywhere. He was quite dead,
head pressed against the steering wheel, three
bullets through his back. The Jeep was in
a sparse stand of redwood trees, and some
hikers, poking around, had found him.
Lieutenant Larry Dobbs of the Eureka Police
Department knew that the situation was dicey,
that it involved a whole lot more than this
one body, and even that the FBI was involved.
He agreed to let Clark Hoyt bring out the
two civilians, after the crime scene had been
gone over.
Simon and Lily stood looking at the Jeep.
“They didn’t really try to hide him,”
she said. “On the other hand, it could have
been a long time before someone accidentally
came upon him. God bless hikers.”
“The medical examiner estimates he’s been
dead about seven hours, give or take,” said
Clark Hoyt. “He’ll know a lot more after
the autopsy. Our lab guys will crawl all over
that Jeep to see what’s what. Ah, here comes
Lieutenant Dobbs. You’ve met, haven’t
you?”
“We’ve spoken on the phone,” Simon said
and shook Dobbs’s hand. Simon saw quickly
enough that the lieutenant was impressed with
how Clark Hoyt deferred to him.
“Do you think he was with someone?” Lily
asked both men. “And that someone killed
him and then moved his body to the driver’s
side?”
Lieutenant Dobbs said, “No. From the trajectory
of the bullets, there was someone, the shooter,
riding in the backseat, behind Monk. Maybe
someone else riding in the passenger seat.
I don’t know. Maybe Monk knew they were
taking him out to kill him. But if so, why
did he calmly pull over? Again, I don’t
know. But the fact is he did pull off the
road into the redwoods, and the guy in the
backseat shot him.”
Simon and Lily were given permission to walk
over the area. They looked everywhere, but
there wasn’t anything to see. The hikers
had made a mess of things in their initial
panic. There were five cop cars and two FBI
cars adding to the chaos. There weren’t
any tire tracks except the Jeep’s, which
meant that the other car must have stayed
parked on the paved road.
Lieutenant Dobbs eyed Simon and Lily and said,
“Agent Hoyt tells me you guys are involved
in this up to your eyeballs. Let me tell you,
you two have brought me more woes than I’ve
had for the last ten years, beginning with
that jerk who attacked you on the public bus,
Mrs. Frasier. Oh, yeah, Officer Tucker just
found Morrie Jones a couple of hours ago,
holed up in a fleabag hotel down on Conduit
Street.”
“Keep him safe, Lieutenant,” Lily said.
“He was part of this, too, as was Mr. Monk.
And look what happened to him.”
“You got it.” Lieutenant Dobbs said then,
“You know, it hasn’t been all bad. I’ve
met Hoyt here, a real federal agent and all,
and I haven’t had to watch Wheel of Fortune
with my wife. I haven’t had a single bored
minute since I got that first call from you
guys. Only bad thing is this body over there.
A body’s never good.” He sighed and waved
to one of the other officers. He said over
his shoulder, “Clark, try to keep these
two out of more mischief, all right? Oh, yes,
I’m going to be interviewing all the Frasiers,
including your husband, Mr. Tennyson Frasier.
Maybe it’ll scare them, make them do something
else stupid. I understand you’ve already
tried, got them all riled up. Now let’s
see how they handle the law.” He waved toward
the body bag containing Mr. Monk. “This
wasn’t a bright thing to do.”
“Don’t forget Charlotte Frasier, Lieutenant,”
Lily said, “and don’t be fooled by that
syrupy accent. She’s terrifying.”
Hoyt said, “Then I’m going to wait until
the lieutenant is through with them, wait
until they’re nice and comfortable at their
homes in Hemlock Bay again, and then I’m
going to pay them a little visit and grill
them but good. Savich has sent me lots of
stuff. I’ve been speaking to some of our
representatives in Sacramento, checking real
close into Elcott Frasier’s financial situation.
Lots of conflicting info so far, but there’s
been a lot of flow in and out of his accounts
there. Something will shake loose; it usually
does. Oh, yeah, I heard that Elcott Frasier
has hired Mr. Bradley Abbott, one of the very
best criminal lawyers on the West Coast, to
represent him and his family.” Hoyt rubbed
his hands together. “This is going to be
really interesting.”
As they drove back to Eureka, Simon was brooding.
Lily recognized the signs. He looked single-minded
as he drove, looking neither right nor left,
saying nothing to Lily, who was hungry and
wanted to go to the bathroom.
“Stop it, Simon.”
That jerked him around to stare at her. “Stop
what?”
“You’ve got a look that says you’re
far away, like maybe the Delta Quadrant.”
“Yeah, I was just thinking. About Abe Turkle.
He’s a loose end, Lily, just like Mr. Monk.
So is Morrie Jones, but he’s in jail, and
hopefully safe there. The lieutenant is going
to put a guard on him.”
Lily said, “I forgot to tell you, when you
and Hoyt were talking back there, Lieutenant
Dobbs told me that Morrie claims he doesn’t
know a thing, that a couple of thugs hurt
him when he was minding his own business in
a bar. He claimed no broad could ever hurt
him. Oh yes, Morrie’s got a big-time lawyer.
I wonder how much money Morrie’s being paid
to keep his mouth shut.”
Simon said, “Can Lieutenant Dobbs find out
who hired the lawyer?”
“I asked him if he knew. He said he’d
sniff around. Now, Simon, you’re brooding
because you think Abe Turkle might be in danger.”
In that instant, Lily forgot she was hungry,
forgot she needed to go to the bathroom. “You’ve
just made my stomach drop to my knees. Let’s
go see Abe, Simon.”
He grinned over at her, braked, and did a
wide U-turn.
“Hey,” she said, “not bad driving. Won’t
this piece of garbage go any faster?”
Simon laughed. “You’re the best, Lily,
do you know that? Hey, I see someone doing
another U-turn behind us. Must be our protection.”
“Good. Hope he can keep up with us.”
Simon laughed.
“My dad, Buck Savich, used to tell me that
if I decided to become a professional bookie,
I’d be the best in the business. Except
for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He’d say my eyes changed color whenever
I lied, and if anyone noticed that, my days
as a bookie would be over.”
“Your eyes are blue right now. What color
do they go to when you lie?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never looked at
myself in the mirror and lied to it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, though, and let
you know.”
Simon turned his attention back to the road.
He saw big Abe Turkle in his mind, a paintbrush
between his teeth, ready to beat the crap
out of him. Then Abe’s smile when he looked
at Lily. The man was a crook, but he was an
excellent artist. Simon didn’t want him
to get killed.
He sped up to sixty because his gut was crawling.
Bad things, bad things. But he said in a smooth,
amused voice, “I met your dad when Dillon
and I were in our senior year at MIT. He was
something else.”
“Yes,” she said. “He was the best. I
miss him very much. All us kids do. As for
Mom, she was a mess for a long time. She met
this guy, a congressman from Missouri, just
last year, still claims they’re only friends,
but she’s a lot happier, smiles a lot more,
just plain gets out and does more things.
She adores Sean, too. He’s the only grandkid
close by.”
“What did your mom think of all the legends
about Buck Savich? There were so many colorful
ones floating about long before he died.”
“She’d just shake her head, grin like
a bandit, and say she didn’t think the tales
were exaggerations at all. Then, I swear it
to you, she’d blush. I think she was talking
about intimate things, and it always freaked
us kids out. You just can’t think of your
parents in that way, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do. I guess, on the other side
of the coin, our parents look at us and see
little kids who will be virgins for the rest
of their lives.”
Lily laughed. “What about your parents?
Where do they live?”
“My folks have been divorced for a very
long time. My dad’s a lawyer, remarried
to a woman half his age. They live in Boston.
No little half-brothers or half-sisters. My
mom didn’t remarry, lives in Los Angeles,
runs her own makeover consulting firm. If
they ever had any liking for each other, it
was over before I could remember it. My sisters,
both older than I am, told me they’d never
seen anything resembling affection either.”
He paused just a moment, slowed a bit for
a particularly gnarly turn, then sped up again.
“You know, Lily, I have a hard time seeing
you as a bookie. Did you make some money for
college?”
She gave him a shark’s grin, all white teeth,
ready to bite. “You bet. Thing was, though,
Mom decided it was better that Dad not know
exactly what my earnings totaled from age
sixteen to eighteen, especially since I hadn’t
paid any taxes.”
“It boggles the mind.” He looked at her
then, saying nothing, just looking. “Do
you know that you’re looking more like a
fairy princess again? I like you in all that
black. How’s your scar doing?”
“My innards are fine; the scar itches just
a bit. It’s no wonder you like all black
since you bought all my clothes. You want
me to look like Batgirl, Simon?”
“I always did like to watch her move.”
He grinned at her. “Truth is, I saw the
black pants and knew it would have to be black
all the way.” He gave her a sideways look.
“I don’t mean to be indelicate, but did
all the underwear fit?”
“Too well,” she said, “and I don’t
like to think about it, so stop looking at
me.”
“Okay.” For a couple of seconds, Simon
kept his eyes on the road. Then he said, chuckling,
“As I said, when I saw the black, I knew
it was you. But you know, I think the biggest
change was your getting all that ash and soot
washed out of your hair and off your face.”
Every stitch she was wearing was black, even
the boot socks. She said, not intending to,
“Why haven’t you ever married?”
“I was married, a very long time ago.”
“Tell me.”
He gave her another sideways look, saw that
she really wanted to know, and said, “Well,
I was twenty-two years old, in overwhelming
lust, as was Janice, and so we got married,
divorced within six months, and both of us
joined the army.”
“That was a long time ago. Where is Janice
now?”
“She stayed in the army. She’s a two-star
general, stationed in Washington, D.C. I heard
she’s gorgeous as a general. She’s married
to a four-star. Hey, maybe someday she’ll
be chief of staff.”
“I wonder why Dillon didn’t tell me.”
“He would have been my best man in the normal
course of things, but we eloped and he was
off in Europe that summer, living on a shoestring,
so I knew he didn’t have the money to fly
home, then back to Europe again.” Simon
shrugged. “It was just as well. Who was
your first husband? Beth’s father?”
“His name was Jack Crane. He was a stockbroker
for Phlidick, Dammerleigh and Pierson. He
was a big wheeler-dealer at the Chicago Stock
Exchange.”
“Why’d you split up?”
She tried to just shrug it off, give him a
throwaway smile, but it wasn’t possible.
She drew a deep breath and said, “I don’t
want to talk about that.”
“Okay, for now. Here we are. Keep your eyes
open, Lily, I really have a bad feeling about
this.” He turned right onto the narrow asphalt
road that led to the cottage, looked back,
and saw their protection turning in behind
them.
No motorcycle.
Simon did a quick scan, didn’t see a thing.
“I really don’t like this.”
“Maybe he just went into town to get some
barbeque sauce to go with his snails.”
Simon didn’t think so, but he didn’t argue
as they walked up to the cottage. The door
wasn’t locked. He didn’t say a word, just
picked Lily up under her armpits and moved
her behind him. He opened the door slowly.
It was gloomy inside, all the blinds pulled
down. The room was completely empty—no stacked
paintings against the walls, no easel, no
palette, not even a drop of paint anywhere
or the smell of turpentine, just empty.
“Check the kitchen, Lily. I’m going to
look in the bedroom.” They met back in the
empty living room five minutes later.
Agent Colin Smith stood in the open doorway.
“No sign of Abe Turkle?”
Simon shook his head and said, “Nope. All
that’s left is a box of Puffed Wheat, a
bit of milk, not soured, and a couple of apples,
still edible, so he hasn’t been gone long.”
Lily said, “He’s packed up and left. All
his clothes, suitcase, everything gone, even
his toothpaste.”
“Do you think he went to London with that
painting he was finishing?”
“I hope not. It was really very good, too
good.”
Colin Smith asked, “You were afraid he was
dead, weren’t you? Murdered. Like Mr. Monk.”
Simon nodded. “I had a bad feeling there
for a while. Let’s tell Lieutenant Dobbs
about this. Agent Smith, if you’ll call
Clark Hoyt, fill him in. You know, Abe had
lots of stuff—at least thirty paintings
leaning against the walls. All he had was
a motorcycle. Maybe he rented a U-Haul to
carry everything away.”
“Or maybe one of the Frasiers loaned him
a truck.”
“Maybe. Now then, Agent Smith, Lily and
I are off to pay a visit to Morrie Jones.
I need to speak to Lieutenant Dobbs and the
DA, get their okay. I’ve got an offer for
Morrie he can’t refuse.”
Lily held up a hand. “No, I don’t want
to know. Maybe by now they know who’s paying
his lawyer.” Simon closed the cottage door
and waved to Agent Smith.
“Don’t count on it,” Simon said as he
set the pillow gently over Lily’s stomach
and fastened the seat belt.
19
Saint John’s, Antigua
Public Administration Building,
near Reed Airport
“It’s so bright and hot and blue,” Sherlock
said, scratching her arm. Then she sighed.
“You know, Sean would really like this place.
We could strip him down and play in that sand,
build a castle with him, even a moat. I can
just see him rolling over on the castle, flattening
it, laughing all the while.”
For the first time in as long as she could
remember, Sherlock realized Dillon wasn’t
listening. She could only imagine what was
going through his mind, all the ifs and buts.
It was his show, and naturally he was worried,
impossible not to be. They were working through
the American Consular Agent with the Royal
Police Force at Police Headquarters located
on, strangely enough, American Road. But they
were still in a foreign country, dealing with
locals who were both bewildered by the extreme
reaction of the United States federal cops—all
fifty of them—to one woman, who only had
one arm and was supposedly coming to their
airport. But they were cooperating, really
serious now after Savich had shown the entire
group photos of her victims, including the
latest one on Tortola. That one really brought
it home.
Tammy couldn’t have gotten to Antigua before
late morning, no way, even with a fast boat.
Tortola was just too far away. The weather
had been calm, no high winds or waves. She
couldn’t have gotten here ahead of them,
except by plane, and they’d been checking
air traffic from Tortola and nearby islands.
And there was no indication at all that she
knew how to fly. They’d had time to get
everything set up, to get everyone in position.
Sherlock gave him a clear look. “We have
time. Stop worrying. Marilyn will be here
in about two hours. We’ll go over everything
with her, step by step.”
“What if Tammy isn’t alone? What if Tammy
has been traveling around as Timmy this whole
time? Remember, it was Timmy who called Marilyn
at Quantico.”
Sherlock had never before seen him so questioning
of what he was doing.
When she spoke, Sherlock’s voice was as
calm as the incredible blue water not one
hundred yards away, “One arm is one arm,
despite anything else. No one on any of the
islands has reported anyone jiggering about
with just one arm. The odds are stacked way
against her. You know all the local police
in both the British Virgin Islands and the
U.S. Virgin Islands are on full alert. The
Antiguan authorities aren’t used to mayhem
like this, so you can bet they’re very concerned,
probably more hyper than we are, particularly
after those crime-scene photos. Dillon, everyone
is taking this very seriously.”
“So you think I should just chill out?”
“No, that’s impossible. But you’re very
smart, top drawer. Just stop trying to second-guess
yourself. You’ve done everything to prepare.
If we have to deal with something other than
just Tammy, we will.”
The local cops, of which there weren’t many,
had converged on the airport. They were trying
to look inconspicuous and failing, but they
were trying, a couple of them even joking
with tourists. All of them were used to dealing
with locals who occasionally smoked too much
local product or drank too much rum, or an
occasional tourist who tried to steal something
from a duty-free store. Nothing like this.
This was beyond their experience.
Savich just couldn’t help himself. He checked
and rechecked with Vinny Arbus on the status
of the SWAT team. If Tammy Tuttle managed
to grab a civilian, they were ready. Marksmen
were set up, six of them, in strategic spots
around the airport as well as inside. Half
the marksmen were dressed like tourists, the
other half, like airport personnel. They blended
right in.
Would Tammy come in by plane? Would she simply
walk in? No one knew. All hotels and rooming
houses had been checked, rechecked. Jimmy
Maitland was seated in the police commissioner’s
office with its overhead fan, boiling alive
in his nice fall suit.
There were nearly fifty FBI personnel involved
in the operation, now named Tripod. Special
Agent Dane Carver had picked the name because
the perp had only one arm and two legs, so
Tuttle was the tripod.
A couple of hours later, Marilyn Warluski,
scared to the soles of her new Nike running
shoes, pressed close to Agent Virginia Cosgrove,
her lifeline. Cosgrove was jittery, too, but
too new an agent to be as scared as she should
be. As she saw it, she was the most important
agent present. It was to her that Tammy Tuttle
would come. She was an excellent shot. She
would protect Marilyn Warluski. She was ready.
“She’s coming, Mr. Savich,” Marilyn
said, her voice dull and flat when he checked
in with her again at six o’clock that evening.
She was standing by the Information Desk in
the airport, the Caribbean Airlines counter
just off to the left.
“It will be all right, Marilyn,” Virginia
said, her voice more excited than soothing,
and patted her hand for at least the thirtieth
time. “Agent Savich won’t let anything
happen, you’ll see. We’ll nail Tammy.”
“I told you it was Timmy who called me.
When she’s Timmy, she can do anything.”
“I thought she could do anything when she
was Tammy, too,” Savich said.
“She can. He can. If they’re both here,
not just Timmy, then there’ll be real trouble.”
Savich felt a twist of fear in his guts. He
said slowly, his voice deep and calm, “Marilyn,
what do you mean if they’re both here? You
mean both Tammy and Timmy? I don’t understand.”
Marilyn shrugged. “I didn’t think to tell
you, but I saw it happen once, back a couple
of years ago. We were in that dolled-up tourist
town, Oak Bluffs. You know, on Martha’s
Vineyard. I saw Tammy comin’ out of this
really pretty pink Victorian house where we
were all stayin’ and she just suddenly turned
several times, you know, real fast, like Lynda
Carter did whenever she was goin’ to change
into Wonder Woman. Same thing. Tammy turned
into Timmy, like they were blended together
somehow, and it was the scariest thing I’d
ever seen until Tammy walked into that motel
room all covered in that little boy’s blood.”
Savich knew this was nuts. Tammy couldn’t
change from a woman into a man. That was impossible,
but evidently Marilyn believed it. He said,
carefully, “It seemed to you that Tammy
and Timmy somehow coalesced into one person?”
“Yeah, that’s it. She whirled around several
times and then there was Timmy, all horny
and smart-mouthed.”
“When Tammy turned into Timmy, what did
he look like?”
“Like Tammy but like a guy, you know?”
Virginia Cosgrove looked thoroughly confused.
She started to say something, but Savich shook
his head at her. Savich wanted to ask Marilyn
to describe Timmy. Marilyn was suddenly standing
perfectly still. She seemed to sniff the air
like an animal scenting danger. She whispered,
“I can feel Timmy close, Mr. Savich. He’s
real close now. Oh, God, I’m scared. He’s
going to wring my neck like a chicken’s
for helping you.”
“I don’t understand any of this.” Virginia
Cosgrove whispered low, just like Marilyn
had. “So Tammy is really a guy?”
“I guess we’ll find out, Agent Cosgrove.
Don’t dwell on it. Your priority is Marilyn.
Just protect Marilyn.”
Marilyn leaned close and took Virginia’s
hand. “You won’t let him take me, will
you, Agent Cosgrove?”
“No, Marilyn, I won’t even let him get
close to you.” She said to Savich, “You
can count on me. I’ll guard her with my
life.”
It was seven o’clock in the evening, just
an hour later. Since it was fall, the sun
had set much earlier, and it was dark now,
the sky filling with stars and a half-moon.
It was beautiful and warm. The cicadas and
the coquis were playing a symphony if anyone
was inclined to listen.
The airport looked fairly normal except it
was probably a bit too crowded for this time
of day, something Savich hoped Tammy Tuttle
wouldn’t realize. But he knew she would
notice because the local cops looked jumpy,
too ill at ease for her not to notice. Or
for Timmy to notice. Or whichever one of them
showed.
Savich drew a deep breath as he watched the
crowd. He said, “Timmy is close, Sherlock,
that’s what Marilyn said. She said she could
feel him. That was an hour ago. I think she’s
even more scared than I am. She also firmly
believes—no doubt at all in her mind—that
Tammy can change into a guy at will, into
this Timmy.”
Sherlock said, “If a Timmy shows up, then
I’ll check us both into Bellevue.”
“You got that right.”
There weren’t that many tourists in the
airport now, real tourists at least. The major
flights from the States had arrived, passengers
dispersed, and just a few island-to-island
flights were going out in the evening. This
was both good and bad. There was less cover,
but also less chance that a civilian would
be harmed.
When it happened, it was so quick that no
one had a chance to stop it. A short, rangy
man, pale as death itself, with close-cropped
black hair, except for some curls on top of
his head, seemed suddenly to simply appear
behind Agent Virginia Cosgrove. He said against
her ear, “Just move, sweetie, make any movement
at all to alert all the Feds hanging around
here and I’ll slice your throat from ear
to ear. What’ll be fun is that you’ll
live long enough to see your blood gush out
in a bright red fountain.”
Virginia heard Marilyn whimper. How had he
gotten behind her? Why hadn’t someone alerted
her? Why hadn’t someone seen him? Yes, it
sounded like a man, like this Timmy Tuttle
Marilyn had talked about. What was going on
here? She had to be calm, wait for her chance.
She slowly nodded. “I won’t make a move.
I won’t do anything.”
“Good,” the man said and sliced her throat.
Blood gushed out. Virginia had only a brief
moment to cry out, but even then it wasn’t
a cry, it was only a low, blurred gurgling
sound.
He turned to Marilyn, smiled, and said, “Let’s
go, baby. I’ve missed my little darlin’.
You ready, baby?”
Marilyn whispered, “Yes, Timmy, I’m ready.”
He took her hand in his bloody one, and with
his other hand, he raised the knife to her
throat. At that moment, Savich, who’d been
in low conversation with Vinny Arbus, saw
the blood spurting out of Virginia Cosgrove’s
neck. He’d been looking at her just a moment
before. How was it possible? Then he saw a
guy dragging Marilyn with him, a knife at
her throat. A dozen other agents and at least
a dozen civilians saw Virginia fall, her blood
splattering everywhere, and saw a pale-as-death
man dragging Marilyn Warluski.
All hell broke loose. It was pandemonium,
people screaming, running, frozen in terror,
or dropping to the floor and folding their
arms over their heads. But what was the most
potent, what everyone would remember with
stark clarity, was the smell of blood. It
filled the air, filled their lungs.
It was a hostage situation, but it wasn’t
a bystander who was the hostage. It was Marilyn
Warluski.
