Labyrinth

by Catherine Coulter

  Savich felt a rush of adrenaline. It had been a long time since he’d mixed it up, and this guy was a brawler. Armstrong jumped in close, pummeled him with his fists, grabbed Savich’s left arm with both of his and twisted it sharply behind him. Savich knew he had only a second before the bone snapped. He ignored the pain and his numb right hand, managed to feint and turn to the side to gain a bit of space, and kicked Armstrong in the belly. Armstrong sucked in a breath, let him go as he stumbled back. “You’re going to pay for that, you FBI prick.”

  “Yeah? Show me what you’ve got.” Savich jumped back a step to get the leverage he needed, whirled, and kicked Armstrong hard in his kidney, whirled again and kicked him in the groin. Armstrong grunted, went down on his knees, grabbed himself as he rolled over onto his side, keening. Savich flipped him onto his belly, jerked the flex-cuffs from his belt, realized he couldn’t fasten them with his numb hand. Then Sherlock was there. She bent down next to Armstrong, whispered in his ear, “All right, moron, enough fun and games. Don’t move or I’ll shoot your ear off and make you eat it. You got that?”

  Armstrong was breathing hard, fighting nausea from the blow to his crotch, the hot pain in his kidney.

  Sherlock pressed her Glock into his ear. “Say it out loud. You understand, Armstrong?”

  Finally, he managed, “Yeah, I understand.”

  In that instant, Sherlock saw the Glock in his belt holster. She made a grab for it, but Armstrong was fast, clamped her arm against him. Savich calmly stuck his own Glock into Armstrong’s other ear. “Let her go or you’re a dead man.”

  Armstrong let her go. Sherlock pulled Armstrong’s gun free and slowly rose, shook her arm. “I’m okay, Dillon. Step away while I cuff him. How’s your arm? Can you use it?”

  “It’s coming,” Savich said. He rose, shoved his Glock back into his belt clip, and watched Sherlock fasten on the flex-cuffs. He looked up to see Ruth and Ollie in the open window, their weapons drawn. “We’re secure here,” he said to them.

  Ollie said, “No one else is here. Only this guy, Armstrong.”

  Savich walked over to the door and flipped on the switch. Light flooded the small bedroom. There was a closet, a bathroom, a dresser, and a double bed covered with dark blue sheets. He walked back to Sherlock and looked down at Armstrong, his legs drawn up, his face against the floor.

  Savich said to him, “You going to heave?”

  Armstrong whispered, “Bastard. What are you doing, attacking a CIA safe house?”

  Sherlock pressed her foot against his ribs, hard enough to get his attention. “You’re calling him a bastard when you’re holding an FBI agent prisoner here? Where is she? In the basement? She’d better be all right, or believe me, this won’t be your lucky day.”

  Armstrong raised his clammy face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Yeah, I have a detainee in the basement. She isn’t FBI, she’s a suspected foreign agent. I was assigned to keep guard over her until the morning, when she’ll be picked up and interrogated. I’m only babysitting her. I was told she’s violent, and so they drugged her. Last time I checked, she was still out.”

  Savich said, “Sorry, Lance, that story isn’t going to fly.”

  Sherlock said, “Did you people ever hear of checking a wallet for ID? You’d see she’s FBI.”

  “I was told she didn’t have a wallet, par for the course. Even if she did, it would be fake.”

  Savich said, “Who told you to hold her?”

  “None of your freaking business. Let me go. I’ve got calls to make. This is your mess to figure out, not mine. Get these cuffs off me!”

  Sherlock said, “You want to call your boss, Claire Farriger? I can tell you right now, Lance, she isn’t going to be happy with you. She gives you one simple assignment and look what happens. The FBI rides to the rescue and you end up on the floor whimpering like a little boy.”

  Savich said to Ollie, “You and Ruth get down to the basement and see that Lucy’s all right. But be careful, it’s possible there’s another one down there with her. We’ll take this one to the kitchen.”

  Armstrong was no longer thinking he’d die. He was wishing his hands were free and he could have another go at these two. “Let me loose. I’m entitled to a phone call.”

  Sherlock said, “Sorry, Lance, you’re not entitled to anything at all. Tell us exactly what Farriger and Nikki Bexholt are up to or I might let the big man here at you again.”

