The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  Dane said, “It’s all right. I gave him a Frisbee. I told him I wanted to see his robes flapping around when he ran after the thing. And I gave him a book on the Dead Sea Scrolls, a topic that always fascinated Michael.” He fell silent, wondering what would happen to Michael’s things. He had to remember to ask Father Binney. He wanted to look at that book that Michael had touched, read, and see his inscription to his brother in the front. He’d written something smart-ass, but he didn’t remember exactly what.

  Michael should have lived until he was at least eighty, maybe as an archbishop, like Lugano, that venerable old man with his mane of white hair. But he was dead because some madman had decided to kill him. For whatever reason.

  Dane stood, back against the rectory wall, watching with Nick beside him, silent now, still holding his hand. It seemed that every priest in San Francisco had come, and each of them walked in his measured way over to Dane, each with something kind to say, each telling him what a shock it was to see how much he looked like Michael.

  The whole time, Dane was wondering how they were going to catch the man who killed his brother and the other people. There wasn’t a single good lead, truth be told, even though Chief Kreider had told the media that all avenues were being explored, and some looked very hopeful. All of that was advanced cop talk for we ain’t got diddly, Delion had said under his breath.

  Delion came up to him, nodded to Nick, and stood silently beside him. All three of them stood there in black, just like all the priests.

  Dane said to Delion, “I’ve been thinking. Three murders in San Francisco—and no tie-in among the victims that anyone can find.”

  “True, unfortunately. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a connection. We just have to find it.”

  Dane looked toward his brother’s coffin, surrounded by branches of lit candles. “It seems like it was all well rehearsed, no mistakes, and that got me to wondering. Do you think this man has killed before?”

  Delion frowned as he said, “You mean has he done this same sort of thing in another city?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s some sort of serial killer? He comes to a city and randomly selects victims, then leaves to go someplace else?”

  “No, not really that,” Dane said. “He targeted my brother, no question about that, maybe even before he killed the old woman and the gay activist. Chances are they were random. What do you think, Nick?”

  She blinked, and he saw her surprise that he wanted her opinion. She said, “If that’s true, then Father Michael Joseph must have been the focus, don’t you think? Maybe the whole point of all this was so the guy could tell Father Michael Joseph what he’d done, and dare him to say anything. Maybe it was some sort of game to him, his selection of Father Michael Joseph, at least, determined before he did these horrible things. I don’t know. This is what you were talking about earlier and I thought a lot about it. I think you’re right.”

  Dane said, “Yes, I still feel that way. I think it was all about the priest to him. There was planning here, his selection of my brother, or maybe any priest would do and Michael was a random choice, too.”

  Delion said, “So the guy thinks one day, I want to murder a priest, but before I do, I’m going to kill other people and rub the priest’s nose in it when I confess it to him, watch him squirm because he’s bound to silence. Do you think the perp is that sick?” Dane saw that Delion had included Nick in the question. She looked intent, like she was thinking ferociously. He didn’t know why, but he liked that.

  Dane said, “That may be close enough.”

  “Jesus, Dane. Then we’ve got to look for any other murders involving priests.”

  Nick said slowly, her brow furrowed, “I just don’t know. That makes it sound pretty unlikely.”

  None of them said anything more. Dane watched Archbishop Lugano stare down at his brother, his lips moving in a prayer. Then he crossed himself, his movements a smooth ritual, leaned down, and kissed Michael’s forehead.

  Dane felt tears film his eyes. He nodded to Delion and turned abruptly away, realizing that Nick was still holding his hand. “I just can’t stay any longer,” he said, and she understood. They made their way through the waves of black-garbed priests and walked together from the chapel.

  CHICAGO

  Nick’s eyes were wide open, she knew they were, but she couldn’t see anything. No, wait. She was in a room, dark, almost black. She could feel how thick the blackness was, how heavy it was settling around her, with not a shred of light coming in. She lay there, on her back, looking up at a ceiling she couldn’t really see, wondering what was happening, hoping she wasn’t dead.