Savich spotted the man, finally free of screaming
civilians, and he’d recognize that face
anywhere. It was Tammy Tuttle’s face—only
it wasn’t quite. No, not possible. But Savich
would go to his grave swearing that it was
a man with the knife held to Marilyn’s throat,
and he had two arms, that man, because Savich
saw two hands with his own eyes. It had to
be someone else, not Tammy Tuttle dressed
up like a man. Someone who looked enough like
Tammy to fool him. But how had that crazy-looking
man gotten so close to Virginia and Marilyn
so quickly, and no one had even noticed? Suddenly
nothing made sense.
Agents grabbed tourists who were still standing
and pushed them to the floor, clearing the
way to get to the man and his hostage.
A local police officer, a very young man with
a mustache, closed with them first. He shouted
at the man to stop and fired a warning shot
in the air.
The man calmly turned in the officer’s direction,
pulled a SIG Sauer from his pocket so fast
it was a blur, and shot him in the forehead.
Then he turned around and it seemed he saw
Savich, who was at least fifty feet from him.
He yelled, “Hey, it’s me, Timmy Tuttle!
Hell-ooooo, everyone!”
Savich tuned him out. He had to or he couldn’t
function. He knew that the marksmen stationed
inside the terminal had Tuttle in their sights.
Soon now, very soon, it would be over.
He moved around the perimeter, slid behind
the Caribbean Airlines counter with half a
dozen agents behind him, and kept moving toward
Timmy Tuttle.
Three shots rang out simultaneously. Loud,
clear, sharp. It was the marksmen, and they
wouldn’t have fired without a clear shot
at Timmy Tuttle.
Savich raised his head. He knew he couldn’t
be more than twenty feet from Timmy Tuttle.
He couldn’t see him. Could they have missed?
Then there were half a dozen more shots, screaming,
and deep and ugly moans wrung out of people’s
throats from terror.
Savich felt something, something strong and
sour, and he turned quickly. He saw Sherlock
some ten feet away, just off to his left,
with three other agents, rising from her kneeling
position, her SIG Sauer aimed toward where
Timmy Tuttle and Marilyn had been just moments
before. She looked as confused as he felt.
It took everything in him not to shout for
her to stay back, please God, just stay back,
he didn’t want her hurt. And what would
hurt her? A man who really wasn’t a man,
but an image in whole cloth spun from Tammy
Tuttle’s crazy brain?
Savich saw a flash of cloth, smelled the scent
of blood, and he simply knew it was Timmy
Tuttle. He ran as fast as he could toward
a conference room, the only place Timmy could
have taken Marilyn. He kicked open the door.
He stopped cold, his gun steady, ready to
fire. There was a big rectangular table in
the center and twelve chairs, an overhead
projector, a fax, and two or three telephones.
There wasn’t anyone in the room. It was
empty. But even in here he smelled Virginia’s
blood; he could swear that he smelled her
blood, rich, coppery, sickening. He swallowed
convulsively as he took in every inch of the
room.
So Timmy hadn’t come in here. Another room
then. Agents on his heels, he ran across the
hall to see his wife, gun held in front her,
pushing open a door with SECURITY stenciled
on the glass.
He was across that hall and into the room
in an instant. He saw Sherlock standing in
the middle of the room, the three agents fanned
out behind her, all of them searching the
room. But Sherlock wasn’t doing anything,
just standing there staring silently at the
single large window that gave onto the outside.
She turned slowly to see him in the open doorway,
agents at his back, staring at her, shock
and panic alive in his eyes. She cocked her
head to one side in silent question, then
simply closed her eyes and fell over onto
the floor.
“Sherlock!”
“My God, is she shot?”
“What happened?”
The other three agents converged.
Savich knew he couldn’t stop, but it was
the hardest thing he’d ever done in his
life. He yelled, “Make sure she’s all
right! Conners, check everyone out! Deevers,
Conlin, Marks, Abrams, you’re with me!”
He heard one of the agents shout after him,
“She’s breathing, can’t see anything
wrong with her. The guy wasn’t in here,
Savich. We don’t know where he went.”
The window, he thought, Sherlock had been
staring at that window. He picked up a chair
and smashed it into the huge glass window.
When they managed to climb out the window
they’d cleared of glass, they knew, logically,
that Timmy Tuttle and Marilyn Warluski couldn’t
have come this way since the glass hadn’t
been broken. But it didn’t matter. Where
else could Timmy Tuttle have gone? They covered
every inch of ground, looked into all the
buildings, even went onto the tarmac where
one American 757 sat waiting, calling up to
the pilot. But Tammy or Timmy Tuttle was gone,
and Marilyn as well. As if they’d just vanished
into thin air, with nothing left to prove
they’d even been there except for Virginia
Cosgrove’s body, bloodless now, lying on
her side, covered with several blankets, local
technicians working over her. And the one
local officer Timmy Tuttle had shot through
the head.
He’d used his right hand when he’d shot
that officer.
Savich had shot Tammy Tuttle through her right
arm in that barn in Maryland, near the Plum
River.
At the hospital, they’d amputated her right
arm.
He wondered if they were all going mad.
No, no, there was an explanation.
Somehow a man had gotten into the airport,
killed Virginia Cosgrove, and grabbed Marilyn.
And no one had seen him until he had Marilyn
by the neck and was dragging her away.
No one much wanted to talk. Everyone who had
been in the airport appeared confused and
looked, strangely, hungover.
Savich and his team went back to the security
room. Sherlock was still unconscious, covered
with blankets, a local physician sitting on
the floor beside her.
No one had much to say. Jimmy Maitland was
sitting in a chair near Sherlock.
Savich picked up his wife, carried her to
a chair, and sat down with her in his arms.
He rocked her, never looking away from her
face.
“It’s as if she’s asleep,” the physician
said, standing now beside him. “Just asleep.
She should wake up soon and tell us what happened.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “We’ve put out an
island-wide alert for Timmy Tuttle, with description,
and Marilyn Warluski, with description. The
three agents with Sherlock didn’t see a
single blessed thing. Nada.”
Savich nodded, touched his wife’s hair.
He didn’t think he’d be surprised by anything
ever again.
A few minutes later, Sherlock opened her eyes.
She looked up and, surprisingly, smiled. “You’re
holding me, Dillon. Why? What happened?”
“You don’t remember?” He spoke very
slowly, the words not really wanting to speak
themselves, probably because he didn’t want
an answer.
She closed her eyes for a moment, frowned,
then said, “I remember I ran into this room,
three other agents behind me. No one was here.”
She frowned. “No, I’m not sure. There
was something—a light maybe—something.
I can’t remember.”
“When I came in, you were standing perfectly
still, staring out that big window. The other
agents were searching the room. But you didn’t
move, didn’t twitch or anything, and then
you just fell over.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “Did you see anything
of Timmy Tuttle or Marilyn?”
Sherlock said, “Timmy Tuttle—yes, that
crazy-looking guy who was as pale as an apocalypse
horseman—yes, I remember. He was holding
Marilyn around her neck—a knife, yes, he
had a knife. I was terrified when I saw Dillon
go in after him into that conference room.”
“You saw Timmy go into the conference room?”
“I think so. But that can’t be right.
Didn’t he come in here?”
“We don’t know. None of the agents saw
him in here,” Savich said. “No, Sherlock,
that’s okay. You just rest now. You’ll
probably remember more once you get yourself
together. Does your head ache?”
“A bit, why?”
“You feel maybe a bit like you’re hungover?”
“Well, yes, that’s right.”
Savich looked up at Jimmy Maitland and nodded.
“Everyone I’ve spoken to, agents and civilians
alike, everyone feels like that.”
“Sherlock,” Maitland said, crouching down
beside her. “Why was it just you who collapsed?
You must have seen something.”
“I’m thinking, sir, as hard as I can.”
Dillon slowly eased her up until she was sitting
on his lap. She started shaking. Savich nearly
lost it. He pulled her hard against him, protecting
her, from what, he didn’t know. He just
didn’t want her hurt, no more hurt, no more
monsters from the unknown.
Then she said, pulling away from him just
a little bit, her voice firm and steady, “Dillon,
I’m all right. I promise. I’ve got stuff
to think about. Something really weird happened,
didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s there, in the back of my brain,
and I’ll get it out.”
20
Eureka, California
Morrie Jones stared at the young woman who
had taken him down, hurt him, dammit, before
he could get away from her. He just couldn’t
believe it. She was skinny, looked like a
damned little debutante with her blond hair
and blue eyes and innocent face, like the
prototypical little WASP. That damned lawyer
of his had even told him that she’d been
recovering from surgery and she’d still
stomped his ass. He really wanted to hurt
her. Hell, he’d even do it for free, this
time.
He said to Simon, “You claimed I didn’t
need my lawyer, that you just wanted to talk
to me, that you had something to offer that
I couldn’t refuse. You from the DA’s office?”
Simon said, “No, but I have her approval.
I see you remember Ms. Savich.”
“Nah, I heard her name was Frasier. I know
that’s right because that’s the name of
the broad I’m going to sue for attacking
me.”
Lily gave him a big smile. “You go ahead
and sue me, boyo, and I’ll just smack your
face off again. What do you think?” She
cracked her knuckles, a sound Morrie Jones
had hated since he was a kid and his old man
did it whenever he was drunk.
“Stop that,” Morrie said, staring at her
hands. “Why’d the cops let you two in
here?”
She cracked her knuckles again, something
she’d rarely done since she was a bookie
and some kid from another neighborhood had
threatened to horn in on her territory. “What’s
the matter, Morrie? I still scare you?”
“Shut up, you bitch.”
“Call me a bitch again and I’ll make you
eat your tongue.” She gave him a sweet smile,
with one dimple.
Simon said, “All right, that’s enough.
Listen up, Morrie. We want you to tell us
who hired you. It could save your life.”
Morrie started whistling “Old Man River.”
Lily laughed. “Come on, Morrie, spare us.
You got a brain? Use it. Herman Monk is dead,
shot three times in the back.”
“I don’t know no Herman Monk. Sounds like
a geek. Don’t know him.”
That could be true. Simon said, “Monk was
a loose end. He’s dead. You’re a loose
end, too, Morrie. Just think about your lawyer
for a moment. Who is he? Who sent him? Who’s
paying his bill? Do you really think he’s
going to try to get you off?”
“I hired him. He’s a real good friend,
a drinking buddy. We watch the fights together
down at Sam’s Sports Bar, you know, over
on Cliff Street.”
Lily said, as she tapped her fingers on the
Formica surface, split down the middle by
bars, with Simon and Lily on one side, Morrie
on the other, “He’s setting you up, Morrie.
You too stupid to use your brain? You know
he told the sheriff that he took your case
pro bono?”
“I want a cigarette.”
“Don’t be a moron. You want to die, hacking
up your lungs? He said he took you on for
free, out of the goodness of his heart. I
want you to just think about all this. What
did your lawyer promise you?”
“He said I was getting out of here, today.”
“Yeah, we heard,” Simon said, and it was
true, according to Lieutenant Dobbs. The judge
had called and was prepared to set bail. “You
know what’s going to happen then?”
“Yeah, I’m going to go get me a beer.”
“That’s possible,” Lily said. “I hope
you really enjoy it, Morrie, because you’re
going to be dead by morning. These people
really hate loose ends.”
Morrie said, “Who did you say this Monk
geek was?”
Lily said, “He was the curator of the museum
where my grandmother’s paintings were displayed.
He was part of the group who had four of the
paintings copied, the originals replaced with
the fakes. When it all came out, when it was
obvious that things were unraveling, he was
shot in the back. That’s why they wanted
you to kill me. They were my paintings and
here I am doing what they knew I’d do—stirring
things up until I find out who stole my paintings.
I wonder how long before they shoot you, Morrie.”
“I’m leaving town, first thing.”
“Good idea,” Simon said. “But I see
two big problems for you. The first is that
you’re still in jail. Your lawyer said he
was going to get you out? Who’s going to
pay the bail, Morrie, and that’s your second
problem. Your pro bono lawyer? That’s possible,
what with all the money from the people who
hired you in the first place. So, let’s
say you walk out of here, what are you going
to do? Hide out in an alley and wait for them
to kill you?”
Morrie believed him, Simon knew it in that
moment. Simon waited a beat, then said, “Turns
out I can solve both problems for you.”
“How?”
“Ms. Savich here will drop charges against
you, we’ll get you out of here without your
lawyer knowing about it. To sweeten the deal,
I’ll give you five hundred bucks. That’ll
get you far away from these creeps, give you
a new start. In return you give me the name
of who hired you.”
Morrie said, “Look, I’m going to sue her
the minute I get out of here. Five hundred
bucks? That’s jack shit.”
Simon’s gut was good. He knew he was going
to get Morrie. Just one more nudge. He turned
on the recorder in his jacket pocket. “You
know, Morrie, Lieutenant Dobbs and the DA
don’t really want me to cut any deal with
you. I had to talk them into it. They want
to take you to trial and throw your butt in
jail for a long time. Since Lily hurt you
pretty good, it’s more than your word against
hers. You’d be dead meat, Morrie.”
It took only three more minutes of negotiation.
Simon agreed to give Morrie Jones eight hundred
dollars, Lily agreed to drop the charges,
and Morrie agreed to give them a name.
“I want to see her sign papers and I want
to see the money before I do anything.”
Lieutenant Dobbs and the DA weren’t pleased,
but knew that Morrie was incidental compared
to the person who’d hired him.
Lily, in the presence of Lieutenant Dobbs,
an assistant DA, a detective, and two officers,
signed that she was dropping the charges against
one Morrie Jones, age twenty.
Once they were alone again, Morrie said, slouching
back in his chair, “Now, big shot, give
me the money before I say another word.”
Simon rose, pulled his wallet out of his back
pocket, and laid out the entire wad. There
were eight one-hundred-dollar bills and a
single twenty. “Glad you didn’t wipe me
out completely, Morrie. I appreciate it. That
twenty will buy Lily and me a couple of tacos.”
Morrie smirked as Simon started to slide the
hundred-dollar bills through the space beneath
the bars. “Tell me a story, Morrie.”
“I don’t exactly have a name. Hey, no,
don’t take the money back. I got just as
good as a name. Look, she called me. It was
this woman and she had this real thick accent,
real Southern, you know? Smooth and real slow.
She didn’t give me her name, just Lily Frasier’s
name. She described her, told me where she
was staying and to get it done fast.
“I went right over to the bank, picked up
the money, then I went to work.” He slid
his eyes toward Lily. “It just didn’t
quite work out the way I wanted.”
“That’s because you’re a wimp, Morrie.”
Morrie half-rose out of his chair. The jail
guard standing against the wall immediately
straightened. Simon raised a hand. “How
much did this woman pay you to kill Lily?”
“She gave me a thousand for a down payment.
Then she was to have five thousand to me when
it was done and on the news.”
“This is not a good business, Simon.”
She stared at Morrie. “I was only worth
six thousand dollars?”
Morrie actually smiled. “That’s all. You
know, I would have done it for less if I’d
known you then.”
Simon realized that Lily was enjoying herself.
She was having a really fine pissing contest
with this young thug. He pressed his knee
against her leg.
But she had one more line. “What I did to
you I did for nothing.”
Simon just shook his head at her. “Morrie,
which bank?”
“Give me the money first.”
Simon slid the money all the way through.
Morrie’s hand slid over it, presto. He closed
his young eyes for a moment, feeling the money
like it was a lover’s flesh. “Wells Fargo,”
he said, “the one just over on First Street
and Pine. The money was there in my name.”
“You didn’t ask who had left the money
waiting there for you?”
Morrie shook his head.
“Thanks, Morrie,” Lily said as she rose.
“Lieutenant Dobbs thinks you’ll be out
sometime this afternoon. He’s agreed not
to tell your lawyer. My advice to you—get
the hell out of Dodge. This time you don’t
have to be afraid of me. The woman who hired
you—chances are good she wants you dead,
and she’s capable of doing it herself.”
“You know who she is?”
Lily said, “Oh yeah, we know. She’d eat
you with her poached eggs for breakfast. Hey,
what happened to the thousand bucks she gave
you?”
Morrie’s eyes slid away. “None of your
damned business.”
Lily laughed, shook her finger at him. “You
pissed it away in a poker game, didn’t you?”
“No, dammit. It was pool.”
Clark Hoyt was waiting for them in Lieutenant
Dobbs’s office. His arms were folded over
his chest. He looked very odd. “I got a
call from Savich. He was calling from Saint
John’s, in Antigua, of all places, said
to tell you that all hell will break loose
in the media really soon now, but that he
and Sherlock are okay. It seems that Tammy
Tuttle got ahold of Marilyn Warluski and they’re
gone. There was a big situation there at the
airport. Savich called it a fiasco.”
“Antigua?” Simon said. “I guess he couldn’t
tell us he was there.”
Lily said, shaking her head, “Dillon will
not be a happy camper about this.”
Hoyt himself wondered what had happened, but
he said only, “Savich didn’t give me any
details, said he’d call again this evening.
I told him where you guys are staying now.
Okay, tell me who hired Morrie.”
“Yeah,” Lieutenant Dobbs said as he came
into his own office to see the two civilians
and the Fed. “Who was it?”
“It was my mother-in-law,” Lily said.
“No doubt at all that it was Charlotte.
She didn’t give Morrie her name, but that
accent of hers—it has so much syrup in it,
you could sweeten a rock.”
Lieutenant Dobbs shook his head. “So now
you know, but there’s still no case. Both
Hoyt and I interviewed the Frasiers—all
three of them—separately. In all three cases,
their lawyer, Bradley Abbott, a real son of
a bitch hardnose, was present. The Frasiers
refused to answer any questions. Abbott read
a statement to us. In the statement, the Frasiers
claim all of this is nonsense. They are sorry
about Mr. Monk, but it has nothing to do with
them, and this is a waste of everyone’s
time. Oh yeah, then their lawyer told us that
you were nuts, Lily, that you’d do anything
to get back at them, for what reason they
don’t know, but no one should believe a
single word you say. We need more evidence
before we can bring them to the station and
put them in an interview room again.”
Hoyt said to Simon and Lily, “We’ll have
two agents on Morrie Jones. Lieutenant Dobbs
hasn’t got a problem with that, especially
since he’s short officers right now. We
won’t let the little twerp out of our sight.”
“Good,” said Lieutenant Dobbs. “All
right, listen up. I’ve got a murder to solve.
As for you, Lily, you’re just an attempted
murder, so I guess I can let you slide just
a bit. I understand this thing is more complicated
than a Greek knot, and that all of it ties
together.”
Simon said, “If it’s okay with you, Lieutenant,
I’d like to go to Wells Fargo to see if
there’s a record of who gave Morrie a thousand
dollars for the hit on Lily. That’d be too
easy, but it’s worth a shot.”
Lieutenant Dobbs said, “She paid that little
dip just a thousand bucks to off Lily?”
“Oh, no,” Lily said. “I’m worth lots
more than that. There was another five thousand
bucks when the job was done.”
Simon said, “Okay, then, let’s get cracking.”
On the way out the door, Lily looked at Simon
for a moment, at his too-long, very dark hair,
and realized she hadn’t really noticed before
how it curled at his neck. “Those little
curls—they’re cute,” she said and patted
his nape.
Simon rolled his eyes.
Hoyt, who was walking behind them, laughed.
Since Hoyt was along, they got instant cooperation
at Wells Fargo. One of the vice presidents,
who seemed more numerous than tellers at the
windows, hustled onto the computer and punched
up the money transfer transactions for the
very morning Morrie had attacked Lily on the
city bus.
Mr. Trempani raised his head, looked at each
of them in turn. “This is very strange.
The money was wired in care of Mr. Morrie
Jones by a company called Tri-Light Investments.
Any of you ever heard of them?”
“Tri-Light,” Lily said. “I don’t think
Tennyson ever mentioned that company.”
“Who are they?” Hoyt asked.
“All we have is an account number in Zurich,
Switzerland. It simply lists Tri-Light Investments
and the Habib Bank AG at 59 Weinbergstrasse.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Simon said.
Hoyt said, “I’ll call Interpol and get
someone to check this out. But don’t count
on finding anything out. The Swiss have duct
tape over their mouths.” He paused for a
moment. “You suspect someone, don’t you,
Simon? And not just the Frasiers. Who?”
“If the owner of this Tri-Light Investments
is a Swede by the name of Olaf Jorgenson,
then we’re confirming lots of things,”
Simon said.
“Makes sense,” Hoyt said. “He’s the
collector, isn’t he? That’s how it all
ties into Ms. Savich’s paintings. You guys
think he’s the one who commissioned them.”
“It’s possible,” Simon said.
Lily punched Simon in the ribs. “It’s
more than possible, Clark. Call us on the
cell phone as soon as you know, okay?”
Hoyt said, “You promised no hotdogging.
That means you don’t go see Charlotte Frasier
without having at least me along.”
Hemlock Bay, California
Lily pointed to the Bullock Pharmacy, and
Simon pulled into an open parking spot in
front of Spores Dry Cleaners next door. An
old man was staring out at them from the large
glass windows that held three hanging Persian
carpets, presumably just cleaned.
Ten minutes later, Lily came out of the Bullock
Pharmacy carrying a small paper bag. She eased
into the passenger seat and drew a deep breath.
“It’s such a beautiful town,” she said.
“I always thought so. You can smell the
ocean, feel that light sheen of salt on your
skin. It’s incredible.”
“Okay, I agree, lovely town, lovely smell
in the air. What happened?”
“I had a real epiphany going into that pharmacy.”
And then she told him what had happened. There’d
been about ten people in the store, and all
of them, after they saw her, were talking
about her behind their hands. They stepped
away if she came near them, didn’t say anything
if she said hello to them. Lily was frankly
relieved when Mr. Bullock senior, at least
eighty years old, nodded to her at the checkout
line. Evidently he was the spokesperson. He
looked at her straight in the eye before he
rang up her aspirin and said, “Everyone
is real sorry you tried to kill yourself again,
Mrs. Frasier.”
“I didn’t, Mr. Bullock.”
“We heard that you blamed it on Dr. Frasier
and left him.”
“Is that what everyone believes?”
“We’ve known the Frasiers a long time,
ma’am. Lots longer than we’ve known you.”
“Actually, Mr. Bullock, it’s very far
from the truth. Someone has tried to kill
me three times now.”
He just shook his head at her, waved the bottle
of aspirin, and said, “You need something
stronger than these, Mrs. Frasier. Something
lots stronger. You’ll never live to be as
old as I am if you don’t see to it now.”
“Why don’t you talk to Lieutenant Dobbs
in Eureka?”
He just looked at her, saying nothing more.
Lily didn’t feel like standing there arguing
with the old man to change his mind, with
the dozen other people in the store likely
listening, so she just paid and left, knowing
those people were thinking she was one sick
puppy, no doubt about it.
“That’s it. Nothing much, really.” She
waved the bottle of aspirin. “Thanks, Simon.”
He handed her a bottle of diet Dr Pepper,
and she took two of the tablets.