  “He was lucky. Let me loose and I’ll show you.”

  Sherlock laughed. “If I let you loose, what I’d see is him tying your legs around your neck. Now, what did you do to her?”

  “I didn’t do anything to her, simply carried her downstairs and put her on a bed. She was out cold. I was told she was given a dose of ketamine to keep her out. No one wanted any more trouble out of her.”

  Savich dragged Armstrong to the wall so he could sit up. He left his hands cuffed behind him. He looked into Armstrong’s hard face. Could he really be a dupe? He knew Armstrong and Farriger were close. It was more likely he was her henchman, perhaps her lover. Had he murdered Eleanor Corbitt?

  Armstrong said, “You haven’t told me how you found this house. You had no way to know.”

  Savich gave him a grin. “Would you believe I’m psychic?”

  They heard Ruth shout, “We’ve got Lucy. She’s okay, well, she’s so mad she’s frothing at the mouth. She’s got some pain from the blow to her head, and there’s some bleeding, but not much now. She’s a little dizzy from a drug they gave her. No one else is here, only the bozo you guys found. We’re bringing her up.”

  “I am not a bozo.”

  “Maybe not,” Sherlock said slowly. “If you’re a dupe, that means Farriger has roasted you.” She pulled Armstrong’s Glock from her pocket, studied it a moment. “Dillon, I’m thinking this could be the same gun that murdered Eleanor Corbitt.”

  Savich watched Armstrong’s face, saw the brief flash of knowledge in his eyes, but he shook his head. “I don’t know any Eleanor Corbitt. You want to know anything else, you can talk to my boss.” He didn’t say another word.

  69

  * * *

  EAGLE'S NEST

  Quint Bodine didn’t come with a shotgun. He didn’t come at all. It was Cyndia Bodine, running toward them, her bathrobe flapping around her ankles, flip-flops on her feet. She saw them and stopped, breathing hard, and there was something dangerous in her eyes. Just as suddenly, her features smoothed out. “I’m relieved you’re both alive, but how are you here? You shouldn’t be here. I heard the landslide and I came running.”

  Griffin didn’t move. “Why? How did you know anyone was down here, Mrs. Bodine?”

  She said, “I didn’t know. These landslides sometimes happen, do some destruction to the road, but what scared me was my husband wasn’t in bed and I was afraid something had happened to him.”

  “Your husband isn’t here, but we were. Sorry, but the landslide didn’t crush us under a ton of boulders coming down off the mountain. Didn’t you hear the explosion?”

  She said nothing. She kept looking at him, but Griffin saw her eyes go vague, fixed inward, as if she was focusing on something he couldn’t see. Or someone. “Oh no you don’t!” He ran to her, grabbed her arms and shook her, hard. “Snap back, Cyndia. Whatever you’re trying to do, stop it.”

  She hit his chest with her fists, tried to score his face with her fingernails. “Get away from me! I don’t know what you’re talking about. Go away, there’s nothing here for you. Let me go!”

  But Griffin wasn’t about to let her go. He shook her again. “Listen to me, we know you’re holding three girls in your underground—what? Lab? Apartments? Under the garage. We know you had Rafer kidnap them, you gave him no choice. And do you know what? We’ve finally figured out why you kidnapped the girls. All of them are sixteen years old, and you think they’re perhaps gifted, like you are, like your missing daughter. This is all about Camilla, isn’t it? She’s at the center of eve
rything you’ve done, the excuse. But I don’t understand why, Cyndia. Were you hoping the drugs would enable you to coerce one of them into playing the role of your long-lost daughter? You wanted one of them to take Camilla’s place? And your husband has been drugging them, recording their behavior. Yes, we read about Subject K and Subject M. Do you know how sick that is? How crazy?”

  She screamed in his face, “You’re a fool! How could you ever believe any of those girls could ever take my Camilla’s place? That I would want one of them to take her place?” Her eyes turned nearly black. She was panting now, locking her eyes on his face, and again, Griffin shook her hard.

  “What you’ve done—kidnapping, using drugs, imprisoning these girls, murdering Amy—”

  “Let her go, Agent.”

  Griffin slowly dropped his hands at the sound of Quint Bodine’s calm voice. He had a shotgun aimed not at him, but at Carson. Rafer was behind him, his hand outstretched. To stop his father?