  She tasted something sour, something that made her want to gag, but she knew she shouldn’t gag or she’d start to choke. At least she was alive.

  There was something in her mouth, something at the back of her throat. Then she remembered.

  It had been a lovely evening in December, just a few days before Christmas, not too cold, no snow for the past three days, and the winds were fairly calm. Such a splendid occasion, perfectly orchestrated, naturally so, since John’s private assistant had arranged it. Albia’s birthday dinner was at John’s magnificent Rushton Avenue condominium penthouse, looking out on Lake Michigan. It hadn’t been just the three of them, no, Elliott Benson was there, a man she didn’t trust, didn’t like. He was rich and charming, supposedly a friend of John’s, and she’d been told they’d known each other since college, but the truth was, whenever she had to spend time with him, she always wanted to go home and take a shower. She’d wanted it just to be the three of them, no aides, no other important people to coddle who had been or would be of assistance to John’s career, but Albia had wanted him there.

  Albia was John’s older sister, an elegant, articulate woman, rich in her own right from ownership of several successful men’s boutiques. Albia had been in John’s corner since their mother had died when he was only sixteen and Albia twenty-three. She was turning fifty-five, but she looked a dozen years younger. She’d married when she’d turned thirty, been widowed just a year later. Albia had always been reserved, even standoffish with all the campaign volunteers, but since John had begun dating Nick, she’d warmed up considerably. Nick felt very close to her, indeed she was becoming a confidante.

  Tonight, there was so much excitement, a feast on the dining table, a gorgeous diamond bracelet, presented by John to his sister, around Albia’s wrist, winking and glittering in the soft glow of the half dozen lighted candles on the table. Elliott Benson had charmed and joked and flattered Albia, presenting her with diamond earrings that easily rivaled the bracelet John had gotten her. They were in her ears, gorgeous earrings. Elliott was trying to outdo John, it was easy enough to see, at least to Nick. Why had Albia wanted him there?

  Nick’s gift to Albia was a silk scarf imprinted with a Picasso painting that she’d found in Barcelona. Albia, exclaiming over that lovely scarf, had said, “Oh, I remember that Mother had a scarf very similar to this one. She loved that scarf—”

  And her voice had dropped like a stone off a cliff.

  Nick, filled with Albia’s pleasure, pleased that her scarf had reminded her of John’s mother, said, “Oh, John, you’ve never spoken of your mother.”

  John shot a look at his sister. She shook her head slightly, as if in apology, and looked back down at her plate.

  “That’s right, John,” Elliott said, “I never even met your mother. Hey, didn’t she die? A long time ago?”

  “That’s right,” John said, his voice curt. “Nicola, you knew, didn’t you? It was a car accident. It’s been many, many years. We don’t often speak about her.”

  She said, “A car accident? Oh my, I hadn’t realized. I’m so very sorry. It must have been such a shock to both of you.”

  “Not to my father,” John said.

  Elliott started to say something, then chewed thoughtfully on a medallion of veal and stared at one of the paintings on the dining room wall.

&nb
sp; Albia said, “It was a bad time. Would you please pass me the green beans, Nicola?”

  Elliott told stories of college days. All of them involved girls that both men had wanted. His stories were funny, utterly charming, and many times he made himself the dupe, but still, it was a very strange thing. “Then, of course,” he said, “there was Melissa—no, let’s not speak of her this evening. I’m sorry, John. Another toast. To Albia, the loveliest lady in Chicago.” And while he drank the toast, he looked at Nick and she wanted to slap that oily look off his handsome face.

  Over a dessert of crème brûlée, Nick felt a sudden cramp, then another, this one stronger, more vicious. She had to excuse herself to run to the bathroom, where she got sick, and soon felt so ill, so utterly miserable, that she just wanted to curl up and die.

  The pain was ghastly, her belly twisting and knotting. She threw up until she was shaking and sweating and couldn’t stand. She remembered hugging the toilet with Elliott, John, and Albia standing next to her, not knowing what to do until Albia said, “I think we should call an ambulance, John. She’s really sick. Elliott, go wait downstairs for them. Go, both of you! Quickly!”