“Isn’t it interesting that no one wanted
to speak to me,” she said, “except Mr.
Bullock. They were all content just to hang
back and listen.”
“It’s still a beautiful town. Tennyson,
Mom, and Dad have been busy,” Simon said.
“How about some lunch?”
After a light lunch at a diner that sat right
on the main pier, Lily said, “I want to
visit my daughter, Simon.”
For a moment, he didn’t understand. She
saw it and said, even as tears stung her eyes,
“The cemetery. After I leave, I know I won’t
be back for a while. I want to say good-bye.”
He wasn’t about to let her go by herself.
It was too dangerous. When he told her that,
she simply nodded. They stopped at a small
florist shop at the end of Whipple Avenue,
Molly Ann’s Blooms.
“Hilda Gaddis owns Molly Ann’s. She sent
a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses to Beth’s
funeral.”
“The daffodils are lovely.”
“Yes. Beth loved daffodils.” She said
nothing more as they drove the seven minutes
to the cemetery set near the Presbyterian
Church. It was lovely, in a pocket nestled
by hemlock and spruce trees, protected from
the winds off the ocean.
He walked with her up a narrow pathway that
forked to the right. There was a beautiful
etched white marble stone, an angel carved
on top, her arms spread wide. Beth’s name
was beneath, the date of her birth, the date
of her death, and beneath, the words She Gave
Me Infinite Joy.
Lily was crying, but made no sound. Simon
watched her go down on her knees and arrange
the daffodils against the headstone.
He wanted to comfort her but realized in those
moments that she needed to be alone. He turned
away and went back to the rental car. His
cell phone rang.
It was Clark Hoyt, and he was excited.
21
Saint John’s, Antigua
There was nothing more for Savich to do in
Antigua. Timmy Tuttle, with two healthy arms,
had Marilyn, and Savich didn’t want to even
think of what he was doing to her.
Or maybe two different people had her, one
wild-eyed man with black hair and two arms,
and a woman with one arm and madness and rage
in her eyes.
Savich couldn’t stand himself. He’d set
up Marilyn, gotten an FBI agent killed, along
with a local police officer, and left chaos
in his wake. He knew he’d see Virginia Cosgrove’s
sightless eyes for a very long time, and that
long red gash that had slit her throat open.
Jimmy Maitland had taken his arm, trying to
calm him down. “Batten down the guilt, Savich.
I approved everything you did. We faced something
or someone that shouldn’t have been there.
It happened. You’ve got to prepare to move
on.”
Maitland shook his head, ran fingers through
his gray hair, making it stand on end. “Jesus,
I’m losing it. There’s nothing more we
can do here. We’re going home. I’m leaving
Vinny Arbus and his SWAT team in charge. They’ll
keep looking for Marilyn and coordinate with
local law enforcement. This confusion, Savich,
it will unravel in time. There’s an explanation,
there has to be.”
Savich didn’t let Sherlock out of his sight.
He realized soon enough that she was different—more
quiet, her attention not on any of them, and
he’d look at her and know she was thinking
about what had happened, her eyes focused,
yet somehow far away.
There was so much cleanup, so many explanations
to give, most omitting the inexplicable things
because they didn’t help anyone to know
the sorts of things that could drive you mad.
And most important, there was no sign of the
man who’d taken Marilyn Warluski from the
Saint John’s airport.
When they got back to Washington, Savich left
immediately for the gym and worked out until
he was panting for breath, his body so exhausted
it was ready to rebel.
When he walked in the front door, feeling
so exhausted each step was a chore, his son
was there to greet him, crawling for all he
was worth right up to Savich’s feet, grabbing
onto his pants leg. Savich started to reach
down to pick him up when he heard Sherlock
say, “No, wait a second.”
Sean yanked hard on his father’s pants,
got a good hold, braced himself, and managed
to pull himself up. Then he grinned up at
his father and lifted one leg, then the other.
All the miserable unanswerable questions,
all the deadening sense of failure, fell away.
Savich whooped, picked up his son, and tossed
him into the air, again and again, until Sean
was both yelling and laughing, one and then
the other.
It was Savich who wrote Sean’s accomplishment
in his baby book that evening. “An almost
giant step for kid-kind.” Then “The leg
lift, one at a time—he’s getting ready
to walk, amazing. His grandmother says I started
walking early, too.”
In bed that night, Sherlock nuzzled her head
into Savich’s neck, lightly laid her palm
over his heart, and said, “Sean brings back
focus, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. I was ready to fall over from working
out so hard when I walked in the house, and
then he crawls over to me and pulls himself
up. Then he lifts each leg, testing them out,
nearly ready to take off. I didn’t think
I had any laughter left in me, but I guess
I do.”
“Don’t feel guilty about it. You should
have seen Gabriella. She was so tickled when
I got home, so proud of both herself and Sean
that she couldn’t wait to show off what
he could do. Those leg lifts, I haven’t
read about that in any baby books. Gabriella
got some video of him doing that with me.
I swear she didn’t want to leave this afternoon.
I expect her husband to call me and complain
about what demanding employers we are.”
Savich settled his hand on her hip, kneaded
her for a moment, thinking she’d dropped
weight, kissed her forehead, then turned on
his back to stare up at the dark ceiling.
“Dillon?”
“Hmm?”
“I waited until Sean was in bed and we were
lying here, all relaxed.”
“Waited for what, sweetheart?”
She took a deep breath. “I’ve remembered
some stuff that happened in that room at the
airport.”
Hemlock Bay
Hoyt said, “You’ll never believe this,
Simon!”
“Yeah, yeah, what, Clark?”
“Lieutenant Dobbs, he’s got—”
Simon heard the slight shifting in sound,
perhaps a small movement in the backseat of
the car, but just as he knew something was
different, he felt something very hard come
down over his right temple. He slumped forward
on the steering wheel, his forehead striking
the horn.
It blared.
“Simon? Simon, where are you? What the hell
happened?”
Lily heard the horn. Their rental car? But
Simon was there, surely. Then she realized
something was very wrong. She was on her feet
in a second, racing down those beautifully
manicured paths to the visitors’ parking
lot. She heard the man running behind her,
just one man; she heard the deep crunching
of gravel beneath his feet.
She ran faster, veering away from the parking
lot, running back into the thick stand of
hemlock and spruce trees. She was fast, always
had been.
She heard the man shout, but not at her. He
was shouting at his accomplice. What had happened
to Simon? The horn was still blaring, but
it was more distant now. And then she realized
that he must have fallen on the horn. Was
he dead? No, no, he couldn’t be, he just
couldn’t.
She was through the trees, out the back, and
there was the damned cliff, miles and miles
of it, running north and south. She had been
here before, and there wasn’t any escape
this way. What to do?
She ran along the edge of the cliff, searching
for a way down, and found one, some yards
ahead just before the cliff curved inward,
probably from sliding and erosion over the
years. There was a skinny, snaking trail,
and she took it without hesitation. There
was nothing ahead except empty land dotted
with trees and gullies. They’d get her for
sure, that or just shoot her down. Maybe there
was something there on the beach. Anything
was better than staying up here and being
an easy target.
The path was steep, and she had to slow way
down. Still she tripped a couple of times,
and the last time, she had to grab a bush
that grew beside the trail to halt her fall.
It had thorns, and she felt them score her
hands and fingers.
She vaguely heard birds calling overhead.
She knew the men had to be nearly at the top
of the trail now. They’d come after her.
What was down here except more beach? There
had to be someplace to hide, some cover, a
cave, anything.
Her breath was spurting out of her, broken,
tight. A stitch ripped through her side. She
ignored it. She had to be calm, keep herself
in control.
She kept her eyes on the winding trail. Wouldn’t
it ever stop? She heard the men now, yelling
from the top for her to come back up, they
weren’t going to hurt her.
She managed three more steps, then there was
a shot, then an instant ricochet off a rock
just one foot to her right, scattering chips
in all directions. A chip hit her in the leg,
but it didn’t go through her jeans.
She hunkered down as much as she could, twisting
to the left, then the right, going down until
at last her feet hit the hard sand on the
beach. She chanced a look back up to the top
and saw one of the men start down after her.
The other man was aiming his gun at her. It
was a handgun, not accurate enough at this
distance, she hoped.
It wasn’t. He shot at her three more times,
but none of the bullets seemed to strike close
to her.
She stumbled over a gnarly piece of driftwood
and went flying. She landed on her stomach,
her hands in front of her face. She saw wet
sand, driftwood, kelp, and even one frantic
sand crab not six inches from her nose.
She lay there for just a moment, drawing in
deep breaths, feeling the stitch in her side
lessen. Then she was up again. She saw the
man coming down the trail, but he wasn’t
being as careful as she’d been. He was a
big guy, not in the best of shape. He was
wearing those opaque wraparound sunglasses,
so she couldn’t really make out his features.
He had thick, light brown hair and a gun in
his right hand. She watched him stumble, wildly
clutching at the air to regain his balance,
but he didn’t. He tumbled head over heels
down the trail and landed hard at the bottom,
not moving. His gun. His gun was her only
chance. She’d seen it flying. She ran to
his side in an instant. She picked up a big
piece of driftwood, realized it was soggy
and not heavy enough, and grabbed up a rock
instead. She leaned over him and brought the
rock down on his head as hard as she could.
She slipped her hand inside his coat and pulled
out his wallet. She shoved it into her pocket,
then saw the gun some six feet back up the
trail, just off to the side, lying on top
of a pile of rocks.
The man on top was yelling, firing, but she
ignored him. She got the gun, turned, and
ran for all she was worth down the beach.
Washington, D.C.
Savich felt his heart pounding faster beneath
his wife’s palm. He shot up, turned on the
bedside lamp, then faced her. “Tell me.”
“I remember being scared for you when I
saw you go into that conference room. Then
I’m sure I saw Timmy Tuttle dragging Marilyn
into that security room across the hall. I
ran into the room, the three other agents
behind me. The room was empty. At least that’s
what I thought at first.
“I saw this bright light, Dillon. It nearly
blinded me, and I swear to you, for some reason
I just couldn’t move. The light was right
in front of that big window, and I know I
saw Timmy and Marilyn in the middle of that
light.
“I could hear the other agents yelling at
each other. I realized they weren’t seeing
what I was. Still I couldn’t move. I was
just nailed to the spot looking at that white
light. Then Timmy Tuttle grabbed Marilyn tight
around her neck, and . . .”
“And what?”
“Dillon, I’m not crazy, I swear.”
He pulled her against him. “I know.”
“They just disappeared. It was like they
were right in front of me, then they were
in front of the window, and the window was
bathed in the white light. Then they receded
through that white light until they were gone.
Then everything just seemed to close down.
That’s all I remember.”
Savich said, “That’s just fine, Sherlock.
Well done. It fits right into the rest of
it. It seems logical to everyone that Tammy
Tuttle used some sort of mass hypnosis. You
know how David Copperfield walked through
the Great Wall of China? How he got sawed
in half with millions of people watching,
most of them on TV?”
“Yes. You think Tammy has this skill?”
“It makes sense. There she or he was with
Marilyn, and then she or he just wasn’t
there. I think the whole thing was this big
performance that she worked out to show us
that we are dealing with a master. You know
what else I think? I think Tammy knew I was
trying to trap her and using Marilyn as bait.
She knew we’d be at the airport waiting
for her. She was ready for us. I also think
she really wants us to believe that everything
we saw was supernatural, beyond our meager
brains. But it’s not. She’s just very,
very good. She wanted to scare us all to death,
paralyze us. I do wonder, though, why she
didn’t try to kill me.”
Sherlock pulled away, stroked her fingers
over his jaw, and said, “I think it’s
because she couldn’t get close enough to
you. I’ve given this a lot of thought, Dillon,
and I think you’re one of the few people
Tammy’s ever met whom she can’t hypnotize
or perform an illusion for when she’s up
close to you. And if she can’t get close
to you without your seeing exactly what she
is, then she can’t kill you.”
“You mean if I had been close to her, I
wouldn’t have seen Timmy, I’d have really
seen Tammy?”
“Yes, it sounds reasonable. If she can’t
get close enough to you without your seeing
her exactly as she is, then she knows she’s
at a disadvantage. When you were in the barn
in Maryland with her, how far away were you
standing from her?”
“Maybe two dozen feet.”
“And she was always just what she was? Tammy
Tuttle?”
“Yes. She called the Ghouls, but she didn’t
change. When I shot her, I saw the bullet
nearly rip her arm from her body. I saw her
fall, heard her yells of pain. She remained
exactly what she was and who she was.”
Sherlock said, “Then at the airport, she
just couldn’t get close enough to you to
kill you. And she realized, too, that she
couldn’t get too close or you’d see her
as she really is and kill her. She’s being
really careful after what you did to her at
the barn.”
Savich said, “Jimmy Maitland called me at
the gym, told me that Jane Bitt in Behavioral
Sciences allowed that just maybe it is possible
that Tammy is a strong telepath in addition
to all her illusion skills. She won’t swear
to it, says she doesn’t want to get mocked
out, but we should consider it, given the
incredible control Tammy was able to exert
at the airport.”
Sherlock said, “So maybe she’s got both
this talent and skill in creating illusions.
I think you were right. Tammy knew that you
were setting her up. She also knew that you
would bring Marilyn. For whatever reason,
she wanted Marilyn back. I’m just hoping
that she didn’t want her back to kill her.
Maybe she really is fond of Marilyn. Maybe
Marilyn feeds her ego, makes her feel powerful
because she’s so very malleable and suggestible.
Tammy can make Marilyn see, make her believe
anything she tells her to believe. Didn’t
you tell me that Marilyn firmly believes everything
Tammy says?”
“Oh, yes, and it’s genuine, Sherlock.
Even under hypnosis, Marilyn was frightened
of Tammy and she believed everything she said
to Dr. Hicks and to me. She remembered it
as fact, for heaven’s sake, so she had to
have believed it.”
Savich threw back the covers and jumped to
his feet. He grabbed a pair of jeans as an
afterthought and pulled them on. “I’m
going to do some research on this with MAX.”
He walked back to the bed, grinned down at
his wife, pulled her up tightly against him,
and kissed her until she would have just as
soon he waited until morning to visit MAX.
But she knew that brain of his was working
again, asking questions, wanting to know everything,
and fast.
“I won’t be gone too long.”
She lay back down in bed, shut off the table
lamp, pulled the covers to her chin, and smiled
into the darkness when she heard Dillon speaking
to MAX down the hall in his study. She heard
him laugh.
22
Hemlock Bay, California
There weren’t any caves, not even one indentation
in the rock where she could squeeze in and
wait them out. Just a beach that went on and
on, driftwood piled all over it, and slimy
trails of kelp, dangerous when you were running.
But she had a gun. It was small and ugly,
but she wasn’t defenseless. From what she
knew about guns, which wasn’t much, it was
a close-range gun, useless at a distance,
but if you got near enough, it could kill
a person quite easily.
The temperature dropped as the sun went behind
gathering clouds, whirling rain clouds. Any
minute now rain would pour down. Would that
help her or not? She didn’t know.
Had there been three men? One staying with
Simon and the other two after her? Maybe there
were just two men and Simon could get away
and call for help. They’d been idiots—telling
their FBI protectors that since they were
just going to the cemetery and they wanted
to be private, they’d meet them back in
Hemlock Bay.
She stopped, bending over, her hands on her
thighs, so tired her breath was catching and
she was wheezing with the effort to breathe.
She flattened herself in the shadow of the
cliff and looked back.
Then, suddenly, she heard one of the men cup
his hands around his mouth and shout, “Lily
Frasier! We have Simon Russo. Come out now
or we will kill him. That is a promise. Then
we will call our friends to come at you from
the other end of the beach. We will trap you,
and you won’t like what will happen to you
then.”
The man’s words brought her breath back,
straightened her right up. The man’s voice
was also thick with an accent—stilted, unnatural.
Swedish. Well, damn, it seemed that Olaf Jorgenson
himself had come, or sent his friends. She
ran again, until she rounded a slight promontory
and looked up. She had found her way out.
Another narrow trail snaked up the cliff,
much like the one she’d taken down. Two
miles back up the beach? Three miles? She
didn’t make a sound, just shot up that trail,
using her hands on rocks and scrubs, anything
to keep her steady, knowing they couldn’t
see her until they came around the promontory
themselves.
They couldn’t kill Simon. They’d left
him alone in the car. If there was a third
man watching him, well then, they couldn’t
contact him. Unless they had a cell phone.
Everybody had a cell phone. Oh, God, please,
no. It had to be a bluff, it just had to be.
She slipped once, saw pebbles and small rocks
gushing out from the cliff and pounding their
way back down to the beach. She held still,
then started up again. She was up to the top
of the cliff in no time and running. The men
would realize soon enough where she’d gone.
Hurry, she had to hurry. She hurt, really
bad, but she thought of Simon, of his hair
curling at his neck, and she knew nothing
could happen to him. She wouldn’t let it.
Too much loss in her life, she couldn’t
bear any more. She came into the back of the
cemetery, climbed the wrought-iron fence,
and ran down the path toward the visitors’
parking lot.
The horn wasn’t blaring anymore.
Nearly there, she was nearly there. She saw
their rental car, but didn’t see Simon.
She got to the car. He was stretched out on
the front seat, unconscious. Or dead.
She pulled the driver’s side door open.
“Simon! Wake up, dammit! Wake up!”
He moaned, struggled to a sitting position.
He blinked, finally focusing on her face.
“They’re after us, two men, both with
guns. I got away from them but we don’t
have much time. Scoot over, we’re getting
out of here. I’m going to drive us right
to jail and have Lieutenant Dobbs lock us
in. It’s the only safe place in the world.
No lawyers allowed. Just Lieutenant Dobbs.
He can bring our food. We’ll get Dillon
and Sherlock out here. They’ll figure this
all out, and we can get the hell out of here.”
As she spoke, she managed to shove his feet
off the seat and push him toward the passenger
door. “It will be all right. You don’t
have to do anything, see, I can drive now.
Just rest, Simon.”
“No, Lily, no more driving. You’re not
going anywhere, not anymore.”
Lily turned slowly at that syrupy voice and
stared up at Charlotte Frasier, who was pointing
a long-barreled gun at her. “You’ve given
us too much trouble. If I hadn’t decided
to oversee this myself, you would have escaped
yet again. I always believed three times was
a charm, and so it is. Get out of the car,
Lily. Now.”
Lily wasn’t surprised, not really. Not Elcott,
but Charlotte. Then she almost smiled. Charlotte
didn’t know she had a gun, too. Would Charlotte
take the chance of killing them here, in the
cemetery parking lot? She believed all the
way to her gut that Charlotte was capable
of anything. She was still free, and Mr. Monk
had been dead for three days now.
Then she saw the men running toward them.
She had to hurry, had to do something. She
opened the door, lifting one arm, hiding the
other hand slightly behind her.
“Where’s Elcott?” she said, wanting
to distract Charlotte, just for an instant.
“And that marvelous son of yours? Who loves
me so much he’d like nothing more than to
bury me? Aren’t they hanging back there,
waiting for you to tell them what to do?”
“Don’t you dare speak of my husband and
my son like that—”
Lily was clear. She raised the gun and fired.
Washington, D.C.
FBI Headquarters
Ollie Hamish came running into Savich’s
office. “We got him! We got Anthony Carpelli,
a. k. a. Wilbur Wright. He was right there
in Kitty Hawk on the Outer Banks. He was kneeling
in front of the monument at Kitty Hawk and
we came up on him and he just folded down
like a tent and gave it all up.”
For an instant, Savich was so distracted he
didn’t know what Ollie was talking about.
Then he remembered, the guru from Texas who’d
had his followers murder the two deputies
and the sheriff, the Sicilian Canadian who’d
attended McGill University and had an advanced
degree in cellular biology. Savich said slowly,
“Sit down, Ollie. You said he was kneeling
at the monument? As in worshiping?”
“Maybe so. All the agents were so relieved
at how easily it went down, they were celebrating,
drinking beers at eleven o’clock in the
morning. We got him, Savich. He’ll go back
to Texas and fry, probably.”
“Probably not,” Savich said. “Remember
that he isn’t tied directly to those killings,
just hearsay from a woman who was pissed off.”
“Yes, Lureen. Evidently they’re holding
her as a material witness. They’ve also
picked up two more of Wilbur’s people who
were in the cult. Everyone thinks his own
people will finally nail his ass. At least
we got him and he’s not going to be killing
anybody else.
“Hey, Savich, you should be really pleased.
After all, it was you and MAX who predicted
he’d probably go back to Kitty Hawk.”
Savich realized he was so caught up with Tammy
Tuttle that he didn’t feel much of anything
about Wilbur Wright. And it was a victory,
a very clean win. Everyone would be very pleased.
He smiled at Ollie. “I am pleased. MAX discovered
sixteen more killings throughout the Southwestern
U.S. that sound like the work of Wilbur. So
there’s lots of other crimes to tie in to
this one; local law enforcement should be
brought up to speed and get with the program.
Dane Carver is heading that up. Now that you’ve
got Wilbur Wright, you can get our doctors
on him and see what makes him tick.”
“I really don’t want to know.”
“Unfortunately a jury will demand to know.
Meet with Dane and go over all the other cases,
then head down to interview Wilbur.”
“When we caught him, I looked at him, Savich.
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen
such dead eyes, and I’ve seen lots of bad
folk up close and personal; but Wilber, he
was just flat-out scary. You wonder what exactly
he’s seeing with those dead eyes. It won’t
be long before they extradite him back to
Texas with more than enough evidence to fry
his butt.”
“You can bet the lawyers will fight extradition.”
“Yeah, they’d prefer a state where there’s
no death penalty, but if we get enough evidence,
it won’t matter.”
“We done good, Ollie. Now you and Dane sew
it up, okay?”
“You got it.” Agent Ollie Hamish leaned
forward in his chair, clasping his hands between
his legs. “I’ve heard all sorts of things,
Savich, about what happened in Antigua. How’s
that going?”
Savich told him all of it. “We’ve got
people working on where she learned her illusion
skills so we can get a better handle on what
she’s capable of. There are more people
scouring the airport in Antigua trying to
find out how she managed to get away, questioning
everyone in the area, searching all boats,
all private charters.”
Ollie said, “She’s still got only one
arm and, physically, she’s in bad shape,
right?”
“I don’t know how bad it still is. Her
surgeon said if she has an infection, she
could be dead within a week without antibiotics.
But if she doesn’t have an infection, she
could make it through just fine. He said she
responded superbly to the surgery. I asked
the doctor if anyone had ever reported seeing
someone other than Tammy Tuttle or seeing
her where she shouldn’t be.”
“Did he even understand what you meant?”
“Yes,” Savich said slowly, “he did.