  Griffin felt a sudden tearing pain in his chest, a pain nothing like he could ever have imagined. It was agony, he knew it had to be a heart attack and he was dying. He staggered back, slapped his hands to his chest, and fell to the ground.

  Carson yelled, “Stop it!” She fired once, kicking up dirt a few inches from Cyndia’s foot.

  Griffin had to stop Cyndia or he knew he’d die. He looked straight at her, pictured her lying on the road, a huge boulder on her chest, her eyes rolling back.

  Cyndia screamed, leaped back, and Griffin was free. The pain in his chest vanished, he could breathe again.

  Quint Bodine fired his shotgun at the same time Carson fired hers. His bullet struck the road in front of Griffin, spewing up rocks and dirt. Carson didn’t see where her bullet hit, but she didn’t need to. A fountain of blood spurted from Quint Bodine’s head. He fell to his knees, then over onto his side.

  “No!” Rafer fell on his knees beside his father.

  Cyndia leaped at Carson, hit her with her fists, kicked her. Carson grabbed her around her neck and pressed the small Colt against her cheek. “Stop it. You tried to murder Griffin, just like you hurt Sherlock, but you failed this time. Your husband was going to shoot Griffin. I had no choice. Now stop it!”

  Cyndia was cursing, struggled frantically to get free. Carson swung the Colt against her head, watched her crumple to the ground unconscious, one flip-flop falling off her foot. She didn’t move. Good.

  Carson yelled, “Rafer, don’t you dare pick up that shotgun or I’ll shoot you!”

  Rafer jerked back his hand, pulled his father up in his arms, shook him, but Quint was gone. Rafer screamed at Carson, his voice high and broken, like a little boy’s, “You shot my pa in the face! All the blood, too much blood—he’s dead. Do you hear me? My pa’s dead!”

  Carson felt roiling nausea, swallowed convulsively. She hadn’t meant to shoot him in the face, she’d been aiming lower. Hadn’t she? Carson’s world shifted, what was real and what seemed like a mad nightmare mixed together, a toxic brew spewing real death at her, swamping all sense of control. She’d killed another human being. No, no, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered except Griffin. She’d had no choice. Quint would have killed him. No way would she let that happen. She saw Griffin was sitting up, staring at Cyndia Bodine, still lying unconscious on the rocky ground, her robe tangled above her knees, the single flip-flop on the ground beside her. She moaned, shifted, fell onto her back, but stayed down.

  Carson called out, “Rafer, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to kill your father, only stop him. Stay there and don’t move.”

  She went down on her haunches beside Griffin, put her Colt on the road, and shook him. “Are you all right? What did Cyndia do to you? How did you stop her?”

  He struggled up to his knees. “It was my heart. I thought at first it was Quint trying to kill me, but I realized it wasn’t Quint at all—”

  “You’re right about that, you stupid man, it wasn’t my poor husband.”

  They turned to see Cyndia Bodine on her knees facing them, her bathrobe fanned around her, a Beretta in her hand, pointed at them. “I’m an excellent shot. Either of you move and I’ll finish what my husband started. No, don’t raise your gun, missy. Drop it to the ground. Good.” She turned to stare at Griffin. She shook her head, looking confused, uncertain. “I don’t understand. I thought I’d killed you, but something happened.”

  Griffin said, his voice infinitely calm, “Yes, you tried, but I stopped you.”

  She shook her head as she rose to face them. “No, no, it was something else, something you did psychically. And now Quint’s dead. I told him the explosion, the landslide, it was too uncertain, but he told me he knew it would do the job, send you both over the cliff. He’d worked on it for more than a year, a failsafe to deal with any threat to us, to his house. When I saw you making the K turn on the camera I told him to set it off, but you were too slow, you kept missing the turn. Then it looked like you were going over the edge anyway, and I came running to take care of her.”

  Her hand shook as she turned the Beretta on Carson, gave her a mad smile. “I don’t need a gun to destroy you, but after his little trick—you surprised me, is all.”

  Griffin got slowly to his feet. “The kind of little trick you use to control everyone around you, Cyndia? Face it, I’m stronger.”

  She laughed. “Who cares? I’m the one with the gun now. You’re no longer important. She is.” She turned to Carson. “You murdered my husband!”

  Griffin tried to shove Carson behind him.