  And here she was in a hospital bed and they’d pumped her stomach. She remembered now that they’d told her about that before she fell asleep again, thanks to something very nice they’d given her. At least her stomach was calm. In fact, her belly felt hollow, scooped out, shrunk down to nothing at all. It hurt, but it was a dull ache, as if she’d been hungry for too long.

  She remembered now that after they’d pumped her stomach, she lay on the hospital gurney feeling like she’d been bludgeoned with several baseball bats. Just on the edge of blissful drugged sleep, she remembered all those mad eyes staring at her from behind ski masks in her dreams, breathed in the smell of the exhaust from the big dark car that had nearly flattened her into the concrete.

  It was so very dark. She turned her head just a bit and saw a flashing red light. What was that?

  Then she heard a movement. Someone was in the room, close to her. She nearly stopped breathing.

  She whispered around that miserable tube down her throat, “Who’s there?”

  A man, she knew it was a man, and his breathing was close to her, too close.

  “Nicola.”

  Thank God, it was John. Why had she thought it could be Elliott Benson? There was no reason for him to be here.

  She started crying, she couldn’t help it.

  She felt his hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, Nicola. You’ll be fine. You must stop crying.”

  But she couldn’t.

  He rang the bell. In just a moment, the door opened, flooding the hospital room with light from the hallway. Then the overhead light in the room went on.

  “What’s the problem, Senator?”

  “She’s crying and she’ll choke if you don’t get that tube out of her throat.”

  “Yes, we have an order for that, once she is awake.” She was standing over Nicola now, saying, “This isn’t fun, is it? Okay, this won’t be pleasant, Nicola, but it’s quick.”

  After the tube came out, her throat felt like it was burning inside.

  The nurse said, “Don’t be alarmed about the pain in your throat. After all that’s happened, it’ll be sore for a couple more days.” The nurse took a Kleenex and wiped her eyes, her face. “You’ll be just fine now, I promise.”

  She got the tears under control. She took a dozen good-sized breaths, calmed her heartbeat. “What happened?”

  “Probably food poisoning,” John said. “You ate something bad, but we got you to the emergency room in time.”

  “But what about you? Albia? Are you ill?”

  “No, we’re fine. So is Elliott.”

  “It appears,” the nurse said as she took Nicola’s pulse, “that only you ate whatever was bad.” She eased Nicola’s arm back under the covers. “The senator believes it might have been a raspberry vinaigrette. You’ve got to sleep now. Senator Rothman will see to everything.”

  And she wondered, why hadn’t John or Albia or Elliott gotten ill from the food?

  John kissed her forehead, not her mouth, and she didn’t blame him a bit for that. She wished she could have something to get rid of the dreadful taste, but she was so tired, so empty of words and feelings, that she just closed her eyes.

  She heard John say to the nurse, “I’ll be back in the morning to speak with the doctor, see that she’s discharged. Oh, no, I can’t. I have a meeting with the mayor. I’ll send one of my people to see to things.”

  They continued speaking, in low voices, into the hallway. The overhead light clicked off. The door closed.

  She was shut into the blackness again. But she knew this time she was alone and it was warm here, nothing to disturb her except that small nagging voice in her head: food poisoning from vinaigrette dressing? What nonsense. She’d eaten so little of everything because she was excited about Albia’s birthday, the gift she’d given her, and she wanted desperately for Albia to be her friend, to accept her. She wondered as she fell back into sleep if she would have died if she’d eaten more.

  She’d had food poisoning before, on a hunting trip with her dad, when she’d eaten bad meat. It hadn’t been like this.

  The next morning, the doctors couldn’t say exactly what had made her sick. They’d taken blood tests, said they would analyze what was in her stomach, and tested both the senator and his sister, but nothing was found.

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Beasley, John’s cook and housekeeper, had already thrown all the food away, washed all the dishes. No way to know, the doctors said. Finally they’d let her go.