He said that an orderly told him he’d just
seen Tammy up and walking to the bathroom
the day after surgery. When he went to check
her, she was lying strapped down to the bed.
Nobody believed the orderly. Then she escaped
and no one could figure that out, either.
Anyway, Ollie, how are Maria and Josh? He
just turned two, right?”
“Yeah. He’s running all over the house,
opening every drawer, banging every pot. He
yells ‘no’ at least fifty times a day,
and he’s cuter than the new puppy we just
got, who peed on the shirt I was going to
wear this morning.”
Savich laughed. It felt good. He nodded Ollie
out, then turned back to MAX.
A call came in an hour later. Tammy Tuttle
had been spotted in Bar Harbor, Maine, where
agents had showed her photo all over town,
along with Marilyn’s, and left phone numbers.
A local photo shop owner had called the Bar
Harbor police department to say she’d left
film and was going to come back.
“I’ve got to get close to her,” Savich
said to Sherlock. He kissed her nose and left
the unit, nearly on a run, shouting over his
shoulder, “I’ve got to see Tammy with
one arm, and not something she wants me to
see.”
“Please, not too close,” Sherlock called
out, but she didn’t think he heard her.
It took very little time for Savich and six
other agents to board a Sabreliner at Andrews
Air Force Base for a flight to Bar Harbor.
He spent the entire flight telling the agents
everything he could think of. It was time,
Savich decided, feeling a weight lift off
his shoulders, to let everyone know exactly
what they were dealing with.
A psychopathic killer who is an illusionist,
possibly a telepath. He had never seen anything
like it, and he hoped he never would again.
He’d just finished telling all the agents
about the Ghouls, detailing what Marilyn had
told him and what he himself had seen. If
they didn’t believe him, they were cool
enough to keep it to themselves.
One agent, a friend of Virginia Cosgrove’s,
didn’t doubt a single word. As they were
debarking from the jet in Bar Harbor, she
said, “Virginia told me some things Marilyn
Warluski had told her. It was terrifying,
Mr. Savich.”
“Just Savich, Ms. Rodriguez. I’m very
sorry about Agent Cosgrove.”
“We all are, sir.” Then she managed a
grin. “Just Lois, Savich.”
“You got it.”
“The thing is, guys,” he said to all of
them, “if you see her or him again”—he
waved the artist’s drawing under all their
noses—“don’t play any games. Don’t
even think about trying to take her alive.
Don’t trust anything you see happen, fire
without hesitation, and shoot to kill. Now,
I’m going to the photo shop, make sure there’s
no confusion. Then we’ll get together at
the local police department and get everything
set up.”
He wondered if the Ghouls would be with her,
with Tammy as their head acolyte, their priestess
of death.
He was becoming melodramatic. All he really
knew as he walked into the photo shop, Hamlet’s
Pics, on Wescott Avenue, was that he was glad
to his soul that Sherlock wasn’t here, that
she was at home, safe with Sean.
He spoke to the photo shop employee, Teddi
Tyler—spelled with an “i” he was told—to
verify what he’d said to the local police.
Teddi repeated that the woman whose photo
Savich was showing him had indeed been in
the shop, just yesterday, late afternoon.
He’d called the police right away.
“What did she want?”
“She had some film she wanted developed.”
Savich felt his heart pound, deep and slow,
and it was all he could do to remain calm
and smooth. They were so close now. “Did
you develop the film, Mr. Tyler?”
“Yes, sir, Agent Savich. The police told
me to go ahead and develop it and hold the
photos for the FBI.”
“When did she say she wanted to pick the
photos up?”
“This afternoon, at two o’clock. I told
her that would be just fine.”
“Did she look like she was in good health,
Mr. Tyler?”
“She was sort of pale, but looked good other
than that. It was pretty cold yesterday so
she was all bundled up in a thick coat, a
big scarf around her neck and a wool ski cap,
but I still recognized her, no problem.”
“Did you make any comment to her about how
she looked familiar?”
“Oh, no, Agent Savich. I was really cool.”
Yeah, I bet, Savich thought, praying that
he’d been cool enough not to alert Tammy
that he was on to her. One thing—Teddi Tyler
was still alive, and that meant Tammy hadn’t
felt threatened, he hoped. Everything he’d
told Savich so far was exactly what he’d
told the local cops.
“I want you to think carefully now, Mr.
Tyler. When she handed you the film, which
hand did she use?”
Teddi frowned, furrowing his forehead into
three deep lines. “Her left hand,” he
said at last. “Yes, it was her left hand.
She had her purse on a long strap hanging
over her left shoulder. It was kind of clumsy.”
“Did you ever see her right hand?”
Again Teddi went into a big frown. “I’m
sorry, Agent Savich,” he said finally, shaking
his head, “I just don’t remember. All
I’m sure about is that she stayed all bundled
up—again no surprise, since it was so cold.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tyler. Now, a special agent
will take your place behind the counter. Agent
Briggs will be in soon and you can go over
procedures with him.” Savich raised his
hand, seeing that Teddi Tyler wanted to argue.
“There’s no way you are going to face
this woman again, Mr. Tyler. She’s very
dangerous, even to us. Now, show me those
photos.”
Savich took the photo envelope from Teddi
and moved away from the counter to the glass
front windows. The sun was shining brightly
for a November day. It didn’t look like
it was forty degrees outside. He slowly opened
the envelope and pulled out the glossy 4x6
photos. There were only six of them.
He looked at one after the other, and then
looked again. He didn’t understand. All
of them were beach shots, undoubtedly taken
in the Caribbean. Two were taken in the early
morning, two when the sun was high, and two
at sunset. None of them was very well done—well,
that made sense since she had only one arm—but
what was the point? All beach shots, no people
in any of them. What was this about?
He held the photos up to Teddi. “Did she
say anything about the photos? What they were?
Anything at all?”
“Yeah, she said they were vacation photos
she wanted to show her roommate. Said her
roommate didn’t believe her when she’d
said how beautiful it was down in the Caribbean.
She had to prove it.”
If Tammy hadn’t lied, then Marilyn was alive.
She wanted Marilyn to admire the beaches in
the Caribbean.
He told Teddi Tyler to take off as soon as
Agent Briggs arrived. As for Briggs, he was
a natural retailer, experienced in undercover
jobs. He was fast, a good judge of people’s
behavior. Savich trusted him. Briggs knew
how dangerous Tammy was, knew everything Savich
knew.
They had three hours to get it all set up.
There were three agents undercover near Marilyn’s
boyfriend’s house just off Newport Drive.
He doubted they would see either Marilyn or
Tammy at the boyfriend’s house. Of course
not, Savich thought, that would be too easy.
Savich left, drew the salty air deep into
his lungs, and called Simon Russo on his way
to the meet with the other agents. He hadn’t
spoken to Russo or Lily in nearly thirty hours.
He knew they were all right; otherwise Hoyt
would have yelled out. Still, he wanted to
know what was happening. He was worried about
Lily, just couldn’t help it. He knew Simon
would protect her with his life, knew Hoyt
and the Eureka police were with them all the
way. But still, she was his sister, and he
loved her deeply. He didn’t want anything
to happen to her. When he thought of what
she’d already endured, he felt rage in his
gut.
The more he thought about it, the more Savich
worried.
He pulled his leather jacket collar up around
his ears and dialed. Simon’s cell phone
didn’t answer. Savich wasn’t about to
second-guess himself and try to believe that
the battery was dead. He immediately put in
a call to Clark Hoyt.
23
Bar Harbor, Maine
Clark Hoyt answered his cell phone on the
third ring. “Savich? Good thing you called.
We can’t find Simon or Lily. Our guys have
been sticking close to them, but when Lily
wanted to go to the cemetery, everyone decided
they’d be safe there, and so we agreed to
give them some privacy. Jesus, Savich, they
went after them in the cemetery!
“When they didn’t show up in an hour at
Bender’s Café in Hemlock Bay, my agents
called me, then drove to the cemetery. We
found Simon’s rental car and one of the
Frasiers’ cars in the parking lot. There
weren’t any other cars around. We know Lily
visited her daughter’s grave because the
daffodils she’d bought were there.”
Hoyt paused.
“What is it, Clark? What else did you find?”
“Some blood on the front seats, Savich,
just a trace, but there was blood on the parking
lot cement, a good bit more. We’re testing
it. We fucked up, Savich. Jesus, I’m sorry.
We’ll find them, I swear it to you.”
Savich felt fear twisting in his belly, but
when he spoke, his voice was controlled. “The
fact that you found the Frasiers’ car there
as well as Simon’s—were the Frasiers taken,
too? Or were the Frasiers a part of it and
just left their car there? If they plan to
come back, then why would they leave their
car next to Simon’s—that’s a sure giveaway
that they were involved.”
“That’s what we think.”
“At least you didn’t find them dead. They’ve
been taken. By whom?”
“We’re trying to track down the Frasiers,
but nothing yet. They must be with Simon and
Lily. Lieutenant Dobbs and I went to the hospital
to see Tennyson Frasier. He claimed he didn’t
know where his parents were. Seemed to me
that he really didn’t care one way or the
other. When we told him that Lily was gone,
I thought he’d go nuts. This Dr. Rossetti—you
remember, the shrink who wanted to treat Lily
when she was still in the hospital after the
accident? The guy Lily didn’t like? Well,
he was there with Tennyson. He got all huffy,
said Tennyson was a fine man, a great doctor,
and his wife was a bitch and didn’t deserve
him. He then gave Tennyson three happy pills
while we were watching. I’ll tell you, Savich,
I think Tennyson really doesn’t know anything
about the disappearance.”
Savich was hearing everything, but he wasn’t
thinking a whole lot in that instant. He was
flat-out scared. He wanted to leave Bar Harbor
and fly immediately out to California, but
he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t leave.
It was that simple and that final. He said,
“I’m not sure what I think right at this
moment, Clark. And I can’t break free. I’m
up to my eyeballs right now.” He drew a
deep breath. “Actually, we’re about to
confront a psychopathic killer right here
in Bar Harbor, Maine, and I’m in charge.”
“Look, Savich, there are a whole bunch of
us on this. We’ll find out who took them.”
Yeah, yeah, Savich thought, then said, “If
this Olaf Jorgenson is behind this, we’re
talking about a lot of resources, like a private
Learjet here, with flight plans out of the
country. It won’t be hard to find them.”
“We’re already on that. I’ll call you
when we get something. Ah, good luck in Bar
Harbor.”
“Thank you. Keep me posted.”
“Yes, I will. Look, Savich, I’m sorry.
Dammit, I was supposed to keep them covered,
keep them safe. I’ll do everything I can
with this. I’ll call you every hour.”
“No, Hoyt, call me only if it’s an emergency
for the next three hours. Otherwise, I’ll
get back to you when I can.” Clark Hoyt
didn’t know what nuts was, Savich thought,
as he punched off his cell phone. He had to
call Sherlock, tell her what was going on.
Thank God she was home and safe. He didn’t
want her to hear about Simon and Lily from
Hoyt or Lieutenant Dobbs. He had two hours
and forty minutes left to set up the operation.
He walked over to Firefly Lane to the Bar
Harbor Police Department. He knew he simply
had to try to stop thinking about Lily and
Simon now. He had to concentrate on killing
Tammy Tuttle.
He wanted to press his fingers against the
pulse point in her neck and not feel a thing.
• Lily heard moaning, then a series of gasping
curses that seemed to go on forever. Those
curses sounded strange, long and drawn out.
Then she heard crying. Crying?
No, she wasn’t crying. Nor was she cursing.
She felt movement, but it wasn’t tossing
her around; it was just there, all around
her, subtle, faintly pulsing.
Simon. Where was Simon?
She opened her eyes slowly, not really wanting
to because her head already hurt and she feared
it would crack open when she opened her eyes.
There was a woman moaning again. Crying, then
more of those soft, slurred curses.
It was Charlotte. Lily remembered now. She’d
shot Charlotte, but she was still alive. And
hurting. Lily at least felt some satisfaction.
If her head hadn’t hurt quite so badly,
she would have smiled. She hadn’t saved
herself or Simon, but she had managed to inflict
some damage.
She moved her head a little bit. There was
a brief whack of pain, but she could handle
it. She saw that she was sprawled in a wide
leather seat, some sort of belt strapping
her in. It cut into her belly and didn’t
hurt much, just a little tug, and that was
a relief.
She saw Simon was seated next to her. He was
strapped in, too. She realized then that he
was holding her hand on top of his leg. He
was looking toward Charlotte.
“Simon.”
He made no sudden movement, just slowly turned
his head to look down at her. He smiled, actually
smiled, and said, “Shit, I knew I should
have left you at home.”
“And miss all this excitement? No way. I’m
so glad you’re alive. Where are we?”
“We’re about thirty thousand miles up,
a private jet, I’d say. How are you doing,
sweetie?”
“I don’t feel much like a sweetie right
now. We’re in an airplane? So that’s that
funny feeling, like we’re in some sort of
moving cocoon. Oh, dear, I guess maybe we’re
on our way to Sweden?”
“I guess it’s possible, but why did you
say it like you already knew.”
“When those guys were chasing me down the
beach, they shouted to me. They’re foreign,
very stilted English, Swedish, I think. I
thought then that Mr. Olaf Jorgenson had gotten
tired of waiting to have things done for him.”
“You’re right about their being Swedish.”
He was silent for a moment, then said, “You
said you were running down the beach to get
away from them?”
She told him what had happened, finding the
trail back up, finding him unconscious, and
then about Charlotte.
“If Charlotte hadn’t been there, we would
have gotten away and I would have moved us
to the Eureka jail, no visitors allowed.”
He picked up her hand and held it. “That
crying and cursing—it’s Charlotte Frasier.
The pilot, who also seems to be a medic, has
been working on her. You shot her through
her right arm. Pity, but she’ll be all right.
Before you came awake, she was screaming that
you were an ingrate, after all she’d done
for you. She said she was going to kill you
herself.” He didn’t add that she’d punctuated
everything she said with the foulest language
he’d heard in a long time.
She was thoughtful for a long moment, then
said, “Are you all right?”
“Yes, just a slight headache now. How’s
your head?”
“Hurts.”
“Ah, they see we’re awake. Here comes
Mr. Alpo Viljo. No, I’m not making it up,
his name is Alpo. Sounds Swedish to me. He’s
an enforcer, a bodyguard maybe. I’ve never
run into a real Swedish badass before. From
what I’ve heard, he’s the one who smacked
his pistol butt against your head.”
Alpo Viljo was indeed one of the men who’d
chased her on the beach near the cemetery.
He was even bigger up close, but really out
of shape, his belly hanging over his belt,
unlike most of the Scandinavian people she’d
met. At least he was blond and blue-eyed.
Had to be some Viking blood in there somewhere.
He didn’t say anything, just stood there,
his arms crossed over his chest, staring down
at her.
Lily said, “What’s your partner’s name?”
He started, as if he wasn’t sure he understood
her, then said in his stilted, perfectly understandable
English, “His name is Nikki. He’s a mean
man. Do not do anything to piss him off.”
“Where are we going, Mr. Viljo?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Why is Mr. Olaf Jorgenson bringing us to
Sweden?”
He just shook his head at her, grunted, turned,
and walked back to the front of the cabin,
where Charlotte Frasier was still muttering
a curse every little while.
“You got that, Lily? No pissing off Nikki.
As for Alpo, I think he likes you. You do
look like a princess, and maybe Alpo’s a
romantic man. But don’t count on it, okay?”
She had to grin, even though it hurt her head
to move her mouth. She looked out the window
at the mountains and canyons of white clouds.
She said as she turned back to face him, “Simon,
I really do like your hair. Even messed up,
it’s cool the way it curls at your neck.
Long, but not too long. Sexy.”
“Lily,” he said, leaning closer, his voice
very low, “you’re not thinking straight
at the moment. I want you to close your eyes
and try to sleep.”
“I think that’s probably a very good idea.
All right. Maybe I could have some aspirins
first?”
Simon called out to Alpo Viljo, and soon Lily
was downing a couple of aspirin and a very
large glass of water. She gave him a silly
grin as her eyes closed.
And in that exact moment, Simon knew it was
all over for him. He’d met a woman to trust,
a woman loyal to her bones. She sent his feelings
right off the scale. His princess, all delicate
and soft and pale as milk—well, not right
now, since she was still damp from the rain,
her clothes torn and splattered with mud,
and that hair of hers, all limp and tangled
around her head; it was his opinion that she
looked superb.
What was a man to do?
He eased a small airplane pillow between her
belly and the seat belt. He leaned back against
the seat and closed his own eyes.
Lily awoke thinking of her brother, knowing
he must be frantic. Surely Hoyt and Dillon
knew they’d been taken. But did they have
any idea where? And, for that matter, why
had they been kept alive at all?
She looked over at Simon’s seat. It was
empty. He was gone. But where?
She heard a man’s deep voice say in halting
English right next to her ear, “You eat
now.”
Nikki eased himself down into Simon’s seat.
He was holding a tray on his lap. It was the
man who’d shouted to her on the beach, the
man Alpo had said was mean.
“Where’s Simon?”
The big man just shook his head. “Not your
worry. Eat now.”
She said very slowly, very deliberately, “No,
I won’t do anything until I see Simon Russo.”
Nikki cupped his big hand around the back
of her neck and dragged her head back. He
picked up a glass of something that looked
like iced coffee without the ice and forced
her to drink it. She struggled, choked, the
liquid spilling down her chin and onto her
clothes, soaking in, smelling like coffee
and something else. Something like pills went
down her throat. She felt dizzy even before
Nikki let go of her neck. “Why did you do
that?”
“We land soon. Officials here. We want you
quiet. Too bad you did not eat. Too thin.”
“Where’s Simon, you son of a bitch?”
But she knew the words didn’t sound right
coming out of her mouth. She wished she’d
eaten, too. She heard her stomach growl even
as she fell away into a very empty blankness.
24
Bar Harbor, Maine
Special Agent Aaron Briggs, neck size roughly
twenty-one inches, biceps to match, a gold
tooth shining like a beacon in his habitual
big smile, nodded from behind the counter
at agents Lowell and Possner. Both agents
were dressed casually in jeans, sweaters,
and jackets, trying to appear like ordinary
customers looking at frames and photo albums.
It was two o’clock, on the dot.
Savich was in the back. Aaron knew he had
his SIG Sauer ready, knew he wanted Tammy
Tuttle so bad he could taste it. Aaron wanted
her, too. Dead was what Tammy Tuttle needed
to be, for the sake of human beings everywhere,
particularly young teenage boys. He’d listened
to every word Dillon Savich had said on the
flight up here. He knew agents who’d seen
the wild-eyed guy in Antigua who’d slit
Virginia Cosgrove’s throat, agents who couldn’t
explain what they’d seen and heard. He felt
a ripple of fear in his belly, but he told
himself that soon she’d be dead, all that
inexplicable stuff he’d heard she’d done
down in the airport in Antigua would then
be gone with her.
The bell over the shop door sounded as the
door opened. In walked Tammy Tuttle, wrapped
up in a thick, unbelted wool coat that hung
loose on her. Aaron put out his big smile
with its shining gold tooth and watched her
walk toward him. He could feel the utter focus
of agents Possner and Lowell from where he
stood, his SIG Sauer not six inches from his
right hand, just beneath the counter.
She was pale, too pale, no makeup on her face,
and there was something about her that jarred,
something that wasn’t quite right.
Aaron was the best retail undercover agent
in the Bureau, bar none, with the reputation
that he could sell a terrorist a used olive-green
Chevy Chevette, and he turned on all his charm.
He said, “Hi, may I help you, miss?”
Tammy was nearly leaning against the counter
now. She wasn’t very tall. She bent toward
him and his eyes never left her face as she
said, “Where’s the other guy? You know,
that little twerp who spells Teddi with an
‘i’?”
“Yea, ain’t that a hoot? Teddi with an
‘i.’ Well, Teddi said he had a bellyache—he’s
said that before—and called me to cover
for him. Me, I think he drank too much last
night at the Night Cave Tavern. You ever been
there? Over on Snow Street?”
“No. Get my photos, now.”
“Your name, miss?”
“Teresa Tanner.”
“No problem,” Aaron said and slowly turned
to look in the built-in panels, sectioned
off by letter of the alphabet. Under T, he
found Teresa Tanner’s envelope third in
the slot, which was exactly where he’d placed
it himself an hour before. He picked up the
envelope with her name on it, was slowly turning
back to her, knowing Savich was ready for
him to drop to the floor so he’d have a
clear shot at her, when suddenly he heard
a hissing sound, loud, right in his ear, and
he froze. Yes, a hiss, like a snake, right
next to him, too close, too close, right next
to his neck, and its fangs would sink deep
into his skin and . . .
No, his imagination was going nuts on him,
but there it was again. Aaron forgot to fall
to the floor so Savich could have his shot.
He grabbed his SIG Sauer from beneath the
counter, brought it up fast, just like he
knew Possner and Lowell were doing, and whipped
around. The photo envelope was suddenly in
her hand; he didn’t know how she’d gotten
it, but there it was, and then both Tammy
Tuttle and the envelope were gone. Just gone.
He heard Savich yell, “Get out of the way,
Aaron! Move!”
But he couldn’t. It was like he was nailed
to the spot. Savich was trying to shove him
aside, but he resisted, he simply had to resist,
not let him by. He saw a harsh, bright glow
of fire in the corner of the shop, smelled
burning plastic, harsh and foul, and heard
Agent Possner scream. Oh God, the place was
on fire, no, just a part of it, but it was
mainly Agent Possner. She was on fire—her
hair, her eyebrows, her jacket, and she was
screaming, slapping at herself. Flames filled
her hair, bright and hot and orange as a summer
sun.
Agent Aaron Briggs shoved Savich aside and
started running, yelling as he ran toward
Possner.
Agent Lowell was turning to Possner, not understanding,
and when he saw the flames, he tackled her.
They fell to the floor of the shop, knocking
over a big frame display, and he was slapping
at her burning hair with his hands. Aaron
jerked off his sweater as he ran toward them,
knocking frame and album displays out of the
way.
Savich was around the counter, running toward
the door, his gun drawn. Aaron saw him but
didn’t understand. Didn’t he care that
Possner was on fire? He heard a gunshot, a
high, single pop, then nothing. Suddenly the
flames were out. Possner was sobbing, in the
fetal position on the floor, Lowell’s shirt
wrapped around her head, and Aaron saw that
Lowell was all right, no burns that Aaron
could see. He had his cell phone out, calling
for backup, calling for an ambulance. And
Aaron realized that his fingers looked normal.
He thought he’d seen them burned, just like
he’d seen Possner burned.
• Savich was running, searching through
the streets. There weren’t that many folk
around, no tourists at all, it being fall
and much too chilly for beach walks in Bar
Harbor. He held his SIG at his side and made
a grid in his mind. He’d studied the street
layout. Where would she go? Where had she
come from?
