Power Play (An FBI Thriller)

by Catherine Coulter

  Blessed Backman. She didn’t want to believe it. Something deep inside her wanted to deny it was possible. His name brought back too clearly the insane events of a year and a half before.

  She remembered the night Joanna had shot him, trying to protect her little girl, Autumn, or thought she had. But she said the room had spun around her until she was nauseated, and she’d stumbled. The world simply stopped, she’d told them, her thoughts no longer her own, and all that was left was the sight of Blessed standing in front of her, his dark eyes reaching deep into her like fingers, wrapping around her very being. Even to protect her child, even though she hated him beyond reason, she was helpless; she couldn’t move, only stare back into his eyes. Until Savich had shot him.

  That was his terrifying gift, and it had eventually destroyed him and his entire family, finally sending a raving-mad Shepherd Backman, his mother, to the State Mental Institution in Atlanta and Blessed to the same facility’s medical ward, sunk in a deep coma. She’d been surprised he’d survived.

  Sherlock walked to the window, stared out at the mess of government buildings wreathed in chilly sunlight. She saw the Washington Monument, the powerful spire that made her feel proud and blessed, but it had no such effect today. She realized she was hugging herself, shivering. She felt cold, from the inside out. Then Dillon’s big hands were rubbing up and down her arms. It helped, but not much.

  She felt his warm breath against her cheek. “Tell me how this happened.”

  She wasn’t at all fooled by his calm voice. She turned to face him. “It’s Blessed Backman.”

  “So he came out of the coma.” Savich didn’t want to say the words aloud; it made them true. He didn’t want to believe it, but he had no choice. He said slowly, “When?”

  “Over a week ago! That’s how long it took the hospital administrators to notify us.”

  “Okay, let’s go over it. Tell me what happened.”

  “The doctor I spoke with, Dr. Nelson, told me the staff was surprised and happy when Blessed fully woke up again. Because he’d been under so long, in a vegetative state, he called it, Blessed wasn’t cuffed down to the bed. The doctor said Blessed seemed bewildered, frightened, when he awoke, needed medications to control his blood pressure, which they expected. After that, he went quiet. They did cuff him to the bed at that point, as per standing orders. They didn’t cover his eyes, though, even though the instruction was on his chart and in the admission note, in black capital letters and underscored. Blessed had been helpless for so long that no one believed it was necessary. Everyone thought the cuffs would be enough to hold him.”

  Savich said, “We should have anticipated that, what with Blessed’s continuing coma, the passage of time, and the staff changing. Doctors, especially, find it hard to believe what Blessed is capable of. Remember Dr. Truitt had to see what Blessed could do for himself before he believed it?”

  “I remember I wanted to punch him out,” Sherlock said, “the idiot. It was the same with the staff in Atlanta. Dr. Nelson finally admitted both he and his staff still find it hard to take seriously that anyone, especially Blessed, has the ability to look at someone and tell them to do anything he wishes, including taking his handcuffs off, and they do it without hesitation. Even now, after Blessed escaped, the good doctor informed me hypnosis doesn’t work like that. They thought the story was one of the classic urban legends, nothing more. They saw him as a toothless old hound, not a threat to anyone.

  “Nelson insisted that when Blessed regained his wits, he hadn’t had any kind of strange effect on anyone. I prodded the doctor and he finally admitted that Blessed had stared at people intensely at times, even stared at him like that, but, naturally, nothing had happened. His unspoken conclusion was that Blessed may be deluded, believed some of this nonsense himself, but that was the end to it.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Blessed slept and ate and did nothing at all unexpected. He spoke when spoken to. They got him up walking to get his strength back, gave him physical therapy, and the doctor told me Blessed began to walk up and down the halls. When no one was available to help him, he pulled himself along the railings, at least a dozen times every couple of hours. They were impressed at how determined he was.

  “Eventually, they told Blessed his mother, Shepherd, was in the institution, housed a floor down, that she was in poor health—slowly dying, in fact. The doctor said Blessed seemed shell-shocked at first, shaking his head back and forth, not wanting to accept it. The doctor believed Blessed thought she was dead. Blessed demanded to see her even though they told him she couldn’t communicate with him, that they’d been injecting her with major drugs to keep her comfortable, but he insisted.

