The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  Still, she had to try. She said, “To be real accurate, Weldon, yes, I saw you.” She continued, now looking back at the old man, “Sir, I saw Weldon in a church just after he’d murdered Father Michael Joseph. And he’s killed other people as well. He wrote TV scripts, then copied them in real life. I’m sorry, but he is a very evil man.”

  Captain DeLoach said, “Hey, you really mean that? Nah, that doesn’t make any sense. Weldon’s a pussy. No spine in that back of his, just mush. You really a homeless woman? Fancy that, I won’t have to pay you, will I? You don’t expect anything because you’re not an officer, right?”

  “Right, this is for free,” Nick said, not looking at the grinning old man, who really did sound pleased as punch.

  “You said Weldon is a murderer? He’s really a criminal?”

  The old man laughed. “Listen to me, girl, you’re all wrong about this. Weldon couldn’t kill a roach if it crawled over his bare feet and started gnawing on his toe. He’s a coward.”

  “Sir, please be quiet.” She adjusted her aim with the SIG just a bit and said to Weldon, “I want you to lie on your stomach on the floor. Now.” It was aimed right at his chest.

  “No,” he said. “I can’t. I haven’t killed anyone. Don’t you see? It’s this filthy old man who’s the monster. You can’t believe the havoc he’s wrought. This is justice, dammit.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Captain DeLoach laughed. “Yeah, tell her, Weldon. Tell her why you want to murder your dear old dad.”

  “No, she doesn’t need to know. Listen, I’ve got no bloody choice. Believe me, sister, this crazy old man richly deserves it.”

  “Why does he deserve to die?”

  Captain DeLoach started laughing again, spittle pooling in the corners of his mouth, flecked with blood.

  Nick said, “Come on, Weldon, what on earth are you talking about?”

  In that moment, Weldon grabbed the arms of Captain DeLoach’s wheelchair and shoved hard. Nick had only an instant. As the chair rammed into her, she fired. The shot went wide, shattering the TV screen. Captain DeLoach’s arm flew up to gain balance, and he struck her wrist. The SIG flew out of her hand and skidded across the floor to land just beneath Captain DeLoach’s bed.

  Nick froze, expecting Weldon to pull out his own gun and shoot both of them. There’d already been one shot, why not more? But he didn’t have much time. Nursing home staff would burst in there in just a couple of seconds. She had to protect the old man. She raced around in front of Captain DeLoach’s wheelchair.

  But Weldon didn’t try to shove her aside, didn’t draw a gun to kill her. He just ran out through the glass doors, yelling back at her, “You’ve made the worst mistake you’ll ever make in your life!”

  Seconds later, Nurse Carla, a cop behind her, burst in to see Nick Jones racing out the glass sliding doors, a gun in her hand.

  Captain DeLoach was sitting in his chair. He was smiling, looked happy as a clam, singing “Eleanor Rigby.”

  Nick saw Weldon racing toward a small black car, Japanese, she thought, maybe a Toyota, but she couldn’t be sure. Where was that cop who was supposedly out here smoking a cigarette? She didn’t see anyone. She yelled, “Stop, Weldon! Or I’ll shoot, I mean it!”

  But he didn’t. Nick raised the gun, then realized she didn’t need to fire at him. She aimed at the tires of the black car just as he flung open the driver’s-side door and threw himself in.

  She fired, hitting both back tires just as he gunned the engine and roared out of the parking spot, rubber and smoke spewing out of the tires. Soon he’d be driving on the rims and that wouldn’t last long.

  Weldon was keeping his head down, afraid she’d shoot him. She saw the instant he knew she’d hit his tires. The car swerved madly to the left. As the rubber was finally stripped away, the god-awful screeching of steel against concrete filled the air.

  Nick kept firing until she’d shot ten of the fifteen rounds in the SIG. She stopped, to save the remaining bullets. She’d hit the two back tires; that had to at least slow him. She started running. She wanted more than anything to pull him out of that car.

  The car swerved wildly from side to side. The tires were smoking, grinding, the steel beneath raw on the concrete, tearing it up. The stench of burning rubber filled her nostrils.