Then he saw her long, dark blue wool coat,
thick and heavy, flapping around a corner
just half a block up Wescott. He nearly ran
down an old man, apologized but didn’t slow.
He ran, holding his SIG Sauer against his
side, hearing only his own breathing. He ran
around the corner and stopped dead in his
tracks. The alley was empty except for that
thick wool coat. It lay in a collapsed pile
against a brick wall at the back of the alley.
Where was she? He saw the narrow, wooden door,
nearly invisible along the alley wall. When
he got to it, he realized it was locked. He
raised his SIG Sauer and fired into the lock.
Two bullets dead on and the door shattered.
He was inside, crouched low, his gun steady,
sweeping the space. It was very dim, one of
the naked bulbs overhead, burned out. He blinked
to adjust his vision and knew he was in grave
danger. If Tammy was hidden in here, she could
easily see his silhouette against the streetlight
behind him and could nail him.
He realized he was in a storeroom. There were
barrels lining the walls, shelves filled with
boxes and cans, paper goods. The floor was
wooden and it creaked. The place was really
old. It was dead quiet, not even any rats
around. He swept over the room, hurrying because
he didn’t believe she’d stayed in here,
no, she’d go through the door at the far
end of the storeroom. It just wasn’t in
Tammy’s nature to hide and wait.
He opened the door and stared into a bright,
sunlit dining room filled with a late-lunch
crowd. He saw a kitchen behind a tall counter
on the far side of the dining room, smoke
from the range rising into the vents, exits
to the left leading to bathrooms, and a single
front door that led out to the sidewalk. He
stepped into the room. He smelled roast beef
and garlic. And fresh bread.
Slowly the conversations thinned out, then
stopped completely, everyone gaping at the
man who was in a cop stance, swinging a gun
slowly around the room, looking desperate,
looking like he wanted to kill someone. A
woman screamed. A man yelled, “Here, now!”
“What’s going on here?”
This last was from a huge man with crew-cut
white hair, a white apron stained with spaghetti
sauce, coming around the kitchen counter to
Savich’s left, carrying a long, curved knife.
The smell of onions wafted off the knife blade.
“Hey, fellow, is this a holdup?”
Savich slowly lowered his gun. He couldn’t
believe what he was seeing, just couldn’t
believe that he’d come through a dank storeroom
into a café and scared a good twenty people
nearly to death. Slowly, he reholstered his
gun. He pulled out his FBI shield, walked
to the man with the knife, stopped three feet
away, and showed it to him. He said in a loud
voice, “I’m sorry to frighten everyone.
I’m looking for a woman.” He raised his
voice so every diner in the big room could
hear. “She’s mid-twenties, tall, light
hair, very pale. She has only one arm. Did
she come in here? Through the storeroom door,
just like I did?”
There were no takers. Savich checked the bathrooms,
then realized Tammy was long gone. She might
have remained hidden in the storeroom, knowing
he’d feel such urgency he’d burst into
the café. He apologized to the owner and
walked out the front door.
In that moment, standing on the Bar Harbor
sidewalk, Savich could swear that he heard
a laugh—a low, vicious laugh that made the
hair on his arms stand up. There was no one
there, naturally. He felt so impotent, so
completely lost that he was hearing her in
his mind.
Savich walked slowly back to Hamlet’s Pics.
When he got there, he stood a moment outside
the shop, incredulous. There’d been mayhem
when he’d burst out of there. But now there
were no cop cars, no ambulance, no fire engines.
Everything was quiet, nothing seemed to be
out of the ordinary.
He walked into the photo shop. There were
three agents standing on the far side of the
shop just staring down, talking quietly among
themselves.
Agent Possner wasn’t burned. There was no
sign that there had ever been a fire in Hamlet’s
Pics. Agents Briggs, Lowell, and Possner stared
back at him.
Savich walked out. He sat down on a wooden
bench on the sidewalk just outside the photo
shop and put his head in his hands.
For the first time, he thought the FBI needed
to assign someone else to catch this monster.
He’d failed. Twice now, he’d failed.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and slowly
raised his head to see Teddi Tyler standing
over him. “I’m sorry, man. She must really
be something to get past you guys.”
“Yeah,” Savich said, and he felt just
a shade better. “She’s something. We’ll
get her, Teddi. I just don’t know how as
of yet.”
She was still somewhere in Bar Harbor with
Marilyn, she had to be. He got slowly to his
feet. He had to get a huge manhunt organized.
In that instant, he realized that even if
they didn’t find her, she had every intention
of finding him. She would hunt him down, not
the other way around. And the good Lord knew,
he was much easier to find.
Gothenburg, Sweden
It was cold, so bloody cold Lily didn’t
think she could stand it. Strange thing was
that she knew she wasn’t really conscious,
that she didn’t really know what was happening
or where she was, but her body just kept shuddering,
convulsing with the cold. The cold was penetrating
her bones, and she felt every shake, every
shudder.
Then, suddenly, she felt Simon near her, no
doubt it was him because she knew his scent.
She already knew his damned scent, a good
scent, as sexy as his hair curling at his
neck. His arms were suddenly around her, and
he hugged her hard against him, pulling her
so close she was breathing against his neck,
feeling his heart beat steady and strong against
hers.
He was breathing deeply, and cursing. Really
bad words that Savich had never said even
when he was pissed off, which had been quite
often when they were growing up. What a long
time ago. Sometimes, like now, she thought
as she shivered, being an adult really sucked.
She pressed closer, feeling his warmth all
the way to her belly. The convulsive jerks
lessened, her brain began to function again.
She said against his collarbone, “Where
are we, Simon? Why is it so cold? Did they
leave us beside a fjord?”
His hands were going up and down her back,
big hands that covered a lot of territory,
and he rolled her under him so he could cover
more of her.
“I guess we’re in Sweden. It’s sure
too cold in this room for us to be in the
Mediterranean near Ian’s yacht. I just woke
up a while ago. They drugged us. Do you remember?”
“Yes, Nikki forced something down my throat.
I guess you were already under. How much time
has passed?”
“A couple of hours. We’re in a bedroom,
and there isn’t even a heater working. The
door is locked, and the bed is stripped, so
we have no blankets or sheets. I didn’t
realize you were so cold until just a minute
ago. Are you warming up now?”
“Oh yes,” she said, against his neck,
“definitely better.”
He was silent for a long time, listening to
her breathe, feeling her relax as she grew
warmer. He cleared his throat and said, “Lily,
I know this is an awfully unusual place and
perhaps even a somewhat strange time to mention
this, but I have to be honest here. You didn’t
do well picking your first two husbands. I’m
thinking that you need a sort of consultant
who could help you develop a whole new set
of criteria before you try a third husband.”
She raised her head, saw his bristly chin
in the dim light, and said only, “Maybe,
but I’m still married to the second one.”
“Not for much longer. Tennyson is soon to
be only another very bad chapter in your history.
Then he’ll be a memory, and you’ll be
ready to begin work with your consultant.”
“He’s scary, Simon. He married me to get
to my paintings. He fed me depressants. He
probably tried to kill me by cutting the brake
lines in the Explorer. He’s a very bad chapter,
maybe the biggest, baddest yet, and my history
isn’t all that long. It’s not particularly
good for the soul to have both Jack Crane
and Tennyson Frasier in your life.”
“You’ll divorce Tennyson just like you
did Jack Crane. Then we’ll figure out these
new criteria together.”
“You want to be my marriage consultant?”
“Well, why not?”
“I don’t even know your educational background
or your experience in this area.”
“We can discuss that later. Tell me about
your first husband.”
“All right. His name is Jack Crane. He was
even worse than Tennyson. He knocked me around
when I was pregnant with Beth. The first and
last time. I called Dillon and he was there
in a flash, and he beat Jack senseless. Loosened
three of his perfect white teeth. Cracked
two ribs. Two black eyes and a swollen jaw.
Then Dillon taught me how to fight so if he
ever came around again, I could take care
of him myself.”
“Did he ever come around after you divorced
him so you could beat him up?”
“No, dammit, he didn’t. I don’t think
he was scared of me. He was scared Dillon
would get every FBI agent in Chicago on him
and he’d be dead meat. You know, Simon,
I don’t think having a consultant to select
new criteria would help. You can be sure that
I thought long and hard about Tennyson, given
that Jack was a wife beater.”
“You didn’t think long enough or hard
enough. You have trouble with criteria, Lily,
and that’s why you need a consultant, to
keep your head screwed on straight, to see
things properly.”
“Nope, it’s more than that. I’m simply
just rotten at picking men. Your counseling
me wouldn’t work, Simon. Besides that, I
don’t need you. I’ve decided that I’m
never going to get married again. So I don’t
need to consult you or anyone else about it.”
“A whole lot of men aren’t anything like
your first or second husbands. Just look at
Savich. Do you think Sherlock ever has any
doubts about him?”
He felt her shrug. “Dillon is rare. There
are no criteria that fit him. He’s just
wonderful, and that’s all there is to it.
He was born that way. Sherlock is the luckiest
woman in the world. She knows it; she told
me so.”
She was quiet for a moment, and he could feel
her relaxing, warming up, and it was driving
him nuts. He couldn’t believe what he was
saying to her.
She said into his neck, “You know, I’m
beginning to think that once I marry a man,
he turns into Mr. Hyde. He sinks real low
real fast. But I guess you’ll tell me it’s
because of my lousy criteria, again.”
“Are you saying that all guys would turn
into a Mr. Hyde?”
“Could be, all except for Dillon. But you
see my point here, Simon. Don’t be obtuse.
With both Jack and Tennyson, I didn’t believe
either of them was anything but what I believed
them to be when I married them. I loved them,
I believed they loved me, admired me, even
admired my Remus cartoons. Both Jack and Tennyson
would go on and on about how talented I was,
how proud they were of me. And so I married
them. I was happy, at least for maybe a month
or two. About Jack—he did give me Beth,
and because of that I will never regret marrying
him.” Her voice caught over her daughter’s
name. Just saying her name brought back horrible
memories, painful memories she’d lived with
for so very long. It had been so needless,
so quick, and then her little girl was gone.
She had to stop it, cut it off. It was in
the past, it had to stay there. She pictured
Beth in her mind, decked out in her Easter
dress of the year before, and she’d been
so cute. She’d just met Tennyson. She sighed.
So much had happened and now poor Simon was
caught up in all of it. And he suddenly wanted
her?
She said, “You can’t possibly want to
consult with me on this, Simon. I think you
could say we’ve got a situation here; we
might die at any minute—no, don’t try
to reassure me, don’t try it. You know it’s
very possible, and you’re trying to take
my mind off it, but talking about Jack and
Tennyson isn’t helping.”
He just kept holding her and said finally,
nodding against her hair, “I understand.”
“Stop using that soothing voice on me. You
know you’re not thinking straight. You know
what? I think God created me, decided He’d
let me screw up twice, and then He’d keep
me safe from further humiliations and mistakes.”
“Lily, you may look like a princess—well,
usually—but what you just said, that was
bullshit. I intend to make use of some proper
criteria. You’ll choose really well next
time.”
“Just forget it, Simon. I’m the worst
matrimonial bet on the planet. I’m warm
now, so you can get off me.”
He didn’t really want to, but he rolled
off and came up on his elbow beside her. “This
bare mattress smells new. I can make out more
of the room now. It’s nice, Lily, very nice.”
“We’re at Olaf’s house, somewhere in
Sweden.”
“Probably.”
“Why did . . .”
She let the words die in her mouth when the
bedroom door opened, sending in a thick slice
of bright sunlight. Alpo walked in, Nikki
behind him. “You are awake now?”
“Yes,” Simon said, coming up to sit on
the side of the bed. “Don’t you guys believe
in heat? Is Olaf trying to economize?”
“You are soft. Shut up.”
Lily said, “Well, we don’t have your body
fat; maybe that’s the difference.”
Nikki shouldered Alpo out of the way and strode
to where Simon was sitting. “You get up
now. You, too,” he said to Lily. “A woman
does not speak like that. I am not fat; I
am strong. Mr. Jorgenson is waiting for you.”
“Ah,” Lily said, “at last we get to
meet the Grand Pooh-Bah.”
“What is that?” Nikki asked as he stepped
back so they could get up.
“The guy who controls everything, the one
who believes he’s the big cheese,” Simon
said.
Alpo looked thoughtful for a moment, then
nodded. “We will go see the Grand Pooh-Bah
now.” He said to Lily, “He will like you.
He may want to paint you before he kills you.”
Not a happy thought.
25
Bar Harbor, Maine
It had been nearly a whole day, and there
was no sign of Tammy Tuttle or Marilyn Warluski.
There’d been dozens of calls about possible
sightings, all of which had to be investigated,
but so far, nothing. It was the biggest manhunt
in Maine’s history, with more than two hundred
law enforcement people involved. And always
there in Savich’s mind was Lily and where
she was. Whether she was alive. He couldn’t
bear it and there was nothing he could do.
He was nearly ready to shoot himself when
Jimmy Maitland called from Washington.
“Come home, Savich,” he said. “You’re
needed here in Washington. We’ll get word
on Tammy sooner or later. There’s nothing
more you can do up there.”
“She’ll kill again, sir, you know it,
I know it, and that’s when we’ll get word.
She’s probably already killed Marilyn.”
Jimmy Maitland was silent, a thick, depressed
silence. Then he said, “Yes, you’re right.
I also know that for the moment there’s
nothing more we can do about it. As for you,
Savich, you’re too close now. Come home.”
“Is that an order, sir?”
“Yes.” He didn’t add that he was calling
from Savich’s house in Georgetown, sitting
in Savich’s favorite chair, bouncing Sean
on his knee, Sherlock not two feet away, holding
out a whiskey, neat, in one hand and a graham
cracker in the other. Jimmy hoped the cracker
wasn’t intended for him. He needed the whiskey.
Savich sighed. “All right. I’ll be back
in a few hours.”
If Sean had decided to talk while his father
was on the phone, Jimmy would have been busted,
but the kid had been quiet, just grinning
at him and rubbing his knuckles over his gums.
Jimmy hung up the phone, handed Sean to Sherlock,
and said as she gave him the whiskey, “This
is a royal mess, but at least Savich will
be home sometime this evening. He’s really
upset, Sherlock.”
“I know, I know. We’ll think of something.
We always do.” She gave Sean the graham
cracker.
Jimmy said, “Savich feels guilty, like he’s
the one who’s failed, like the murders of
all those people, including our own Virginia
Cosgrove, are his fault.”
“He always will. It’s just the way he
is.”
Jimmy looked over at the baby, who was happily
gumming the graham cracker. He said, “Sean
reminds me of my second to oldest, Landry.
He was a pistol, that one, gave me every gray
hair I’ve got on my head. If you ever get
tired of this little champ, just give me a
call.”
He downed his whiskey and stared for a moment
at the marvelous Sarah Elliott painting hanging
over the fireplace. “I’ve always wondered
about the soldier in that painting, wondered
what he was thinking at that moment when he
was frozen for all time. I wonder if there
was someone at home who would grieve if he
died.”
“Yes, it’s excellent. Has Dillon kept
you in the loop about Lily and Simon?”
“He told me earlier that Agent Hoyt found
the flight plan for a private Learjet owned
by the Waldemarsudde Corporation that took
off from Arcata airport bound for Gothenburg,
Sweden. The CEO is Ian Jorgenson, son of Olaf
Jorgenson, the collector we believe is involved
in all this.”
Sherlock nodded and said, “Did he also tell
you that we think his son is a collector as
well?”
“Yes,” Jimmy said. “Interesting, isn’t
it, that Charlotte and Elcott Frasier were
also taken? Or maybe they went willingly because
the jig was almost up for them here. Tennyson
is still in Hemlock Bay. There’s not a shred
of evidence yet to connect him to the attempts
on Lily’s life or Mr. Monk’s murder, or
any of the rest of it. Seems to me that Lily’s
husband is his parents’ dupe.”
“Maybe so,” Sherlock said. “It doesn’t
matter. Lily’s divorcing him. Oh yes, Dillon
has already called two cop friends he has
in Stockholm and Uppsala. We know that Jorgenson
has a huge estate in Gothenburg called Slottsskogen,
or Castle Wood. It’s about halfway up the
coast of Sweden on the western side. Dillon
said that one of his friends, Petter Tuomo,
has two brothers in the Gothenburg police.
They’re on it. We haven’t heard anything
back yet.”
Jimmy said, “Good, things are moving. Does
Savich have friends all over the world?”
“Just about, thank God.” She sighed, kissed
Sean, who was wriggling to get down, and shook
her head. “Everywhere we look, there’s
something horrible ready to fall on our heads.
We’re terrified about Lily and Simon. We’re
praying that Olaf Jorgenson hasn’t killed
them.”
“I can’t see why he’d bother to kidnap
them if he wanted them dead, Sherlock. There’s
got to be more going on here than we know.”
Gothenburg, Sweden
An hour later, bathed, warm, and in fresh
clothes, Lily and Simon preceded Alpo and
Nikki down a massive oak staircase that could
accommodate six well-fed people at a time.
They were led to the other side of an entrance
hall that was a huge chessboard, black-and-white
square slabs of marble, with three-foot-tall
classic carved black-and-white marble chess
pieces lined up along the walls.
They walked down a long hall, through big
mahogany double doors into a room that was
two stories high, every wall covered from
floor to ceiling with books. There were a
good half dozen library ladders. A fire burned
in an exquisite white marble fireplace with
an ornately carved mantel that was at least
two feet wide and covered with exquisite Chinese
figures. There was a large desk set at an
angle in the corner. Behind the desk was a
man not much older than fifty, tall, blond
and blue-eyed, fit as his Viking ancestors.
He was tanned, probably from days spent on
the ski slopes. The man rose as Simon and
Lily were brought in. He looked at them, his
expression gentle and sympathetic. She drew
herself up. That was nonsense, and she wouldn’t
underestimate him. The man nodded, and both
Alpo and Nikki remained by the door.
“Welcome to Slottsskogen, Mr. Russo, Mrs.
Frasier. Ah, that means Castle Wood. Our city’s
largest park was named after this estate many
years ago. Won’t you sit down?”
“What is the city?”
“Sit down. Good. I’m Ian Jorgenson. My
father asked me to greet you. You both look
better than you did when you arrived.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Lily said.
“Your English is fluent,” Simon said.
“I attended Princeton University. My degree,
as you might imagine, is in art history. And,
of course, business.”
Lily said, “Why are we here?”
“Ah, here is my father. Nikki, bring him
very close so he can see Mrs. Frasier.”
Lily tensed in her chair as Nikki pushed a
wheelchair toward them. In the chair sat an
impossibly old man, with just a few tufts
of white hair sticking straight up. He looked
frail, but when he raised his head, she saw
brilliant blue eyes, and they were cold and
sharp with intelligence. The brain in that
head was not frail or fading.
“Closer,” the old man said.
Nikki brought him to within inches of Lily.
The old man reached out his hand and touched
his fingertips to her face. Lily started to
draw back, then stilled.
“I am Olaf Jorgenson, and you are Lily.
I speak beautiful English because, like my
son, I also attended Princeton University.
Ah, you are wearing the white gown, just as
I instructed. It is lovely, just as I hoped
it would be. Perfect.” He ran his fingers
down her arm, over the soft white silk, to
her wrist. “I want you to be painted in
this white dress. I am pleased that those
American buffoons failed to execute you and
Mr. Russo.”
“So are we,” Lily said. “Why did they
want to kill us so badly, Mr. Jorgenson?”
“Well, you see, it was my intention to let
the Frasiers deal with you. I understand they
bungled the job several times, for which I
am now grateful. I hadn’t realized what
you looked like, Lily. When Ian showed me
your picture, I ordered the Frasiers to stay
away from you. I sent Alpo and Nikki to California
to fetch you back to me. They were clumsy
also, but it turned out not to matter because
you, my dear, are here at last.”
Lily said slowly, “I don’t look like anyone
special. I’m just myself.” But she knew
she must look like someone who mattered to
him, and so she waited, holding her breath,
keeping still as his fingers stroked her arm,
up to her shoulder. She saw that his nails
were dark and unhealthy-looking.
The old man said finally, “You look exactly
like Sarah Jameson when I first met her in
Paris a very long time ago, before the Great
War, when the artistic community in Paris
broke free and flourished. Ah yes, we enraged
the staid French bourgeoisie with our endless
and outrageous play, our limitless daring
and debauchery. I remember the hours we spent
with Gertrude Stein. Ah, what an intelligence
that one had, her wit sharper than Nikki’s
favorite knife, and such noble and impossible
ideas. And there was the clever and cruel
Picasso—he painted her, worshiped her. And
Matisse, so quiet until he drank absinthe,
and then he would sing the most obscene songs
imaginable as he painted. I remember all the
French neighbors cursing through the walls
when he sang.
“I saw Hemingway wagering against Braque
and Sherwood—it was a spitting contest at
a cuspidor some eight feet away. Your grandmother
kept moving the cuspidor. Ah, such laughter
and brilliance. It was the most flamboyant,
the most vivid time in all of history, all
the major talent of the world in that one
place. It was like a zoo with only the most
beautiful, the wildest and most dangerous
specimens congregated together. They gave
the world the greatest art ever known.”
“I didn’t know you were a writer or an
artist,” Simon said.
“I’m neither, unfortunately, but I did
try to paint, studied countless hours with
great masters and wasted many canvases. So
many of my young friends wanted to paint or
to write. We were in Paris to worship the
great ones, to see if perhaps their vision,
their immense talent, would rub off, just
a bit. Some of those old friends did become
great; others returned to their homes to make
furniture or sell stamps in a post office.
Ah, but Sarah Jameson, she was the greatest
of them all. Stein corresponded with her until
her death right after World War Two.”
“How well did you know my grandmother, Mr.
Jorgenson?”
Olaf Jorgenson’s soft voice was filled with
shadows and faded memories that still fisted
around his heart, memories he could still
see clearly. “Sarah was a bit older than
I, but so beautiful, so exquisitely talented,
so utterly without restraint, as hot and wild
as a sirocco blowing up from the Libyan desert.
She loved vodka and opium, both as pure as
she could get. The first time I saw her, another
young artist, her lover, was painting her
nude body, covering it with phalluses, all
of them ejaculating.
“She was everything I wanted, and I grew
to love her very much. But she met a man,
a damned American who was simply visiting
Paris, a businessman, ridiculous in his pale
gray flannels, but she wanted him more than
me. She left me, went back to America with
him.”
“That was my grandfather, Emerson Elliott.
She married him in the mid-1930s, in New York.”
“Yes, she left me. And I never saw her again.