  “The doctor took Blessed himself to see her. He said Blessed had tears running down his face when he saw her, buried his head against her shoulder. He said he was surprised when the old woman started stroking his hair. He hadn’t believed she was awake enough, much less had the strength. He didn’t hear what they said, since they spoke in whispers, although he heard Blessed sobbing out loud and saying over and over, ‘I will, Mama, I will.’ And then she fell unconscious. Dr. Nelson took him back to his room and cuffed him to the bed. Later that night, they told Blessed that Shepherd had died.

  “Last Wednesday, two days later, an orderly let Blessed out to exercise without his handcuffs, and Blessed escaped.”

  “And they didn’t call us until today?”

  “I asked the doctor why, and he said they were sure they’d find him because he was still weak, sometimes disoriented; he could still barely walk. He was out in the cold without any clothes other than his institutional pajamas and robe. At least they thought that until an orderly reported some of his clothes missing from his locker along with his wallet. They figure Blessed dressed in the orderly’s clothes, got hold of someone’s ID, and simply walked out. By the time they decided to notify us, he’d been on the loose for a week. Dr. Nelson—I’d like to clout him—still thinks he’ll show up. ‘Mr. Backman can’t get far; he doesn’t have any money,’ he said. Well, almost no money. The orderly said he’d only had maybe ten dollars in cash in his wallet.”

  Savich stared at her, trying to control himself. He had to accept that Blessed was out there, free again. He wasn’t a toothless old hound, not in this lifetime. He was as terrifying a monster as Savich had ever gone up against. Blessed was alone in the world now, and would do whatever his mother had asked of him. Of course Savich knew what Shepherd had asked him to do. Kill them. He’d come to Washington and he’d attacked Sherlock, there was no doubt at all in Savich’s mind, and he knew Blessed would stay on that single track until he was dead or they were.

  He said, “He’s tried once. He won’t stop.”

  “I know,” Sherlock said.

  He began rubbing his hands over her arms again, for himself as much as for her. He felt the small bandage. He knew every agent in the CAU was looking at them, but it didn’t matter. He pulled her close, felt the beat of her heart against his. He whispered against her hair, telling her it would be all right, but he knew the words meant nothing, not to either of them.

  Sherlock said, “We were the ones who brought down the family. We arrested his mother, put her in that place, and you shot Blessed yourself. He came after me because I’m the easier target. You can resist him, and he knows that, but I can’t. I don’t understand, though, why he stalked me for two days, why he didn’t simply walk up to me and tell me to do whatever he wanted me to do, like tell me to run until my heart burst. Why would he try something as pedestrian as shooting at me from a moving motorcycle in the middle of Georgetown?”

  Savich said slowly, “I’m thinking he had to follow you, learn your habits, and come after you the old-fashioned way because his powers haven’t come back. But wait, remember the two old people who saw him up close and personal but they said they hadn’t seen anything? I didn’t worry about it then, merely thought poor vision at the time, but now I’m thinking Blessed told them
to forget him. And they did.”

  She nodded. “Maybe he still doesn’t trust himself, doesn’t think he’s strong enough yet.

  “Dillon, Autumn is his niece. She may be in danger, too. Could Shepherd have told Blessed to go after Autumn again? That’s how all of this started, remember.”

  “I’ll call Ethan and Joanna, tell them to take Autumn to Italy, or Siberia, or maybe consider one of those space flights they’re selling, any place Blessed can’t find them until we’ve got him in prison again.

  “Which brings us to our bigger problem. Like Dr. Truitt and Dr. Nelson, no one will fully believe what he can do unless they see him in action. We still have that video we took of Blessed at Rockingham County Hospital a year and a half ago. We need to get that out to everyone, first of all, everyone in the CAU.”

  Dillon picked up his cell and dialed. As he listened to the phone ring, he said, “The Metro police need to know what Blessed looks like, what his clothes look like, need to read the report of his attack on you in Georgetown. They need to know he’s not a poor old loon escaped from an asylum, down and out and raving mad because his mother died and he blames us.