  She watched him suddenly jerk the car to the right and head it directly into the pine woods that began about forty yards from the east side of the rest home. He crashed it into a pine tree. Smoke billowed up, black and thick, and then it was quiet.

  She saw him dragging winter clothes out of the car and running into the woods.

  “Stop!”

  Nick headed after him, the SIG still in her right hand. She realized then she wasn’t wearing warm clothes. She’d run out of Captain DeLoach’s room with nothing but her V-necked red sweater over a white blouse, jeans, and boots.

  She didn’t care. She wasn’t going to fail now, she couldn’t. This madness had to stop and she was the only one there who could stop it. She heard him crashing through the undergrowth ahead of her. How far? Twenty feet?

  She saw Father Michael Joseph’s face in her mind’s eye, a beautiful face, open, rich with intelligence and humor. He was laughing at something he’d just told her about King Edward. And now, because of Weldon DeLoach, no one would ever see that smile again or hear that laugh. So like Dane, and so different, but not in the ways that counted. Both put themselves on the line for others, both had a core of honor. She realized in that instant that she didn’t want to let Dane out of her life, ever.

  Weldon had to be just ahead, not that far. Wait, she couldn’t hear him crashing through the trees anymore. Had he fallen? Was he hiding, lying in wait for her?

  Before she could react, he grabbed her around the neck and hauled her back against him. His other hand was on her arm, trying to pull the SIG out of her hand. But she wasn’t about to let go. She pulled and twisted, but he pulled his arm tighter. “Damn you, be quiet. Let that gun drop. Now!”

  Nick yelled at the top of her lungs, jerked as hard as she could, and drove her elbow into his stomach. He yelled, his hold loosened just a bit. She jerked the SIG down and pulled the trigger. She shot him in the foot.

  He screamed, released her. He was dancing in place, trying to grab his foot, his eyes wild with pain.

  Sherlock, Savich, and Dane saw the dance, saw her standing there, the gun dangling in her hand, breathing hard, staring at Weldon DeLoach. Flynn and Delion came up to stand beside them.

  “Jesus, woman,” Dane said, reaching her first. She turned, white-faced, and he forgot every curse word he’d stored up. “Ah, dammit, Nick,” he said, and pulled her against him. “Just look at you. You’re freezing, you twit.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said against his shoulder. “Be careful, Dane, you might hurt your arm.”

  “My arm? You’re worried about my arm?” He couldn’t help it, he started to laugh. He saw Flynn and Delion pull Weldon DeLoach to the ground, Flynn pulling off the guy’s boot to wrap his parka sleeve around the wound.

  Flynn looked up, grinned at her. “Congratulations, Dr. Campion, you brought down the perp. They don’t exactly teach you that a foot wound is the way to go, but hey, I’m not about to argue with success. Okay, Weldon, shut your trap.”

  “You know,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Dane said, “we know, but it’s not important now.”

  “It hurts, dammit!”

  “Yeah, I’ll just bet,” Flynn said, and came down on his haunches beside Weldon. He looked straight down into that face, and read him his rights.

  “No, I don’t need an attorney. I didn’t do anything. You’ve got to listen to me.”

  Savich, who was standing over him, said in a quiet voice, “So now you didn’t do anything?”

  “I didn’t commit those script murders! Yes, I came up with the idea for the series, but I had nothing to do with those murders. They’re horrible. I don’t know who’s responsible
. It may be someone at the studio, someone who worked on the series. But I don’t know who.”

  Sherlock said, “I see. So it has nothing at all to do with the fact that you seem to be trying your best to murder your father?”

  “No, dammit. Do you have any idea what he’s done to me all my life?”

  Weldon looked ill, but he held on, sucked in a deep breath.

  “No, no one knows anything,” Delion said. “Listen, Weldon, someone murdered four people in San Francisco. You hired that moron Milton to kill Nick at the funeral because she saw you in the church. Then there’s Pasadena. It’s times like this I’m really glad I live in California and we’ve got the death penalty. They’re gonna cook you, Weldon.”

  The pain was glazing his eyes. He was holding his foot, crying, pleading. “No, listen to me, I wouldn’t kill anybody. I’m not like that.”