I began collecting her paintings during the
fifties. It wasn’t well known for some time
that she’d willed paintings to her grandchildren,
such a private family matter. Yes, she willed
eight beautiful paintings to each child. I
knew I wanted them all for my collection.
You are the first; it is unfortunate, but
we managed to gain only four of the originals
before the Frasiers became convinced that
you were going to leave their son, despite
the drugs they were feeding you. They knew
you’d take the paintings with you, so they
decided to kill you, particularly since your
husband was your beneficiary after your daughter’s
death.”
“But I didn’t die.”
“No, you did not, but not for their lack
of trying.”
“You’re telling me that my husband was
not part of this plot?”
“No, Tennyson Frasier was their pawn. His
parents’ great hopes for him were dashed,
but he did manage to make you his wife. It’s
possible he even fell in love with you, at
least enough to marry you, as his parents
wished.”
She’d been so certain that Tennyson had
been part of the plot. She asked, “Why didn’t
you just offer me money?”
“I knew you would turn me down, as would
your siblings. You were the most vulnerable,
particularly after your divorce from Jack
Crane, and so I selected you.”
“That’s crazy. You invent this convoluted
plan just to bilk me out of my grandmother’s
paintings?”
“Sarah’s paintings belong with me, for
I am the only one who can really appreciate
them, know them beyond their visual message
and impact, because I knew her, you see, knew
her to her soul. She would talk to me about
her work, what each one meant to her, what
she was thinking when she was painting each
one. I fed her opium, and we talked for hours.
I never tired of watching her paint, of listening
to her voice. She was the only woman I ever
wanted in my life, the only one.” He paused
for a moment, frowning, and she saw pain etched
into the deep wrinkles in his face. From the
loss of her grandmother or from illness?
He said, his voice once again brisk, “Yes,
Lily, I selected you because you were the
most vulnerable, the most easily manipulated.
Most important, you were alone. When you moved
to Hemlock Bay, I had Ian approach the Frasiers.
Tell them, Ian.”
“I played matchmaker,” Ian Jorgenson said
and laughed. “It was infinitely satisfying
when it all came together. I bought the Frasiers—simple
as that. You married Tennyson, just as we
planned, and his parents told him to convince
you to have your Sarah Elliott paintings moved
from Chicago to the Eureka Art Museum. And
there our greedy Mr. Monk quickly fell in
with our plans.”
Simon said to the old man, “You managed
to have four of them forged before I got wind
of it.”
Those brilliant blue eyes swung to Simon,
but he sensed that the old man couldn’t
see him all that clearly. “You meddled,
Mr. Russo. You were the one who brought us
down. You found out through your sources,
all that valuable information sold to them
by an expatriate friend of mine who betrayed
me, and then it was sold to you. But that
is not your concern. If she had not betrayed
me, then I would have all your paintings now,
and you, Lily, would be dead. I am not certain
that would have been best.”
“But now you’ll never get the other four,”
Lily said. “They’re out of your reach.
You won’t be hanging onto those you do have
very long. Surely you know that.”
“You think not, my dear?” The old man
laughed, then said, still wheezing, “Come,
I have something to show you.”
Three long corridors and five minutes later,
Lily and Simon stood motionless in a climate-controlled
room, staring at fourteen-foot-high walls
that were covered with Sarah Elliott paintings.
The collection held at least a hundred fifty
paintings, maybe more.
Simon said as he stared at the paintings,
slowly taking in their magnificence, “You
couldn’t have bought this many Sarah Elliott
paintings legally. You must have looted the
museums of the world.”
“When necessary. Not all that difficult,
most of them. Imagination and perseverance.
It’s taken me years, but I am a patient
man. Just look at the results.”
“And money,” Simon said.
“Naturally,” Ian Jorgenson said.
“But you can’t see them,” Lily said
as she turned to look at Olaf Jorgenson. “You
stole them because you have some sort of obsession
with my grandmother, and you can’t even
see them!”
“I could see them all very well until about
five years ago. Even now, though, I can see
the graceful sweeps of her brush, shadows
and sprays of color, the movement in the air
itself. Her gift is unparalleled. I know each
one as if I had painted it myself. I know
how the subjects feel, the texture of the
expressions on their faces. I can touch my
fingers to a sky and feel the warmth of the
sun and the wind caressing my hand. I know
all of them. They are old friends. I live
inside them; I am a part of them and they
of me. I have been collecting them for some
thirty years now. Since I want all of them
before I die, it was time to turn to you,
Lily. If I’d only known at the beginning
that you were so like my Sarah, I wouldn’t
have allowed those fools to try to kill you.
Because you are resourceful, you saved yourself.
I am grateful for that.”
Lily looked down at the old man sitting in
his wheelchair, a beautiful hand-knitted blue
blanket covering his legs. He looked like
a harmless old gentleman, in his pale blue
cashmere sweater over a white silk shirt with
a darker blue tie. She didn’t say anything.
What was there to say, after all? It was crazy,
all of it. And rather sad, she supposed, if
one discounted the fact that he was perfectly
willing to murder people who got in his way.
She looked at the walls filled with so many
of her grandmother’s paintings. All of them
perfectly hung, grouped by the period in which
they were painted. She had never seen such
beauty in one room before in her life. It
was her grandmother’s work as she had never
seen it.
She watched Simon walk slowly around the large
room, studying each of the paintings, lightly
touching his fingertips to some of them until
he came to one that belonged to Lily. It was
The Swan Song, Lily’s own favorite. The
old man lying in the bed, that beatific smile
on his face, the young girl staring at him.
Olaf said, “That was the first one of yours
I had copied, my dear. It was always my favorite.
I knew it was at the Chicago Institute of
Art, but I couldn’t get to it. It was frustrating.”
Simon said, “So it was the first one you
stole from the Eureka Museum.”
“Nothing so dramatic,” Ian Jorgenson said,
coming forward. He laid his hand lightly on
his father’s shoulder. “Mr. Monk, the
curator, was quite willing to have the painting
copied. He simply gave it to our artist, replacing
it with a rather poor, quickly executed copy
until the real copy was finished. Then they
were simply switched. No one noticed, of course.
You know, Mr. Russo, I had hopes for you,
at least initially. You yourself own a Sarah
Elliott painting. I had hoped to convince
you to join me, perhaps even to sell me your
painting in return for a generous price and
my offer of a financially rewarding partnership
in some of my business ventures.”
Ian looked toward Simon and his eyes narrowed,
but when he spoke, his voice was perfectly
pleasant. “My father realized you wouldn’t
agree after Nikki and Alpo described your
behavior on the long trip over here. You were
in no way conciliatory, Mr. Russo. Actually,
my father’s desire to make use of you in
his organization was the only reason we bothered
to bring you to Sweden. My father wanted to
test you.”
“Give me a test,” Simon said. “Let’s
just see what I would say.”
“Actually, I was going to ask you to give
me your Sarah Elliott painting, The Last Rites;
it is one I greatly admire. In exchange, I
would offer you your life and a chance to
prove your value to me.”
“I accept your offer, if, in return, you
give Lily and me our freedom.”
“It is just as I feared,” Olaf said and
sighed. He nodded to his son.
Ian looked at his hands, strong hands, and
lightly buffed his fingernails on his cashmere
sleeve. He said to Simon, “I look forward
to killing you, Mr. Russo. I knew you could
never be brought to our side, that you could
never be trusted. You have interfered mightily.”
Simon said, “You had your chance to get
The Last Rites, Mr. Jorgenson. Freedom for
Lily and me, but you turned it down. Let me
promise you that you will never get that painting.
When I die, it goes to the Metropolitan Museum
of Art.”
Olaf said, “I do detest making mistakes
in a person’s character. It is a pity, Mr.
Russo.”
Lily said to Ian, “Is it true that you have
Rembrandt’s Night Watch aboard your yacht?”
Ian Jorgenson raised a blond brow. “My,
my, Mr. Russo has many tentacles, doesn’t
he? Yes, my dear, I had it gently removed
from the Rijksmuseum some ten years ago. It
was rather difficult, actually. It was a gift
to my wife, who died later that year. She
was so pleased to look at it in her last days.”
The old man laughed, then coughed. Nikki handed
him a handkerchief, and he coughed into it.
Lily thought she saw blood.
Ian said, “As my father said, the Chicago
Institute of Art is a difficult place, more
difficult than even I wished to deal with.
In the past ten years they’ve added many
security measures that make removal of art
pieces very challenging. But most important,
my only contact, a curator there, lost his
job five years ago. It was a pity. I didn’t
know what to do until you moved to that ridiculous
little town on the coast of California. This
Hemlock Bay.”
Olaf said, “My son and I spent many hours
coming up with the right plan for you, Lily.
Ian traveled to California, to Hemlock Bay.
What a quaint and clever name. It was such
a simple little town, generous and friendly
to newcomers, such as you and your daughter,
was it not? He liked the fresh salt air, the
serenity of the endless stretches of beach
and forest, the magnificent redwoods, and
all those clever little roads and houses blended
into the landscape. Who could imagine it would
be so simple to find such perfect tools? The
Frasiers—greedy, ambitious people—and
here they had a son who would be perfect for
you.”
“Did they murder my daughter?”
26
“You think the Frasiers killed your daughter?”
Ian Jorgenson repeated, his voice indifferent.
He shrugged. “Not that I know of.” Lily
suddenly hated him.
Olaf said, “I know you felt sorrow over
your daughter’s death. But what does it
matter to you now who is responsible?”
“Whoever struck her down deserves to die
for it.”
“Killing them won’t bring back your little
girl,” Ian said, frowning at her. “We,
in Sweden, actually in most of Europe, do
not believe in putting people to death. It
is barbaric.”
What is wrong with this picture? Simon wondered,
staring at Ian Jorgenson.
“No,” Lily said, “it won’t bring Beth
back, but it would avenge her. No one who
kills in cold blood should be allowed to continue
breathing the same air I breathe.”
“You are harsh,” said Olaf Jorgenson.
“You are not harsh, sir? You, who order
people murdered?”
Olaf Jorgenson laughed, a low, wheezy sound
thick with phlegm, perhaps with blood.
“No, I always do only what is necessary,
nothing more. Vengeance is for amateurs. Now,
you do not have to wonder again if the Frasiers
killed your daughter. They did not. They told
me that they’d been concerned because your
daughter, by ill chance, had seen some e-mails
on Mr. Frasier’s computer, communications
that she shouldn’t have seen. They, of course,
assured the child that the messages were nonsense,
nothing important, nothing to even think about.”
So that was why Beth had been moody, withdrawn,
that last week. Why hadn’t her daughter
come to her, told her, at least asked her
about what she had seen? But she hadn’t,
and then she’d been killed.
Olaf Jorgenson continued, “I understand
it was an accident, one of your American drunk
drivers who was too afraid to stop and see
what he’d done.”
Lily felt tears clog her throat. She’d happily
left Chicago and Jack Crane and moved to a
charming coastal town. She couldn’t believe
what it had brought them.
Simon took her hand, squeezed her fingers.
He knew she was feeling swamped with the memories
of her loss and despair. She raised her head
to look at Olaf Jorgenson and said, “What
do you intend to do with us?”
“You, my dear, I will have painted by a
very talented artist whom I’ve worked well
with over the years. As for Mr. Russo here,
as I said, I hold no hope now of bringing
him into my fold. He is much too inflexible
in his moral code. It is not worth the risk.
Also, he seems taken with you, and I can’t
have that. Isn’t that interesting? You’ve
known each other for such a short time.”
“He just wants to be my consultant,” Lily
said.
Simon smiled.
“He wants you in bed,” Ian said. “Or
maybe you’re already lovers and that’s
why he’s helping you.”
“Don’t be crude,” Olaf said, frowning
toward his son, then added, “Yes, I fear
that Mr. Russo must take a nice, long boat
ride with Alpo and Nikki here. We still have
two lovely canals left from those built back
in the early seventeenth century by our magnificent
Gustav. Yes, Mr. Russo, you and my men here
will visit one of the canals this very night.
It’s getting cold now, not many people will
be about at midnight.”
Simon said, “I can’t say I find that an
appealing way to spend the evening. What do
you intend to do with the Frasiers?”
Olaf Jorgenson said to Lily, not to Simon,
“At the moment they are my honored guests.
They accompanied you here since they knew
they could not remain in California. Your
law enforcement, and so on. They expect to
receive a lot of money from me. In addition,
Mr. Frasier already has very nice bank accounts
in Switzerland. They are prepared to spend
the rest of their lives living very nicely
in the south of France, I believe they said.”
Lily said, “After you’ve painted me, then
what will happen?”
He smiled then, showing her his very beautiful
white teeth, likely false. “Yes, yes, I
know I am an old man, but I do not have much
longer to live. I want you with me until it
is my time. I was hoping, perhaps, that you
would see some advantage in marrying me.”
“Oh, is that why I’m wearing white? To
put me in the mood?”
“You want manners,” Ian said. He was angry,
she could see it as he stepped toward her
only to stop when he felt his father’s hand
on his forearm. Ian shook off his father’s
hand and said, “She is disrespectful. She
needs to see what an honor it would be to
be your wife!”
Olaf only shook his head. He even smiled again
as he said to Lily, “No, my dear, you are
wearing white because that is a copy of the
dress I last saw your grandmother wearing
in Paris. It was the day she left with Emerson
Elliott. The day I believed my world had collapsed.”
“You are good at copies, aren’t you?”
Lily said. “I am not my grandmother, you
foolish old man.”
Ian struck her across the face. Simon didn’t
say a word, just hurled himself at Ian Jorgenson,
slamming his fist into his jaw, then whirled
back and kicked him in the kidney.
“Stop!” It was Nikki and he’d pulled
a gun that was aimed at Simon.
Simon gave him a brief bow, straightened his
shirt, and walked away.
Ian slowly raised himself to his feet, grimacing
in pain. “I will go with Nikki and Alpo
this evening. I will be the one to kill you.”
“All this,” Simon said, marveling as he
turned to Olaf Jorgenson, “and you raised
a coward, too.”
Lily lightly placed her hand on Simon’s
arm. She was terrified.
She said to Olaf, “Even if I found you remotely
acceptable in matrimonial terms, sir, I couldn’t
marry you. I’m married to Tennyson Frasier.”
The old man was silent.
“I don’t ever wish to marry again, at
least until I’ve seriously reconsidered
my criteria. I don’t think there’s any
way in the world that you would ever fit them.
I’m married anyway, so it doesn’t matter,
does it?”
Still the old man was silent, thoughtfully
looking at her. Then he slowly nodded. He
said, “I will be back shortly.”
“What are you going to do, Father?”
“I do not believe in bigamy. It is immoral.
I’m going to make Lily a widow. Nikki, take
me to my library.” As Nikki wheeled him
out of the huge room, Lily and Simon saw him
pull a small, thick black book from his sweater
pocket. They watched him thumb through it
as he disappeared from their view.
“He’s completely mad,” Lily whispered.
Washington, D.C.
Savich walked through the front door of his
home, hugged his wife, kissed her, and said,
“Where’s Sean?”
“At your mom’s house—babbling, gumming
everything in sight, and happy. I left your
mom a two-box supply of graham crackers.”
Savich was too tired, too depressed to smile.
He raised an eyebrow in question.
She said, without preamble, “Both the Bureau
and I agree with your plan. Tammy wants you,
Dillon. She’s focused on you. There’s
no doubt in anyone’s mind that she will
come here. I took Sean to your mother’s
because we don’t want him in harm’s way.
“Right before you got home, Jimmy Maitland
issued a statement to the media that you were
no longer the lead investigator in the manhunt
for Tammy Tuttle. Aaron Briggs has replaced
you as the lead. He said you were urgently
needed to gather vital evidence in the Wilbur
Wright case, the cult leader responsible for
the heinous murders of a sheriff and two deputies
in Flowers, Texas. You’re traveling to Texas
on Friday to begin working with local law
enforcement.”
He hugged her close and said against her hair,
“You and Mr. Maitland got it done really
fast. So I’m to leave on Friday? Today is
Tuesday.”
“Yes. It gives Tammy plenty of time to get
here.”
“Yes, it does.” Savich streaked his fingers
through his hair, making it stand straight
up. “Have you got Gabriella safely stashed
away?”
“Actually, she’s at your mom’s house
during the day. Both of them are safe. She
said she doesn’t want to miss a single step
that Sean takes.”
But Sean’s parents were missing his first
steps, Savich thought. He felt brittle with
rage, bowed with his failure.
He said finally, knowing that she wouldn’t
like or accept it, “She’s scary, Sherlock.
I don’t want her near you, either.”
She nodded slowly as she stepped against him,
pressing her face to his neck. “I know,
Dillon, but I couldn’t think of anything
else. Jimmy Maitland told me you’d balk
because of me and Sean, and I knew I couldn’t
allow that. Now we’ve gotten both Gabriella
and Sean to safety. Don’t even think you
can send me away. We’re in this together,
we always have been, and we’re going to
get her. We have the advantage here because
we control the scene. We can act and plan,
we can be ready for her, not just wait to
react to something she does.”
He held her tightly. He wondered if she could
smell his fear, there was such a huge well
of it. Savich kissed her and hugged her until
she squeaked. “We’ve got to be ready for
her, Sherlock, and I’ve got some ideas about
that. I’ve been thinking about this for
a good while now.”
“Like what?” she asked, pulling back,
looking up at him.
“She has the power to create illusions,
to make people see what she wants them to
see. Whether it’s some kind of magician’s
trick or a strange ability that’s inside
her sick brain, the end result is the same.”
He let her go and began pacing. He looked
at his grandmother’s painting over the fireplace,
then turned and said, “You believe that
she can’t fool me if I’m close enough
to her. If we can get her here in the house,
I’ll be close enough.”
He came back to her, smiled down at her while
he ran his fingers through her curly hair.
“Kiss me, Dillon.”
“Can I do more than just kiss you?”
“Oh yes.”
“Good. Dinner can wait.”
All the world can wait, Sherlock thought,
as she held him to her. “After dinner, I
want us to go to the gym. It’ll relieve
all the stress.”
“You got it. But if you have much stress
after I’m through with you, I’ll have
to reassess my program.”
And he laughed, actually laughed.
Gothenburg, Sweden
Bloated clouds hung low, blotting out the
moon and stars. They would bring rain, perhaps
even snow, before the night was over.
Simon was sitting low in a small boat, his
hands tied behind him. Alpo was rowing and
Nikki was beside him, the gun pressed against
his side. In a boat trailing them were Ian
Jorgenson and a small man Simon hadn’t seen
before who was rowing.
The canal was wide, the town of Gothenburg
on either side casting ghostly shadows in
the dark light. There was just the rippling
of the oars going through the water, smooth
and nearly soundless.
The canal twisted to the right, and the buildings
became fewer. There were no people that Simon
could see.
He very nearly had the knot on his hands pulled
loose. Just a few more minutes and his hands
would be free, and a little more time after
that to get circulation back into his hands
and fingers.
If he had just a bit more time, he had a chance.
But the buildings were thinning out too much.
They could kill him at any time without worry.
He worked the knot, rubbing his wrists raw,
but that didn’t matter. His blood helped
loosen the strands of hemp.
“Stop!”
It was Ian Jorgenson. His small boat pulled
up beside theirs.
“Here. This is fine. Give me the gun, Nikki,
I want to put a bullet through this bastard.
Then you can put him in that bag and sink
him to the bottom.”
Simon could feel Nikki leaning toward Ian
to give him the gun. It was his last chance.
Simon jumped up, slammed against Alpo, and
dove at the small man in the other boat. Both
boats careened wildly, the men shouting and
cursing. As Simon hit the water, he heard
a splash behind him, then another.
God, there was nothing colder on earth than
this damned water. What did he expect? He
was in Sweden in November, for God’s sake.
He wondered how long he had before hypothermia
set in and he died. He didn’t fight it,
just let himself sink, quickly, quietly, trying
not to think of how cold he was, how numb
his legs felt. He had to get free or he would
die, from the frigid water or from a bullet,
it didn’t matter. He worked his hands until
he hit the bottom of the canal, twisted away
from where he thought the other men were.
He swam as best he could with only his feet
in the opposite direction, back down the canal,
veering toward the side, back to where there
was more shelter and a way to climb out of
the water.
He was running out of breath and he was freezing.
There wasn’t much more time. There was no
hope for it. He kicked upward until his head
broke the surface. He saw Nikki and Ian both
in the water, speaking, but softly, listening
for him. Damn, his hands weren’t free yet.
He heard a shout. They’d spotted him. He
saw Alpo rowing frantically toward him. He
didn’t stop to get Ian or Nikki out of the
water, just came straight toward Simon.
At last his hands slipped free from the frayed
hemp. He felt his blood slimy on his wrists,
mixing with the water. It should have stung
like a bitch, but he didn’t feel much of
anything. His hands were numb.
He dove just as he saw Alpo raise a gun and
fire. The frigid water splashed up in Simon’s
face, close. Too close. He dove at least ten
feet down and swam with all his strength toward
the side of the canal.
When he came up, his lungs on fire, the boat
was nearly on him. The second boat was behind
him and now all the men were in it, searching
the black water for a sign of him.
Ian shouted, “There he is! Get him!”
Gunshots split the water around him.
Then he heard the sirens, at least three of
them.
He went under again, deeper this time, and
changed direction to swim toward the sound
of those sirens. It was so cold his teeth
hurt.
When he couldn’t hold his breath for another
second, simply couldn’t bear the water any
longer, he came up as slowly as he could,
his head quietly breaking the surface.
He just couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
A half dozen police cars screeched to a stop
on the edge of the canal, not ten feet from
him. Guns were drawn, men were shouting in
Swedish, flashing lights on Ian and his crew.
A man reached out his hand and pulled Simon
out of the canal. “Mr. Russo, I believe?”
27
Lily walked beside Olaf’s wheel- chair back
to the main entrance hall with its huge black-and-white
marble chessboard, its three-foot-tall pieces
lining opposite sides of the board, in correct
position, ready to be moved.
He motioned for a manservant to leave his
chair right in the middle of the chessboard,
squarely on the white king five square. He
looked at Lily, who stood beside the white
king, then glanced down at the watch on his
veined wrist and said, “You didn’t eat
much dinner, Lily.”
“No,” she said.
“He’s dead by now. Accept it.”
Lily looked down at the white queen. She wondered
how heavy the chess piece was. Could she heft
it up and hurl it at that evil old man? She
looked toward the silent manservant, dressed
all in white like a hospital orderly, and
said, “Why don’t you get an electric wheelchair?
It’s ridiculous for him to push you everywhere.”
Olaf said again, his voice sharper now, not
quite so gentle, “He’s dead, Lily.”
She looked at him now and said, “No, I don’t
believe he is, but you soon will be, won’t
you?”