  “We need to show everyone involved that video.” He heard a man’s voice, and said, “Hello, Dr. Hicks? Dillon Savich here. I really need you to come to the CAU right away. We’ve got a situation here.”

  Forty-five minutes later, all available CAU agents were seated in the conference room, talking among themselves, wondering what was going on. Dr. Hicks arrived, nodded to them, then dimmed the lights and flipped on the digital projector. He looked at each of them in turn. They all knew he was the top expert in hypnosis in the FBI. What was going on here? He said, “You’re here to watch a video that might save your life. I was there, I saw this. But first, let me give you a bit of background.

  “This video was shot at Rockingham County Hospital in Titusville, Virginia, eighteen months ago. Let me emphasize that the nurse you will see is a professional. She has been told exactly what she can do and what she isn’t to do—namely, she is not to remove the patient’s blindfold or release the handcuffs. Now watch.”

  “Is anyone there? How can I know if anyone’s there if I can’t see?”

  Dr. Hicks paused the video. “This is Blessed Backman. Helpless looking, isn’t he? And with that poor, pathetic, whining little old man’s voice. The reason he’s in the hospital is that Savich shot him. This is his nurse bending over him.”

  “Yes, I’m here, Mr. Backman. I’m sorry about the blindfold. I’m your nurse, Cindy Maybeck. Do you need anything, sir?”

  “I need you to take off this ridiculous blindfold.”

  All ears listened to his weak, querulous voice, heard the nurse say as she leaned close, “I’m sorry, sir, but I was told to leave it in place, for my own protection, not that I believe it, but I have to follow orders. Let me take your pulse, listen to your heart.”

  The blindfolded old man whispered, “It’s that hick sheriff, he’s torturing me because we had a disagreement. Here I’m old enough to be his daddy and he’s afraid of me. Isn’t that a kick? Listen, how would you like to lie in darkness, Nurse, with your hands strapped down? I can’t even scratch my nose. It’s inhumane, don’t you think?”

  All of them listened to him moan and ask for morphine, and then he started crying.

  “Don’t cry, Mr. Backman, you’re getting the blindfold wet.”

  He continued to sob. Then, “Just wipe my eyes for me, Nurse. Please. What can I do? My hands are tied down. I’m helpless.”

  Dr. Hicks paused the video. “You can see she’s torn. We told her and all the staff that he could hypnotize them instantly, make them do anything he asked. You can see she doesn’t want to believe it. She’s never heard of such a thing. Who has? It all sounds ridiculous. This poor man had been shot, he was helpless. What could he do?” He started the video again.

  “I swear I won’t say anything, Nurse.”

  Everyone in the conference room was leaning forward, eyes on the screen. They watched her ease the blindfold over the top of his head. They watched her wipe away his tears. Real tears. They knew she believed this poor man couldn’t do anything to anybody. Surely he couldn’t. They saw Blessed Backman open his eyes and look up at her.

  “You’re a pretty helpful girl. Unfasten the straps on my wrists.”

  And he smiled up at her.

  They saw she didn’t hesitate for an instant. She unfastened the straps and straightened to stand next to him. She didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  They watched him tell her to bring his clothes, watched her bring them to him—again, no hesitation.

  Dr. Hicks paused the video again. “We were watching the feed in the next room. We waited to see what would happen to be sure Blessed Backman’s primary physician, Dr. Truitt, would not accuse us of manufacturing a performance. So we waited. You can see he’s in pain. See his pallor, the sweat on his forehead? But he’s still functioning; amazing. Now she’s helping him dress, and now he tells her to bring in the deputy from outside in the hall.”

  Savich stepped up. “That’s when we had to act. We didn’t want to take a chance that someone could be hurt.” Hicks started the video again.

  They watched Savich walk past Nurse Maybeck into the room as Blessed was reaching for his watch.

  “You!”

  “Yeah, it’s me, your worst nightmare, Blessed. Go ahead, give me your best look, come on, give it a try. Sorry, not going to happen. Party’s over. That was some performance you gave us.”

  Savich forced the restraints back on his wrists and blindfolded him again. And then it was over.