  Savich said, “Tell us exactly why you tried to kill your father. This time in nice plain English.”

  Weldon’s voice was soft now, so quiet it was like listening to him again on the video. He was getting himself back in control. He’d finally managed to regain some calm, control the pain in his foot. “I can’t. There’s too much at stake here.”

  “That’s not a very good start, Weldon,” Dane said.

  Weldon lowered his head and moaned at the pain in his foot.

  Delion snorted, stood, his hands on his hips. “Sherlock has called on her cell phone and rounded up a doctor for you. Let’s get you back to the parking lot. Detective Flynn and I will help you.”

  Weldon DeLoach tried to get up on his own, but ended up moaning again, clutching his foot. Flynn and Delion got him up and half carried him back to the facility.

  Dr. Randolph Winston, a geriatrician, was waiting for them at the front entrance to attend to the foot, a thick black eyebrow arched. “A woman shot him in the foot? Here, at Lakeview?” The eyebrow went even higher when Detective Flynn just shrugged.

  “No elderly person I’ve treated has ever been shot in the foot. Let’s get him to the hospital.”

  Dane nodded. “We’ll follow. We’ve got lots more to talk about with Mr. DeLoach.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Delion and Flynn read the riot act to the two policemen assigned to keep an eye on Captain DeLoach, then rode with Weldon to the hospital. The rest of them walked back to Captain DeLoach’s room.

  It appeared that Captain DeLoach’s brain had faded into the ether again. Or it was all an act, one at which he excelled.

  He was still singing “Eleanor Rigby.” Nurse Carla said, just shaking her head, “The fact that his son tried to kill him—I think it knocked him right off his mental pins again. I was with him several times during the morning and he was with it the whole time, but not now. Poor old man. How would you like to have a son who keeps trying to kill you?”

  Nick moved away from Captain DeLoach and said, her voice low, “Something is very strange here. When Weldon was in the captain’s room, he called his father a monster, said he had to stop him. But Captain DeLoach, he wasn’t afraid at all. He taunted Weldon.”

  Savich walked to the old man, who was still singing softly, vacantly, in his wheelchair.

  “Captain DeLoach? You’ve met me before. I’m Dillon Savich. I’m an FBI agent.”

  Slowly, the old man stopped singing “Eleanor Rigby” and raised his eyes to Savich’s face. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and saluted.

  Savich, without pause, saluted him back.

  “I saluted that girl, too,” Captain DeLoach said in a singsong voice. “I thought it was weird to have to salute a girl, but I did it. Respect for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, you know? It’s a sign of the times that the Feds would allow a girl to join up. I always wanted to be an FBI agent, but I couldn’t. And now it turns out she isn’t a cop, just a girl who’s homeless, leastwise that’s what Weldon said. Hey, is that little redheaded girl a cop?”

  “She certainly is, an excellent FBI agent.”

  The old man gave her a toothy grin and saluted her. Sherlock didn’t salute him back, just gave him a little wave with her fingers. He gave a dry, cracking laugh, shook his head. “That girl over there, the homeless one, she saved me from Weldon, the little pissant. I don’t think he would have killed me. You see, Weldon’s a coward. I never could teach him to be a man. He’s always hated blood, wouldn’t ever go hunting with me. Once I tried to get him to butcher a buck, but he vomited all over his shoes and hid. He’s never even used a gun as far as I know.”

  “How was he going to kill you, sir?” Dane said. “I believe he struck you the first time.”

  “Nah, that first time, I fell over all on my own. That last time he could only bring himself to shove my chair over.”

  The old man started laughing, more spittle spotted with blood sprayed on his chin. “What a hoot this all is, best time I’ve had in years. Nah, I don’t think Weldon could have killed me. But I could tell he was going to try. He was going to strangle me with a string. The girl there thought he had a gun, but he didn’t. He won’t touch ’em. I saw the string hanging out of his pocket, you know, real stout with little knots tied along the length? Yep, just a string because there’s no blood when you strangle someone. But it’s still gross. Weldon just doesn’t realize how gross it is to strangle someone—all the gagging, the eyes, my God, the eyes, they bulge, you know? And you can see all the terror, the fright—it all oozes out—then the final acceptance that they’re going to die. It isn’t a pretty sight. No, shooting’s cleaner. Only thing is, though, that the eyes fade really fast with a bullet.”