“When you speak like that, I know you aren’t
at all like your grandmother, despite your
look of her. Don’t be disrespectful and
mean-spirited, Lily. I don’t like it. I’m
quite willing to present you the Frasiers’
heads on platters. What more can I offer you?”
“You can let Simon and me leave with my
grandmother’s paintings.”
“Don’t be a child. Listen to me, for this
is important. In a wife I require obedience.
Ian, I’m sure, will help me teach you manners,
teach you to curb your tongue.”
“It’s a new millennium, Olaf, and you’re
a very old man. Even if you died within the
week, I would refuse to remain here.”
He banged his fist on the wheelchair hard,
making it lurch. “Dammit, you will do what
you’re told. Do you need to see your lover’s
body before you will let go of him? Before
you accept that he really is dead?”
“He’s not my lover. He just wants to be
my consultant.”
“Not your lover? I don’t believe you.
You spoke of him as if he were some sort of
hero, able to overcome any obstacle. That
is nonsense.”
“Not in Simon’s case.” She wished that
she really did believe him capable of just
about anything, even if it was nonsense. But
she was hoping frantically that Simon wasn’t
dead. He’d promised her, and he wouldn’t
break his word. When they’d taken him but
two hours before, he’d lightly cupped her
face in his hands and whispered, “I will
be all right. Count on it, Lily.”
And she’d licked her dry lips, felt fear
for him moving deep and hard inside her, and
whispered back, “I’ve been thinking about
those new criteria, Simon. I admit I sure
do need help when it comes to men.”
He patted her cheek. “You got it.”
She’d watched the three men take him out
of that beautiful grand mansion, watched the
door close behind them, heard the smooth wheels
of Olaf Jorgenson’s chair across the huge
chessboard foyer.
Olaf brought her back, saying, “You will
forget him. I will see to it.”
She glanced at the two bodyguards, standing
utterly silent. They’d both come with them
from the dining room.
“Do you know I have an incredible brother?
His name is Dillon Savich. He doesn’t paint
like our grandmother; he whittles. He creates
beautiful pieces.”
“A boy’s hobby, not worth much of anything
to anyone with sophistication and discrimination.
And you spend your time drawing cartoons.
What is the name? Remus?”
“Yes, I draw political cartoons. His name
is No Wrinkles Remus. He’s utterly immoral,
like you, but I’ve never yet seen him want
to murder someone.” She paused for a moment,
smiled at the motionless manservant. “I’m
really quite good at cartooning. Isn’t it
interesting the way Grandmother’s talent
found new ways to come out in us, her grandchildren?”
“Sarah Elliott was unique. There will never
be another like her.”
“I agree. There will never be another cartoonist
like me either. I’m unique, too. And what
are you, Olaf? Other than an obsessed old
man who has had too much money and power for
far too long? Tell me, have you ever done
anything worthwhile in your blighted life?”
His face turned red; his breathing became
labored. The manservant looked frightened.
The two bodyguards stood straighter and tensed,
their eyes darting from Lily to their boss.
She just couldn’t stop herself. Rage and
impotence roiled inside her, and she hated
this wretched monster. Yes, let him burst
a vessel with his rage; let him stroke out.
It was payback for all that he’d done to
her, to Simon. “I know what you are—you’re
one of those artists manqué, one of those
pathetically sad people who were just never
good enough, who could only be hangers-on,
always on the outside looking in. You weren’t
even good enough to be a pale imitation, were
you? I’ll bet my grandmother thought you
were pitiful, yes, pathetic. I’ll bet she
told you what she thought of you, didn’t
she?”
“Shut up!” He began cursing her, but it
was in Swedish and she couldn’t understand.
The bodyguards were even more on edge now,
surprised at what the old man, their boss,
was yelling, the spittle spewing out of his
mouth.
Lily didn’t shut up. She just talked over
him, yelled louder than he was yelling, “What
did she say to you that last day when she
left with my grandfather? Because you went
to her, didn’t you? Begged her to marry
you instead of Emerson, but she refused, didn’t
she? Did she laugh at you? Did she tell you
that she would even take that woman-hating
Picasso before you? That you had the talent
of a slug and you disgusted her, all your
pretenses, your affectations? What did she
say to you, Olaf?”
“Damn you, she said I was a spoiled little
boy who had too much money and would always
be a shallow, selfish man!” He was wheezing,
nearly incoherent, flinging himself from side
to side.
Lily stared at him. “You even remember the
exact words my grandmother said to you? That
was more than sixty-five years ago! My God,
you were pathetic then, and you’re beyond
that now. You’re frightening.”
“Shut up!” Olaf seemed feverish now, his
frail, veined hands clutching the arms of
the wheelchair, his bent and twisted fingers
showing white from the strain.
The manservant was leaning over him now, speaking
urgently in his ear. She could hear the words,
but he spoke in Swedish.
Olaf ignored him, shook him off. Lily said,
smiling, “Do you know that Sarah loved Emerson
so much she was always painting him? That
there are six of his portraits in our mother’s
private collection?”
“I knew,” he screamed at her, “of course
I knew! You think I would ever want a portrait
of that philistine? That damned fool knew
nothing of what she was. He couldn’t have
understood or appreciated what she was! I
could, but she left me. I begged her, on my
knees in front of her, but it didn’t matter—she
left me!”
He was trembling so badly she thought he would
fall from his wheelchair.
Suddenly, Olaf yelled something in Swedish
to his manservant. The man grabbed the handles
and began pushing the wheelchair across the
huge chessboard.
“Hey, Olaf, why are you running away from
me? Don’t you like hearing what I have to
say? I’ll bet it’s only the second time
anyone’s told you the truth. Don’t you
want to marry me anymore?”
She heard him yelling, but she couldn’t
make out the words; they were garbled, incoherent,
some English, some Swedish. He sounded like
a mad old man, beyond control. What was he
going to do? Why had he left? She stood on
the king one square, leaning against the beautifully
carved heavy piece, shuddering with reaction,
wondering what she’d driven him to with
her contempt, her ridicule. She couldn’t
run because she didn’t doubt the two bodyguards
would stop her.
Where was the manservant taking him? What
had he said to him? The two bodyguards were
speaking low, so she couldn’t really hear
them. They stared at her again, and she saw
bewilderment in their eyes. She wouldn’t
get three steps before they were on her.
Lily’s rage wilted away and was replaced
with a god-awful fear. But she’d held her
own. She thought of her grandmother and wondered
how like her she was. They’d both faced
down this man, and she was proud of what they’d
done.
She stood there, her brain squirreling madly
about, wondering what to do now. She didn’t
have time to think about it. She heard the
smooth wheelchair wheels rolling across the
marble floor and saw Olaf coming toward her.
This time he was pushing himself, his gnarled,
trembling hands on the cushioned wheel pads.
His two bodyguards took a step forward. He
shook his head, not even looking at them.
He was staring at Lily, and there was memory
in his eyes, memory of that other woman, painfully
clear and vivid. She knew that what had happened
that day had struck him to his very soul,
maimed him, destroyed what he’d seen himself
as being and becoming. And now he saw what
he had become after that day so very long
ago.
Lily saw madness in his eyes; it was beyond
hatred, and it was aimed at her. At her and
her grandmother, who was dead and beyond his
vengeance. Everything that had driven him,
the decades of obsession with her grandmother
as the single perfect woman, all of it had
exploded when Lily had pushed him to remember
the events as they’d really happened, forced
him to see the truth of that day Sarah Elliott
told him she was leaving with another man.
He came up to within six feet of her and stopped
pushing the wheels. She wondered if he could
make out her outline. Or was she a vague shadow?
He spoke, his voice low and steady as he said,
“I’ve decided I won’t marry you. I have
seen clearly now that you don’t deserve
my devotion or my admiration. You are nothing
like Sarah, nothing at all.” He lifted a
small derringer from his lap and pointed it
at her.
“The Frasiers are dead. They weren’t worth
anything to me alive. And now, you aren’t
either.”
The bodyguards took a step forward, in unison.
He’d had the Frasiers killed?
Lily ran at the wheelchair, smashed into it
as hard as she could and sent it over onto
its side, scraping against the marble floor.
Olaf was flung from the chair.
Lily didn’t hesitate. She ran as fast as
she could, to fall flat behind the white king.
She heard two rapid shots. The king’s head
shattered and fragments of marble flew everywhere.
She heard Olaf yell at the bodyguards, heard
their loud running steps. She stayed flat
on the floor. Several shards of marble had
struck her, and she felt pricks of pain, felt
the sticky flow of blood down her arm, rolling
beneath her bra, staining the white dress.
She heard Olaf cursing, still helpless on
the floor. He was screaming at his bodyguards
to tell him if he’d killed her yet.
The bodyguards shouted something, but again
it was in Swedish so she didn’t understand.
They didn’t come after her, evidently because
he wanted to have this pleasure all for himself,
and they knew it.
She began moving on her elbows, behind the
queen now, toward the great front door, behind
the bishop. She looked out toward Olaf. One
of his bodyguards was bending over him, handing
him his own gun.
The bodyguard picked Olaf up and set him again
in his wheelchair, then turned the chair toward
her. And now Olaf aimed that gun right at
her.
She rolled behind the knight. She wasn’t
any farther than ten feet from the front doors.
“I like this game,” Olaf shouted and fired.
The bishop toppled, shattering as it fell,
falling over her ankles. She felt a stab of
pain, but she could still move her feet, thank
God. She moved solidly behind the knight and
stilled.
Olaf shouted again. Then he laughed. Another
shot, obscenely loud in the silence, and she
saw a huge chunk of marble floor, not three
feet from her, spew in all directions. He
fired again and again, sending the white king
careening into the queen.
Lily was on her knees behind the rook now,
close to the front door.
Another shot whistled past her ear, and she
flattened herself. One of the bodyguards yelled
and ran toward her. Why?
Then she heard more shots, at least six of
them, but they weren’t from Olaf or the
bodyguard; they were coming through the front
door. She heard yelling, men’s voices, and
pounding on the door until it crashed inward.
Olaf and the bodyguards were shooting toward
the door.
Lily lurched to her feet, lifted a huge shard
of the bishop’s white miter, ran toward
Olaf, and hurled it at his wheelchair.
It hit him. Olaf, his gun firing wildly, straight
up now, went over backward. His bodyguards
ran as policemen fired at them from the open
front door.
More gunfire. So much shouting, so much damned
noise, too much. Simon was there, just behind
the third policeman. He was alive.
There was sudden silence. The gun storm was
over. Lily ran to Simon, hurled herself against
him. His arms tightened around her.
She raised her head and smiled up at him.
“I’m glad you came when you did. It was
pretty dicey there for a while.”
She heard Olaf screaming, spewing profanity.
Then he was quiet.
Simon said in her ear, “It’s over, Lily,
all over. Olaf isn’t going anywhere. It’s
time to worry about yourself. You’re bleeding
a little. I want you to hold still; there’s
an ambulance coming.”
“I’m all right. It’s just cuts from
the flying marble. You’re wet, Simon,”
she said. “Why are you wet?”
“I was careless. Be still.”
“No, tell me. How did you get away from
them? What happened?”
He realized that she just couldn’t let it
go, and he slowed himself, keeping his voice
calm and low. “I dove into the canal to
get away, but I couldn’t. Then there were
all sorts of cops there to pull me out of
the canal and take care of Alpo, Nikki, and
Ian. Nobody was killed. They’re all in the
local lockup. It was your brother, Lily. He
called a friend in Stockholm who happened
to have two brothers living here in Gothenburg.
The police were watching the mansion, saw
Ian and the boys stuff me in the car, called
backup, and followed.”
“I want to meet those brothers,” she said.
For the first time, she felt like smiling,
and so she did, a lovely smile that was filled
with hope.
28
Washington, D.C.
Late Saturday night, it was colder in Washington
than it had been in Stockholm. The temperature
had plummeted early in the day and the skies
had opened up and sprinkled a dusting of snow
all over the East Coast. Lily was finally
in bed, her shoulder and back no longer throbbing
from the shards of marble that had struck
her. “Nothing important here—all surface
pain,” the Swedish doctor had said, and
she’d wanted to slug him. Now she would
probably have more scars.
When she’d said this on a sigh to Simon,
he’d said, as he’d eased some pillows
around her on the roomy first-class seat,
that he liked banged-up women. The scars showed
character.
“No,” Lily had said as she let him ease
a thin airplane blanket to her chin, “what
it shows is that the woman has bad judgment.”
He’d laughed as he’d kissed her. Then
he’d smoothed the hair off her forehead
and kissed her again, not laughing this time.
Then Simon had cupped her face in his palm
and said very quietly, since the movie was
over and everyone was trying to sleep in the
dimly lit cabin, “I think we’re going
to make a fine team, Lily. You, me, and No
Wrinkles Remus.”
Lily snuggled down under the blankets. She
hoped Simon was doing better than she was.
Like her, he’d been ready to fall flat on
his face from exhaustion. She hoped he was
sleeping.
Actually, Simon was turning slowly over in
the too-short cot, not wanting to roll himself
accidentally off onto the floor. He had managed
to get the blanket carefully wrapped around
his feet, no easy thing, since his feet were
off the cot and on the big side. He’d taken
up temporary residence in Sean’s room, just
down the hall from Lily, since the baby was
still with Mrs. Savich. A precaution, Dillon
had said as he’d helped Dane Carver, a new
special agent in his unit, carry in the narrow
army cot that would be Simon’s bed. He’d
announced to both men that he didn’t care
if he had to fit himself into Sean’s crib,
if that’s what it took to get to sleep.
He knew she was okay, just down the hall.
Not near enough to him for the time being,
but Simon had plans to change that. He could
easily picture her in his brownstone, could
picture how he’d redo one of those large
upstairs bedrooms to make it her work room.
Great light in that room, just exactly right
for her.
Simon was smiling as he breathed in the scent
of Sean. Nice scent, but he would have preferred
to be in the guest room with Lily, in her
bed. He’d always been a patient man, which,
he supposed, was a good thing, since he’d
only known Lily for a little more than two
weeks.
As for Lily, she didn’t know why she couldn’t
sleep. It was after midnight in Washington,
morning in Sweden. But she and Simon had been
in Sweden such a short time, her body had
no clue what time of day it was. She was beyond
exhaustion, yet she couldn’t sleep.
She was still very worried about her brother.
Tammy Tuttle hadn’t shown up, hadn’t come
after Dillon, and both her brother and Sherlock
were frustrated and on edge, at their wits’
end.
On Friday afternoon, as announced, Dillon
had taken a taxi to the airport and checked
in for a flight to Texas. Then, at the last
minute, he’d deplaned and slipped back into
the house in Georgetown.
Now it was Saturday night, well beyond the
deadline, and Lily knew there were still agents
covering the house. Jimmy Maitland wasn’t
taking any chances, and the very sophisticated
house alarm was set.
Lily hoped that Dillon and Sherlock were sleeping
better than she was. She knew they missed
Sean. When they’d all come up to bed, they’d
automatically turned to go to Sean’s room.
She rolled onto her side and sucked in her
breath at a sudden jab of pain. She didn’t
want to take any more pain pills. She closed
her eyes and saw that huge room again, its
walls covered with her grandmother’s paintings.
So many to be returned to museums all over
the world. Olaf Jorgenson and his son would
not be able to stop it. Ian would be in jail
for a very long time. Olaf was in the hospital,
in very bad shape.
After a good deal of time, she was finally
floating toward sleep, when her brain clicked
on full alert and her eyes flew open. She’d
heard something. Not Simon or Dillon or Sherlock
moving around, something that wasn’t right.
Maybe it was nothing at all, just a phantom
whisper from her exhausted brain or only a
puff of wind that had sent a branch sweeping
against the bedroom window. Yes, the sound
was outside, not in her bedroom. Maybe it
was in Simon’s bedroom, just down the hall.
Had he awakened?
Lily continued to wait, gritty eyes staring
around the dark room, listening.
She started to relax again when she heard
a creak. Just a slight pressure on the oak
floor could cause a creak, but it was there
and it was close. In the air, no longer heard,
but she still felt it. Lily waited, straining
to hear, her heart pounding now.
The scattered carpets covering the oak floors
would mask any creaks, make someone walking
hard to hear.
Lily lurched upright, straining to see. Too
late, she saw a shadow, moving fast, and something
coming down at her. She felt a deadening pain
like a sharp knife driving into her skull.
She fell back onto the pillow. Just before
she passed out, she saw a face over her, a
woman’s face, and she knew whose face it
was. The mouth whispered, “Hi, little sister.”
• Sherlock couldn’t sleep. Dillon’s
arm was heavy over her chest, and he was close
and warm, his familiar scent in the air she
breathed, but it didn’t help. Her brain
wouldn’t turn off; it just kept moving,
going over and over what they knew about Tammy,
what they imagined but didn’t know.
When she couldn’t stand it anymore, Sherlock
eased away from Savich, got out of bed, and
pulled on her old blue wool robe. She wore
socks to keep her feet warm against the oak
floor.
She had to check the house again, just had
to, though she’d already checked it three
times, and Dillon had checked probably another
three. She had to be sure. It was early Sunday
morning, it was snowing, and Sean was at his
grandmother’s, safe. When would she feel
secure enough to bring him home? Ever? It
had to end. Tammy had to do something; it
had to end, sometime.
She hoped the four agents outside weren’t
freezing their butts off. At least she knew
they had hot coffee; she’d taken them a
huge thermos about ten o’clock.
She got to the end of the hall and paused
for a moment, feeling the house warm around
her, breathing in its comforting smells. It
took a moment, but Sherlock realized that
something was different.
It was quiet in a way she wasn’t used to.
Too quiet. She realized that the alarm was
off, the very low hum you could barely hear
wasn’t there. Panic lurched up into her
throat.
She turned to look down the beautifully carved
oak staircase. She saw dim light pooling at
the bottom from the glass arch above the front
door, snowflakes drifting lazily down. She
took one step, then another, when a hand hit
her square in the middle of the back. She
screamed, or at least she thought she did,
as she went head over heels down the stairs.
Someone passed by her as she lay there facedown
on a thick Persian carpet, the breath knocked
out of her, barely hanging on to consciousness.
She’d struck her head, struck everything
on her body, and she could hardly move.
She thought she heard a moan, and then the
figure was gone. The front door opened as
she stared at it, yes, she was sure it was
open, now fully open, because she felt a slice
of cold air reach her face, and she shivered.
The front door stayed open. Only an instant
passed before she realized what had happened.
Someone had shoved her down the stairs. Someone
had just gone out through the front door.
She managed to stagger to her feet, fear swamping
her. Tammy Tuttle, it had to be her, but how?
How had she gotten past the agents and into
the house? Why hadn’t Sherlock seen her?
She threw back her head and yelled, “Dillon!
Oh God, Dillon, come quickly!”
Savich and Simon appeared at the top of the
stairs at the same time, both wearing only
boxer shorts. A light went on.
“Sherlock!”
Savich was beside her, holding her tightly
against him, then gently pushing her down,
afraid that he was hurting her.
Sherlock came back up, grabbed his arms. “No,
no, Dillon, I’m okay. Tammy—she was here;
she shoved me down the stairs. The alarm was
off and I was just coming downstairs to check.
I heard a woman’s moan. It wasn’t me.
Where’s Lily? Dear God, check Lily!”
Simon was back up the stairs, taking them
two, three at a time. They heard him yell,
“She’s gone!”
Dillon grabbed his cell phone to call the
agents outside.
Simon turned on all the lights as Dillon was
speaking to the agents. The front door was
open and there was no sign of Lily. Somehow,
Tammy had taken her out without Sherlock seeing
anything.
Savich stood on his front porch in his boxer
shorts, straining to see through the snow
falling like a thin, white curtain in front
of him, into the darkness beyond.
• Jimmy Maitland said as he sipped his coffee,
so blessedly hot that it nearly burned his
tongue, “What do the folk in Behavioral
Sciences have to say?”
Savich said, “Jane Bitt is guessing, she
freely admits it, but as far as she knows,
no one has ever before encountered anything
like Tammy Tuttle. She may have some sort
of genetic gift, be able to project what she
wants you to see. What’s amazing is the
scope. She had everyone in that airport in
Antigua believing she was a man, and this
is what makes her so unique. Jane said that
even given that, we shouldn’t focus exclusively
on it—there’s just no percentage to it.
She says there’s no beating her that way.
We should focus on a woman with one arm who’s
twenty-three years old. What would she do?
If we can predict that, she’s vulnerable.”
“But we don’t know what she’ll do, where
she’d take Lily,” Sherlock said.
“She was supposed to come after me here,
not Lily—to tear my fucking head off,”
Savich said slowly, staring at his hands,
which were clasped tightly together around
Sherlock’s waist.
Jimmy Maitland blinked. He had never heard
Savich utter a profanity before, and then
he realized he was quoting Tammy.
Simon was on his feet, pacing in front of
the two of them. He was wearing only wrinkled
black wool slacks, no shirt, even his feet
were bare.
“Listen, Savich, you know she took Lily
because she figured it was better revenge
than just killing you. Now, think, dammit.
Where would Tammy Tuttle take Lily?”
It was nearly four o’clock in the morning
and snow was still falling lightly. No one
said a word. Savich sat in his favorite chair,
leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.
He felt Sherlock leaning against him.
Then Sherlock said very softly, “I think
I know where she might have taken Lily.”
29
Lily was colder than when she’d been lying
on that naked mattress in Gothenburg. Her
wrists and ankles were bound together loosely,
with some sort of tape. She was lying on her
side in a dark room, and it smelled funny.
It wasn’t unpleasant, but she didn’t recognize
it.
She was all right. She felt a dull throb on
the side of her head, but it wasn’t bad,
and her side hurt, but that wouldn’t kill
her. No, it was the insane woman who had brought
her here who could kill her.
Did she hear someone laugh? She couldn’t
be sure.
She gritted her teeth and tried working at
her wrists. There was a little bit of movement;
the tape wasn’t all that tight. She kept
pulling and twisting, working the duct tape.
Where was she? Where had Tammy Tuttle taken
her? She knew Tammy was utterly mad and smart,
since up to now she’d managed to evade Lily’s
brother. She’d taken Lily because she was
Dillon’s sister. She thought it was better
revenge against Dillon than just killing him.
Lily knew she was right about that. Dillon
was probably driving himself mad with guilt.
She kept working the duct tape.
What was that smell that permeated the air?
Then she knew. She was in some sort of barn.
She smelled old hay, linseed oil, yes, that
was it, at least it was some kind of oil,
and the very faint odor of ancient dried manure.
A barn somewhere. She remembered Simon asking
Dillon where they’d first caught up with
the Tuttle brother and sister, and he’d
said it was at a barn on Marilyn Warluski’s
property near the Plum River in Maryland.