  She’d nearly died. For the second time in a week and a half.

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Nick touched her fingertips to her throat, remembering how it had hurt for a good two days after she’d left the hospital in Chicago. She turned on her side, saw Dane’s outline on that wretched too-short sofa not more than twelve feet from her, sighed, and finally fell asleep in her bed at the Bennington Hotel. She was afraid, afraid those mad, dark eyes would come gleaming out of the darkness at her, just over her head, hovering just out of reach. She prayed she wouldn’t have any more nightmares.

  Dane, sprawled on the sofa across the room, never stirred. He awoke with a start at 7 a.m. to see Nick Jones dressed in the blue jeans and white shirt he’d bought her, feet bare, pacing back and forth in front of him. He realized he’d slept hard, which was unexpected since the damned sofa was too short and hard as the floor. The TV was on, he could see the reflection of the colors in the mirror over the vanity table, but there was no sound.

  “Thank God you’re awake.”

  For as long as he could remember, when Dane woke up, he was instantly alert, and he was now. “What’s the matter, Nick?”

  She blew out her breath, splayed her hands in front of her. She took a step closer to him and said, “I know what’s going on. I know.”

  ELEVEN

  Dane swung his legs over the side of the sofa and stood quickly, the blankets falling to the floor at his feet. “You know what?” His sweatpants were low on his belly, and he quickly pulled them back up. He grabbed her hands, covered them. “What, Nick? What do you know?”

  “Yes, okay. Listen, you were out like a light last night. I woke up, then couldn’t go back to sleep and so I watched TV, turned down really low. It’s a show, Dane, a TV show on the Premier Channel, a new one, just started probably a couple of weeks ago. It came on at eleven o’clock, called The Consultant. It was about these murders in Chicago and how this special Federal consultant comes in and solves them. It was kind of X-Files-y, you know, unexplained stuff that gives you goose bumps and makes you look toward the window if it’s really dark outside. I wasn’t really paying too much attention until there was this creepy guy in a confessional, and I realized he was talking to a priest about what he’d done, taunting him about the people he’d killed, and then when the priest was pleading with him to stop, he laughed and sho
t him through the forehead. Dane, it wasn’t about murders in Chicago, it was like the murders right here, in San Francisco.”

  Dane rubbed his forehead, dashed his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t get his brain around what she’d just said. It didn’t seem possible. He said finally, “You’re telling me that some asshole murdered my brother because he was following the script of some idiotic TV show?”

  “Yes. When the show was over, I watched all the credits and wrote down everything I could.”

  Dane dragged his fingers through his hair again, drew a deep breath, and said, “I’m going to order some coffee, then you’re going to tell me everything, every little detail. Oh damn, let me call Delion. You’re pretty sure about this?”

  “I’m positive. I just couldn’t believe it. I nearly woke you up, but realized that there wasn’t much of anything you could do at midnight. And you were so tired.”

  “It’s okay.”

  LOS ANGELES

  After arriving at LAX on the 9 a.m. Southwest shuttle from Oakland airport, where Nick was allowed through despite having no ID after Delion filled out papers in triplicate and spoke to two supervisors, Inspector Delion, Special Agent Carver, and the woman they introduced as Ms. Nick Jones, with no designation at all, stepped into Executive Producer Frank Pauley’s corner office with its big glass windows that looked across Pico toward the ocean. You couldn’t see it because the smog was sitting heavy and gray over the city, but you could see the golf course.

  Mr. Pauley was slightly built, tall, pleasant looking, and very pale. Surely that shouldn’t be right, Nick thought. Wasn’t everyone in LA supposed to be tanned from head to toe? He looked to be somewhere in his forties, and had a nice smile, albeit a nervous one when he met them. She couldn’t blame him for that.

  He shook hands all around, offered them coffee, and pointed them to the very long gray sofa that lined half the wall. It must have been at least eighteen feet long. There were chairs facing that sofa, all of them gray, and three coffee tables spaced out to form separate sitting groups.