  Nick closed her eyes, said, “I shot Weldon in the foot. You’re right, it was easier.”

  “For a homeless girl, she knows stuff,” Captain DeLoach said, and began humming “Eleanor Rigby” again.

  “Are you trying to make us think you’re senile, Captain DeLoach?” Sherlock said, her palm resting lightly on the old man’s shoulder. She gently kneaded the flesh and bone and the flannel shirt, all that was left of him.

  “Nah, I just like to sing. I was the only middle-aged guy who liked the Beatles.”

  Dane said, “But why did Weldon want to kill you, sir?”

  The old man looked at Dane. “I think you’re probably an excellent cop, young man. You’re passionate, you stick tight, you don’t screw around, all are important to be successful in any job.”

  Dane said again, “Why does your son want you dead?”

  “The little pussy thinks he’s safe if I’m dead. And he would be.” The old man, now as sharp as any of them, stared at Dane, his faded eyes bright with intelligence. He said, his voice so proud, “Weldon’s got to know that I’ll talk now, and why not? I was the sheriff, and look at what I did, no one ever had a clue. Of course, like the saying goes, a dog never shits in his own backyard.” He laughed, a wheezing, scaly sound that made Sherlock’s skin crawl.

  “Captain DeLoach,” she said, “do you pretend to be senile? Is it all just an elaborate charade?”

  The old man said, “Me, senile? Hey, I haven’t seen you before, have I? Aren’t you the cutest little thing. My wife had the look of you. All sprite and fire and that lovely hair, so red, like blood, one could say.”

  “Yes,” Sherlock said slowly, “I suppose you could say that, but I doubt many people would. Now, Captain, you just made a little joke, didn’t you? You know exactly who I am. You were just pretending, just continuing with your charade.”

  He said nothing.

  Sherlock said, “What was your wife’s name, sir?”

  “Marie. Her name was Marie, French for God’s mother’s name, something that always made me smile, particularly when I’d come home and my hands would still have seams of blood in the cracks. Yep, my palms would look like road maps.”

  “I know you were a sheriff,” Dane said, “but did you have blood on your hands that often?”

  “No, not just on my hands, Agent. There was usually so much blood it would work its way into the lines and hunker down and li
ve there. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t get it all out. Then I really looked at my hands one day and knew I liked it. It was always a reminder to me of how much fun I had.”

  Nick stepped up to the wheelchair, leaned down, and clasped her hands on the wheels, got to within an inch of his face. “You killed people, didn’t you, sir?”

  “Well, of course, young lady. I was the sheriff.”

  “No, not as a sheriff. You killed people. You liked it. You liked seeing the remnants of their blood in your hands. You got away with it. And that’s what Weldon doesn’t want you to tell the world, isn’t it?”

  “Ain’t you a cracker. Of course I got away with it. I might be old now but I’m still not stupid. It was easy. Once they even got a picture of me, but it didn’t lead them even close to me. I was that good.” He raised his hand and snapped two of his bony fingers together. “I’m eighty-seven years old. You think I care now if everyone knows? Hell, I deserve the attention, the recognition of what I did. What will they do? Put me on trial? Sentence me to the death penalty? Judging by the way I’m feeling these days, the blood I keep spitting up, I’m ready for the needle already. Not that they’d ever get the chance, a man of my age with cancer. Hey, you think I’m senile. Listen to this.” And the old man started humming “Eleanor Rigby” again, saw the shock on their faces, and laughed.

  Nick said, “And Weldon didn’t want you to tell anyone, did he?”

  “No, he claimed it’d ruin everything. He didn’t want it known that his pop was a serial killer. Weldon was always afraid of me, terrified of me when he discovered what I was doing, but he kept quiet, particularly after I told him I’d nail him upside down to a tree and skin him alive if he ever told anyone. He didn’t.”

  It was Dane who said slowly, “I remember when I first went to San Francisco Homicide after my brother’s murder. Inspector Delion said they’d found out from the bullet that the gun that killed my brother was like the gun the Zodiac killer used.”