  Cyndia laughed. “Hero to the end, aren’t you? Well, it’s too late.”

  “Ma! Stop!”

  Cyndia turned to see her son running toward her. She didn’t move, kept the Beretta aimed at Carson. “Rafer, you saw her, she killed your pa. Don’t get near them, stay back.” She sneered at Griffin and Carson. “You both think you’re so smart, but in the end Rafer’s going to bury both of you.”

  Griffin watched her finger tighten on the trigger and said in the next breath, “I called Agent Savich. He knows exactly where we are, what you, Rafer, and Quint have done, how you tried to kill us with the explosion. Agents are on the way. You can’t get out of this, Cyndia, even if you manage to kill us. Don’t make it any worse. Lower the gun.”

  Rafer grabbed at her arm, but Cyndia jumped away, panting, beside herself. “Listen, Rafer, I can’t give up, I have to make them pay for murdering your pa.”

  Tears were streaming down Rafer’s face, pain radiating off him in waves. He held out his hands to her. “Ma, please, you’ve got to stop this. He’s right, it’s over, Pa’s dead, do you understand? He’s dead! He never wanted this, he thought it was crazy, impossible, but he knew he had to do it for you, but now even he’d say it was over. He wouldn’t want you to kill them. And me? I knew I had to go along with what you wanted, knew if I didn’t you’d shine me and make me do it anyway, just like Pa, but now it’s finished and I’m glad. Yes, I know you’ve said over and over for years you knew your precious Camilla was alive, you dreamed about her calling to you, begging you to come to her, that she needed you, that without you, she’d die. But, Ma, why didn’t she ever tell you where she was? She didn’t, did she?”

  70

  * * *

  “Camilla would have contacted me, Rafer, but she couldn’t, someone was keeping her from me. All these years I’ve known that, tried and tried to get through to her, but I couldn’t. I could hardly stand it. But then I had the dream, no, it was a vision. You know about the vision, Rafer. Camilla came to me, yes, she came to me just as I told you and your father. I saw her clearly. She told me there was a girl nearby, a girl her age, dark, like her, with eyes like hers. She told me to find her, Rafer, and bring her to Eagle’s Nest, get close to her, that I would know when I found the right girl. Then Camilla could use her to help contact me, to tell me where she is. She said she wasn’t strong enough herself to get through to me, she’d tried and tried. It was up to me.

  “Don’t you see? I had
to find that girl. I prayed we’d find the one girl who’d be perfect and help Camilla contact me. None of them was right until this new girl, Linzie Drumm. She’s the one, Rafer. I looked into her eyes and I saw something I didn’t see in the others. I saw strength, like Camilla’s strength, Camilla’s power. I know she’s the one. I have to try with her, Rafer, I have to. It will still be possible, if the two of us work together, to find Camilla, finally. You do believe that, don’t you?”

  Rafer swiped away the tears. Suddenly, he looked utterly calm, in full control of himself, and he sounded like the father, not the son. He said to his mother, his voice gentle, “No, Ma, none of those girls are going to be able to help you find out where Camilla is, not even Linzie Drumm. They aren’t going to add to your strength, none of them is going to help you hook up with Camilla. Don’t you understand? It’s impossible and Pa knew it, yet he did this for you.” He paused, then added quietly, “He was afraid not to do what you wanted, just as I was.” And now he’s dead hung silent in the air.

  Cyndia was shaking her head. “You’re wrong. You make it sound like your pa was afraid of me. It isn’t true, your pa wanted Camilla back, too.”

  Rafer shook his head. “Listen to me, Ma. Camilla’s not in Paris. She’s not in New York. She’s not even in bloody Florida. She’s not anywhere. She didn’t leave you when she was sixteen because she was angry at you. She didn’t leave you at all. Don’t you understand?”

  Cyndia stared at her son. She whispered, “What are you talking about, Rafer? I always knew my Camilla was somewhere, knew it to my soul. And I was right, she came to me in my vision and told me exactly what to do. She was sixteen when she left, a rebellious age, and she was so independent, always defiant. Like every teenager, she wanted to do the opposite of what was good for her, what I wanted her to do. My perfect gifted child. She was all I could ever want. I must have her back, Rafer, or I’ll go mad.

  “Don’t you understand? Once I connect with Camilla, I can go to her and bring her home.”