  Dr. Hicks said, “I’ll tell you, it was the most incredible psychic phenomenon I’ve ever seen.”

  Savich said, “This man was in a coma for a year and a half. This is the man who tried to kill Sherlock yesterday. He didn’t try to attack her mind; perhaps he’s still too weak, we’re not sure, so he came after her with a gun, riding a motorcycle. Unfortunately, he escaped.

  “This man is more dangerous than I can say. You’ve seen a little of what he can do.”

  Dane Carver said, “But he didn’t seem to affect you, Savich. Why is that?”

  Savich shrugged. “It appears some people are immune to him. There’s only one other person I know who isn’t affected by him, and that’s his niece, Autumn, who’s safe from him now, believe me.”

  “Why did he try to kill Sherlock?”

  Sherlock said, “Because he knows I’m the easier target. He won’t go after Dillon until—” Her throat went dry. She shook her head.

  “He’ll fail,” Savich said. “And if any of you run into him, don’t look him in the eye. Let me say it again: don’t look him in the eye.”

  L’Aubergine restaurant

  Foggy Bottom, Washington, D.C.

  Wednesday evening

  Yo, Perry. What’s up? Where are you?”

  “Hang on a moment.” Perry smiled over at Day Abbott across the table, a bite of lobster dripping butter on the end of his fork. “Excuse me a minute, Day, it’s business and I’ve got to take this,” and she pushed back her chair before the waiter could rush to her side. She stepped into a wainscoted plush alcove of L’Aubergine.

  “Where am I? Well, I’ll give you a clue. I’m wearing high heels, a slinky black dress, a touch of gold at the ears and throat, and I was daintily forking down braised shrimp in some sort of coconut sauce until you interrupted me. Why are you calling?”

  Davis said, “I myself am wearing a Redskins sweatshirt and jeans. My neighbor’s shaggy dog, Smack, is sleeping on my feet.”

  “Sounds cozy. Was there anything else you would like to talk about, Davis, besides our wardrobe choices?”

  “I’ll bet the dress is too tight for you to run, right?”

  “Like a glove.”

  Davis was still picturing her in the black dress and the nasty high heels. “You’re on a date? Is this bozo you’re having dinner with going to protect you if you get in trouble
?”

  “I’m with Day Abbott at a lovely continental restaurant in Foggy Bottom. You met him, remember? I believe it was only last night. We’ve been friends since we were children. He’s filled out well, actually very good-looking, I’d say.”

  “It’s more of a chummy dinner, then. Good. Because speaking as a special agent of the FBI, I advise you to keep it that way. Who does he lobby for?”

  “The coal industry. Enough busting around, Davis. Why’d you call?”

  “To give you follow-up about your graffiti artist at the Post. We talked to an old doll who’s a big flirt, has teased orange hair, a big cat brooch pinned on her blouse—I forget her name—”

  “Her name’s Angela Porthworthy, a society reporter. She’s been at the Post so long she covered JFK’s wedding back in the Camelot days. What’d Angela say?”

  “She said she saw a young teenage boy she didn’t know walk nonchalantly into the men’s restroom. He came out a couple minutes later and headed for the stairs.”

  “Teenager? Could Angela describe him?”

  “She said he looked Middle Eastern or Mexican. Dark skinned.

  “Perry? Is something wrong?”

  “Just a moment.” Perry turned to smile at Day, who was looking at her, a dark eyebrow raised.

  “I’m fine, Day, nothing’s wrong. I’m speaking to an FBI agent about the graffiti in the men’s room at the Post.” Then she realized she hadn’t told Day about the graffiti. “I’ll tell you all about it. Give me another moment.”

  Day stared at her. “What graffiti? Is this about your mom?”

  “No, well, I don’t know. Please go back to our table, enjoy your lobster. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Day gave her a long look, then he grinned. “Is that the goofball with your mom last night at my mom’s party?”

  “That’s him.”

  “I’m not a goofball,” came clearly through Perry’s cell.

  “Okay, then, the ambassador’s boy toy.” Day laughed loud enough for Davis to hear him, nodded to Perry, and walked back to their table.