Maybe that was where she was. At least Dillon
and Sherlock knew about this place. Was this
Marilyn Warluski here with her as well? Was
she still alive?
Dull, gray light was coming through the filthy
glass behind her. It was dawn. Soon it would
be morning.
Lily kept working the duct tape. She didn’t
want to think about how in all the years she’d
used duct tape it had never broken or slipped
off. But it was looser than before, she knew
it.
Lily needed to go to the bathroom. She was
hungry. Her side and shoulder were thudding
with pain. Just surface pain, that damned
doctor had assured her. She wished now she
had slugged him. Let him feel some surface
pain for a while, the jerk.
There was more light, dull, flat light, and
she could see now that she was in a small
tack room. There was an ancient desk shoved
against the opposite wall, two old chairs
near it. A torn bridle with only one rein
was dangling from a nail on the wooden-slatted
wall.
It was cold. She couldn’t stop shivering.
Now that she could see around her, see the
cracks in the wooden walls that gave directly
to the outside, she was even colder. She was
wearing only her nightgown. At least it was
a long-sleeve flannel number that came to
her neck and down to her ankles.
But it wasn’t enough.
She turned her head when she heard the door
slowly open.
She saw a woman standing in the dim light.
“Hello, little sister. How are you doing
with the duct tape? Loosen it up a bit yet?”
And Lily said, “I’m not your little sister.”
“No, you’re Dillon Savich’s little sister
and that’s more than close enough. That’s
just dandy.” Tammy walked into the small
room, sniffed the air, frowned for just a
moment, then pulled one of the rickety chairs
away from the desk and sat down. She crossed
her legs. She was wearing huge-heeled black
boots.
“I’m very cold,” Lily said.
“Yeah, I figured.”
“I also have to go to the bathroom.”
“Okay, I don’t care if you’re cold,
but I wouldn’t make you lie there on your
side and pee on yourself. That would be gross.
I’m going to unfasten your feet so you can
walk. You can go out in the barn and pick
your corner. Here, I’ll put the duct tape
around your wrists in front of you. I wouldn’t
want you to pee on yourself.” Lily didn’t
have a chance to fight her. Her ankles were
bound. She could do nothing, just wait for
the duct tape to go around her wrists again.
At least they were in front of her now, even
for just a short time.
“Here’s a couple of Kleenex.”
Lily walked ahead of Tammy into the large
barn. It was a mess—overflowing rotting
hay, random pieces of rusted equipment, boards
hanging loose, letting in snow and frigid
air. She quickly saw the big, black-painted
circle. It was starkly clean. That was where
Tammy and her brother had forced the two boys
to stay while Tammy called her Ghouls.
“How about the corner over there? Hurry
up now, you and I have lots to do. I don’t
trust you not to be stupid but it won’t
matter if you are. Move, little sister.”
Lily relieved herself, then turned to face
Tammy, who’d been watching her.
“How did you get into the house? The alarm
system is one of the best made.”
Tammy just smiled at her. Lily saw her very
clearly now in the shaft of strong morning
light that speared through a wide slash in
the wall. She was wearing black jeans over
those black boots, and a long-sleeve black
turtleneck sweater. One sleeve dangled where
her arm should have been. She wasn’t ugly
or beautiful. She just looked normal, average
even. She didn’t look particularly scary,
even with her moussed, spiked-up dark hair.
Her eyes were very dark, darker than her hair,
in sharp contrast to her face, which was very
pale, probably made more pale with white powder,
and her mouth was painted a deep plum color.
She was thin, and her single hand was long
and narrow, the fingernails capped with the
same plum color that was on her mouth. Even
thin, she gave the overwhelming impression
that she was as strong as a bull.
“I’ll just bet your brother and that little
redheaded wife of his were chewing off their
fingernails waiting for me. But I didn’t
come when they wanted me to. That announcement
the FBI character made on TV, I didn’t believe
it, not for an instant. I knew it was a trap,
and that was okay. I took my time, found out
all about the alarm, how to disarm it. It
wasn’t hard. Sit down, little sister.”
Lily sat on a bale of hay so old it cracked
beneath her. “I don’t think you could
have done that alarm yourself, alone. It would
require quite some expertise.”
“You’re right. People always underestimate
me because they think I’m a hick.” Tammy
grinned down at her, then began pacing in
front of her, every once in a while looking
down at her empty sleeve, where her other
hand should have been. Lily watched her and
saw the look of panic, then bone-deep hatred,
cross her face.
“What are you going to do with me?”
Tammy laughed. “Why, I’m going to put
you in the circle and I’m going to call
the Ghouls. They’ll come and tear you apart,
and that’s what I’ll deliver back to your
brother—a body he’d rather not see.”
Tammy paused for a moment, then cocked her
head to one side. “They’re close now,
I can hear them.”
Lily listened. She could hear the faint rustling
of tree branches, probably from the constant
fall of snow, the movement of the wind. But
nothing else, not even early-morning birds,
no animal sounds at all. “I don’t hear
anything.”
“You will,” said Tammy. “You will. We’re
going to walk over to that black circle. You’re
going to sit down in the middle of it. I won’t
even tie your hands behind you. Now, move
it, little sister.” Tammy pulled out a gun
and aimed it at Lily.
“No, I’m not going anywhere,” Lily said.
“Will the Ghouls still want me if I’m
not in the circle? What if you’ve already
killed me with that gun of yours? Will they
still want me then?”
“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
Tammy raised the gun and aimed it at Lily’s
face.
• Simon wished he were on his motorcycle,
weaving in and out of the heavy, early-morning
traffic. Why didn’t Savich have a bloody
siren? Why were there so many people at this
hour?
When there was finally a break in the traffic,
Savich pressed his foot hard on the accelerator.
Simon looked out the back window, saw six
black FBI cars, one after the other, coming
fast, keeping pace with them.
“Tell me, Sherlock,” he said, his heart
thudding fast, hard beats. “We’ll be there
soon. Tell me about Tammy.”
• Slowly, Tammy lowered the gun. “You
think you’re pretty cute, don’t you?”
Lily slowly shook her head, so relieved she
was nearly sick. She’d been ready to feel
a bullet go right through her heart, to just
be gone, and that was it. Sudden and final
and she was dead. But she was still here,
still alive, with Tammy, who was still holding
that ugly gun.
The circle—it appeared Tammy wanted her
in that circle, still alive. “Where is Marilyn?
She’s your cousin, isn’t she?”
“You want to know about my sweet little
cousin? I’m not real happy with her right
now. See, she told your brother everything
about me. Then he used her for bait. That
was ruthless of him. I like that in a guy.
She was waiting for me right there in the
open, in that airport, standing next to that
stupid agent who was supposed to be guarding
her. From me. What a joke that was. I cut
the agent’s throat, and everyone saw a crazy
young man do it. Everyone believed it, but
it was really me.
“You want to know why I hate your brother?
It’s not hard. He killed my brother, shot
my arm off, just left it dangling by a few
strips of muscle, and I saw it hanging there
and I thought I was going to die. And they
strapped me down to this bed because your
brother told them I was bad trouble, and then
they cut the rest of it right off in the hospital
and I nearly died. All because of your damned
brother.”
Then Tammy let loose, screamed to the rafters,
“One goddamned arm! Just look at me—my
fucking sleeve is empty! I nearly died from
the infection, damn him to hell. He shot my
arm off! After I set the Ghouls on you, after
they’ve gnawed you to a bloody mess, I’m
going to get him, get him, GET HIM!”
Lily kept her mouth shut, tried to pull herself
together enough to work on the duct tape.
She wished she could raise her hands and use
her teeth, but Tammy would notice that for
sure. At least her hands were still bound
in front of her; that might give her some
chance.
Tammy drew a deep breath as she slowly lowered
the gun. Her eyes focused again, on Lily.
“You’re like him—stubborn.”
“How did you get past all the agents guarding
the house?”
“Stupid buggers, all of them. It was easy.
There’s hardly any challenge anymore. I
didn’t let them see me.”
Lily didn’t want to believe anything that
outrageous, but she said, “And they couldn’t
see me either?”
“Oh yes. Nothing to it. Just dragged you
out, wearing that cute little nightgown—sorry
I didn’t get you a coat. But I figured after
you realized what was going to happen to you,
you’d want to feel the cold, better than
being dead and not feeling anything at all.
Now, little sister, move into the goddamned
circle!”
“No.”
Tammy raised the gun and fired. Lily cried
out, unable to help herself. She threw herself
to the right, off the bale of hay, felt the
hot whoosh of the bullet not an inch from
her cheek, and rolled and kept rolling, pulling
and twisting at the tape on her wrists. Another
bullet hit a pile of moldering hay and spewed
it upward.
Then Tammy stopped shooting. She walked over
to Lily and stood still, staring down at her,
the gun pointed at her chest. Lily looked
up, frozen, afraid to move, afraid even to
breathe.
Lily said, finally, “You have a problem,
don’t you, Tammy? The Ghouls won’t come
if I’m not staked like a tethered goat in
that black circle, right? So get used to it.
I’m not going anywhere.”
Tammy didn’t say a thing to that, just turned
and walked away, her strides in those heavy,
black boots long and solid. Lily watched her
disappear into the tack room and close the
door behind her, hard.
It was so silent that Lily could hear the
barn groan as the rising wind hit it. Then
Lily heard a scream, a woman’s scream, Tammy’s
scream and two gunshots, loud, sharp.
Dillon ran out of the tack room toward her,
his SIG Sauer in his hand, yelling, “Lily!
Oh my God, are you all right, sweetheart?
Everything’s okay. I got into the tack room,
shot her before she saw me. Oh God, are you
hit?”
She felt such relief she thought she’d choke
on it. She yelled, “Dillon, you came! I
kept her talking, knew I had to keep her talking.
Oh God, she’s so scary. Then she started
shooting at me and I thought it was all over—”
Lily stopped cold. Dillon was nearly to her,
not more than six feet away, when suddenly
Lily didn’t see her brother anymore. She
saw Tammy. She wasn’t holding Dillon’s
SIG Sauer; she was holding that same little
ugly gun that was hers. Her brain froze. Just
simply froze. She couldn’t accept what she
was seeing, what was right in front of her,
she just couldn’t. Oh, God.
“Honey, are you okay?”
It was Tammy’s voice, no longer Dillon’s.
Then Lily realized it really was Tammy. She
thought she’d seen Dillon because she wanted
to so much, and Tammy wanted her to. And Tammy
thought it was working.
Oh God, oh God.
Lily said, “I’m okay. I’m so glad you’re
here, Dillon, so glad.”
Tammy dropped to her knees beside Lily and
turned her onto her side. “Let me get that
tape off you, sweetheart. There, let me just
slip the knife under the tape. Good, you’ve
already loosened it. You could have gotten
yourself free and away, couldn’t you?”
Then Tammy Tuttle pulled Lily against her
and hugged her, kissed her hair. Stroked her
single hand down her back. Lily felt Tammy’s
slight breasts against hers.
Tammy had laid the gun on the ground, just
a hand’s length away from her, not more
than six inches. “Just hold me, Dillon.
Oh, God, I was so scared. I’m so glad you
came so quickly.”
She cried, sobbed her heart out, felt Tammy
squeeze her and kiss her hair again. Lily’s
hand moved slowly toward the gun, slowly,
until her fingers touched the butt.
Tammy swept up the gun, tucked it into her
waistband, and said, “Let me help you up,
honey. That’s right. You’re okay now.
Sherlock is just outside with the other agents.
Let’s go see them.”
Tammy was holding her tightly against her
side, walking toward the barn doors. No, not
really toward the doors. She was swerving
to the left now, toward that big black circle.
Just as Tammy flung her onto her back and
into the circle, Lily grabbed the gun from
Tammy’s waistband, raising it at her.
Tammy didn’t seem to notice that Lily had
her gun, that she was pointing it at her.
She’d turned toward the barn doors, raised
her head, and yelled, “Ghouls! No young
bloods for you this time, but a soft, sweet
morsel, a female. Bring your axes, bring your
knives, and hack her apart! Come here, Ghouls!”
The barn doors blew inward. Lily saw whirling
snow blowing in, and something else in that
snow. A dust devil, that was it. That was
what Dillon had seen as well, wasn’t it?
The snow seemed to coalesce into two distinct
formations, like tornadoes, whirling and dipping,
coming toward her. But they were white, twisting
this way and that, in constant motion, coming
closer and closer. Lily felt frozen in place,
just stared at those white cones coming closer,
not more than a dozen feet away now, nearly
to the black circle now. She had to move,
had to.
Tammy saw that something was wrong. She pulled
a knife out of her boot leg, a long, vicious
knife. She raised that knife and ran toward
Lily.
Lily didn’t think, just raised the gun and
yelled, “No, Tammy, it’s over. Yes, I
see you. The minute you got close, I saw you,
not my brother. The Ghouls won’t help you.”
Just as Tammy leaped at her, the knife raised,
the blade gleaming cold, Lily pulled the trigger.
Tammy yelled and kept coming. Lily pulled
the trigger again and again, and Tammy Tuttle
was kicked off her feet and hurled a good
six feet by the force of the bullets. She
sprawled on her back, gaping holes in her
chest. Her one arm was flung out, the empty
sleeve flat on the ground.
But Lily didn’t trust her. She ran to her,
breathing hard and fast, nearly beyond herself,
and she aimed and fired the last bullet not
a foot from Tammy’s body. Her body lurched
up with the bullet’s impact. She fired again,
but there was only a click. The gun was empty,
but Tammy was still alive, her eyes on Lily’s
face, and Lily couldn’t stop. She pulled
the trigger, like an automaton, again and
again, until, finally, only hollow clicks
filled the silence.
Tammy lay on her back, covered with blood,
her one hand still clenched at her side. Even
her throat was ripped through by a bullet.
Lily had fired six shots into her. Lily dropped
to her knees, put her fingertips to Tammy’s
bloody neck.
No pulse.
But her eyes were looking up at Lily, looking
into her. Tammy was still there, still clinging
to what she was. Her lips moved, but there
was no sound. Slowly, ever so slowly, her
eyes went blank. She was dead now, her eyes
no longer wild and mad, no longer seeing anything
at all.
There was utter silence.
Lily looked up, but the Ghouls were gone.
They were gone with Tammy.
30
Washington, D.C.
FBI specialists from the evidence labs went
over every inch of the barn at the Plum River
in Maryland.
They found candy wrappers—more than three
dozen—but no clothing, no bedding, no sign
that Tammy Tuttle had been there for any time
at all.
There was no sign of Marilyn Warluski.
“She’s dead,” Savich said, and Sherlock
hated the deadening guilt in his voice.
“We can’t be sure of anything when it
comes to that family,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly,
but she’d moved closer and put her hand
on his shoulder, lightly touching him.
Two Days Later
It was late afternoon, and the snow had stopped
falling. Washington was covered with a blanket
of pristine white, and a brilliant sun was
overhead. People were out and about on this
cold, crystalline Sunday even as the national
media announced the shooting death of the
fugitive killer Tammy Tuttle in a barn in
Maryland.
Lily came into the living room, a cup of hot
tea in her hand. “I called Agent Clark Hoyt
in Eureka, on his home number since it’s
Sunday. I just couldn’t help myself, couldn’t
wait. Bless him, he didn’t seem to mind.
He said that Hemlock Bay was rife with gossip
over the deaths of Elcott and Charlotte. The
mayor, the city council, and the local Methodist
church are holding meetings to plan a big
memorial service. No one, he said, really
wants to delve too deeply into why they were
killed, but it’s possible that the floating
rumors could even exceed the truth.”
Lily paused for a moment, then added, “I
also called Tennyson. He’s very saddened
by his parents’ death. It’s difficult
for him to accept what they did, that they
used him—used both of us—to gain their
ends. He said he knows now that his parents
were feeding me depressants all those months
and that they had been the ones to arrange
for my brakes to fail when I was driving to
Ferndale.”
“But how did they know what you would be
doing?” Sherlock asked.
“Tennyson said he called them from Chicago,
just happened to mention that he’d asked
me to drive to Ferndale, and when. I feel
very bad for him, but I wonder how he could
have been so blind to what his own parents
were.”
“They fooled you as well,” Savich said.
“At least enough. No one wants to see evil;
no one wants to admit it exists.”
Lily said, “I’ve decided to fly to California
for the memorial service. I’m going for
Tennyson. He’s been hurt terribly. I feel
that I must show him my support now, show
everyone that I believe he was innocent of
everything that happened. He knows I’m not
coming back to him, as his wife, and he accepts
it.” She sighed. “He said he was leaving
Hemlock Bay, that he never wants to see the
place again.”
“I can’t say I blame him,” Simon said.
Savich said, “Please tell Tennyson for us
that we are very sorry about what happened.”
“I will.” Lily raised her head, listened,
and smiled. “Sean’s awake from his nap.”
Both Savich and Sherlock were up the stairs,
side by side, their hands clasped.
Simon smiled at Lily, sipped his coffee. Savich
had made it, so it was excellent. He sighed
with pleasure.
“So, Lily, as your new consultant, I think
it’s very good for you to go back for his
parents’ memorial service. It will put closure
on things. It will be over. Then you will
begin to move forward. Now, I’ve been thinking
hard about this.”
“And what did you decide, Mr. Russo?”
“I think the first step is for you to move
to New York. It’s never wise for a client
to be any distance at all from her consultant.”
Lily walked across the living room, gently
placed her teacup on an end table, and sat
down on Simon’s lap. She took his face between
her hands and kissed him.
Simon sighed, set down his own cup, and pulled
her close. “That’s very nice, Lily.”
“Yes, it is. Actually it’s better than
just nice.” She kissed his neck, then settled
herself against him. “I just wanted to tell
you that you’re the best, Simon. I can’t
believe it’s all really over—that I’m
even going to get all my paintings back. But
you know what? I want to stay in Washington
for a while. I want to settle down, let the
past sort itself out, and when I’m ready
for the future, I want it to be with a clean
slate, no excess baggage dragging along with
me. I want to launch No Wrinkles Remus again.
I want to be my own boss for a while, Simon.”
She thought for a moment that he’d argue
with her, but he didn’t. He rubbed his hands
up and down her back and said, “Our time
together hasn’t had many normal moments,
like this. I think the consultant will need
frequent visits, lots of contact, and both
of us can think about things looking forward,
not back.”
She kissed him again and pressed her forehead
to his. “Deal,” she said.
Simon settled back and wrapped his arms around
her, her cheek pressed against his neck. He
said, “I forgot to tell you. An art dealer
friend e-mailed me, said Abe Turkle is in
Las Vegas gambling, and winning. He said Abe
looked and acted like some big lumberjack;
no one would believe for an instant he’s
one of the top forgers in the world.”
“I wish I could remember what happened to
that painting he gave me at his cottage.”
The doorbell rang.
Dillon and Sherlock were still upstairs playing
with Sean. Lily pulled herself off Simon’s
lap and went to answer the door. When she
opened it, a FedEx man stood there, holding
out an envelope. “For Dillon Savich,”
he said. Lily signed the overnight receipt
and brought the envelope back into the living
room.
She called out to Dillon. Shortly, Savich,
carrying Sean over his shoulder, Sherlock
at his side, came downstairs.
Dillon patted his sister’s cheek. “What
you got, babe?”
“An overnight envelope for you, Dillon.”
Savich handed Sean to Sherlock and took the
envelope. He looked down at it, bemused, and
said, “It’s from the Beach Hotel in Aruba.”
He opened the envelope, pulled out a sheaf
of color photos. Slowly, he looked at each
of them.
“Come on, Dillon, what is it?”
He raised his head and said to Sherlock, “These
are the photos that Tammy took in the Caribbean
to show to Marilyn.” There was a white sheet
of paper behind the last photo, just a few
lines written on it. He read aloud.
“Mr. Savich, Tammy was right, the beaches
here are very beautiful. I’m glad she didn’t
kill you.”
MARILYN WARLUSKI
Hemlock Bay
Book Jacket
Series: FBI Thriller [6]
Hemlock Bay is the sixth novel in the FBI
series, and I'm hoping it will make your hair
stand on end. Meet Tammy Tuttle and start
praying. She becomes the nemesis of FBI agent
Dillon Savich. If this isn't enough, Savich
learns that his sister; Lily, has crashed
her Explorer in an apparent suicide attempt.
Or is it really a murder conspiracy by her
husband and his family to gain Lily's very
valuable paintings?
Enter Simon Russo, art expert, and longtime
friend of Savich's. Together; Russo and Lily
are thrust into ever-widening circles of danger
that radiate from a notorious collector's
locked room.
Savich and Sherlock are in top form. I hope
you like Hemlock Bay. I further hope that
it will make you want to hide under your bed.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are either the product
of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events or locales is entirely coincidental.
HEMLOCK BAY
by Catherine Coulter
A G.P. Putnam’s Sons Book / published by
arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2001 by Catherine Coulter
This book may not be reproduced in whole or
part, by mimeograph or any other means, without
permission. Making or distributing electronic
copies of this book constitutes copyright
infringement and could subject the infringer
to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site
address is http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN: 0-7865-2842-7
A G.P. PUTNAM’S SONS BOOK®
G.P. Putnam’s Sons Books first published
by The G.P. Putnam’s Sons Publishing Group,
a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
G.P. PUTNAM’S SONS and the “PUTNAM”
design are trademarks belonging to Penguin
Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: October, 2002
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are either the product
of the author’s Imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site
address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
ALSO BY
CATHERINE COULTER
RIPTIDE
THE EDGE
THE TARGET
THE MAZE
THE COVE
BEYOND EDEN
FALSE PRETENSES
I wish to thank the following people at FBI
Headquarters and at Quantico for their generosity
and enthusiasm.
William Hayden Matens, Special Agent, retired
Thomas B. Locke, DAD, Inspection Division
David R. Knowlton, Assistant Director, Inspection
Division
Wade M. Jackson, Unit Chief, Firearms Training
Unit
Gary J. Hutchison, Agent Instructor
Alan H. Marshall, Special Agent, Indoor Range
Jeffrey Higginbotham, Assistant Director,
Training Division
Douglas W. Deedrick, Unit Chief, Information
and Evidence Management Unit
Lester “wingtips” Davis, Officer, National
Academy Association
Ruben Garcia, Jr., Assistant Director, Criminal
Investigative Division
Kenneth McCabe, Section Chief, Laboratory
Division
Michael J. Perry, Firearms Instructor
Sheri A. Farrar, Deputy Assistant Director,
Administrative Services Division
Royce Curtin, Special Agent, Hostage Rescue
Team
Stephen R. Band, Unit Chief, Behavior Sciences
Unit
Lew Elliott, who teaches cops how to fight
I wish to thank my husband, Dr. Anton Pogany,
yet again, for his excellent instincts and
his eagle eye that never misses a thing—he
remains the Editor from Hell.
